No More

From my poetry blog, written fourteen years ago on the death of my father.

Coronets For Ghosts

This poem appeared in my book, Heading North. Though it 
doesn't explicitly say so, I wrote it on the 
death of my father, fourteen years ago today.

No More


No more. No more bleaching white

the nicotine stained flesh

of your fingers,

picking at the sterile 

veneer of cordiality 

amidst the well-thumbed

scattered deserts

from which ruins strive to rise.


No more counting down the markers,

elbows jostling territorially,

courting, sequential swans

rising in toasts, triumphant.

Your slow, inexorable withdrawal 

left behind a vacuum,

the equilibrium of a table

out of kilter.


No longer the trumpeted parading 

of the heir apparent,

the tedious repetition 

of vine and tongue,

reproduced seasoned lines 

framing the true inheritance 

and held to likeness.

Casual comparity no more. No more.



©Andrew James Murray

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Pumpkin

A timely post from my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Pumpkin

a hollowed out,
 rictus grin
 placed prominently
 at this liminal time

a curious crossroads
 of old and new
 with but a cursory nod
 to the peaceful host

frail shelter
 from this Samhain storm
 a rail of russet leaves 
 and borne
 the broken limbs
 of oak

and scorned
 a single flame,
 faltering


©AndrewJamesMurray

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Midnight, July

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Midnight, July

We writhe
with a rage to know
the unknowable,

blind to great masses
that dance in dark orbits.
And a soft, summer wind
on a night beneath stars
is no balm.

From somewhere a whistle 
casts a line,

a fragile camaraderie 
in a world
fell silent,

where white moth-wing 
is riotous

and a spider's touch
carnal.



©AndrewJamesMurray

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Indian Summer

Something new (and late) over on my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Indian Summer

Indian Summer,
golden and implausibly charred.
Only one pot holds flowers 
to reach for the sun,
all of the others contain
withered wraiths
of long-spent blooms,
their calendar clocks
denying the possibility
Of these late September days.




©AndrewJamesMurray

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The Storm Moves Out

A new poem on my poetry blog Coronets For Ghosts. Written the morning after.

Coronets For Ghosts

The Storm Moves Out

pale violet
the storm moves out to sea

I look for signs
in the arranged debris

montage of a divine hand

the swamped streets
bring the latest obsession
my way

string-of-beads prophecies
in the 
forest of home

glass wreckage
embryo shards

a priest blesses specimen jars
sending kisses into sleep



©AndrewJamesMurray

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Mytholmroyd 

A new poem from my poetry blog, inspired by a misheard announcement when traveling on a train across the Yorkshire-Lancashire border, from Leeds to Manchester.

Coronets For Ghosts

Mytholmroyd

The tin voice announced the place
as we pulled into the station.
I, soon to have my ears syringed,
thought it said "Ladies and gentlemen:
Marilyn Monroe."
I halfexpected to see her
sashaying down the aisle 
of the train,
all shimmering platinum
between plush, navy blue seats.
Wouldn't that have been a sight 
for a Thursday morning?
Not only a Hollywood star,
but fifty-five years dead to boot.


©AndrewJamesMurray

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My New Blog: Coronets For Ghosts

I’ve decided to create a new blog which will contain nothing but poetry.

 Fear not, City Jackdaw will go on as normal, featuring the usual mix of various subjects. (And there will still be poetry featured on Jackdaw, too, from time to time.)

But the new blog will be solely for my poems. New ones; old ones; complete ones and works in progress.

The title of the blog is Coronets For Ghosts, taken from a line in one of my poems. For those of you who want to check out my newborn babe, you will find her here:

https://coronetsforghosts.wordpress.com

I hope you will continue to fly with City Jackdaw, too.