Brendan Curran with a poem from his expansive body of work, this one penned while in the Wicklow Mountains.

18-April-2022

 Hunger At The Crossroads 

The birds had stopped their singing
There was nothing on the trees
The wind began to hold its breath
Not a single wave in the sea
♞♜♝
The clouds darkened high above us
The sun nowhere to be seen
The rain thundered down upon us
The cold earth brown and green
♞♜♝
The hunger numbed their senses
The people falling all around
The children no longer whimper
Dying cold upon the ground
♞♜♝
The landlords on horseback staring
With out care or frown
They just shouted at us in anger
No rent . . . get off our ground
♞♜♝
How could we honour our commitments
With the blight attacking all around
On every hill and valley, not a single sound
Save, the last breath expelling from the dying all around
♞♜♝
The cross roads became a place to gather
To spread the news around,
Of the recent souls departed,
Or If Any food was to be found
♞♜♝
In the end the only answer
Brought a cold dark deep despair
Was to cross the Atlantic ocean
Join the exiles who live there
♞♜♝
The memory must not be forgotten
Of the perished under the ground
the innocent, starving, vanquished
And the cottages that tumbled down

⏩ Brendan Curran, The Poet Without A Pen.

Hunger At The Crossroads

Brendan Curran with a poem from his expansive body of work, this one penned while in the Wicklow Mountains.

18-April-2022

 Hunger At The Crossroads 

The birds had stopped their singing
There was nothing on the trees
The wind began to hold its breath
Not a single wave in the sea
♞♜♝
The clouds darkened high above us
The sun nowhere to be seen
The rain thundered down upon us
The cold earth brown and green
♞♜♝
The hunger numbed their senses
The people falling all around
The children no longer whimper
Dying cold upon the ground
♞♜♝
The landlords on horseback staring
With out care or frown
They just shouted at us in anger
No rent . . . get off our ground
♞♜♝
How could we honour our commitments
With the blight attacking all around
On every hill and valley, not a single sound
Save, the last breath expelling from the dying all around
♞♜♝
The cross roads became a place to gather
To spread the news around,
Of the recent souls departed,
Or If Any food was to be found
♞♜♝
In the end the only answer
Brought a cold dark deep despair
Was to cross the Atlantic ocean
Join the exiles who live there
♞♜♝
The memory must not be forgotten
Of the perished under the ground
the innocent, starving, vanquished
And the cottages that tumbled down

⏩ Brendan Curran, The Poet Without A Pen.

No comments