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Ivor Murrell offers selections of his poetry, a harvest of experiences and emotions

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    • Artists model
      Today I have had a new experience, which is always welcome at my age.  I sat as a life model for a group of artists.   The last time I had my image sketched was by a ten minute street artist in Beijing in 1996 (see image below).  I am not sure my mother would […]
    • Peregrine
       Jean and I were watching a mumuration of Starlings gather, about 6000 birds in two groups, when a Peregrine Falcon attacked the group I was videoing, first from the right, then from the left.  The effect on the Starlings was amazing, and here is a Tanka to celebrate that moment.  Click on this link to […]
    • Snipe
      A walk in such a range of sunlight yesterday afternoon, when I was able to take some good photographs of Snipe feeding at the waters edge of Minsmere Mere.  Here is a Haiku with two photographs to share the moment.       Probe stiletto, probe, With soft tip like tiny lips A kiss  before […]
    • Fourteen lines on The Peninsula
      Geraldine Green (click here to visit her blog) led another workshop for an enthusiastic small group of  poets on Shotley Peninsula in Suffolk last week.  A stimulating  annual event that we all now look forward to.  The ‘Write on The Peninsula’ workshop was organised by Suffolk Poetry Society Chairman, Ian Griffiths, and generously hosted by […]
    • Exposure
      There is a steady number of  people discovering in the later stage of their life that  contact with asbestos at an earlier date can be long lasting.     PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   A starved cur huddles in his lungs, motionless, but coiled in tension, awaiting some […]
    • When I think of Christmas
      Christmas 1948…. I have been thinking about writing this poem for years, one of the sharpest memories from my childhood. Finally,  I sat down this week, and it leapt onto the page.   PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM    Bright red tiles, arched around an open fireplace ablaze with […]
    • The Elusive Purple Roller
      One of the most elusive birds in Botswana was perhaps the most colourful.  For a moment one perched a considerable distance from me, and using a new camera, which was far more skilled than me, I managed to take the amazing photograph below. PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   […]
    • The River’s Voice
      This poem was written for the Waveney and Blyth Arts recent Poetry Competition, and was ‘Commended’. The subject set was to write about the area that the Rivers Waveney and Blyth  flow through. I read it at a poetry evening in Diss Cornhall on October 9th.   PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO […]
    • The proof that civilisation started by eating together.
      Jean and I were in Falmouth, Cornwall for a few days.  We were shown to a table for four in a restaurant and asked if we would mind sharing it,  if required.  We replied ‘No, we did not mind’.  Part way through the first course a stranger, subsequently identifying himself as George Woodward, sat down. […]
    • A Presence in the Wilderness – June 4th, 2014
       A highlight of our visit to The Kalahari, an unexpected meeting in fading light, just after sun-set, seventy metres from our tent.   PLEASE CLICK ON THE  BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   Deception Valley in the Central Kalahari, where we searched for you for hours amongst the desiccated grasses, rich in brittle blooms […]

Delayed reaction

Only in my 50′s did I learn how the goat had got its own back, and mine.

Thanks to a recent Kate Foley workshop on Taste and see for provoking this poem.


TO HEAR THIS POEM CLICK  ON THE TAB ABOVE

The all seeing eye

 

A plaintive bleat from a neighbour
“The billy goat’s got out!”
told him he would stink again
from tackling the rank lewdness
of the devious vile escaper.

They grappled in gardens
just him and the billy
jeered on by bystanders
beyond range of the stench.

Those broad bean eyes
mocked the jailer in silence
as his horns were clove hitched
for the slow parade home.

A sly kick from the lad
forced him back in the pen
but the last thrust was the goat’s
as his smell on the milk
meant the boy never drank it,
and that calcium absence
curdled  curve in his spine.

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