An ex-pat Scot living in London, former teacher and business consultant, in EX SITU M.E.Muir shares her concern about the environment with her fascination for the external world and the language we use to talk about it. “EX SITU” is M.E.Muir’s first poetry collection.
Praise for “EX SITU”:
"Sensuous and intelligent poetry to be read over and over again"
Louis de Bernieres
"It takes words to make a poem and Mary Muir has a bagful of them at her disposal. Some are technical and derive from geology and science, some derive from her love of nature, particular trees and their names, some from her travels and some from a life lived in London and Scotland and the fears and concerns we share living here in Britain. But, to adapt a famous line from Eric Morecambe, words are important but the poet has to put them in the right order. And in poem after poem Mary Muir does this with eloquence, precision and hidden passion. Just read In the Grounds of the Yildiz Palace, Istanbul or Volcanoes Due and you will see what I mean."
(Ian Dunlop’s published works include a collection of poems, The Urban Fox (2016 and 2019.) His first published work was The Shock of the New, 1972.)
"M E Muir...brings London’s cityscape to life, finds the pockets of nature and orchestrates the cacophony of sound from weeds and creatures alike. If Muir exists ‘now only a lunar moment’, at least we have had the pleasure of seeing through her eyes first, riding through the starlight with her."
Managing Director of Fly on the Wall Press
Poems from EX SITU
In Loch na Droma Buidhe
Look westward down Loch Sunart
to the Sound of Mull.
Look west down the scorched path of the sun
the white bright swan road
where gannets and cormorants line, blinding,
and the sun moves down to nest
in the shadow of Ardnamurchan
looking west from the Otters anchorage.
We are looking for sea eagles
in stratus-streaked hills
two boats at anchor
silent as the sun fades;
late evening, lately seen
diving into sleet-shined sun-shined water
hunters armed for terror,
for wolf fish, heron, hare;
we sky-point, calling love
to circle westwards
half a mile above
as night shuts down
and we survive the telling.
Where cars lie dying
in Ligurian scrapyards
the Via Aurelia
travels slowly past
old coffee cups lined along the wall
cow parsley, kiwi fruit smothering
as the Lega Norte marches south.
Discarded gas-cans, batteries retro'ed
just hydrogen-powered fuel cells
purr silently ahead of the heavy tread
past broken elements of lancias, alfas, fiat,
the steel-capped boots tramp south
from the border wall
carrying precious olives,
an offering from infected trees.
paperback, 21 x 15cm, 84 pages