In Memory of Murray Gordon, poet (October 30, 1937-December 23, 2021)

Murray Gordon (Photo courtesy of Susan Sheridan)

Murray Gordon was a founder of Poet’s Table with a loose association of ten poets who had completed the advanced poetry course offered by the University of Washington Extension Classes. Murray was an active member of the Seattle Poetry scene, a performance poet at many venues including the Frye Art Museum, area bookstore events, the Culture and Parks Committee of Seattle City Council, and other local venues. Murray taught writing enrichment classes to school age children at John Stanford International School and through Powerful Schools, an after school program. “Mr. Murray” not only guided the students in their writing but taught them that they were writers.  Murray drew inspiration from his Philadelphia WWII era childhood, his coming of age in the Beat era, his work as an industrial engineer in the garment industry, his devotion to Buddhism and his keen observations of the world.  He always had a pen and a small notebook in his pockets. Murray was a gregarious man who charmed with his wit, humor, and his stories. Among his loves were dancing to a Zydeco beat, walking the Oregon Coast, writing at his desk, the company of friends and family and schmoozing with the world at large.  And until the end—words.

Get To Know Your Jacket

—by Murray Gordon

Reach into the closet for your jacket
and grasp the collar which was sewn on by
Nan. She has a quota of twenty-eight
dozen per day. Thrust a hand into one
sleeve and twist the other hand into the
second one. They were set by Sideth and
immediately afterwards topstitched by
Chong. Their machines are adjacent but they
are not allowed to speak to each other
for forty hours a week, fifty-two
weeks a year. Smooth the jacket around your
torso. Larita bodyseamed it for
you. She's been doing that job for more than
fifteen years breathing in lint all that time.

 That the left and right fronts of your jacket
should match, Khamdy personally took a
marking pencil and marked your zipper at
the neck, yoke and waistband. Last year, she set
61,405
front zippers. The pocket welts were cut by
Eulalia who stands on her feet for
eight hours a day at the Reece machine.
The pocket zippers were set by Honee
who is so good that you will never
see a pucker at the corners because
she must make repairs on her own time. When
you put your keys, comb and change into
the pockets, you can do so with confidence.
They won't fall through because Jojo is the
pocket bagger. She is so fast that it
isn't necessary for her to think
anymore. William cut out the pattern—
360 ply. There is
not a moment anymore when he does
not hear the buzz of the cutting machines. 

Pauline supervised the sewing line. They
gave her a raise, put her on salary
and now they don't have to pay her over-
time when the plant works on Saturdays. George
is the owner. He comes in late and leaves
early, takes two hour lunches and he
does not know the names of any workers. 

Your jacket comes as an experienced
traveler. Ordered in Seattle from
a catalogue company in Maine, the
fabric was shipped from a Massachusetts
mill to the contractor in Seattle,
reshipped to a subcontractor in North
Carolina, sewn there and reshipped back
to Seattle to be inspected, tagged
and bagged, reshipped to Maine and then shipped to
your home address in Seattle. When you
wear the jacket no one will be able
to see any of this. What they will see
on the left front is a small label with
the name of a dead man woven on it.

A Poet died today
for my friend, Murray Gordon

—Rhoda Mae Evans

I should mourn but I can’t —

isn’t he feeding the ducks? I smile,

as evening stars flash through

scudding clouds and the wind

teases the ‘when you wish upon’

out of me — I can’t help it —

those winter berries, birds don’t know

the name of, are eaten anyway, oh!

I think I hear his bluesy harmonica,

groaning down the seams of garments

sewn in sweatshops, notes aquiver,

I see his beret fly off to the moon,

is it you lying on the wing of that B-17

ogling Betty Grable’s long legs?

patent leather shoes tapping time to an old beat,

images in motion as I catch them on the fly,

phrases borne through forests, through sand, toes chill

in the surf, touching down in murky marshes,

kicked by the feet of herons, feathers spread soft

to a slow-moving Zydeco rise and fall in Creole time,

feeling metaphors flap, a bluegill in an osprey’s mouth,

muddy green water splashing similes to croaks of frogs,

rhythms purling river streams around bends,

vibrant variations alliterate in snagged branches,

caught like tadpoles in the hands of gurgling children,

rhymes sashaying across the desert, like tumbleweed,

every which-a-way, snakes winding through scrub brush,

rattling to the beat, analogies shifting wit to alleys, streets of Philly,

a Spalding ball high bouncing the asphalt, a song sung

moaning its loss, Ginsburg, Corso, Kerouac, laughing on the road

to discovery, on a journey to whatever comes next, I have not lost—

I am blessed, showered with the volcanic life of words, his spoken words,

catching them, snowflakes, one of a kind, on the tip of my tongue,

Fast Eddie, Madame Malinka, Sid the Shiv, Mr. Moose indelible,

and there! Uncle Benny in a cocky fedora, cigar in mouth,

clutching my black beret tight to my head, we all dance down the alleys,

past the corner candy store, the Jewish Deli, the ball field, the gin joints,  

   looking for 

'The Beat Who Goes On’ and find him

              everywhere…..

Rhoda Mae Evans was born in Hoboken, NJ, and she migrated to the Pacific Northwest during the Seattle World’s Fair in 1962. Her eclectic artistic career revolves around telling stories. She holds an MFA in Performance Art from the Art Institute of Chicago, where she also served as adjunct faculty in 4D Time Arts. She incorporated film, photography, poetry, sound, and video into her performances. She danced/performed with Seattle’s Dappin Butoh for three years. Her photography has won prizes, been exhibited in Seattle galleries, and been printed in journals. Her poetry has appeared in Fine Madness, Port Townsend Minotaur, Hoboken History and The Fib Review. She has worked as a house remodeler, a peace activist, and a hospice program assistant. She now lives in the Fremont neighborhood of Seattle.