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Best Poems Written by Kristopher Curran

Below are the all-time best Kristopher Curran poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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1975

“Time is nature's way of keeping everything from happening at once.” - Woody Allen

When I was much younger, previous decades seemed so distant, so far away. To me these older and impossible decades existed only in cinema from their time. Cinema, the older I get, the more it becomes a source of time measurement.
“The Seventies! How great the Seventies would have been!” Nineteen-Seventy-Five, the year that Jaws came out, Nashville, At Long Last Love, all those great classic films that I now love... One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest...
Nineteen-Seventy-Five, in truth, was only Ten years before I existed. Not that long a stretch.
Ten years... It was Ten years ago that we had Finding Nemo, Pirates of the Caribbean, Return of the King, all those big family films... Does it feel that long ago?
The Last Samurai, I almost cried, I saw Kill Bill twelve times, Lost In Translation, Old Boy, Last Life In The Universe, The Cooler, Ten years ago, Two-Thousand and Three. It is not that far gone.
Twenty years ago. Nineteen-Ninety-Three, a great year of personal cinematic discovery. At this point in time my favorite director was Don Bluth... Films of his I watched, The Secret of NIMH, An American Tail (”There are no such things as Cats in America!”), The Land Before Time, All Dogs Go to Heaven and Rock-a-Doodle. Nineteen-Ninety-Three. It was a good year. Films like Jurassic Park, Naked, Schindlers List, Short Cuts, True Romance, The Thing Called Love, all those brilliant directors, telling great stories. I was too young to appreciate any of them or see them... That year I enjoyed films like Super Mario Brothers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Three (the one in Japan), The Nightmare Before Christmas and Hocus Pocus. I hated Free Willy, my favorite film was called Heart and Souls and on a few occasions I managed to sneak in a viewing of Hot Shots: Part Deux and Falling Down on VHS.
Twenty Years ago I began to curiously follow cinema, Ten years ago I was immersed, incurable, Melville, Goddard, Kurosawa, cinema from other countries and other decades... Ophuls, Cassavettes, Pabst, Sokurov, Powell, the list of artists goes on and on...
Nineteen-Seventy-Five, I never knew you, I know your cinema.
Cinema, I know you, I know your decades, I know your writers, your photographers, your directors... alas, the excitement is not the same. The measurement of time is upsetting...
So long Don Bluth, thanks for the memories.

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Sleeping

As I awoke from a nightmare of false reality,
my mind was blessed with ease,
I could make out features of beauty,
resting beside me...

My mind, tosses and turns, I now live in an immutable vision. 
A vision of impatient passion, ardor, tranquility and thought.
Embracing beauty, I can not halt,
combined we slept.

Sensitivity overwhelmed my body, as nature acted out, raw passion distilled.
Beauty embraced entirely.
Permanent desire for our bodies,
together,
a naturally designed system.

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Husky

For now, you are gone (or so it 
feels) and so are my eye's
All I ask, is for one occasion in 
this life
Where I can bless your ear's 
with my explanation
Written words for me this far 
have been unkind
they have failed me
Constant mistakes from a 
passionate and misunderstood 
soul
Possibly unaware, you drift on 
A gentle, beautiful breeze
It whisks you away on a whim 
of your own discomfort
You alone FEEL what you know 
is true
However, so do I
A private, lonely mind and one 
simple, needed and wanted 
communication
It has been denied (as you feel)
If only I could talk, questions 
that would taste rich with 
honesty, feeling and 
amusement
Say anything, anything and it 
will be greeted with a perfected 
calm.
An honest response would ease 
(I know it would) and illuminate 
your kind nature
A nature, existence, person, 
communication
My mind and eye's truly, deeply 
miss...

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Attention

Listen as I listen, I hear all your cheap talk of self flattery, attention seeking and shallowness. Why make it all so hard for the good souls?
I hear your speeches about the unjust things that exist, of the hardships life throws you and you deserve it. We all deserve it.
To be conscious is a quotidian battle, help will come from nowhere.
It is what we deserve.
We don't deserve you though, nobody does, you the vain, you the selfish, you the accuser of hipness, you the self centred and self loathing.
When will you leave the good souls alone?
A different time would have seen to it your dreams were caved in and it would have made for certain that it defiled your self projected image, 
an image which pollutes.
Not once have you spoken words that are original, not once have you roared an interesting thought.
The demeanor you choose hides you well, I applaud.
This unobtrusive ovation I create, it shall be the only deference you shall receive from me.
Listen....

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Carettarius

Sat in Glasgow, George Square.
I told you I was psychic, I know you and know we are fated. I guessed right the birthdays of the people passing in the night and we joined in with your laughter. They labelled you a god of hell and I mocked their insinuation.
Your friend was fair and doing cupids work with honest and deep intentions. 
That night was Joy, like you, held up by slow promise and a connection worthy of a pact with Satan.
We went from one more kiss and messages of promise. Nicknames of love. We went from passionate want to you giving me not one shot at the best for us both.
Sat in Glasgow, pick any chair. I will always be waited.

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Cleaners

To have all the money in the world
That was dropped onto the ground
Every day, would uniform richness
But that isn't the way it is
Eyes glued to the pavement? 
Head hung to the streets?
To every place trampled 
There it goes
A poor, poor presence
Trying to have it all
Out of gas for everything 
Lucidly latched onto a hopeful head trip
Wearing masks to guise dreams whilst knowing
Its belly will not go up in flames.
Penurious promise shall control all
When the presence does nothing
But observe.

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Apparitions

A stone bridge in the middle of a wood, static in eternity, grand in height and darkened by the growing night. 
Upon it sits a man, his legs and mind yearning for the ground below. He is a good man.
His mind overthrown by rage, his cause forgotten by the rest of them, his paltry family and  buried friends.
A stranger approaches from the dark to cross the stone structure, he is old and unafraid, for the hour was late.
"It is dangerous to be seated up there, do you plan to fall?"
Yes.
"What have you done?"
Done?
"Yes, what have done that is so wrong that you must fall?"
Nothing, I have done nothing.
"Then why?"
The hour is late, my mind destructive, I am alone and have succumbed to hatred.
"Hate. Is it not close to love?"
I do not know.
"Then allow me to tell you."
I will not, for you do not know me.
"Have you said your farewells?"
Farewells are not needed, why must you talk? I wish to be alone.
"I talk to you because you are here. It would be strange for me not to play the enquirer. Have you loved? Have you lived? Have you felt all emotion?"
Questions are not needed. Be on your way.
"As you wish."
The old man walks into the freshly grown darkness, until he is gone from sight, his footsteps sound no more. His questions now ever present.
A stone bridge in the middle of a wood, static in eternity, grand in height and illuminated by the growing morning.

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Dropped

I have been dropped. I fall fast,
Plunging into rage.
Inanimate. 
I have no feelings or thoughts.
My end is to expose,
The cardinal demigods.
Through heartache and devastation no person should feel.
I fall, oblivious, augmenting anguish to everything,
Here and there.