I have seen Jack McCarthy perform his poetry in large theaters, bringing hundreds of applauding people to their feet. More impressively, I have seen him in a small coffeehouse, bringing a handful of teenagers out of a caffeine-and-pinball-induced stupor. The Boston Globe says he's a rock star in the world of poetry; he does have quite a following. But unlike most rock stars, Jack McCarthy checks his ego at the door. This is a poet who always stays until the end of the open mike when he's the featured reader. This is a poet who hosted a poetry show on cable television for five years, a show where local unknowns shared the stage with national superpoets. Jack has earned the respect and admiration of many of these top poets, and yet, his poems also appeal to people who say they don't like poetry.

Jack McCarthy's poems tap you on the shoulder, buy you a cup of coffee and start telling you a story. Before you realize it, you've laughed, you've cried, and you have understood the perfectly visible relationships between things you never before dreamed were connected. Things like longing and lawn chairs, cars and Catholicism, navigation and newfound love. I am honored to call myself his friend, and proud to call myself a fan. Ladies and gentlemen, Jack McCarthy.