House
The four walls of the house are sealed
They will not slide
The four walls of the house are sealed
Tight
Four doors are shut to
Sit and remove from your book
The loosed strand of hair
Bind it
A charm
A Bracelet
To cast out onto the dreaming sky
As you would cast doubt
For when the walls slide
The doors will remain sealed
You must listen attentively
At each one to know when
To attempt to
Enter in.
There a gateway haunted by the stone remembrance of birds
There a gateway haunted by the stone remembrance of birds
Or something like birds perched atop the two-pillared gap
Pewter-stones cross into a narrow laneway that makes cruciform the path
There is the smell of sea beyond this black stream
A pool unrippled nor disturbed by leaf / reclaimed
This lock is banked up above the waterway
The black waves sluice to swinging back /
Pull in
And back
Something sits at the centre of the water’s reclaim
Covers a stone block
Some shape at the centre of lake
Trundle then the rim of black water /
Riddled with sea’s amniotic odour
Trundle then the rim of black water
Riddled with sea’s amniotic odour
The shape of the truncated trees/
Their pillars boundaries of not-place
Shadows abound
Inky and dark
A light flare exposes their pillared row
Those truncated ones that line the periphery
Enclosure just left /
Where willows wept steel
and stones stood abject
Water is black ink almost edge-lapped
Water is black ink almost edge-lapped
Iron stakes step up from the river
This inlet/ this reclaim /the sea
A shiny leaf-wall of shells /or branches cling
Like beech / it coppers its metal / reaching into
Crumbling the concrete / it rises up its silence/
As the stakes / facing a shadowy tunnel agape/
From here a trickle/ maybe a step/ a step
A gown / a foot covered/ in linens so fine/ a dress
Cobwebs /agape the tunnel answers the black bars
The cruciform gateway/
Cold to touch /
Turn away to
See a woman there /
On the causeway that revolves around lake
Her foot is covered by the hem of her dress/ light as
A spiderweb
The pulp of her heart is set red in her dress/
Colourless save for the red searing her lace
She will bring you to where he lies, a broken body
– Bruised in its flesh
She will show you in images
For She is bitter love /
She is aloes
She is sex
She begins to lead me with her wing tip
– With her grey hand
She will hold me down to look
At the body broken in its meaning
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Christine Murray is a City and Guilds Stone-cutter. Her poetry is published in a variety of print and online publications. Her poem for three voices, Lament, was performed at the Béal festival in 2012.
Her Chapbook, Three Red Things was published by Smithereens Press in June 2013. A collection of poems called Cycles will be published at Lapwing Press in 2013. A dark tale called The Blind (Poetry) will be published by Oneiros Books in 2013.
She has reviewed poetry for Post (Mater dei Institute), Poetry Ireland and Writing.ie. Chris writes a poetry blog called Poethead; a Poetry Blog, which is dedicated to the writing, editing and translation of women writers. She is a member of the International PEN Women Writer’s
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