This entry is part of Getaway Reads, an e-mail series curated by Kendal Lambert that features the writing of the Winter Poetry & Prose Getaway faculty.
Grand Fugue
by Peter E. Murphy
After the hospital released me with a warning,
I walked around this busy city that hadn’t noticed
I’d been missing, me and my reconstructed heart,
so full of gratitude I wanted to kiss every light
that flashed GO, forgive the ones that said STOP.
And when I felt the earth throb under my feet
I remembered the subway below where commuters
were training themselves to work and what it felt
like to be that useful, which I will never be again
until my living will kicks in and a young doctor-to-be
pulls out my organs, examines them, and puts them back,
leaving one out to see if anyone notices, the way I did
in boot camp after taking an ancient carbine apart,
getting busted, threatened with court martial and firing
squad and Vietnam. The sun is working overtime,
shimmying its vitamin D all over the city. Its light
reflects off the granite walls of a magnificent building
whose cornerstone says it was born in 1844,
the year nitrous oxide was first used to sweeten pain,
though too late for Beethoven, who, enraged after
becoming deaf, drove the audience mad when he came
up with his fifteen minute car crash, the “Grosse Fugue,”
where the violin and the two violas and the cello
rip their bows across the screaming catgut
so atonally, no one wanted to listen to it.
Wouldn’t his heart break from joy if a patron set him up
at Weeki Wachee to watch through the great glass wall,
mermaids breathing underwater from air hoses so obvious
you can’t see them? His whole universe would shimmer
as waterproof women swirl through the bubbles
of the sunlit spring, smiling at him, waving their colorful
spandex tails like batons. In my anesthetic dreams,
I too breathe underwater without drowning.
I flap my arms, kick my feet, try not to remember
how blood spilling out of the body congeals
on the hospital sheets so a minimum wage worker
in the basement laundry can put a whopper and fries
on her kid’s dinner plate. There are a million birds
in this city I hadn’t heard till now, each of them tuning
their instruments, each of them singing, I am alive.
© Peter E. Murphy. Originally published in Rattle, 2014.
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Peter E. Murphy was born in Wales and grew up in New York City where he operated heavy equipment, managed a nightclub and drove a cab. He is the author of Stubborn Child, a finalist for the 2006 Paterson Poetry Prize, and three poetry chapbooks, Thorough & Efficient, Mr. Nobody and Atlantic City Lives (Forthcoming in 2015). His unique poetry writing assignments have been collected in Challenges for the Delusional. He has received fellowships for writing and teaching from The Atlantic Center for the Arts, The Folger Shakespeare Library, The National Endowment for the Humanities, The New Jersey State Council on the Arts, Yaddo and the White House Commission on Presidential Scholars. Peter is the founder of Murphy Writing of Stockton University which includes the Winter Poetry & Prose Getaway and other programs for poets, writers and teachers in the U.S. and abroad. Read a recent interview with Peter.
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Want to study with Peter E. Murphy? Peter will be facilitating the poetry workshops at the 2016 Winter Poetry & Prose Getaway.
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Dorothy Meissner says
Dear Peter,
I was sorry to hear about your recent experience with the medical community. On the other hand, I am happy to hear that you are now well enough to conduct your winter getaway.
Please stay well. You are an intrinsic part of the universe. The role that you play in it includes making people feel comfortable safe, productive, connected.
I include you with a breed of educator that is synonymous with the characters depicted in the movies, Mr. Holland’s Opus, and Dead Poets Society. That is a good thing in my book.
Be well!
Dorothy
Taylor Coyle says
Thank you, Dorothy. Your well wishes mean a lot.
liz dolan says
Are You okay, Peter. Adore that poem.liz
Taylor Coyle says
Thanks for your note, Liz!
Jim O'Brien says
Peter, I liked that, very much. So you joined the zipper club. I had 2 heart attacks and 4 operations to keep that blue muscle of mine pumping. Life is wonderful at 85. Keep moving and have a couple of weekend beers, Jim O’Brien
Taylor Coyle says
Thanks for your note, Jim. Hope to see you at the Getaway.