Jim Murdoch lives down the road from where they filmed
Gregory’s Girl which, for some odd reason, pleases him no end.
He’s been writing poetry for fifty years for which he blames Larkin.
Who probably blamed Hardy. Jim has published two books
of poetry, a short story collection and four novels.
The Ship of Theseus
There are many kinds of memories,
wallows, flickers, triggers and icons,
but the most vital of all are anchors,
tethers, ties that bind us to our past.
Some refer to them as proofs which,
is probably a more appropriate term
as proofs require outside verification
and Reason cannot be bought off.
The opposite of remembering should
be dismembering I would've thought
since remembering is reassembling.
Now if only it were as simple as that.
At what point do you stop being you?
I'm not the child I once was but insist
I'm the same person despite the fact
we don't have one atom in common.
What was definite is now indefinite.
I don't remember the bench we sat on
but as one bench is much like another
does it really matter which bench?
Memories, like every part of a human,
are short-lived and in a constant state
of flux but there is a limit and in time
even anchors get displaced by beliefs.
Beliefs supplant memories with ease.
Like stem cells they become whatever
they're needed to be and who can tell?
I believe we sat on a bench you and I.
I believe. I believe.
The Week of Indescribable Things
(for Carrie)
There are many things people describe as
indescribable that are eminently describable.
Vomit, diarrhoea, acrid piss: all are
easily describable. We just don’t want to.
What I want to describe,
what should be easy to describe,
is the pleasure water provided me at the time,
cold water running over my hands.
My hands are not sore but
hands know how to read the pain.
Afterthought
There were other indescribable things this week,
the way my wife cared for, endured with and simply
endured me. No words. No words. No words.
As she sat with me as I cried as I read
the first part of the poem to her in the dark.
No words. No words. No words.
Bishop, Bukowski and Me
The reason my poetry disappointed me
for so long
is it wasn’t great.
I thought poetry should be great.
Not necessarily great thoughts
(not everything’s that profound)
but do great things with words.
Took me sixty years to realise
all poetry needs to be is poetry.
Occasionally,
like a Philly cheesesteak or a meat sub,
it’ll be great
(more by fluke than design
(some happy confluence of events))
and that’s great, really great
but, hey, even a not-so-great Mac and cheese
fills a hole, right?
People imagine Bishop was a better poet
than Bukowski and, technically, yeah, maybe.
What does “better” even mean?
I should stop beating myself up over this.
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