The ghost of myself is haunting my life

Category: architectural

The Poems of Baz McCarthy

These are a selection of some of Baz McCarthy’s poems. Most poems were written in and around Bristol.  He doesn’t like writing at home, he says he needs the flurry of people rushing or sitting around, doing or saying pointless things to fill in their lives…

He’s always been a massive people-watcher and eavesdropper, so if you see some bloke furiously scribbling into his Moleskine on the table next to you…

Completely irreverent and lacking any formal training or respect for anyone who has, he writes from the gut and the heart and performs his poetry in the same powerful, yet carefree manner!

This year, 2023, he’s performed aplenty, around Bristol, in places such as El Rincon, The Bristol Fringe, Coffee#1, Eldon House, Fat Goat @ Jafra and Grain Barge and the poems get honed by audience reactions (shout-out to the many lovely, enthusiastic, patient and welcoming people who suffer at my poetic hands!).

Also, some these poems may well have changed by now and even grown into bigger and better poems, although I’m not saying bigger is always better!

Swimming on Wednesday 11 to 12

So I quite alcohol back in December 2022.
Part of my recovery was lots of exercise, including swimming every Wednesday at the Uni pool, a cycle ride away, down the hill.
The quietest time was Wednesday between 11am and 12pm.
My cycle ride took me past many churches from multiple faiths.
Read the rest

My City (unfinished)

Standing in line
Quietly monitoring
The thoughts
Of moths

Grey veins
Stitched together
By bright yellow tailors
One-wheeled lines
Doing cartwheels
Down the street

Of my city

Here and there
And every
Now and then
We plant seeds
Growing benches
With men
Growing dogs
In between

The gathering
Sucked out
Of their doorway
And into
The scene

And paint it, with your eyes
Fizzing art
Dizzying surprise

Now I’ll go out
Standing on-side
Messed up
But joined
In the chorus

To my city

The all-buzz
A million lights
Plague our dreams
Trees amongst men
Stand tall
To the wind, That isn’t wind

When it’s wet
New stars are born
And wander the streets
As an army of bees

The day
Is blurred, walks, runs, turns
To ink
Splattered gardens
Charcoaled dreams

From my city


I walk past

Flaking, paint, sash
Exhaust, grime, white
Half a net curtain, watching
The back of a chair

I walk past

Dead, duck-egg blinds
Reflecting a dirty green world
Where the brightest blue
Turns to fuel on water

I walk past

Our single, small sun
From its tiny, grimy, universe
Coughing out light
Spitting it, over the furniture

I walk past

A vase of dried flowers
Guards the entrance
To a permanent autumn

I walk past

I was there
Put a poster on the inside
For you
Did you read it?… Read the rest

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén