When I first opened Murray’s ‘The Blind’ I entered into the rhythm of this – for me – new voice eagerly and was immediately delighted by the imagery, the succinct phrasing, the unfolding drama of the first poems… and then I hit a wall.
Suddenly the mise en page confused me. I couldn’t locate a destination or follow her meaning (in the manner I expected) in the refined simplicity of her phrases; couldn’t read the implications of/the unfamiliar placement of the slashes, dashes, dots enclosed by brackets, and the cryptic lines that offered me so little clues to her narrative.
rings rim bears the swish of silks
it witnesses the ravel/un of thread
from its metal mouth/ its iron lung
a gap will open at a point north -west
slow the revolve to an avenue / a road
nearby a waystation/
there is the constant presence of the dead
in their soul-cocoons / needing caressing
I had to go back and read from the beginning again…
And with this re-reading my excitement mounted. Like a photographer suddenly gifted with eyes that perceived previously unseen spectrums of colour, I entered into a new country, and my ears began to hear its language.
Now isn’t that exactly what poetry should do? I cannot give a fellow writer higher praise than this – that she takes me by surprise and shows me things I never knew our common tongue was capable of.
Over a week I read ‘The Blind’ daily. Each time I began again at the beginning and travelled a little further into its unfolding mysteries. As each veil lifted, the sense of intimacy shared increased, but also the sense of wonder, the sense of being a privileged observer to a grander-than-personal drama. This I attribute to Murray’s unique sense of language as metaphor. Nothing essentially new to poets or poetry of course, but seldom have I found it in the work of my own generation to be as refined or as exquisite as in this collection.
stitched in caul and head they will
use the steel tips to force him out
This is a work dense with layers of meaning that emerge gradually from crafted layers of text. Like a cubist painting, its parts make up a whole greater than their sum. The images of women weaving or sewing, thread together all the elements: the living and the dead, the world weary and the unborn, in the stories and in the personalities that populate this collection. It is one poem and it is many, and it offers both detail and vista.
unleash the skein
red thread the open wound
and from it a thin red rivulet
will drain into a metal dish
and curl into water
and from shadows
some say they sit behind mirrors watching lives
pass through a room:
that they spindle the threads / that they are blind /that
they have no emotion
they are simply bent to the work that they were given
and never a stitch is dropped /
that is not picked up and brought clean again / for they
simply do their job
by touch by hand by long and patient experience with
the vagaries of man
I have not enjoyed a new voice as much, or felt such excitement in discovery since I first read T.S. Eliot in high school.
[Note: This collection was published by Oneiros Books, not by us]