Drowning in the Desert

By David Murphy

“As its title suggests, many of the poems in Drowning in the Desert concern themselves with the condition of being helpless beyond circumstance. A secret regret...and a motif of the drowned and the unsaved threads through the book like a nagging guilt. The author’s life is presented like a tourist’s pilgrimage in poems that are shaded with displacement – the poet is a sojourner in every place he rests. This collection is a journey that asks to be taken.” – John W Sexton

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005748524

David Murphy

David Murphy’s most recent book Walking on Ripples was published by the Liffey Press in 2014 – his first work to feature non-fiction. Previous books include a contemporary fantasy novella Bird of Prey (2011), Arkon Chronicles (novella 2003) and the well received novel Longevity City (2005), each of which was published in the USA. Award-winning short fiction has been published and translated worldwide including a full collection – Lost Notes (2004) – and two chapbooks (Ireland & UK). He was born in Cork but lives now in Dublin and Waterford.

Book preview

Drowning in the Desert

David Murphy

Copyright © David Murphy 2020

First published in Ireland by

Revival Press

Limerick, Ireland

Revival Press is the poetry imprint of

The Limerick Writers’ Centre

12 Barrington Street, Limerick, Ireland

www.limerickwriterscentre.com

www.facebook.com/limerickwriterscentre

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Book design: Lotte Bender

E-book formatting: Máire Baragry

Cover Design: Catherine Shiels

Back Cover Photo: Samara Alkhaled

Cover Image: james-adams-Q9RA-I_PcxE-unsplash

Managing Editor Revival Press: Dominic Taylor

A CIP catalogue number for this publication is available from The British Library

We acknowledge the support of The Limerick Writers’ Centre Community Publishing Project

for Isobel O’Shea

CONTENTS

PLACE

Finisterre

The Royal Way

N25

Over the Lakes

Roots

The Burren

Lure of Luggala

End of Season in Arcadia

Strobes and Other Codes

Llechwedd Slate Mine

White Star

Benediction

Westward to Valparaiso

Bolivia

Iguazu

Navel of the World

Eye Opener

PURPOSE

Sins of the Fathers

Development

Terminal Cathedral

Narrowing Path

Poem Found at Oireachtas Committee

Closing Time

The Man Who Lived at the Side of the Road

Double Irish or a Single Malt?

Stepping on Stones

Stopped Clock

View from Montenotte

PERSON

Blinded by Visions

Sparks

Lady of the Marshes

At the Lights on Manor Street, Waterford

Had You Been There

The Blanket Box

Slow Velocity

Plimsoll Lines

Reflectivity

Files in Amber

Lady of the Forest

POSTSCRIPTS

Verbatim

Back Door Cat

Prado

Alchemy

Srebrenica

On Charles Bridge

That Syrian Woman

Returned Soldier

Seconds Out

Cheltenham

Japan Walked into the Bar Last Night

Chant of Repentance

Slow Puncture

Ignition

My Secret Shore

Fallen Climber

Acknowledgements

About Revival Press

PLACE

FINISTERRE

I shall bring on my camino

the oldest shirts and socks,

wear them each a day, maybe two,

discard them in bins

of albergues I pass through.

Or I shall keep them until

the End of Earth is reached

and burn them on rocks

the way other pilgrims do,

and take off my old boots

and set fire to them too,

rejoicing in pungent smell

of leather and cloth until

what remains on rocks

is less of me.

THE ROYAL WAY

A headland sits on the skin of the sea

like congealed blood on an old wound.

I walk to the head knowing what

the sea is capable of, steering clear of

claw and draw of drowned memory.

The promontory lurks beyond lure of

ebb and flow, a leopard in waving sea-grass.

Faraway boats dream of clear sailing

and I dream of walking, walking,

into a future unlike the past.

I hope I make it to the lighthouse

by taking this longer route inland.

The head coils away from me now,

a serpent’s skull swaying – then closer,

ready to strike – my feet mired in clay.

On and on I go, trudge