sans it is all ceremony it is all the cloths all gathered-in it is white tailor’s chalk in a neat triangle it is the blanket-stitch before the machine it is the neighbour woman with her bone-pick pulling stitches one by one from the curtain lining the [bone-pick] is ivory coloured a little larger than a [tooth-pick] nubbed to cradle under the silks and lift them up so she can snip it at the ties the little knot hidden in back of the material stretched out across her knees is silver the thread is doubled-to her material is some floral-stuff on white laid onto a cream skirting she will rinse it out in cold water later and hang it on the monday line the blue-blue rope of the monday line the length of material is clean / sweaty from her handiwork she will hang it over the gauze of her nets which are always immaculate her effort is blind she does not need eyes to feel her work her gathering-to of the pleats Copyright 2013 Chris Murray Published Southword Online URL http://www.munsterlit.ie/Southword/Issues/25/murray_christine.html Collected The Blind, Oneiros Books, 2013
Tag: southword journal
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Crinoline
The grief synesthete bears her horsehair dress heavy
as the rose haw throbs its orange glow,
through forest or stream, each time a visit to the griefscape is necessitated, (and it will be)
dress gathers a little more.
Contracting centimetre slow, She
begins to weight her
brocades as web-work / a tatter of lace /
a smear of pollen (gold)
and, yes,sequined embonpoint (tears too, always).
That throbbing orange (big as a head) is a flower that will not sit in its Bed.
her train drags past, load-bearing its leaf and moss/ its loamy grain/ its fray/
its thread(ing).
The only response is wonder,
the only way is still
and still –
Crinoline is © C. MurrayCrinoline was first published at When Women Waken, Fall 2013, from a forthcoming book called She.
sans
I.
it is all ceremony
it is all the cloths
all gathered-init is white tailor’s chalk
in a neat triangle
it is the blanket-stitch
before the machineit is the neighbour woman
with her bone-pick
pulling stitches
one by one
from the curtain liningthe [bone-pick] is ivory coloured
a little larger than a [tooth-pick]
nubbed to cradle under the silksand lift them up
so she can snip it at the ties
II.the little knot hidden in back of the material stretched out across her knees is silver, the thread is doubled-to
the material is some floral-stuff on white laid onto a cream skirting
she will rinse it out in cold water laterand hang it on the monday line the blue-blue rope of the monday line
the length of materialis clean, sweaty from her handiwork
she will hang it over the gauze of her nets which are always immaculateher effort is blind,
she does not need eyes to feel her work her gathering-to of the pleats
©2013 Christine MurrayPublished Winter 2013 at The Southword Journal . The poem is from The Blind, published Oneiros Books 2013
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Through the blossom-gate,
and quite before the acid leaf unfurls into its meaning—we are subjected to the play of light
working on our necessity to speak outinto a flowering. It is not yet warm —
already the sun is playing at dragging upand displaying those unwanted words
elucidatory and garish in their babblementit is almost necessary to cut them at their source
that well-spring is a tree-wounded-gash,the birds disagree in their illuminatory chatter
as they may—
casting their circumspections to the breeze.Through the blossom-gate is © Christine Murray first published in Southword Journal (Munster Literature Centre). Through the blossom-gate was published in my first collection of poetry, Cycles. (Lapwing Publications, Belfast)
Chris Murray 