In Turenne, Contentment

In Turenne, Contentment
in the laughter and coffee and plums on a sunny terrace
and the green freedom of a French holiday
with the adjacent rooftops that buckle then rise
again and the great valley beneath deep as a pleasured sigh
fills daily with fog routinely as a morning cuppa. I dream
a little of a sustained life this simple, this happy
gentleness where food and drink weigh
importantly upon our thoughts. The song is foreign, tiny
cigales vibrate as ivy tendrils round our table we recount old
stories and drink champagne by three. Our boys
tumble among the wasps creating their own stories. We
gather more plums and brew another pot and wait for the sun.

words and image by Lisa Murphy-Lamb September 2010

But the longing for other places keeps her awake

words and image by Lisa Murphy-Lamb

But the longing for other places keeps her awake

Instead

of slipping serenely into the tenderness and refuge

family life offered

she was restless.

His thoughtful goodnight kiss, the

way he brushed

crumbs from each fingertip,

his socks left

each night balled carefully beside the bed-

lost

to the dogged, whispering murmur-

a ceaseless entreaty that robbed her

the pleasure

of bathing each pink toe on the left

foot of her youngest,

long walks each Sunday afternoon and receiving

a cup of tea while balancing what

he earns

and collectively what they spend.

She saw a different life

where crumbs fell freely and kisses

given

were unexpected, public, deep

and often.

Where tea grew native.

This image-this murmuring entreaty,

she worried,

would tire of calling her and

would

fade away

leaving her

only the call of the

tea kettle.

evanesce

evanesce

Rock stack

magnificent

strata of colour.

Fading into the horizon

not all hurtle by it

like I.

Recognizing the disquiet

in the hills,

from abandoned train cars

sculptures toil in the heat, erect

shapes

in harsh contrast to the natural

landscape-

beautiful

wonderous.

New material nestled

in centuries-old dust.

Unfamiliar angles upon

gentle slopes

tug at my senses.

I know each vein is worth lingering

over,

with close examination,

I’ll find

exultation

Yet, despite my

hunger

It seems I should continue on

and ignore

the call from

my loins to

slow down

to touch, taste

experience

the layers of this new land-

the deconstructed,hidden,internal,emotional,magnificance---

Yet

these hills scream out

they will not allow it-

Me

to fade

into the horizon

like a memory.

Words and image by Lisa Murphy-Lamb

Precious

photo taken April, 2009 by Lisa Murphy-Lamb Houston, Texas

Precious

Lisa Murphy-Lamb

What would

the people

who sit around

my table

enjoying

the food

I’ve prepared and

the wine I’ve

poured say

if

they knew

that once I

sat in math

class

and

while others

around me

worked

steadily at

solving

algorithms

and proofs

that I had

to lift my

feet from the

thick mud

in my mind

the grey, dull

denseness that

weighed heavily

where thought

and understanding should

have whirled

but didn’t

or that

my Baba

straight from the

Ukraine

never learned the

English language

gave birth to

thirteen children

while she worked

her small

farm fields

only able to keep

six alive?

For I’m the person

with the

history

that these guests

around my

table with

the sauce that

once simmered on my

stove now on the

corners of their

mouths

are so

anxious

to keep out of

their own

precious

children’s

classrooms

For

I held onto

the lowest

math grade

all

through high school

and

my grandmother

on my

father’s side

was simple enough

to carry my father nine months

without realizing

he was alive

inside

she waited

for the doctor

to bring life to her son with a slap

to his bottom signalling life with his first

cry

It’s exactly that kind

of generational ignorance

that those

seated around my table,

flushed by the

pinot noir

believe

that is ruining this country

brought in

across borders

that interferes

with their children getting

the educational attention

they

deserve

What if

instead of knowing

me as author,

poet, educator

mother

these dinner guests

knew

that while they were

the learned

offspring-

raised by doctoral parents

in erudite

homes

I came

from mere

high school graduates

that were

affected

gravely

by the

‘80s recession

when my father,

a career middle manager,

was no longer employable

so who

ultimately

ended his working

years as a

used car

salesman?

For it

would put

a kink

in the night’s

discussion

for how could

they

continue to argue

the drain

to

the system-

students who

cannot learn

at a quick pace

who come

from homes that

are not literate

or whole

have no right to

learn side by

side with

their own

gifted children

and in the next breath

ask

me to open

the merlot

and then

compliment me,

the

student with

simple immigrant

roots, foreign

language

inept math skills

blue collar

parents and

a lifetime of

play over

summer camp and

gifted classes

on such

a delicious

meal

and

fabulous evening?

Unhinged

Unhinge

The

loneliness of my office life ended

with the office

reorganization-

you fit naturally

here

you lead 

and I find myself

attentive to company

policy

pencil skirts and

articulation

strong jaw

integrity and commitment 

to family life

set you apart from the

corner-office-expense-

spending-others

and I see how 

someone so young

has made it so 

far

it is effortless to

misread your

interest in my

reports for

I know of your wife

and kids and yet

it seems we 

meet for casual coffees

or drinks

and easier

still I can forget

your wife 

and all that

when I do think

of her I imagine

she is 

shrill

and thick

and prone to wearing

sweats

so I lean forward

smooth, and

gaze intently,

prepared to

unhinge

In a Station of the Metro

In a Station of the Metro

Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals on a wet, black bough

Homage to my Hips

Homage to My Hips

Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips.

they need space to

move around in.

they don't fit into little

petty places.  these hips

are free hips.

they don't like to be held back.

these hips have never been enslaved,

they go where they want to go

they do what they want to do.

these hips are might hips.

these hips are magic hips.

I have known them

to put a spell on a man and

spin him like a top!