Francis Curran

Rookie (30-10-65 / Down Patrick-Northern Ireland)

Gone But Everywhere - Poem by Francis Curran

You are
The sound of the wind whispering through
Stirred trees,
An apparition in certain songs,
And the glare of the sun’s rays
That’s too bright for my eye.

In the ripe trodden grape
And red juices of rare meat
I taste you
Still.
In dark roasted coffee beans
And burnt toast, I can smell you
In American cigarettes puffed under parasols.

You are
The blur of a woman's half face
Unravelling in the hum of heaving pubs.
The blue haze and electric drone
Of neon nights and the affirmation
Of our nature lived out on a screen.

And there,
Among the silent masses,
Congregated on creaking escalators,
Elevating lost souls through plastic cloisters,
Fake marbled vestibules that extol the glory
And bring upon the high alter of a bargain
And the holy grail of a quick buck,
Back out spilling into the squinting light,
The breathing lungs of bustling streets.
But now,
I only ever see you,
When I close my eyes.

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Langston Hughes

Dreams



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Poem Submitted: Sunday, October 14, 2007

Poem Edited: Saturday, April 16, 2011


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