Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Friday, 29 June 2012


Obst. Dr. Roshan and his name
Are listed in Who's Who
For an adherence to literal meaning I guess
He's a stickler
His waiting room puts the one
In Beetlejuice to shame

Life or death
It's all the same



The steady centre of Cecil

Wednesday, 27 June 2012


A new one act, one scene, one idea play
Harold Halfpinter

Scene: A drawing room. There is a table and a chair. In the chair an oldish man smokes a pipe and reads a broadsheet, this is PATER. In walks a boy in school uniform, this is ANGEL

ANGEL        Hello!

PATER         Hmm! (grunts)

Angel takes off his uniform to reveal an adult suit. He picks up a bowler hat from the table and puts it on. This can take as long as it takes. Throughout there is silence, save for their activities and the nervous coughing of the audience.

ANGEL         Goodbye!

Angel exists.

PATER         Mm!


Thursday, 21 June 2012


photo by Sean Murphy


Santa’s independence came early
But I was fourteen
When I thought
About that mass irrelevance in the room
My dad came home sometimes and I was glad to see him
My god
The reason for priests was his reluctance
To have any authority
We would all be ratherly feathered down
Than have their lives
Of betting on two foot dogs again
To escape trap four 
We all had a plan
And I was willing
He asked me to visit the clinic with him
fill his cup
He knew I would not fail
Virgin on the desperate as I was
Towards a girlfriend
I had to do both of ours
Being young and dumb and full
Of himself
He could not muster a dash
His condiments were dried up
He got paid of course


Once upon a time there was a baby who appeared from nowhere
Mr and Mrs. Wheater were amazed
They gazed in wonder at the boy for a whole day and night
For he was like a piglet with bigger feet and no tail
The baby boy gurgled and gurned and was fallen in love with
As the sun started to warm the earth
And rouse the chickens
Worries arrived within poverty
The farmers gnashed their teeth and wrang their hands for hours
It would be good about now to see and heed a sign
A sign that all would be well…

They decided to ask the village elder if they had been blessed

After his breakfast of worms the elder came
He entered the hut and squinted at the wrinkly pink child
The boy wriggled and squealed and played with his feet
The elder gave a sigh but smiled and placed his palm against the boy’s sole
The foot and hand were exactly the same size
And then tickled the infant’s little pot-belly

The elder looked at the parents with his watery eyes
He shall cause upset wherever he goes
There was much nodding
He was offered his payment of a fistful of eggs as he left, softly
The poor parents hugged each other and sobbed with woe
And did not hear the elder as he popped back in to say
In his forgetful way
He shall be a cheery child, as happy as a mucky hog

True to foretelling
The boy crashed blissfully through his young life
As soon as he could walk there followed a trail of brokenness
Doors, carts, barns and bones
As soon as he could talk he could apologise
And always with a smile so genuine that he was quickly forgiven
He would burst like sunshine through the most humdrum days
He had his head rubbed or patted umpteen times a week
And was always being given a turnip to take home to his parents

But time forms shadows
And age makes weary

The villagers started to tut and cluck
They watched the boy’s poor father work hard to fix all the broken things
They knew of hardship and would help out
Releasing the father from his duty
So it was that as the boy grew the father fell in to debt
The villagers became dismayed at this mess in their midst
It was time for a gathering

There and then it was decided to place the boy into the apprenticeship of the Smith This brought gasps and sobs of horror
And woe
From the boy’s mother
Who imagined all sorts of catastrophes involving fire and molten metal
The Smith would have sobbed too but he thought it unbecoming
The mother was calmed as
The village elder explained the ruling

The Smith lives on the outskirts of the village
So the boy cannot cause too much mayhem
The Smith can forge strong chains to keep the boy in check until he learns
The boy needs something to occupy
That wandering mind and those waddling feet of his

All at the assembly murmured and nodded approval
They looked at the boy
Who had been seated serenely throughout the hubbub
And they were filled with a warm glow
They thought themselves wise in their solution and slept soundly on it

By the age of fourteen the boy had become the best Smith’s striker in the shire
His hammer blows rang out from morning until twilight
Farmers came from outlying boroughs to purchase the sharpest ploughshares anywhere
His muscular legs had developed in proportion with the once cute cumbersome feet that propped them up
His arms were full of knotted power that had older milkmaids yearning over their buckets
His handsome face
Once so open and sunny
Was now dark all day with concentration
His brow was thick with soot and sweat
His mouth was permanently twisted with effort
Even in sleep
Which was deeper than he had ever known
For now he had no time to dream
And he never smiled again

Tuesday, 19 June 2012


Father Eckersley polished his chalice as I imagined Alfred
Hitchcock would have had he been as catholic in his taste
of religion as he was in his choice of film choices

Fr Coyne, less forthcoming to the congregation
would show his shined pate backwards to the monstrance
unknowing of the crowding oh on his reflected raw sausage crown

Fr McKeown was a different story
getting married as he did
to the cleaning Mrs. Kelly in her widowhood

Fr Nathaniel moved to Cumbria
having had cardinal approval
to look after number one

Father Spring had an afro
and indifference to a no
when he asked to come in

Canon Flynn
Now there was a man
He had us all home by eleven

Monday, 18 June 2012




Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.


Wallace Stevens 1879-1955

Wallace Stevens was an insurance salesman and then VP of the company. He wrote poetry and became successful in this later in life. He had his theories about what poetry was and how a poem should be and like all theories of poetry by writers of it, I opine that this was a justification of his voice and of his style... 

There's room for everyone.

Tuesday, 12 June 2012


Today we enjoyed the rain
Like the umbrella sellers of Broadway
For whom opportunity plops
Carpe Pluvia!