The Last Time I Bumped Into Don Murray
by Ralph Fletcher
The last time I bump into
Don Murrray
his 83 year old hands
were long,
white, blue-veined, tremulous
but strong when we shook
hands.
Those hands carried a gun in
the war,
and broke up fights between
soldiers.
At 50 they signed the legal
paper
to take his daughter off
life support.
I’d watch him offer a hand
to his frail wife,
not to lift her up, as he
explained it,
but as a fixed point in the
world
she could pull against to
stand.
The hands gestured as he
talked:
“Even when Minnie Mae
was dying
I was able to finish most
projects—
I did a lot of writing in my
head.”
I pointed at his hand:
“You’re bleeding.”
The waitress fetched a
Bandaid,
his hands such a river of
trembling
he could not manage to
unwrap it
so he finally let me do it
for him,
more amused than
embarrassed,
muttering about new
medication,
as I tenderly covered the
small wound.
Your poems always go right to the heart, Ralph. I knew a lot about Donald Murray's books on writing. Now, thanks to your poem, I know more about this amazing man.
ReplyDeleteI have learned from and admired Donald Murphy's work from afar. Authors seem larger than life. Your words provide a window into the real person. Thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThe Dons. I miss them. Such big truths in these little things.
ReplyDeleteDonald Murray changed my mindset on teaching writing. I was introduced to him during my master's degree that I am currently finishing. This poem made Don Murray the person real, versus Don Murray the incredible intellectual.
ReplyDeletenice and touching
ReplyDeletei also fought in the war
ReplyDeleteBeautiful~
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ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteThis poem is so so gucci
ReplyDeleteBruh this guy needs to make a rap
ReplyDeletethis would slap with a beat tho
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