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Takes on Tim

Impressions and appreciations, by various authors

Rhina Espaillat: Celebrating Tim Murphy

I met Tim Murphy in the pages of The Formalist, where I suspect many enduring friendships had their beginnings. Volume 7, Issue 2, 1996, was a lucky issue for me, because it marked my first appearance in that stellar publication. So when it finally dropped through the mailslot I didn’t so much read it as inhale it in a rush of curiosity and excitement. And there it was, on page 42, what I was most curious about: a sonnet titled “The Track of the Storm.”

The poem moved easily, with perfect grace, from contemplation of a stormy night’s damaged trees to images invoking the decapitations of the French Revolution, then to the resentful confusion of a bird, bereaved and dispossessed, watching the poet chainsaw the tree that had supported her nest, and finally — by a stunning sleight more of eye than of tongue — to the liberation of “supple saplings” now claiming their share of the sun for the first time. The poem was such a delightful series of surprises that I forgot to envy the author his Nemerov Award, and instead patted myself on the back for having made it as a finalist in such a field. The list of “Contributors” identified the author, Tim Murphy, as “a farmer in North Dakota.”

The following spring I attended the West Chester Poetry Contest for the first time, and was introduced to the farmer: a tall, stringy, red-headed chain-smoker whom I subsequently learned was also gay, an avid hunter, and hopelessly right-wing. Despite differences too glaring to require comment, we became friends — from the first day, I believe — and have been friends ever since.

These ten years of profound affection across deep political, religious, generational and temperamental divides have made me feel lucky. We exchange poems, views and confidences that have given me insight into a remarkable mind not always at peace with itself, but invariably generous and loving, and blessed with a degree of talent that is almost scary. Tim’s original poems, like the headlong, brilliant translation of Beowulf he produced with Alan Sullivan and the biographical and critical prose of his prosimetrum, are extraordinary, as is his ability to mesmerize an audience with the spoken word.

Among the joys of these ten years of friendship are the visits that Tim and Alan have made to Newburyport, which have earned both poets loyal audiences and readers in New England. I cherish memories of Tim on the sands of Plum Island, regaling the waves of the Atlantic with the glorious verbal thunder of Anglo Saxon poetry; of both poets sharing their work with the gathered Powow River Poets in our garden; of Tim reciting, arguing, joking and singing at our fortunate dining room table; of Tim exhaling clouds of sacrificial smoke in our screened porch, like a living oblation to the ancient gods, while I pile up before him the work of Alicia Stallings, Yehuda Amichai, Stanley Kunitz, Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz and other literary loves of mine. Tim has taught and encouraged me, as he’s done for countless others — both in person and online at Eratosphere, and through the literary ventures he helps to sponsor. He honors me by believing that I may have something to teach him about poetry, but I doubt it.

May there be many, many more such exchanges in our future, many more visits, many happy, healthy, productive years ahead for a friend dear both to Alfred and to me, whose mind I admire, and — better still — whose heart I trust.

R.S. Gwynn

Tim and I have hunted together on several occasions, and I can verify that the tales he tells in his poems aren’t tall ones. He knows where the birds are and, despite not being able to tell purple from orange (he’s color blind), is one hell of a wing shot. He can do more damage with a double-barrel twenty-gauge than I can with an automatic twelve. Once he came down to Texas, and we went out to my dove lease. Birds were few and far between that afternoon, but we managed to hit a few, one of which landed in the middle of a wide and fairly deep-looking drainage ditch. Since my two “company dog” Labs wouldn’t retrieve, Tim was crestfallen that we’d have to leave a bird behind. “Wait a minute,” I said. I got my golf umbrella out of the back of the truck, tied a piece of cord to its handle, and tossed it, open, past the bird and pulled it back close to the bank where Tim could scoop it up. He rightly can make fun of my deficient shooting skills, but he generously allowed that I could retrieve for him anytime! We had dove and deer sausage gumbo for supper that night, but I’m sure he’ll agree with me that the dish that hunters most enjoy is the feast that memory spreads.

A.E. Stallings

I met Timothy Murphy on-line at Eratosphere long before I met him in person.  I had read and admired many of his poems in journals, but on our striking up a correspondence, he sent me a few of his books, even though at the time I had no book of my own to trade.  Although chary with syllables in his verse, Tim is generous in his enthusiasms and friendships, and this generosity is evident in how he weaves other people into the texture of his writing — affectionately as characters, dedications and anecdotes in his poems and prose.  He wrote a charming poem for my father (published here), whom he never met, but with whom he shares a passion for dove hunting. (I am sorry my father did not get to know his hunting poems, for he was an outdoorsman with a taste for literature.) 

Several years ago there was a little challenge on Eratosphere to write a haiku in the voice of another writer. Somehow, with its tight syllable count, this seemed a way to channel Tim’s distinctive voice and themes. Haiku is not a form I think Tim himself is much drawn to, but perhaps it is also a nod that I use rhyme in it (though three modulated slant Murphy-ish rhymes), à la Richard Wilbur, one of his (and my) favorite poets. So, here goes:

Haiku in the Voice of Timothy Murphy

Like debts, locusts swarm.
The farmer watches the storm
Foreclose on the farm.

Rose Kelleher

I’m in touch with my inner warrior now, and it’s Tim’s fault. It all started when I listened to a recording of him reciting a passage from Beowulf in Anglo Saxon. I loved the way it sounded. Soon afterwards I bought a copy of the Murphy/Sullivan Beowulf. I had perused Beowulf in high school (I was a skilled peruser in those days) and hated it, but now, in my forties, I was suddenly intrigued. I ended up reading the whole thing aloud in one sitting. By the time I was finished I was hoarse, my husband thought I was crazy, and there was hair all over my chest. I had to read three Jane Austen novels just to get rid of it. I’m still not completely cured, though; I keep throwing poetry magazines across the room and snarling, “You can’t bang a drum to this!”

Henry Quince: Salute to Tim Murphy

I’ve been reading and posting at the Eratosphere poetry workshops and forums, with varying frequency, for nearly five years, and if anyone has been my cheerleader there, it’s been Tim Murphy. Of course, he shows the same generosity to others, too, but speaking for myself — his support has meant more to me than he may know.

I think of myself as more versifier than poet — in fact, I cringe at applying the latter term to myself — and of course Tim has been way too generous in praising my sometimes unsubtle or scattershot efforts. My excuse for a lack of any disciplined development or thematic coherence is that I’ve changed interests and countries numerous times in my life. Unlike Tim, I have no strong sense of rootedness in one geographical or cultural milieu. I envy him that identification with place and local life which pervades much of his poetry.

Prior to Tim’s example and Tim’s motivating comments, I was a much lazier writer than I now am. And I was more indolent still when it came to showing work to anyone or submitting for publication. (If only it wasn’t called “submitting” — like rolling over and exposing the soft underbelly to the predator’s fangs!) I was simply unmotivated. Maybe I thought I wasn’t good enough or that my work was too out of keeping with the modern majority. Whatever, if I’m trying harder these days — writing more, holding back from my website what I consider “better” work with potential for publication elsewhere, steeling myself to “submit” at least now and again — if all that is happening, credit must mostly go to the friendly and collegial encouragement I have received from Tim Murphy. We’re poles apart in lifestyle and political stance, but where we disagree we do so civilly. And when it comes to poems, his is the feedback (and of course the imprimatur if possible) that I most covet and value. Like many others no doubt, I’m greatly in his debt.

Some months ago on a thread at Eratosphere where Tim was “The Distinguished Guest” he made a comment: “I don’t know how to pick out the poem of mine that best resonates with me.” Being plagued myself with a poor or erratic ability to assess my own work, I posted in response eight lines of trimeter to the poet-farmer, which I hoped were apropos and maybe a little Murphyesque as well. Since they seemed to please Tim there, it pleases me to include them here. 

Horizon
 
(For Tim Murphy)
 
It’s a hard life for the farmer
ploughing the land in spring,
and a hard life for the poet
trying and trying to sing.
 
Who can judge if his finest
was wrought on this or that day?
All the heart’s in the new thing,
and the old is last year’s hay.