• bow down / bough down published york literary review

    bow down a harrowed treenest-ruinedtangled leaf Its bough down bow down— a-flowering-tree (still, it flowers) Submarine blue iswhere dawn occurs  (South/South-east of here) Dawn’s lightbox runsfrom north blueto south warm The point betweenis lit-not-lit  (nor) seamed a bas-relief. Copyright 2016, 2018 Chris Murray  Bow Down from ‘bind’, first published York Literary Review, Issue #1 2016 https://blog.yorksj.ac.uk/yorkliteraryreview/files/2017/05/2016-YLR-for-download.pdf Online URL https://blog.yorksj.ac.uk/yorkliteraryreview/ Collected bind 2018 https://turaspress.ie/shop/bind-by-christine-murray/ 

  • ‘seed’ published timber poetry journal, 11.2

    Seed Willow, cut to its hidden houses. Something secret furls unfurls its stem-self seed slopes slews under crystal skin (its) flesh blooms to tone – coralling a milky alumben in water’s distress, floats, |stays| alive winds its silver thread in brine – fleshed frond & secret, still – a silver thread pulls-up willow’s ochre curtain.…

  • ‘notes on panic’, and: ‘in the dark i feel’, and: ‘small bird voice’ published revista itaca

    Notes on panic Shall I regard the dark knowing it is past? Enmeshed in the ‘once was’ certain– scored, a stampede carrying thunder into my corridors, chambers, a knife– Revistant Pass! In the dark I feel, dark edges pressed-down ridged— tight-laced-seals Soul is unquiet – its speaking voice is the sea— Rain, rain falls on…

  • ‘lily crowded window’ published formafluens literary journal

    Lily crowded window her not-breath, mine signs our presence at the glass, | hers and mine, our presence | Blue Milk, the cooling sun plays her opaques, leaf speckles, variegations. Retreat now, She drains into winter’s dark work July-begun. She drains North. Setting to rest yellow-tips brown, Sun-held-once. Something in secret furls, unfurls its stem-self…

  • ‘moi et la village’ (d’après Marc Chagall) / i and the village (after marc chagall) published recours au poème

    moi et le Village (d’après Marc Chagall) Version française, Elizabeth Brunazzi La rosée découle en jade une lune aux trois quarts L’Amour O l’amour! Ta fleur arrachée embaume De son parfarm ma main, bientôt bientôt me rappelant une certaine musique- Mon destin a toujours été de quitter le lieu où la lune dansait avec la…

  • ‘narcissus’ and ‘stalk the open ring’ published compose Journal

    narcissus not step twice into, not step back from stream. its nets are storm blackened, narcissus’ flower is a cut out. it has shut in cold, skeining back into his bud echo and, outbreath. he skeins back his thread the blind buds are always. step (not-step) back then. step (not-step) back then, from the black…

  • ‘hunger’, and: ‘ceremony’, and : ‘suspend i’ published ditch poetry

    hunger outside the ragged bird tears dead flies from the window nets and it is not clothed right – it claws the glass suspend I from the mirror architrave float down silken threads they are not blackened yet from the branches they reach down laden with fruit out on the limb birds beat them for…

  • ‘lares series’ published indelible literary journal

    Preamble Break the glass that shields morning’s flame. Proceed from your room— Ferns, once We awaken in our bodies, again. Their smooth hurts. Winged, for the pigeon wakes too, her back to the City. Mourning dove. Notes towards an image Iron ring copse within. Leaf // settles Jewelling | nowhere her Garnets, Emeralds. Side aches…

  • ‘morning star’ published irish times poetry

    Morning star The day lightens from cold to blue. A glint of her caught in crow’s diadem as he wheels home. We are bound to hard things, to wood, steel and wire — Who would hear heartsongs In the cacophony of words tumult-born? Day is carried in by crow’s harsh heralding through and above stormy…

  • morning in the garden – siirden / cycles/ empty house

    morning in the garden O heart ! My tree is full of small birds, red flowers. I am below the level of the bee, the wingbeat of the wren. A new robin dapples through his never-ending blue, green. My tree flowers beat red like hearts in warm rings. © Chris Murray 2016, 2020 Published ANU…