‘Making Monuments’ by Christine Murray

Poethead

Making Monuments 1.   The whole of the waiting stone is beige coloured. It is hiding its silica, their minutiae. Although I   have found dashes of it left as glitter on things, things like tables, chairs. My own face glitters with it.   I gather up the gaudy granite slivers, they flake like brittle lizard skin mottling in my hand, there.   I can hold this smooth round pebble, and warm it through. It is stone silent not budding from, to anything,   but I can feel it’s waiting. 2.   I cannot get into them. Laying the flakes out onto a table, or holding the fragile layers in my hands, peeling them back layer from metallic layer.   They are big as skin, bigger than. They’re stone cells, the living and the not living tissue of stone.   They are the skin cells of stones. They glitter in…

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“And her yellow music caught in the throat of birds” by C Murray

Poethead

And her Yellow Music caught in the Throat of Birds   I waited a minute on the wind on your roof, outside.   She had been awaiting me in the middle of the day Having come warm over those seas to find me,   High over the little streams and the lakes She came   And she playing, And she jumping. Crying and talking in my ear.   She had carried her warm music over those streams And over the frail blue flowers that grow on the lakeside.   And you were sleeping soundly. I left you, I left the city for a little time.   I left the noise of the city, to wait on The little breeze to bring me news.   And her yellow music caught in the throat of birds, agus a ceol buí a thógail i scornach na h’éanaithe.   © C Murray   “and…

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