John McCrory

@johnmccrory.bsky.social

139 Followers 279 Following

Dance to protest. Twirl your umbrellas. Make balloon animals. Put a daisy in the barrel of the soldier's gun. Me: Poet. Content Strategist & UX. Ultimate frisbee dad. Montclair citizen. New JerseyYorkHampshire.

A graffito written in ink where the interpretive panel was removed shows an image of George Washington with a speech bubble saying "I cannot tell a lie. I, George Washington, "owned" human slaves on this very spot. President Trump doesn't want you to think about that. Isn't that great?!"
A wall at The President's House historic landmark in Philadelphia, showing interpretive displays removed.
Needlepoint of Picasso's Three Musicians (1921)
Whois record showing the owner of the site is AIPAC
Anti-Malinowski junk mail from “secret” AIPAC front group
Data show most Immigrants Arrested in City Crackdowns Have No Criminal Record
GDP per capita 1800 to 2022: about $10,000 in 1913 vs $60,000 today
list of contributors to Innisfree Poetry Journal 40
Front page story headlined “The S.S. United States Is Going Down for Good” in the February 21, 2025 print edition of the New York Times
image of the first page of Certayne notes of Instruction concerning the making of verse or ryme in English, by George Gascoigne, 1575. https://johnmccrory.com/prose/certain-notes-of-instruction-concerning-the-making-of-verse-or-rhyme-in-english/
Late Hours On summer nights the world moves within earshot on the interstate with its swish and growl, an occasional siren that sends chills through us. Sometimes, on clear, still nights, voices float into our bedroom, lunar and fragmented, as if the sky had let them go long before our birth. In winter we close the windows and read Chekhov, nearly weeping for his world. What luxury, to be so happy that we can grieve over imaginary lives.
A chart of the eight types of Trisyllabic feet. Dactyl = / ◡ ◡ "medium" Amphibrach = ◡ / ◡ "arrival" Anapest = ◡ ◡ / "in a dream" Molussus = / / / "late-night snacks" Tribrach = ◡ ◡ ◡ Antibacchius = / / ◡ "hard bargain” Cretic = / ◡ / "taxi stand” Bacchius = ◡ / / "my lost love”
Great princes have great play-things. Some have played At hewing mountains into men, and some At building human wonders mountain-high. Some have amused the dull sad years of life, Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad, With schemes of monumental fame, and sought By pyramids and mausolaean pomp, Short-lived themselves, t’immortalize their bones. Some seek diversion in the tented field, And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. But war’s a game, which were their subjects wise, King’s should not play at. Nations would do well T’extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
The Sofa I sing the Sofa. I who lately sang Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touch'd with awe The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand, Escaped with pain from that adventurous fight, Now seek repose upon an humbler theme; The theme though humble, yet august and proud Th' occasion — for the Fair commands the song.
FALL [dedication] For James, who liked it Here’s that old drunk, already mellow. A few nips and he’s at his best. Everything brightens up. Summer, who can’t stand him, gets somebody to take her home. (She’s spoiled and tired.) The rest cluster around and enjoy his show. Actually, they're the same jokes, the one about the travelling mercury and the farmer’s pumpkins, the same tricks lighting bittersweet and sumac without a match. Well, those who can’t be original can be good old boys. A wall mural in lipstick, and he’s back at the bar. Now for those boozy tears, you know they come from a cold will. And now, for God’s sake, one of his rages. He’s storming around, knocking down everything, leaves, lovers, lights, stepping on chrysanthemums. It seems ages since he’s been this bad. Then his brow clears and he gives us this look: “Aren’t I a smarty?” Soon he’ll pass out. Appalling! Still, he’s always welcome at the next party. (from Letters from a Father and Other Poems, by Mona Van Duyn, 1982)
Flamed beginning to build a fire in a fireplace at a suburban home in New Jersey
Thomas Carper NOBODY AT TREBLINKA Sie waren nicht ein kleiner Mann. Film director Claude Lanzmann to a former Nazi official But keep the scale in mind. What single man Could undertake that kind of enterprise When each day trains from half of Europe ran Into the camp? The prisoners swarmed like flies Onto the platforms. Hundreds did their jobs Of keeping books, processing and selecting, Or guarding work brigades, or moving mobs Into the chambers ... cleaning ... disinfecting. You see, with those large numbers, no one said, “X is responsible.” We were a team. Handling the hordes—the living, and the dead. Mine was a minor function. Do I seem Like someone who would cause such sufferings? I was a nobody. Nobody does those things.
John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon at their debate. Nixon is wiping his face of sweat with a handkerchief.