Poem
Leontia Flynn
The Furthest Distances I’ve Travelled
The Furthest Distances I’ve Travelled
The Furthest Distances I’ve Travelled
Like many folk, when first I saddled a rucksack,feeling its weight on my back –
the way my spine
curved under it like a meridian –
I thought: Yes. This is how
to live. On the beaten track, the sherpa pass, between Krakow
and Zagreb, or the Siberian white
cells of scattered airports;
it came clear as over a tannoy
that in restlessness, in anony
mity:
was some kind of destiny.
So whether it was the scare stories about Larium
– the threats of delirium
and baldness – that lead me, not to a Western Union
wiring money with six words of Lithuanian,
but to this post office with a handful of bills
or a giro; and why, if I’m stuffing smalls
hastily into a holdall, I am less likely
to be catching a greyhound from Madison to Milwaukee
than to be doing some overdue laundry
is really beyond me.
However,
when, during routine evictions, I discover
alien pants, cinema stubs, the throwaway
comment – on a post–it – or a tiny stowaway
pressed flower amid bottom drawers,
I know these are my souvenirs
and, from these crushed valentines, this unravelled
sports sock, that the furthest distances I’ve travelled
have been those between people. And what survives
of holidaying briefly in their lives.
© 2004, Leontia Flynn
From: These Days
Publisher: Jonathan Cape, London
From: These Days
Publisher: Jonathan Cape, London
Leontia Flynn
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1974)
Leontia Flynn was born in County Down in 1974 and currently lives in Belfast. After taking her MA at Edinburgh, she completed her PhD on the poetry of Medbh McGuckian at Queen’s in Belfast in 2004, joining her subject in the distinguished list of poets associated with the University since the 1960s. Flynn was awarded an Eric Gregory award in 2001, helping her to complete her first collection, T...
Poems
Poems of Leontia Flynn
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The Furthest Distances I’ve Travelled
Like many folk, when first I saddled a rucksack,feeling its weight on my back –
the way my spine
curved under it like a meridian –
I thought: Yes. This is how
to live. On the beaten track, the sherpa pass, between Krakow
and Zagreb, or the Siberian white
cells of scattered airports;
it came clear as over a tannoy
that in restlessness, in anony
mity:
was some kind of destiny.
So whether it was the scare stories about Larium
– the threats of delirium
and baldness – that lead me, not to a Western Union
wiring money with six words of Lithuanian,
but to this post office with a handful of bills
or a giro; and why, if I’m stuffing smalls
hastily into a holdall, I am less likely
to be catching a greyhound from Madison to Milwaukee
than to be doing some overdue laundry
is really beyond me.
However,
when, during routine evictions, I discover
alien pants, cinema stubs, the throwaway
comment – on a post–it – or a tiny stowaway
pressed flower amid bottom drawers,
I know these are my souvenirs
and, from these crushed valentines, this unravelled
sports sock, that the furthest distances I’ve travelled
have been those between people. And what survives
of holidaying briefly in their lives.
From: These Days
The Furthest Distances I’ve Travelled
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