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Christina Murphy

February 2, 2015

Zeno’s Infinity


shimmering /  penumbral / mystifying
the lilac / footsteps of a different life—
Orion / hunting in the sky
manifest in colors of the night


knowledge is incandescent / ungraspable
wrongly constituted & finely wrought;
Zeno’s infinity / of light / chasing form
and the heart’s mysterious / longing
for the real within the ethereal


serenity is the luminous  fabric / of passages
scintillant in water drops / or labyrinths;
the progress / of destinations
and the fullness of our hungers / invite
the peeling away of enchantments
as we search & search / flounder & ascend—
adrift in reefs / fractions / crenelations
never lost & never found / to break
apart / in becoming whole



The Dragon in the Morning


Diamond-shaped sunlight
splits the horizon into plumes
of white birds ascending

Stone arrows echo in the mountains
as cold winds bring the prophet
into the garden to speak of

falling away from time

Into deep and ragged love
and the skull as home to passions
hoped for and abandoned

The mythology is wrong, the prophet
will say; the spirit is wrong, the winds
will answer

We will stand somewhere near
and listen, until speech itself
is the greater illusion

What we know is shrouded
in chaos—much like clouds
appearing to be purposeful in motion

What arises from the dust of change
will make us look for meaning in
the fading echoes of deserted places

As we shape our dreams of finality
in the skeleton of flowers
chiseled by sacred rivers



In the Heart of the Skull


In the heart of the skull
where the demons reside,
we spit out vapor into rain
and accept our lack of resolution
as we cascade down the hillside
into the raging brown river
that swirls its banks into mud

It isn’t that we have lost faith in images
or have regretted the changes of aging—No,
merely the folly of separating one moment
from all moments and saying, “This I once was”

I can hear the movement of the demons into
other corridors of memory—such sad but swift
sounds because there is no present—only
a past ill-remembered and a future poorly imagined

And so we are lost here, not even aware that
a self is seldom lost, merely found over and
over again until time becomes a bruise that
fades at the edges and surrenders, in time,
to deeper wounds wrought by untold longings

The heart in the skull beats and pauses and in
between there is the silence of being within
non-being; there is no language for the knowing
of not-knowing; there is only acceptance, more
sweet, more tranquil, than our cold, bitter fear



Christina Murphy’s poetry is an exploration of consciousness as subjective experience, and her poems appear in a wide range of journals and anthologies, including, in PANK, La Fovea, Dali’s Lovechild, and Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal, and in the anthologies Let the Sea Find its Edges, edited by the distinguished Australian poet, Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke, and Remaking Moby-Dick, edited by Trish Harris and published by EU Art Line. Her work has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and for the Best of the Net Anthology.





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