… DOWNTOWN & DRIFTWOOD – new #printmag

I’ve recently launched a new UK based print magazine – I’m looking to promote photography, photojournalism, street photography, poetry and short stories. Issue 1 is exclusively my own work: I’ve wanted, for many years, to self publish a coffee table book with my own photography and poetry but as some of you may know, it can be very expensive. A hardback photobook, with decent paper for displaying photographs, would cost in the region of £80 so to make it more accessible I’ve launched a bimonthly print magazine and am looking for contributors.

Whether your preferred art is photography, in a street, journalistic, landscape, portrait or fashion ilk I’d be interested in seeing it. If you prefer to write poetry, I’d love to read it or if you prefer to write short stories, I’d love to read those too.

You can see the magazine online here or you can buy it by clicking on the Issue 1 cover image below.

If you would like to have something in print, like the look of the magazine and would like to submit, please do so by sending your work to mag@stevemurphyphotography.co.uk. I’d love to hear from you ! I have contributors sending poetry and short stories through and am looking for content for issues 2, 3, 4 and on and on …

Issue 1 cover
Issue 1 cover

I was interviewed on BBC Three Counties Radio on Thursday which you can listen to by going to 02:16 of the show here.

I’d really love to hear from photographers, poets and short story writers – so if you, or your friends would like to submit please share and send work through.

Thank you and look forward to discussing work with you !


Attic Room


The room of choice –
for Him.

As though – I’ve stepped from Earth
on – to another planet –
I’m but a couple of hours
from home.
The smells, the accents, the rolling – hills –
like ocean waves – the rolling – hills.

And this – this attic room with window
pointing – to the sky –
the drone of traffic far below.
I’m not allowed to see – the drone
of distant beings going
to distant places.

As though I’ve stepped from Earth –
into – His world – where words were written
and poems made …
Him, of course, the Him of English poe …
He fucks you up – they tried – he says they did.

It’s Him I speak of –



Tommy’s love: a father’s love

Port Isaac - Cornwall

Walking, peering over the cliff edge,
walking the high coastal path:
a warm summer breeze
rushes in off the sea.

Tiniest of brackish droplets
leave the skin – salt flecked:
I raise a hand to shield my eyes
from the charging Atlantic spray.

An old narrow road drops down
into this small fishing hamlet:
where boats, nets and crates
litter harbour walls and sun shaded alleys.

Todays’ catch fills the air
with the freshest perfume:
salivating with just the thought
of what lunch will bring – today.

The fresh faced Ailla, awaiting exam results,
delivers dawn’s mackerel catch:
watching eyes of Tommy, from under the brim
of his favourite Fiddler cap.

Tommy’s long, now greying, beard has shielded
flesh from many a rough day at sea;
with love he watches Ailla and knows
she’ll escape this tiny hamlet soon.

Wind battered boats, the thrill of the sea
crashing house high into the harbour walls,
nor the narrowest of cobbled streets,
will hold his beloved from venturing far.

Knocking, and knocking

My world stood still
for but a few minutes

My world stood still
for what felt like hours

Before it began, was over
and onto the next

Take stock, look closer within
where knocks have knocked

And have the knocks knocked
but I’ve come back – strong

My world stood still
but already

it’s moving again

Somewhere between here and there

Bright open eyes
Soaking sun, wind and rain
Inwards, downwards through my veins:
Breathing the elements in,
Consuming their worth, their beauty.

Bright open eyes
Myriad colours dancing
Strong winter wind rushing through my veins:
Sharp winter breeze
Awakened senses.

Bright open eyes
Blood pumping, adrenalin rushing
Like lightning through my veins:
Rush of power, stood legs wide
And looking to the stars.

Pop along to dVerse and have your say, sing your verse, have your wicked way.


Velleity is dictionary.com’s word of the day

A wish

A “mere” wish – unaccompanied by an effort to obtain it (is their definition of the word)

I was looking for a word and I was going to write a poem about that new found word. “Velleity” seems like such a “sad” word, the idea you have a wish, a dream, something you want to aspire to but then *pause* you do nothing about it. A wish that will sit in your head for the rest of your days – and you do nothing …….. nothing about it.

I saw her walking

with the morning breeze

a spring in her step

my heart raced

thoughts of growing old together

raced through my veins.

She walked and I followed

I followed until I stopped

and those thoughts changed to

growing old alone …. alone.

Shamrock 609

Worthing Beach (c) SJ Murphy

Night closes across the water
and up
comes the sun.

I’m Shamrock 609, that’s
six – oh – nine

I’m Shamrock 609, that’s
six … you know how it goes.

The Shamrock’s for luck
And the
‘s to break the monotony.

The pitch and the roll,
they take their toll;
a full lobster pot,
a heroin shot.

Alone, in a crowded place

Slowly – she passes
Through the sunken streets
Under windows
Under eyes

Each window
A view from a secret world
A thousand worlds
In isolation

Just one Buongiorno
From window to window
Across a sunken street
Full of life – and love

The isolation lifts
With one fruitful good morning
Isolation lifts
And the buzz of life begins


One leaf, two leaves

Tree in Winter (c) SJ Murphy

One leaf, two leaves
Three leaves, four

Lasted through the winter gales
Await new leaves to push through
Once the springtime thaw begins

I’ve stood and watched you many times
Expecting next time you’ll be gone
You’ve held strong – and for that I applaud

Strong while all around you fell
You’ll take your place among the mulch
But ’til then stand strong and paint

A picture of abandonment
A picture of solitude
A picture of dignity

One leaf, two leaves
Three leaves, four