Peter E. Murphy is the author of Stubborn Child
(2005), a finalist for the 2006 Paterson Poetry
Prize, and a chapbook, Thorough & Efficient
(2008) both from Jane Street Press. His poems
and essays have appeared in hundreds of
journals including The American Book Review,
The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, The
Literary Review, The Shakespeare Quarterly,
Witness and elsewhere. He has received
fellowships for writing and teaching from The
New Jersey State Council on the Arts, Yaddo,
The Folger Shakespeare Library and the White
House Commission on Presidential Scholars. He
teaches poetry writing at The Richard Stockton
College of New Jersey and is the
founder/director of the Winter Poetry & Prose
Getaway held annually in Cape May, NJ.
(2005), a finalist for the 2006 Paterson Poetry
Prize, and a chapbook, Thorough & Efficient
(2008) both from Jane Street Press. His poems
and essays have appeared in hundreds of
journals including The American Book Review,
The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, The
Literary Review, The Shakespeare Quarterly,
Witness and elsewhere. He has received
fellowships for writing and teaching from The
New Jersey State Council on the Arts, Yaddo,
The Folger Shakespeare Library and the White
House Commission on Presidential Scholars. He
teaches poetry writing at The Richard Stockton
College of New Jersey and is the
founder/director of the Winter Poetry & Prose
Getaway held annually in Cape May, NJ.
Peter E.Murphy
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Obsessing the Sabbath (from The Last Pub On Earth)
Garry wakes covered with rashes
in a restricted area between No Outlet
and Do Not Enter. Another night lying
in the Cardiff underbrush, another week a stranger.
The night before, he shoplifted a candlelit market
darkened by blackouts from the struck mines,
manhandled a small jar, mistaking onion for garlic
powder, dropping it into the deep pit of his overcoat
then cried all the way home.
He is frightened by the closed circuit cameras
that follow him everywhere, even to this park
where a hum of bees camps out in his arms,
his legs, his chest which breaks into hives.
He weeps again when two cardinals fight over carrion.
He is an ache. A howl. If he were a shelf life,
he would expire before reaching the till.
If he were alive he would receive
a telegram telling him he is dead.
Be careful, Garry, or I may have to pull you out.
Garry has developed a selfish allergy:
he wants to become a person who exists.
He chafes and chafes but cannot bleed.
He imagines himself a wild, Celtic warrior,
smiting Edward the First, or a piece of music
that could charm the fleas off a feral cat,
or a dancer who taps into the consciousness
of a fresh keg of bitter ale.
What time do the pubs open today? Garry.
Better get over there early and drink yourself some Brains.
What Did I Do With My Head?
Fresh scrubbed with alcohol and smelling
like the Brains beer he drank all night,
Garry Morgan blunders into the Cardiff daze
seeking a position as General Laborer.
He barely knows how to crawl, never mind
rising on two weak legs, never mind walking.
He barely knows how to talk, his accent
so almost American, he sounds Canuck.
He doesn’t know anything.
Nothing.
The first building site he gets to chases him away
after he sloshes through a pond of fresh cement.
Walking was so new, so hard to do, he couldn’t be
blamed, for not noticing. Could he? Oh, Garry!
He gets lucky.
A guy named Nobby hires him to lift and haul
and crack open the city with a jackhammer.
New constructions where journeymen twist
metal bands around steel bars, lay blocks in rows,
push wires through pipes that never refuse,
that say more, give me more. Harder!
Here Garry labors in the coldest winter in history,
where the newly poured concrete freezes
before it hardens, where Garry ignores the misery
of bricks cracking, wood splintering,
and Nobby screaming, Garry, Garry, GARRY!
to this new guy, so stupid he doesn’t know his own name,
so stupid, you have to show him everything twice,
make sure he doesn’t hurt himself,
then waste an hour with the accident report
so the poor fucker can get treated and released.
Garry’s Mother
It is Mothering Sunday in Cardiff,
the fourth Sunday of Lent
as Garry Morgan strolls through Bute Park
to see the latest crop of families
each with a mother attached.
Some wear hats growing flowers.
Some push prams with babies.
Some push prams with their own mothers.
It’s a beautiful yield of mums, he thinks
and squeezes one to see if she is ripe.
Let go! she screams.
Keep your hands to yourself, Garry.
These women are not fruits.
What a fool I am! mutters Garry,
What makes me think I can touch
one as if she were my own?
Garry stops in a scrumpy bar
to sample the mash and winds up
going home with a bag of onions.
Are you my mother? he asks.
You must be high, the bag of onions replies.
Mum, how could you? wails Garry.
I am not high. I am happy,
You just never saw me this way.
Garry wakes covered with rashes
in a restricted area between No Outlet
and Do Not Enter. Another night lying
in the Cardiff underbrush, another week a stranger.
The night before, he shoplifted a candlelit market
darkened by blackouts from the struck mines,
manhandled a small jar, mistaking onion for garlic
powder, dropping it into the deep pit of his overcoat
then cried all the way home.
He is frightened by the closed circuit cameras
that follow him everywhere, even to this park
where a hum of bees camps out in his arms,
his legs, his chest which breaks into hives.
He weeps again when two cardinals fight over carrion.
He is an ache. A howl. If he were a shelf life,
he would expire before reaching the till.
If he were alive he would receive
a telegram telling him he is dead.
Be careful, Garry, or I may have to pull you out.
Garry has developed a selfish allergy:
he wants to become a person who exists.
He chafes and chafes but cannot bleed.
He imagines himself a wild, Celtic warrior,
smiting Edward the First, or a piece of music
that could charm the fleas off a feral cat,
or a dancer who taps into the consciousness
of a fresh keg of bitter ale.
What time do the pubs open today? Garry.
Better get over there early and drink yourself some Brains.
What Did I Do With My Head?
Fresh scrubbed with alcohol and smelling
like the Brains beer he drank all night,
Garry Morgan blunders into the Cardiff daze
seeking a position as General Laborer.
He barely knows how to crawl, never mind
rising on two weak legs, never mind walking.
He barely knows how to talk, his accent
so almost American, he sounds Canuck.
He doesn’t know anything.
Nothing.
The first building site he gets to chases him away
after he sloshes through a pond of fresh cement.
Walking was so new, so hard to do, he couldn’t be
blamed, for not noticing. Could he? Oh, Garry!
He gets lucky.
A guy named Nobby hires him to lift and haul
and crack open the city with a jackhammer.
New constructions where journeymen twist
metal bands around steel bars, lay blocks in rows,
push wires through pipes that never refuse,
that say more, give me more. Harder!
Here Garry labors in the coldest winter in history,
where the newly poured concrete freezes
before it hardens, where Garry ignores the misery
of bricks cracking, wood splintering,
and Nobby screaming, Garry, Garry, GARRY!
to this new guy, so stupid he doesn’t know his own name,
so stupid, you have to show him everything twice,
make sure he doesn’t hurt himself,
then waste an hour with the accident report
so the poor fucker can get treated and released.
Garry’s Mother
It is Mothering Sunday in Cardiff,
the fourth Sunday of Lent
as Garry Morgan strolls through Bute Park
to see the latest crop of families
each with a mother attached.
Some wear hats growing flowers.
Some push prams with babies.
Some push prams with their own mothers.
It’s a beautiful yield of mums, he thinks
and squeezes one to see if she is ripe.
Let go! she screams.
Keep your hands to yourself, Garry.
These women are not fruits.
What a fool I am! mutters Garry,
What makes me think I can touch
one as if she were my own?
Garry stops in a scrumpy bar
to sample the mash and winds up
going home with a bag of onions.
Are you my mother? he asks.
You must be high, the bag of onions replies.
Mum, how could you? wails Garry.
I am not high. I am happy,
You just never saw me this way.
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