from my poetry blogAge Casually
With ABBA’s return, I though it an ideal time to post this poem that was included in my first collection, Heading North, published by Nordland Publishing.
I’d written it whilst sat up one late Autumn night, listening to an early Agnetha Fältskog song, composed in her native tongue when she was just sixteen. A downpour occurring just beyond the limits of that darkened room contributed to the general mood: she was singing of a doomed love affair; I was thinking of other times.
April not a fool, just a joker … This is hame clawed in icicles since April’s first weekend. April feels a brigant, with its hoards of dark clouds …brigant
A great review of my second collection In Brigantia, (link above), written by Shetland-based poet Nat Hall. Please check out her work too.
I’m not very good at self-promotion, in fact I’m a publisher’s nightmare, but as it’s that time of year again when people are looking for gifts for themselves or for others, below you’ll find the link to my Amazon page.
If you check it out you’ll find my two poetry collections, Heading North and In Brigantia, along with a couple of anthologies I have some fiction in. If anyone wants to buy anything I’ll love you forever. If anyone doesn’t want to buy anything I’ll love you forever too. I’m kind of promiscuous that way.
It was a year ago today that In Brigantia got its first cover reveal.
Following on from my first collection, Heading North, I’m quite proud of it, and thank those who have already bought it.
For anyone else who’d like a copy, it’s available here:
from my poetry blog
Dead Bird The kids are fascinated by the varying states of putrefaction. Every morning we pause, compare it to yesterday's studied image. "Where have it's eyes gone? Have they sunk into its skull?" Half-covered by an overnight shroud of autumn leaves, provoking a conflict of opinion. The girl thinks it should be buried out of decency, the boy eager to glimpse its surfacing skeleton. Every day its stomach is drawn in, the ribs rising. Then this morning, stunned: the bird is gone, perhaps removed by a conscientious council worker. The boy thinks that it's been dragged off to be devoured by a fox, or a cat, but whatever it was it must have been really down on its luck, falling on that desiccated morsel for a feast. ©AndrewJamesMurray
from my poetry blog
the loneliness of distraction
a question of language
the cravatted pirate hijacking the turntable
wait up to see the shooting stars
tearing holes in the firmament
of crystal glass
name a rose after that velvet queen
lost in the garden
painting portraits and hustling
the elite for a pound
speak the names of those gone before
unfinished manifestos staked
to scarlet trees
I have the honour of appearing on musician Laura Bruno Lilly’s site this week for the publication of my poetry collection In Brigantia.
You can read her review here: