On This Day My Book Was Born

My debut poetry collection was born on this day three years ago.

Happy Birthday Heading North!


I’m working on a younger sibling for you.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Heading-North-2-Songs/dp/8283310097/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1544134083&sr=1-1&keywords=heading+north

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Word Jam #10

The young and the well hung 
quartered and drawn
striding through chapters 
toothless raptors
wireless adaptors
aborted newborn

The herd and the blackbird
song feathered dawn 
erasing through channels
annulled annals
amphibious mammals
bucketed spawn

Raw Mojo

Raw Mojo

The bleak, blushes of dusk. A Highland wind 
licks at a heart, wrapped in leaves.
Buried beneath a pine cone, needles.

Drink 'til I can drink no more;
just watch the dead
impose in plagues.

A girl, dark, unfamiliar,
dares to draw the focus
of these phantom scarred eyes,
blood rushing in her alluring anonymity.

A taste of ash, I eat my father.
I am an amalgamation 
of anecdote and mannerism.
Assimilated slow and left to boil.

Magisterial day. Insouciant night.
Sin suggests an arbitrator. 
I need a new translation,
from the prophet's native tongue.





©AndrewJamesMurray

Northern Girl

Northern Girl

born in rain
raised on the northern wind

scattered over
blackstone moor

the smell of dusk
and crowberry in her hair

head cushioned
by cotton grass, bracken

the twite whispers
in her ear 

eyes suggest
the circling merlin

accustomed to
feel

peat water 
bleed

dissolution
on the Pennine ridge




©AndrewJamesMurray

When In Rome

When In Rome

I was talking to a Swiss girl,
she told of a former classmate 
who plucked out all of her eyelashes,
inflicting a vulnerability on her soul.

I bartered with the tale of a girl
who shaved off all of her eyebrows.
I’d received the news when drinking beer
by the Colosseum, 
that place where gladiators
had impaled by trident and sword point.
She had scalped herself with a Bic.

(She met me at the airport, masked by a silk bandanna. 
I knew what she concealed. She knew that I knew.)

Sometimes she would descend the stairs 
wrapped in a yellow sari dress:

“Look at me, I’m a Punjabi girl!”

Dancing around the room like some
insubstantial sylph



©AndrewJamesMurray

In Spanish Hills

In Spanish Hills
In this fiery furnace
is forged a languid blade,
yet in these hills
is a vibrant pulse.
And formed within
this small enclave
is a definite sense
of them, and us.

The eye drowns in colour
and shimmering haze,
yet we carry around 
a windswept moor.
On an azure calm
our vision sails,
but what comes to mind
is a battered shore.



©AndrewJamesMurray


Gargoyles

Gargoyles 

The figures loom high above us, beneath spires, tall
Silent witnesses to the predilections of flesh
Perched firmly upon rain-lashed, sandstone walls
Weathered and worn, writhing in still form
Kissed by the sun and the moon's fingering frost
The winds of the north with their finite call
Have taken their hoary toll, and time, always time,
Burrowing her way from the inside out
Her threaded veins spreading their minute crawl
Yet impervious still, they cling on, strong,
Obstinately, impertinently, outliving us all





©AndrewJamesMurray