From the New Poet Laura: Sandra Fox Murphy

I’m honored to be Tweetspeak’s fifth Poet Laura for this upcoming year and grateful for the opportunity with a wonderful community like Tweetspeak. I look forward to the sharing of words and stories, of meeting new poets and reacquainting with others I’ve met but whose path I’ve not crossed recently—of being immersed in this tribe.

Being Poet Laura is special to me since I am the great granddaughter of a Laura Jean (born in 1878 and a farm wife in Delaware). I am the daughter of Laura Jean who, when turned down by the Army in WWII because she was only four foot eight, joined the Delaware State Police. And I am the aunt to my niece Laura (because my sister stole the name before I had a daughter!). So, Laura is a name dear to me. And, of course, I must mention the creator of this word-loving community, L.L. (Laura) Barkat, who has joined us all together in our love of verse.

The name Laura, from the Latin word Laurus, means laurel. A laurel was the garland of victors. An evergreen symbolic of success, healing, peace, and in a wreath, it can symbolize infinity as well as “laureate” in poet laureate. The name has been held by many, including Saint Laura, the 9th-century martyr of Spain, and an obscure Laura brought to life by 14th-century poet Petrarch (who, captivated by an alluring and unattainable woman, left the priesthood to pursue and praise her in his poetry).

Though Laura is a name dear to me, there are other names I love as well. Florence, Russell, and Nova are each a lure, a connection to a soul. A name is akin to a calling card, or a kiss, or a hug. Sometimes but a memory. When my partner died suddenly in 1989, all I wanted to hear was the speaking of his name, his stories, but we all know that friends and loved ones are uncomfortable mentioning death and loss, with good intentions; however, those in grief want to hear all the stories. Never hesitate to speak to a friend of their loss with a tale of their loved one. It’s a gift to the aggrieved.

No platitude do I want to hear,
no empty words to hold him near.
…
Say his name. I will not burst
into tears—the hum of it is music
to my ears. I will not crumble but
for the hush. Say it loud. Roar his name….

—excerpt from my poem “Just Say His Name”

And then, there’s that saying that the last time one’s name is uttered is their final date of death. Origins of this belief are vague and likely go back through the ages of Time, and in author Terry Pratchett’s words from his book Going Postal: Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken? So, keep saying it!

Some time ago, Dave Malone’s poignant poem Kissed, from his collection Under the Sycamore, turned into a Tweetspeak prompt. His line “you held my name in your coat” still resonates with me, over and over. The tenderness of a cherished name rang true and prompted me to write a poem that had long rattled in my head. It took many rewrites to get it to shine, but I’m beholden to David Malone’s poem about a name in a pocket.

Pablo Neruda—someone I always say was a cad, but even cads can be creative—penned wondrous and inspiring poetry; he lends us this from his “Sonnet LXXIII: Maybe you’ll remember”:

Then love knew it was called love.
And when I lifted my eyes to your name,
suddenly your heart showed me my way.

And from author Kate DiCamillo’s book, The Tale of Despereaux: “There is nothing sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name.” How true! I’ll answer to Poet Laura, or Sandy, or Smurph, or, at times when I was in trouble, my dad said my name was Mud.

I often listen to podcasts as I drive, and 98 percent of them are about poetry. My favorite podcast is Poetry for All, where I love the analysis and banter of Joanne Diaz and Abram Van Engen. But, from Padraig O Touma’s podcast Poetry Unbound comes this excerpt from Meleika Gesa-Fatafehi’s poem Say My Name:

My name was my name before

I walked among the living

before I could breathe

before I had lungs to fill …

I love the image of our standing on the shoulders of our ancestors. All the good and bad bringing us forth, cheering us on. As a young child, my sister and I would eat breakfast in my grandmother’s kitchen and then, we’d run next door and eat breakfast—yes, a second breakfast!—with our widowed great grandpa in summers when we were out of school. His pancakes and fresh-caught pan-fried fish were the tastiest breakfasts of my memory.

My poem “Captive” is written in my great-grandfather’s voice. His name was John Wesley Lurty, and I was the luckiest girl ever to know my great-grandparents because it’s a gift denied many. I include this poem because of my great-grandmother Laura, calling her name ….

Captive

My Model T sits in the new garage,
its marble knob reminding me
of all the trails I once drove,
my wife sitting in my periphery

on a Sunday drive. The car still
gleams, its black lines firm, the keys
now in my daughter’s drawer.
My old farm, the barn, now down the road,

farmed by a younger man as I wander
this small house where Laura’s
brush lies still on the dressing table.
What I wouldn’t give to brush her silver

hair one more time. To joyride with her
across the fields of corn. Perhaps
to see her smile once more reflect
the sun and shine on me.

I open the garage door, sit on the driver’s
side. Wrap my fingers around the marble
gear shift, and I close my eyes and envision
the blue skies and my Laura’s eyes.

Now, I’m captive in a smaller world
where days depend on another’s time,
where the life I loved is no longer mine.
It’s 1959.

—Sandra Fox Murphy

Your Turn

Does a name of someone long ago come to your mind, someone met or not met, or someone who sits at breakfast with you? What memories or scenes arise when this name sits on your tongue? What passed-down stories? Perhaps, some you’d forgotten. Keep that name in this world. Share your verses, your stories, your prose poems. (By the way, I’ve learned that the best flash fiction is naught but a fabulous prose poem.)

Photo by Nathalie, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Sandra Fox Murphy.

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Sandra Fox Murphy

Sandra grew up everywhere as a USAF dependent, rootless, and when exposed to the beatnik poets at Indian Valley College, was smitten with poetry. After retirement from the U.S. Geological Survey, she found herself immersed in storytelling, and ensconced in Texas, researches small-town history and is the author of six novels, including Let the Little Birds Sing, the beginning of the Fidelia McCord Trilogy inspired by a young girl who came to Texas in 1847. Aging Without Grace is her first poetry collection, and her poems have been published at the Ocotillo Review, The Write Launch, Humans of the World, The River, and in several anthologies. Sandra's muses are the environment, history, and the natural beauty and mystery of place.

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