Jim Murphy
This Paradise Valley: A Blues for Robert Hayden
Three ages of a life are nailed into
my wall—corpse cleaving into soldier,
soldier into infant—an inverted calyx
you would have recognized at once.
As it is, I have Memphis Slim in a three-inch
speaker and the nightsongs of Alabama
to comfort and conduct me past the trellis
to some place where you are—distant
as the pharaohs, now—quiet as this midnight
fog that wraps the long-needle pines in their enduring
mystery. It’s a claustrophobic space—always
too hot—the box we’re sealed in—blind
as night itself. The ink flows as from
a wound to you. Our weary language buckles—
I speak American, like you, drink long
drafts of fake beliefs, sweet for that old jelly-roll,
what can I do? Double-back in history,
stake some claim that shifts and grows up
wrong before my eyes. My daughter on
the ethernet might one day abide us
confused fools of the United States—
Paradise seekers, crumblers, singers taking stock.
When she comes to you I hope she’s wide
awake, so your songs can drum the nation home.
from Gulf Coast.