Bryan Murphy's Blog - Posts Tagged "poem"
From Hypatia to Malala (haiku)
Men’s minds warped with God-burnt hate
“Uppity” women
Cold moonlight on graveyard shift
“Uppity” women
Cold moonlight on graveyard shift
Bar Londra
"Bar Londra" - the poem of the play. My play, my poem. Kinda incestuous, but fun.
http://www.pyrokinection.com/2012/09/...
http://www.pyrokinection.com/2012/09/...
Catnap
A heart-warming rescue? Or a furry, freaked-out fantasy? You decide. From Pyrokinection webzine. For lovers of cats, poetry and graphic comics.
Catnap
Fritz! Now there was a cat: that
monstrous, malodorous, megalomaniac, marauding, mariajuanaphile
creation of Crumb. Sixties and Seventies
slip through a wormhole, spaced out in spacetime,
materialise the poor creature on my absent neighbours’ balcony,
transfix it among spiked anti-robber railings
it is too scared to back out of.
The cat shrieks, wails, howls
like a banshee, yanks us
from Sunday-morning dreams of long sleep.
Its instinct calls to our instinct;
we snap to our feet,
rush to save ourselves by saving it,
but Fritz is recalcitrant, its freaked-out fur frozen,
all energy focused on throat,
issuing warnings and pleas that drown the Cathedral’s bells
(its creator would chuckle).
Its lord and master, our neighbourhood hotelier,
is beside himself in the courtyard below.
We beam him up, with a gang of his workmen, converted to animal rescue, who compose a human chain to anchor him
as he stretches his yearning across the abyss
between next-door balconies.
The banshee screams,
sinks front claws into its ninth-life owner’s wrists,
thus gets hauled back through space, in time,
cocooned in human arms,
to the tableau outside my condo kitchen.
One by one, the humans disappear.
Fritz goes too.
Bryan Murphy is a retired translator who now concentrates on his own words and divides his time between England, Italy and the wider world. His work has recently appeared in Descant, Eunoia Review, The Camel Saloon, The Pygmy Giant, Rose and Thorn, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes and The View from Here. His website, www.bryanmurphy.eu, contains a taster of his forthcoming novella, Goodbye, Padania.
Catnap
Fritz! Now there was a cat: that
monstrous, malodorous, megalomaniac, marauding, mariajuanaphile
creation of Crumb. Sixties and Seventies
slip through a wormhole, spaced out in spacetime,
materialise the poor creature on my absent neighbours’ balcony,
transfix it among spiked anti-robber railings
it is too scared to back out of.
The cat shrieks, wails, howls
like a banshee, yanks us
from Sunday-morning dreams of long sleep.
Its instinct calls to our instinct;
we snap to our feet,
rush to save ourselves by saving it,
but Fritz is recalcitrant, its freaked-out fur frozen,
all energy focused on throat,
issuing warnings and pleas that drown the Cathedral’s bells
(its creator would chuckle).
Its lord and master, our neighbourhood hotelier,
is beside himself in the courtyard below.
We beam him up, with a gang of his workmen, converted to animal rescue, who compose a human chain to anchor him
as he stretches his yearning across the abyss
between next-door balconies.
The banshee screams,
sinks front claws into its ninth-life owner’s wrists,
thus gets hauled back through space, in time,
cocooned in human arms,
to the tableau outside my condo kitchen.
One by one, the humans disappear.
Fritz goes too.
Bryan Murphy is a retired translator who now concentrates on his own words and divides his time between England, Italy and the wider world. His work has recently appeared in Descant, Eunoia Review, The Camel Saloon, The Pygmy Giant, Rose and Thorn, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes and The View from Here. His website, www.bryanmurphy.eu, contains a taster of his forthcoming novella, Goodbye, Padania.
From Pyrokinection
Mazunte Jazz Hurts
The guitar awakens to Hamish's tuning touch.
Hamish the outsider: youngster, beanpole, foreigner.
Mazunte’s air is heavy with coastal flowers and Dolores.
He knows she is there.
#1
Hamish disburses his allotted notes,
thrills to the skill of the tenor sax beside him,
follows his bandleader’s instructions to stick to the score.
#2
Hamish glimpses Dolores. Has she changed?
Hair bleached to a lighter charcoal,
self-composed, at ease in town clothes,
she slips beyond his vision.
#3.
Hamish's notes slide into urgency,
playing for Dolores,
calling her to his orbit.
#4
Hamish has become technique,
Dolores forgotten.
Now the drummer plays off him,
indulging in riffs unheard.
Band members swap expectant looks,
Hamish oblivious.
#5,6,7.
The players urge each other on
with twists of improvisation.
Tenor sax dives deeper into the music and leads it
to places new. Hamish follows him,
and then is following no-one,
rearranging the tropes of the genre to outline new possibilities and then explore them: no longer technique
but raw feeling.
Their music stops rather than ends. Applause takes its place.
The musicians stare
at each other,
exhausted,
elated,
astonished.
Hamish threads his way to Dolores. She is not alone.
He takes her aside, implores her.
She snaps.
Sorry. Just not my type.
The world stops turning.
His blood has frozen in his veins.
His liver has turned to lead.
His head hurts.
The bandleader approaches Hamish
like a business-touting Charon.
Hell to pay for disobedience.
We have to talk.
Hell’s gondolier beams.
Let’s get us some beer,
fix you some solo time
for our Oaxaca gig.
Hamish is back, in a world that turns
towards light.
Bryan Murphy is a former teacher and translator who now concentrates on his own words. He divides his time among England, Italy, the wider world and cyberspace. He is the author of the e-books Linehan’s Trip and Goodbye, Padania, and welcomes visitors at: www.bryanmurphy.eu
The guitar awakens to Hamish's tuning touch.
Hamish the outsider: youngster, beanpole, foreigner.
Mazunte’s air is heavy with coastal flowers and Dolores.
He knows she is there.
#1
Hamish disburses his allotted notes,
thrills to the skill of the tenor sax beside him,
follows his bandleader’s instructions to stick to the score.
#2
Hamish glimpses Dolores. Has she changed?
Hair bleached to a lighter charcoal,
self-composed, at ease in town clothes,
she slips beyond his vision.
#3.
Hamish's notes slide into urgency,
playing for Dolores,
calling her to his orbit.
#4
Hamish has become technique,
Dolores forgotten.
Now the drummer plays off him,
indulging in riffs unheard.
Band members swap expectant looks,
Hamish oblivious.
#5,6,7.
The players urge each other on
with twists of improvisation.
Tenor sax dives deeper into the music and leads it
to places new. Hamish follows him,
and then is following no-one,
rearranging the tropes of the genre to outline new possibilities and then explore them: no longer technique
but raw feeling.
Their music stops rather than ends. Applause takes its place.
The musicians stare
at each other,
exhausted,
elated,
astonished.
Hamish threads his way to Dolores. She is not alone.
He takes her aside, implores her.
She snaps.
Sorry. Just not my type.
The world stops turning.
His blood has frozen in his veins.
His liver has turned to lead.
His head hurts.
The bandleader approaches Hamish
like a business-touting Charon.
Hell to pay for disobedience.
We have to talk.
Hell’s gondolier beams.
Let’s get us some beer,
fix you some solo time
for our Oaxaca gig.
Hamish is back, in a world that turns
towards light.
Bryan Murphy is a former teacher and translator who now concentrates on his own words. He divides his time among England, Italy, the wider world and cyberspace. He is the author of the e-books Linehan’s Trip and Goodbye, Padania, and welcomes visitors at: www.bryanmurphy.eu
Land Lords
Today the Camel Saloon is full of Land Lords. http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.it/201...
