Enmesh
I knew when I hung the black dress at Michaelmas.
My garden is alight. Light flows, a
slow transmogrification from blackish
grey to a popping green. Every little
thing is in its place, nothing is too small.
A blade of grass, dew-atop, is an amber
bead, an ornate knife blade.
The work of darknesses are done, for there
is more than one darkness in any life.
Mine has been the violence of men.
I could feel yours feathering inches from my face.
I fell into your darkness like Alice through her glass.
There's a storm-polished red apple high, high
in the neighbour's tree. Is it for me?
I thought of you, of her,
of the 'endless possibilities of love'—decided, no more!
Enmesh first published Washing Windows V, Women Revolutionise Irish Poetry 1975-2025. Editors, Nuala O' Connor and Alan Hayes.
Online URL: https://booksupstairs.ie/product/washing-windows-v/
Category: Contemporary Irish Women Poets
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The Trees, Dawn
Late, the willow pushes out her new leaf.
Great pink blossoms in bunches like
bouquets hang head-heavy against
willow's stasis.
Peonies emerge, pink and blood.
Wren piccolo,
and the heavy perfume of a dying rose.
She brings flowers that are dying. These
are mauve. Zephyr-caressed, their petals,
fawn-edged.
Shades of pungence,
of mauve pungence.
They will bow-down by morning.
I do not understand. The green leaf falls
on my black end table. Why bring the
dying to me? Haven't I had enough dying?
Your mauve roses, zephyr-curled,
are browning. Frilled.
The white cherry blossom is blown. Tulip
mouths hang open in despair. I almost step
on a white eggshell, broken, out-of-nest.
There is a dead tree and no nest above me.
The small birds have flown.
The rooks in the ancient tower
do not want to be disturbed by me.
There are trays of proliferating pansies
by the church steps. Several snails seek succor in her
door frames. A cross across a mossy path once
an egress, stops you in your tracks.
The village vases are being replenished.
© Chris Murray, 2024.
Note. "The Trees, Dawn" forms a part of my recently published work "Found Poem, Spring". The three parts of the poem are "The Trees, Night", "There Are More Blue Flowers in Spring", and "The Trees, Dawn". Thanks to the editors of Skylight47, Bernie Crawford, Ruth Quinlan and D’or Seifer for publishing this excerpt. The poem in its entire can be read here. -
The Trees, Night.
Souls in the tree of life,
their bowls ablaze–
coppering their old gold.
As day moves to evening,
all warmth leaves the trees.
Red blood in their branches
remains. Heating
her lamps.
Brighter now than ever
for a short time before
sunset, moonrise.
Souls in the tree of life,
their bowls ablaze–
Small and dwindling their flames.
Small birds fly.
Moon waxes gibbous,
its tilted egg almost there,
almost full.
Souls in the tree of life,
their copper bowls are night-warm,
small their flames.
In dead of night, their
flames flicker, dance.
The stars are trees' tongues,
moving into language.
Her lamps lit,
her diamonds hung.
It is long, long
before dawns' song.
In the bluelit
darklight,
bluebells thread
into boundary hedges
working up,
closed, their flowers.
Light begins round the great Yew,
setting red the comet tail of a spider's
house.
It is hanging by a thread.
© Chris Murray, October 2024.
'The Trees, Night' is an excerpt from a tripartite poem titled 'Found Poem, Spring'. The titled parts of the poem are 'The Trees, Dawn', 'There Are More Blue Flowers in Spring', and 'The Trees, Night'. The poem in its entire can be read at The Honest Ulsterman , with thanks to Editor Gregory McCartney.
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So, the above title belongs to a subscription-only article based on an essay about the unavoidable mentioning of my whole cardiac debacle in the context of Her Red Songs (my new book). I am not mad about talking about it, to the extent that a few people knew anything at all, it seems. However, these things impact our creative lives, and they leave their mark not alone on the body, but on the book. It has left its mark on my book, from title change, dedication, the creation of the index to the final poems chosen. That is why I wrote the essay, it is unavoidable.
The fact of it is that the book changed a lot from the time of its acceptance and contract in 2022 to the one published in 2024 and the reasons for these changes are written here, https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/2024/03/15/how-rewriting-my-poetry-collection-after-a-heart-attack-helped-my-recovery/?fbclid=IwAR2HckheRJSBGUW_6UVQ_-NJCj2DoJunBkqCAHFf0HeJBQ0FyC_-XC3_DEM (Irish Times, books)
If you can’t access the above subscription article, I put an earlier version of the above essay in my Internet Archive account here, https://archive.org/details/on-her-red-songs
And for those people who like things that cannot be found elsewhere, there are three well-read electronic chapbooks at a similar address here,
Internet Archive: https://archive.org/details/@christine-elizabeth
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Aftermath Body knows soul does not accept— the worst happened it is over— ||nearly|| it is nearly over| body experiences s i l v e rdawnssong blackbirdsong silvers, slivers of its song are a silversong— I feel it along my arms soul trembles it is over, nearly— flowers were—their lights light the path body knows— © Chris Murray 2023 First published The Honest Ulsterman, June 2023. Aftermath is companion to Violence, from fragments 1&2 first published Belfield Literary Review, issue 2, spring 2022, Eds. Paul Perry and Niamh Campbell. Both poems are from my forthcoming book. -
Tree is real silver I. Birds tremble there alighting — (lighting) its stained glass recedes and within each bright ening light ening shape the song of a bird embeds a garnet— Each red-feathered song pewtering silver -ground on lazuli II. I see their (a) -lighting. They leaf the tree in the absence of bud, greening the tree Envoi: May Birds embed their gems secretly, beneath leaf Copyright 2022 Chris Murray First published Poetry Ireland Review N°138, "An Eavan Boland Special Issue" Editor, Nessa O'Mahony. Journals, and:bibliography, and: publication notes https://textworksite.com/journals-bibliography-publication-notes/
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Balloons
A stream of them – long and
ribboning before they were inflated;
breath-filled they turned into
globes and cylinders: fat demi-lunes
ably shaped by the long-fingered
magician who, in his downtime
offstage from the Hippodrome,
relaxing by the fire, legs stretched
across the hearth, would plunge
those long hands into his pockets,
to pull out rubber neon
proto-chameleons. How he joined
limbs and torso, how he conjured
heads, ears and tails, I never knew,
just watched this flow of colour
and shape become a rabbit or a cat.
My own cat retreated to the yard
when this post-performance
played out: a narrow space, walled
high with London bricks, it shielded
her but not me from the fear I felt
when he threw his voice out there
to ricochet into the kitchen,
a prelude to his suite of tricks.
There were cards among his props
that he showed and shuffled, got
some gasps in return, but not from
me. As for the bouncy animal he
gave me – a red rabbit with swelling
ears – I pressed till I found a bursting
point. This was after I had seen,
through the back window of his
parked-up van, a cage of doves.
Passing Through
Do you find it dark in the underpass?
Crab of the thorn, a small light for small people.
The travel time is short. I’ve counted the steps
From start to finish. What’s more, St. Lucy
Blesses passers-through, steadies their heartbeat.
Her icon is set into the curvature of the archway.
Look up at the gold leaf glinting. Then emerge
To see the vista of a city farm, its luminous glass
Porch, eau-de-nil paling, fronds of faded lavender
On the verge. If you are there, the street is not
Abandoned. On sad days, I try to remember
The name of Johnson’s cat, memorialized in bronze
In a London square. It comes eventually, bringing solace.Note: Line 2 is from ‘The Haw Lantern’ by Seamus Heaney.
Quay
In those minutes close to twilight
when the air shines
and the sky is pale as layered muslin,trees swayed in a line along the quay.
In the river’s waves –
vivid as ink wedges on a Japanese scroll –in the curving, widening river,
and on the road above, a bus appeared.Its ample shape grew.
Gérard Depardieu in Eustace Street His fleshy face aslant fills the screen here in this vaulted room still light enough to see the patina on oak though the lights are down as I sit in a plush row where benches used to seat the friends who met here in silence mostly unless one felt impelled to speak about the light within. We too sit in silence looking up at the screen of light receiving its forms and tints, tracking their force, tasting the full mouthed vowels and moist consonants of its habitués this day who, sojourning in the drab part of town, relocate for a scene or two to its volcanic hinterland to daze themselves with light and air. Gérard Depardieu in Eustace Street and other poems © Betty Thompson
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2020, Memories
Blinded in a winter’s dread no prophet foresaw.
Spring’s new life erupted into a chaos of fear.
Desolation replaced the warmth of a hug.
Children banished from our everyday lives!Ahh, the blessings — a swift journey home
to the unexpected happiness under one roof.
Chatter, laughter —
a family enduring dark days
come what may….Time, the pickpocket of memories stood still.
Watching, new ways of keeping our spirits alive,
to be remembered, cherished.
Lost moments recaptured before Summer’s end….An invisible killer started a war,
so much pressure on our frontline.
But it would be,
‘Love and Stay at Home’
that had their backs.Death came at a fast pace.
Isolation, the enemy of a treasured last goodbye —
grief mourned in silent lockdown.And now,
the road to healing shattered hearts and souls begins!
Family Love Father. Mother. Daughters. Sons. Grandchildren. Love weaves its magical thread intricately throughout the ages. Forging unbreakable bonds. Out from nowhere, an unnatural enemy wreaked havoc on the close-knit unit. They endured great sadness and turmoil. Separation with no hugs to warm the blood, tested their strength… Generations fought for survival alongside the mightiest warrior of all — Love. And the family stood firm. A force to be reckoned with!
Omen
Common sense flees at the first sign of fear,
hostage to an ever sense of madness.Inception of a foreboding story’s journey!
I see; the one eyed child dancing on her grave — the ruins of mankind.
I hear; the dark one singing an ancient curse — a prayer not heard.
I smell; the rotting of bodies — soul thieves wanton destruction.
I touch; the soiling of a pure heart — unholy spirits grasp hold.
I taste; the drowning miseries in the afterlife — ripen death.Saving the dead or killing the living?
On a night when the full moon is covered by cloud!Words © Fidel Hogan Walsh / Images @ Julie Corcoran
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Postpartum
You are as naked as a shucked oyster
so, my breasts are slashed and raining pearls
for you, my suckling child. The universe
has too many doors. A terrifying flower
unfurled overnight to tell me if they took
you away or carted you off to die
like pink tender veal. I would be prepared
to stand on my own mother’s shoulders
to push you back up to the surface, to stop
you from drowning— and she would want that—
because she too must have discovered this feral
wisdom in the bloodied wake of birth. Everything
is unfastening around me, voluptuously, in ways
I cannot understand yet. For now, I must be patient
occupy this hinterland and allow the stars to realign.
The Jesus Woman
After James K Baxter
I saw the Jesus Woman
milling around the school gates.
She wore grey marl track pants,
her hair was scooped up into a pineapple bun.
her breath smelt of coffee and ginger biscuits.
When babies cried, her breasts leaked milk.
When she smiled, birds flitted like glitter
among the trees. When she screamed
tectonic plates shifted. When she laughed
everybody got high.The Jesus Woman sat in a café
and selected her twelve disciples.One was a schoolgirl panicking in an airport toilet
soon to be married in an unfamiliar country.
One was a waitress who dropped her stillborn child
into a storm drain on Good Friday and ran away.
One was a grandmother who couldn’t read or write.One was a freshly-battered office manager whose
husband supported a football team that had just lost 99-0;
One was a self-harming solicitor who advised
clients in an office festooned with original artwork.
There were seven others. But their identities have been
suppressed to protect the powerful.The Jesus Woman said, ‘Ladies, from now on,
the rain will wash away our worries’.
She did no miracles.
She sometimes sold old clothes on eBay.The first day she was arrested
for having a backstreet abortion.
The second day she was beaten by villagers
for accusing a pillar of the community of rape.
The third day she was charged with being a woman
and given twenty five years in a Magdalen laundry.
The fourth day she was sent to an asylum
for admitting she wasn’t cut out to be a mother.
The fifth day lasted for four years
while she worked as a comfort woman
constantly within the grasp of soldiers.
The sixth day she told her abusive father,“I am the light of the world.
I am the one who brings into being.”The seventh day she was set on fire:
the flesh of God was burnt to ash.
On the eighth day the earth stopped turning.
All of creation began to cry.Every night these tears are collected
into a bottle for reckoning at the end of days.
Intensive Care
it does me no good to pay
attention to the shushingsound of the ventilator or
the incessant twinkle ofmachine lights, let me
pretend to followyou (like a scuba diver)
gliding through lough watersthe passing of the Bann
Foot Ferry above uschugging its cargo of suited
and booted brylcreemed boysgirls with shiny evening bags
resting on swing-skirted lapsour bodies are clouds now
we are wearing crownsof marsh thistle we
want to stay just herebut currents are carrying
us away in their eddiesyou reach the shore
and stretch out on your backinviting me to place my head
on your belly, the weightof it makes you smile because
this is how it once wasme curled up like a nautilus
sleeping in your wombPoems from Alchemy © Fiona Perry
Preorder Alchemy at Turas Press https://turaspress.ie/shop/contemporary-poetry-alchemy-by-fiona-perry-debut-collection-from-turas-press/ Fiona Perry is the author of Alchemy from Turas Press (October 2020), a book termed as ‘an intriguing and compelling début collection from a poet who is already strikingly in command of her craft. Mingling daily life with the numinous, these poems reflect on love and loss, on the milestones of lived experience. These poems travel through time and space: from the magic of ancient birds in a New Zealand landscape, to the intensive care ward where a loved one lies dying; from the daily round of household tasks, to the dreamworlds where memory, imagination and reality merge’. Fiona has won the Bath Flash Fiction prize for her story, Sea Change. Her work has been published widely in Ireland, the UK, Australia, New Zealand, and India. Recent work has appeared in Lighthouse, Not Very Quiet, and The Blue Nib. She contributed poetry to the 2019 Label Lit Project for National Poetry Day, Ireland.
Chris Murray 