Jim Murdoch has been writing poetry for fifty years and has graced the pages of many now-defunct literary magazines and websites and a few, like Ink, Sweat and Tears and Poetry Scotland that are still hanging on in there. For ten years he ran the literary blog The Truth About Lies but now lives quietly in Scotland with his wife and, whenever the mood takes him, next door’s cat. He has published two books of poetry, a short story collection and four novels: Jim, not the cat.

Clever Poem

Being clever doesn’t mean
you’re informed or even aware

let alone knowledgeable,
insightful, understanding
or half as wise a Solomon.

It’s a common misconception
and one clever people exploit.

Evil genius is a
thing for a very
good reason.

A little knowledge in the wrong
hands is a dangerous thing.

Even a little information
in the wrong hands but
a shitload of raw data is...

Put it this way, no one gets
buried in wisdom unless a

crate of Bibles lands on their head.

Lesser than the Sum of its Parts

One day I collected all my tos and fros
to see what they added-up,

or minused-down,
to.

Surprisingly, not all tos are plusses
nor are all fros minuses; it depends.

The result, which I double-checked,
turned out to be a very small be.

All that toing and froing factored down
to very little being.

Sad really.

Imagine Imagining

We all live in our own 
imaginary worlds.
I go to the shops. You
imagine me putting 
on my jacket and cap
and imagine my route, 

the Scottish scenery, 
the weather—was it cold?—
the folk I pass or don’t,
the shop itself and me 
shopping, what I buy and 
how I pay—cash or charge?

Did you imagine me 
stopping at the top of 
the hill first to free the
mouse we caught last night? No?
I didn’t imagine 
you would imagine that.