Aspenström
7
Tag Archives: Poet
Numbers
Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number –
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you –
Ye are many – they are few
The Mask of Anarchy, Percy Bysshe Shelley
The old get old
And the young get stronger
May take a week
And it may take longer
They got the guns
But we got the numbers
Five To One, James Douglas Morrison
Disclaimer: I’m not advocating anything. It was just that reading the words of one young poet reminded me of the lines of another.
A Twelve Month Canter
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:
‘20
from my poetry blog
At This Time
The Rain Never Stops On Deansgate
from my poetry blog
The Rain Never Stops On Deansgate The rain never stops on Deansgate, it clears the pavement faster than the tribal skirmishes the corrugated shelters and scaffolded walkways snagging the flood-water flotsam, huddled in pockets of faithless devotions. The doorways are already taken, will be for the night, as we turn blind eyes behind fogged-over windows, comfortably dysmorphic in this residence of root. The Church of Scientology over the road has closed up for the day, but I feel Tom Cruise calling to me. Do they have 24-hour call out, I wonder? Working on Hollywood time. I don't think these city limits can hold us, want to hold us, they just lay barbed hooks beneath our skin reeling us in every time we glance back. ©AndrewJamesMurray
Western Rap
from my poetry blog
Western Rap dialect clowns the portly boys weave wild words echoing western rappers speakin' off the chain below hilly peaks demanding degradation in gas tank lots firing from the hip ©AndrewJamesMurray
Immediate Lines On Hearing About The Death Of A Primary School Classmate
from my poetry blog
Dead Bird
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
Night Poem
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
City Jackdaw 