Amid the frost
and the fog
poetry –
a warmth of words
insight into
our aching souls
that long for beauty
for colour
for the touch
of a loving hand
or of lips
and a light
in another’s eyes
that shines
just
for us
John Lyons
The mirrorless genius – Paul Éluard
The mirrorless genius – Paul Éluard
When will books read themselves without the aid of readers?
We’ve been through tragic times; floods have drenched our bones, the multiplied blazes of the stars and fires have stripped almost the entire body of its hair. Thunder no longer frightens us, we pry open skulls to release the exquisite crystal and gold spiders whose beauty is ignored by fools. But very cunning is he who was able to see his eye without the aid of a glass, the one who was able to run his eyes over the voluptuous hollow of his neck. We have loved flexible idols who still ignore what charm the arch of their backs can have. Ah! bring on the day when we will smash the mirror, this final window, where our miraculous eyes will be able to contemplate the marvels of the brain.
1924
Translation by John Lyons
Le génie sans miroir
Quand les livres se liront-ils d’eux-mêmes sans le secours de lecteurs.
Nous avons traversé de tragiques périodes; les déluges ont détrempé nos os, les feux multipliés des astres et des incendies ont fait la calvitie sur la presque totalité de notre corps. Le tonnerre ne nous effraie plus, nous ouvrons les crânes pour en faire s’échapper les belles araignées de cristal et d’or dont les sots ignorent la beauté. Mais bien malin celui qui a pu voir son œil sans le secours d’une vitre, celui qui a pu promener son regard sur le creux voluptueux de sa nuque. Nous avons aimé des idoles flexibles qui ignorent toujours quel charme peut avoir la cambrure de leurs reins. Ah ! vienne le jour où nous briserons le miroir, cette dernière fenêtre, où nos yeux miraculeux pourront contempler le merveilleux cérébral.
Herringbone
Blood moon, John Lyons (oil on wood)
Tweel twill tweed—
think of the jacket
I once wore
the rough comfort
of its wool weave
think of herringbone
and a school of fish darting
through clear
coastal waters
the pulse of life
expressed in a single
powerful flex
of the muscle :
that the fish swim
in a grid should come
as no surprise
the distance between them
the same
as the jump length
of their prey
John Lyons
Happy days
Acorns and sycamore seeds
glass marbles and conkers
the things a small boy
might collect when in season
return home pockets bulging
with an afternoon’s spoils
having tramped through
woodland and across fields
oblivious to the squirrels
and to the raucous magpies
I was that boy once – long ago
How well I remember it all !
John Lyons
A daughter’s portrait
Daughter, John Lyons (30 x 25 cm, oil on canvas)
A portrait made
of tables and chairs
and rain and wind
sketched on fabric
the pigments of life
rectangular
time and space
held in shape
by a wooden frame
the paint still wet
the words still hot
from the mind
from the heart
magpie moments
stolen
and ferreted away
the lush grass
the autumn leaves
strewn across the fields
where children play
Another year will come
and then another
and all things will grow
and fruit will swell
until in its ripeness
it is released
and there will always be
life in plenty
colour in plenty
and love too
John Lyons
What of our dust
What of our dust
who will trample upon it
in generations to come ?
What of our love
who will remember it
when the seas rise ?
What of our stars
who will read them
and make sense
of the lives we lived ?
What of here and now
and how and where
will it end ?
John Lyons
Time and the river
The five arches at Footscray
Time and the river
the five arches
that my father painted
when we were children
Time was young then
but time has grown old
much water over the weir
many generations of geese
and ducks and swans
and moorhens
and many seasons
of acorn and sycamore seed
all ground to dust
I feel the damp earth
under foot as I stroll
across the meadow
A field of memories
where lovers
of every age come
hand in hand
to parade the undying bonds
that bind them
John Lyons
Paul Éluard – 8 lines
There were two of us and we’d just lived
A sundrenched day of love
Our sun we embraced together
The whole of life was visible to us
When night came we were left without a shadow
To polish the gold of our common blood
We were two at the heart of the only treasure
The light of which never sleeps
Paul Éluard, from Le phénix (1951)
translation by John Lyons
Nous étions deux et nous venions de vivre
Une journée d’amour ensoleillé
Notre soleil nous l’embrassions ensemble
La vie entière nous était visible
Quand la nuit vint nous restâmes sans ombre
A polir l’or de notre sang commun
Nous étions deux au cœur du seul trésor
Dont la lumière ne s’endort jamais
Fate of the wild rose
Fragrant flower
of the earth
supple mineral mistress
that rises up
out of the cold-blown
loveless dust
The burst bud
from which
the petals unfold
seeking nothing
but admiration
ignorant of the thorns
she bears
Blood-red
or pale-white
her most emblematic
colours : time
her most mortal enemy
oblivion
her greatest fear
John Lyons
In a love poem
In a poem of love
there are feathers and fish
and roses and butter
and slow-burning candles
there are tables and chairs
and a sky made of rain
and curtains to be drawn
and sunshine over the horizon
in a poem of love
it is summer and winter
and beaches and sandals
and today and tomorrow
and happily ever after
and blushes and kisses
and words made of silence
and naturally we celebrate
and swim in the mountains
and sweet as a baby
and tall as a castle
in a poem of love
there is time and again
and bells gently ringing
and Saturdays and Sundays
and moons to be baking
and an alphabet of promises
and sharp needles for mending
in a poem of love
there are paintings and photos
and pearls made of wisdom
and sonnets for reading
and beds for the lying
and pleasures for sharing
and songs for beginning
and streets never ending
John Lyons
