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

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    • 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 […]
    • Secretary Bird Tanka
      Here is a thirty- one syllable Tanka straight from the Central Kalahari, inspired by that wonderful member of the Eagle family.  The photos were taken with my birthday present from my wife.       Some soar but I stride tirelessly in long black shorts quills behind my ears desiccation dictating managerial options.     […]
    • Mr and Mrs Badge
       Have you ever been on a wonderful travel experience, where one or more of those taking part think that you are very fortunate to have them in the group? PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   How reassuring it must be believing  your experience and knowledge, however slight, takes  priority […]
    • Reading the Rune
      A recent note from Geraldine Green reminded me to post another one of my poems that started in one of her dynamic workshops in January 2014, and was subsequently polished over a several months to result in this final version.     PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   Passed […]
    • A Sweet Retrospective
      In the 1930’s the Pan Floor Manager was the most powerful man in the Home Grown Sugar (beet)  factories, and a seven year apprenticeship had to be undertaken to learn how to boil sugar.  That power had long gone in the 1960’s and it took me about a month to learn how to run a […]
    • Lines of demarcation
      All poets sift their childhood for subject matter, and some experiences surface more readily than others.   PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM       It was winter, several weeks from his fifth birthday when  his father left him at  grandmother’s farm. No memory of  a parting,  perhaps its […]

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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