A Four-Way Collaboration

I was sat in a café, reading a great poem about my home city of Manchester.*

The opening lines read:

Queen of the cotton cities,

nightly I pick you back into existence:

the frayed bridal train your chimneys lay

and the warped applause-track of Victorian rain.

You’re the blackened lung whose depths I plumb,

the million windows and the smoke-occluded sun.

 

A couple took the table behind me. The lad never spoke, but the girl:

“I’ve always had weird drinking habits. I used to drink the vinegar out of cockle and muscle jars. I think it’s the cause of my leaking bladder.”

 

All of this was underscored by a female cover of Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s The Power Of Love. Haunting and ethereal. Alchemical.

All of these things merged and mingled into one tributary, collaborative moment, leading me to the page, transcribing slowly.

 

 

*Manchester, Adam O’Riordan.

Songs Of The North

These three books constitute the (current) Songs Of The North poetry series, of which my book Heading North is a part.

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These words are from my editor Michael Kobernus:

‘I am proud of every book we put out, at Nordland Publishing. However, these are special. While they may not be everyone’s cup of tea, they elevate the written word into art, and that is amazing.’

My book, Heading North, is available here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Heading-North-2-Songs/dp/8283310097/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1491035913&sr=1-1&keywords=heading+north

All three different takes on the inspirational north can be discovered here on Nordland Publishing’s website:

http://www.nordlandpublishing.com/titles/songs-of-the-north/

Isn’t it time you journeyed North? 🙂

Sedentary Sunday

Sunday morning. Palm Sunday morning.

Reading outside in the sun.

Slowly the town awakens, quite some time after the world had awoken.

Blackbirds are nesting in the bushes that border the garden; jackdaws in the tall chimney pots.

All unnoticed by the people returning from the shops with their six packs to greet the sun with, or driving around the estate on their noisy quad bikes.

Flaubert comes to mind: ‘Civilisation is a conspiracy against poetry’.

Maybe I’m getting old. Given to moan a lot.

Work In Progress: Night Poem

These are a few lines that I wrote the other night. Needs a lot doing with it.

Night Poem

The loneliness of distraction;
a question of language.

Cravat pirate,
hogging the turntable.

Wait — to see the shooting stars
tearing holes in the firmament.

Name a rose after that velvet queen
lost in the garden,

painting portraits and hustling
the elite for a pound.

Taste the names of those gone before,

their unfinished manifestos
staked to scarlet trees.



©AndrewJamesMurray