Kieran Furey


I’m cool
Till I think of you.

I’m calm
Till I see you.

The scented breeze of you
Ruffles my composure.

Your leavings make tears rain down
From the clouds of my despondency.

There’s a whiff of sulphur
When you vent your anger.

The beam of your smile
Warms me out of my clothes.

Your absence is darkness unfed
By the cold empty plate of the moon.

Be the stars in my eyes
And the blonde in my sun.

Cloud me and fog me
And rain me and shine me and blow me.

Storm my citadel.
I’ll get enough calm when I sleep,
When I’m old, when I’m dead.

Kieran Furey is 67. He has lived a third of his life in rural Ireland, where he was born and grew up; a third in Dublin, where he now lives with his wife Patricia; and a third in Irish provincial towns and in a total of nine other countries, for periods ranging from three months to three years. He has published about 120 poems in a variety of outlets ranging from parish newsletters through local newspapers to prestigious poetry journals: mainly in Ireland, but also in England, Scotland, Canada and the US. In a previous life, when he was even younger than he is now, he self-published twenty-three books and booklets of poetry, short stories, satire and travel experiences, and sold tens of thousands of copies directly himself, untouched by bookshops, reviews, and even the smallest smidgin of recognition. He has won half a dozen poetry competitions and one short story competition. He has spent the past eighteen months putting order on a lifetime of scribbling, and so far has unearthed two thousand poems and over eighty short stories, all of which he quixotically hopes to put “out there” in the public domain before he agrees to call it a life. He has taught English here and there, and has worked at a variety of voluntary and odd jobs (a few of them very odd). Apart from that, he has been careful to waste his life reading and writing. He has no regrets which he is prepared to divulge.