Then

By John Andrew Murray

John Andrew Murray is a writer, architect and travelogue publisher. 

He was born and lived in west Belfast through the 60s, 70s and 80s at the height of the 'Troubles' in Northern Ireland.

John is from a working class family. He joined a local running club and completed 4 full marathons before he was 16 years old. 

He worked for an architects office when he left school at 16 then moved to England at the age of 20 where he continued working and studying part-time.

John began writing poetry in his teens and continued penning prose throughout his adult life. He returned to Ireland in 1999 and settled down in Dublin running an architects department within a development company.

Then is a collection of his poetry over the last 20 years. Like most of his work, Then is a reflection of John's own feelings and is a very personal account of moments in his extraordinary life, where he deals with love, loss, worry, happiness and the wonders the world gives us everyday.

John is still actively writing poetry, plays and provides architectural consultancy. 

He is working on his latest project JAM Travelogue where he hopes to bring together his love of city travelling through videos, photos and maps alongside his writing and art.

Other works include And, His Journey and Two Halfs.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Andrew Murray
• Release date: Jun 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393044178

John Andrew Murray

John Andrew Murray is a writer, architect and travelogue publisher. He was born and lived in west Belfast at the height of the 'Troubles' in Northern Ireland. John worked for an architect’s office when he left school at 16 then moved to England at the age of 20 where he qualified as a chartered architect. John began writing poetry in his teens and continued penning prose throughout his adult life. Now back in Dublin, he is working on his latest project Jam Travelogue

Book preview

Guitar Player

The feet of marching fingers, pacing out the fretted path

Such incision and authority, each note held in wrath

In a sudden swift impulsion, the troops unfold

Re-assembled in precision, senses shattered, still and cold

Nails clipped and shaped to perfection

hurdle the track in every direction

Like dancers on a tightrope

Eyes be-lied by such little scope

Searching trackers in an adventure of possibilities

pick their way through a maze of difficulties

Straying from each-other’s footsteps

Intricately changing as they run

Quickly, slowly, variating

Bliss as they collaborate as one

Through the haze of smouldering nylon

loom fingers blurred by the speed of the strum

While picking fingers elude even the brilliant

Melted strings drip over the resonating sun

The player, captured in his eminence

Unaware of ship or car

as he spills with beautiful music

As he masters the guitar

west Belfast (man)

The rain soaked tear sinking

into grey dry skin hung

below fallen eyes split

with red starburst of dreams long

forgotten

Peppered dots where veins

have rusted, purple and pink

crusting saliva followed by cough

splutter, spit – the death onto ripped tar

A quick ‘what about ye’ and a

‘wa, this ould drink ‘ll be the death of me’

The shoulders hunch, hands

ball fists in pockets barely

warm, slow feet shuffle the

route of school, work, wedding stroll and

death march

Past graffiti walls of hunger strikes

Of memories. Of fallen heroes

war, oppression, in memory of, army, police,

government, of prime ministers long gone – forgotten

Past schools, shops, bookies, bars, shrivelled

bodies shaking in hollow doorways drawing

on cigarettes. Coursing alcohol dulling mind and memory

Another shuffler slides slowly past, ‘morn’

he nods. Their ghostly stares lock, screaming

why, have the clutches of death not rid us?

The post-office queue is to the street again

where benefits are collected only to be re-cycled

into empty cans coarsely thrown into blue plastic bags

Some names change, cultural centres welcome

Community groups grow next to peace walls

Tourists sympathise while snapping every bit of shit

on gable walls, slipping on shit

The dogs are blamed

Another rumble in his chest stops him

He bends hands on knees struggling

Arse now pressed against coloured glass

He straightens to face the new hospital wing

His cough splutters toward what will be his

last resting place. A shuffler in pink coat

wire yellow-white hair stops to ask if

he is alright, turning to match his gaze

‘this place has seen some change’

––––––––

He gulps thick green goo

Chews for a second before departing

it to the street where it sits on generations

of dirt trodden by soldiers boots, workers

steel toe caps, Sundays best leather

white sandals, slippers, Nike

Clarks, dessert and baseball

Wiping his crusted lips he nods a reply

‘some change’

Waiting for the Morning to Lift

McDonalds roundabout

Between Bow and West Ham

The village people packing their stomachs - lining the arteries

Hot coffee against the cold morning mist

Double orange for energy

Dusty boots and branded sweaters

Smiles and chat

Bursting pride of the working man

No need for gel

No need for razors or shampoo

Maybe a brush of the teeth

Maybe a comb of the hair

Then off. Into the dark chill

Metro

Picking up the same free paper

Fed the same opinion

Cowell said this

Madonna’s doing that

Wrong Dress

Council not doing enough

Whole city’s minds are shaped

Shop-keeper

Hole-digger

Hero, Crook, Mother, Priest

Populace is framed

Children are born

into the

Metro-palace

Groups of individuals

Looking the same

Lounging in Shopping Centres

and Starbucks

Independent thought is the

benchmark

We all agree on that

The World Considers

The world will consider

the valour of man

when the day to perform

arrives – be the one

Strength in a soft kiss

Power in kindness

Beauty in silent pause

Colour in song

Breathe in gently

but deep

Lift back your shoulders

and point chin to the crowd

The day has arrived

The night awaits

Curtains ripple

Spotlight pierces the darkness

Tonight the world condenses

into a thousand expectant faces

It’s your time

It’s your duty

Go out and sing

Not for yourself

or friends or family

Sing for legacy

Tonight the world will consider