Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Monday, 29 August 2011


This word has just started to look weird 
But then those do too
If I concentrate for more than a minute
Weird, word, just, look
That one should be 
Yet has always been a working class woman to me
Not being concerned 
With the romantic etymology
Or some loony river castle-bound lady-in-waiting
It was a mothering bosom first
Then later Edith with her besom
Babysitting often, mishearing more
The constant, 'Eh?' and mouthing from the mills
Until she became a post punk teenager
In docs and black leggings
Sharing pints of Guinness
And the chips we shouldered
A lass with occasional sunshine
It is what we do
Embody things
Smother them with personal gravies
But not now
I left it to become a word
I do not understand anymore

Saturday, 27 August 2011


Say simple things
And resist the urge to shatter
Or talk around it at least

There is the giant of a skeleton
Housed in the college of surgeons
He died young
Yet lives forever

There also are the blooms of unfortunate
Elephantitic males
Kids with two heads
And the insides of several sea slugs

The tools are a panorama
What we do and how we do it
It makes one quite dizzy
With the effort
A quick outside
Have a snort
Beer helps
It is what it’s for

It is not all about you
You know

Tuesday, 23 August 2011


You wake to fresh dreams and receding dementia
A foot of snow on the pillow
Yet a headstone at your feet
The pile of cones on the window sill are open
And winter comes in like a bear

Saturday, 13 August 2011



It’s the first day we’ve been able to lie out. The atmosphere has been moody. Here we are though on the loungers and the surf mashes onto the buttery sand behind us. I brought my book with me but am soon distracted by an iguana. It wanders into my vision about twenty feet away on the grass in a clearing ringed with coconut palms. The lizard is big and its tail tapers off to a seemingly infinite point. It is unafraid and its movements are elegant. Then it stops. A smaller one, more colourful, scampers up alongside. This one has a crest. It seems a little skittish. Are you watching?  Yes, I say. Everyone is. The small one climbs on to the scaly spine of the first. They stay like that for ten minutes, maybe more. Some kids from the chalet next door come and take photographs. It looks like a mother giving its baby a ride, as chimps cling to the breast, but I guess they are just having sex. They are not having sex!  I sip a little rum as he gets his spuds in slowly. It is the way of it here in the tropics. They don’t seem to care, there by the hotel bar, a stone skip from the sea, as the waves break and break again. 

Tuesday, 2 August 2011


Her softness melts from my fingers
Long after her touch disappears
Her lips to my skin once wandered free
As forgotten feathers on a warm breeze
My own on her neck and shoulders
No longer for now can linger
The bruise to my chest appeared
After I left her
She left it 
Her perfume remains for some days
On the blue shirt next to my flesh
All freshness has gone
It’s the way of these things
Sudden and done
Our snapshots
Our memory hallowed
Are the ghosts of us from now on
Her voice will carry over seas
All between us is the ocean