Five Poems by Jim Murdoch

 

Poem in Want

 

(in memoriam A.P.)

 

I had believed all debts paid

yet something’s not right. I stare

in the mirror and nothing

has changed but nothing’s the same.

 

She who had gone has gone again.

 

All this talk of ‘loss’ makes me

think of neglect or of theft.

The misplaced are sometimes found.

The used-up never can be.

 

She who had gone has gone again.

 

I want to trade this hurt for

words but it’s complicated.

So, few words are suitable

still, I feel it’s expected.

 

She who had gone has gone again.

 

A girl I once loved is dead.

I thought I’d lost that love or

found some better use for it

though now I know I could not.

 

She who had gone has gone again

 

and she’s never coming back.

There’s no poetry in death.

There is only a vacuum

and silence and senselessness.

 

She is gone and she is never coming back.

 

Imperfect Cadences

 

(in memoriam K. and the rest

(even though none are dead))

 

Now only in dreams rarely,

and behind feigned smiles,

we sing, my living ghosts and I,

of nexts and agains and

whens that never were.

 

These are rehearsals, dry runs

for our inexorable last times.

Stupid expression given few things

that matter last long enough or

any time at all really.

 

No perfect endings then, no amen

for us. Now and again a parting gift,

a minor tonic or some promise,

but nothing’s ever resolved and

always when things get real I’m left

 

hanging, not quite there, not yet,

but as good as, almost as good as,

dead to others which is how it all

begins. And as for the coda? Ah.

Not with a whimper, a bang or a

 

flourish and no doubt also without

rapturous applause.

 

Staring into the Void

 

(in memoriam T.H.)

 

While there is life there is hope, David said, I think.

Afterwards faith must shoulder the burden alone

and when faith gives way there are always beliefs.

 

I, of course, am denied each of these but still

have dreams and memories and lies to dull

my pains and dreads.

 

Mislaid things can sometimes be chanced upon

but since I abandoned you long before I lost you

I honestly can’t say what I expect to find here.

 

Just that I can’t turn away.

 

Optional footnote

David said, “While the baby was still alive, I fasted, and I cried. I thought, ‘Who knows? Maybe the Lord will feel sorry for me and let the baby live.’ But now that the baby is dead, why should I fast? I can’t bring him back to life. Someday I will go to him, but he cannot come back to me.” –2 Samuel 12: 22, 23

 

 

Jugs

 

(in memoriam RW)

 

She was famous for having breasts.

I’m sure she did other things

but no one remembers the other things.

They remember the breasts.

 

They were, of course, mighty fine breasts

although far from exceptional—

let’s just say she was no Chesty Morgan—

42D, if you believe everything you read.

 

Premeditation

 

(in memoriam WCW)

 

There are plums

in the fridge:

 

tonight

will be

a night

 

for writing

poetry.

 

First appeared in Bogg No.62 many, many years ago

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.