Local Attorney and Writer Turned His Love of St. Paul into Poetry

Reprinted from Traditions, Winter 2017-2018
April 6, 2018

Cretin High School Profile: Michael E. Murphy '57

“Find your voice.”

Poet Michael E. Murphy ’57 found his voice in his recently published book of poetry, “Songs of Crocus Hill.” The collection of poetry is a book of love poems to his neighborhood and the people and places that make up St. Paul’s Crocus Hill.

Murphy graduated from Cretin in 1957 and went on to study English at St. John’s University and the University of Minnesota. He taught college-level English for a short time before going to law school at William Mitchell, still right in his backyard. But for a time, during his 30-year career as an international business attorney in Minneapolis, his family moved to the ‘other’ side of the river.

Upon retirement, Murphy and his wife Jane of 52 years, decided to head back home to St. Paul, where he was inspired to write again. He drew upon his fond memories of life in his hometown and let his poetic nature capture these for his children and grandchildren, as well as the many more fans of his writing.

His book has garnered great reviews, he believes, because it makes sense to people who were lucky enough to live these experiences, or for those that long to honor the moments of their ‘own Crocus Hill lifestyles: flooded ice rinks at the St. Paul Tennis Club that provided hours upon hours of childhood fun — the Commodore Bar, frequented by famous St. Paul writers from F. Scott Fitsgerald to August Wilson — baseball games at the corner of Randolph and Hamline (his poem "The Title Game" is found at the end of this article) — and the nuns who taught at his elementary school, the former St. Luke’s.

In addition to the hometown focus on love, loss, and redemption, “Songs of Crocus Hill” includes a section of special elegies to loved ones.

[He] found his voice in "Songs of Crocus Hill." His tender and humorous poems harken back to his love of hometown, including Cretin High School, and bring St. Paul to life for readers near and far.

Mary Ann Grossmann, St. Paul Pioneer Press Literary Critic, selected his book as her Literary Pick of the Week this past June. He has read his work in bookstores across the metro, as well as at special events such as his beloved 3rd-grade teacher’s funeral or the 60th reunion of his Cretin class.

Learning to Share His Story

Murphy believes the process of creating poetry began long ago. His mom was a high school English teacher and his dad was also an attorney. They read to their kids all the time. While he can’t pinpoint pivotal moments in his path to becoming a published poet, several things happened in the early years that gave him the confidence to take risks and to express himself.

At Cretin, he played on championship football and hockey teams. He treasured the chance to not only compete but to form friendships that have lasted for decades. Those types of opportunities were important for him, as they are for many students today. But he pointed out one experience that truly gave him a creative voice.

Brother Alfred, algebra teacher, tennis coach, and theater director tapped him for a role in an operetta. “I don’t know what gave him the idea that I could carry a tune, but he pushed me to try it. He was a man who was so respected that I did not want to disappoint him, so I tried. “

Murphy reflects that both he and Brother Alfred took a risk in that operetta. “I had never even sung solo before, and there I was memorizing lines, singing, and performing.”

“I learned early on to come prepared because my teachers, especially the Brothers, came prepared, so I owed it to them to do my best, to try to live up to their expectations.” He enjoyed the performances so much that he and three classmates formed a quartet, The Uncalled Four.

Because of the impact of Cretin on his life, Murphy describes himself as a ‘heart on the sleeve” loyal Raider. To give back to his alma mater and the Class of 1957, Murphy shared his creativity by writing an anthem for their 50th Reunion. To listen to his anthem which blends his poetry with music recorded by the choir at St. John’s University, go to https://tinyurl.com/CDHanthem.

He remains in contact with his fellow Raider alums and has been back to campus to participate in poetry readings with students through the CDH Poetry Club.

“Today, CDH stands on the stout shoulders of those that went before and has raised their standards to new and loftier heights. I was proud to call myself a Cretin Raider while I was there; I am just as proud today to call CDH my alma mater today.”

Find Your Voice

Murphy reflects on the challenge of expressing himself creatively and to tell his story at all the phases of his life.

“I am still learning,” he explained. “This is an ongoing project for me — I continue to find my voice.” No matter whether he was a student, a teacher or an attorney, he has always found rewards in poetry.

For more information on "Songs of Crocus Hill," visit memurphypoet.com.

This article and more are featured in the Winter 2017-2018 issue of the CDH magazine, Traditions.

The Title Game
(a poem in 7 innings)
By Michael Murphy ’57
 
Again the seminal season and fungoed moonshots
pause above the gloves tracking them before
the school wall in right. Infield finished
our kids sprint out there for the title game

Two of our kids are riding the far end
of the bench. They’re dreaming of girls and Nook burgers;
they joke about the old guys in worn out loafers
lined up there behind the wrought-iron fence

on Randolph. The one with his foot on the fence rail nudges
his buddy when our kid lines home a run in the third:
Schmidty’s grandson, he says, young Eddie’s boy.
Yes, and didn’t young Eddie marry a Melady?

The dreaming carries one kid off to the back seat of
his buddy’s moon-lit Ford and the sweet, wet heat
in the lake night air, the scent of alyssum in her hair.
The dreaming brings the other a walk-off homer.

With our kids down one in the fifth, the old guys seem
to remember this game: You took second on the balk.
Yes, and when their coach came out for a jaw
at the ump, Warner got you up to hit for Monk.

But for all the pensive spitting into the cleat-clawed dirt
we’re still down one, two outs, and Muff ’s been sitting
on second for something like sixty years, it seems.
So Jimmy goes to his bench for a kid with a dream in the

bottom of the seventh. Better to hear than to feel
your hit. As their kid tracks it toward the wall in right,
the old guys remember this small May moon in a steel
blue sky, this arc of hope in its seamless flight.