It’s a wonderful life

Yes it is a process
              in which nothing is ever perfect
although the goal is perfection
              in which knowledge
is never complete
              although that is the ambition
in which love is all that counts
              although all too often
that is forgotten

We are vessels of desire in thrall
               to the sensible spirit of pleasure
: a pretty face and a sweet smile
              the golden gleam of hazel eyes
the subterranean pull of passion

This way love’s intelligence lies
              this way we move hopewards
into the arms of the earth attuned
               to the delicate topographies
of our inner sensibilities
              At night we bed down
in linens soft and cool
              to the touch
and revel in the nakedness
              of our tenderest dreams

Expect the unexpected
              always
the turn of a corner
              a quick-step
a turn of phrase
              a footfall and syllables
that can change a life

Banish faint consolations
              and never settle for second-best
the flowers of friendship never fade
              much less love—
it is a wonderful life
              live it to the full

John Lyons

Just a thought

A bulging half-moon
in a wintry blue sky
above the red-bricked houses
just gone midday

a stillness broken
only by the intersecting
flights of birds
and a silence broken
only by their small-talk
their melodious chitchat

occasionally a cooing
pigeon announces
its location rather brashly
blurting out
its amorous intentions
above the familiar
sonic texture :
no breeding

a light breeze
gently rustles the dense
green branches
of the only conifer
I can see
from my window :
somebody has to
fly the flag

the other trees
stand open-armed
naked and motionless
not a care in the world :
is this not
perfect peace ?

It would be
I muse
if you were here
with me
but you’re not
so it’s not—
not quite

John Lyons

I suspect the poem below, written this morning, was initially inspired by a poem I read last night by the American poet, Robert Duncan, entitled “Eluard’s Death”. Duncan’s poem ends with these lines. 

She climbs into her husband’s mouth
to sit among the thorns.
A marriage.

But probably Duncan’s poem is only half the story, and not at all expressive of the sentiment I had in mind, and there is another half that I’m not telling, intended as it is for other more private ears. Who knows !

Roses

My father kept roses
              red and white and yellow roses
some that grew
              to the size of a man’s fist
not that my father
              ever formed a fist
he was a gentle man
              who abhorred violence
and he loved roses

I say he kept roses
              he didn’t grow them
they didn’t need his help to grow
              the thick-stemmed bushes
grew effortlessly
              out of the earth
they had their own heritage
              and many lived long after he was gone
Before the war he had kept chickens
              now he kept roses
and with my mother
              a house full of children

From time to time
              and with immense care
he would uproot the bushes
              from one part of the garden
to set them down lovingly
              in another freshly made bed
enriched with top soil
              and a warm blanket of manure

On a summer’s day
              he could for hours sit in silence
perhaps smoking a pipe and admire
              their self-proclaimed beauty
the treacherous curved thorns
              as much as the intricate fold
of the petals as bees vied
              for the nectar that lay
at the heart of each flower

John Lyons

The algebra of need

Those early morning chirruped melodies
   that are heard through the darkness
on the verge of a new day
   passionate and comforting expression
of the vitality of all that is natural
   the earth going about its business
daffodils thrusting through the grass
   beauty that flares in the delicate
candid blossom on our streets
   prattling pigeons on rooftops
engaged in their courtly rituals
   a kissing two-step back and forth
or as one circles the other
   preening and prancing
head erect and proudly purposed
   with the survival of the species
: song is sex – did anyone ever doubt
   or that we are all here to dance
and to make merry
   to create from lust
love’s immortality ?

In awe we gaze at the stars
  at the vast empty wilderness of space
and yet we are bound to such local cycles
   driven by the temperamental tides
of the sun and moon —our humours
   and all our dreams and expectations
all but determined by their alignments
   Vessels of self-inflicted ambition
we struggle through the wastes
   of the world’s sorrow
too often oblivious to the simple
   subtle architectures of love
and the unruly mathematics of desire

John Lyons

Kinship

A nearness and a distance
       a separateness of breath
a language that binds
       through boundary words
Yes we talk in tenderness
       fused by the irreverence of years
a turning towards
       confiding in the confidences exchanged
a mutual nurturing through syllables
       that meet under turning stars

Beauty in the bloom of the magnolia
       the toughness in its weather-resistant
indelicately blood-stained petals
       one of the earth’s boldest statements
winter will not survive another year
       the success of spring and summer
has been seeded and life will soon break out
       of its seclusion when the moment is right
the triumph of flower over dead leaf
       pistils anxious for action
ovules that can’t get enough

fragments of song borne on the air
       telling us too that nature is never alone
or at least never for long
       the idle chatter of birds
that puts us firmly in our place
       that signals an attitude
of devil-may-care
       the framed gesture of a meal shared
so that we too stumble
       towards charmed completeness
oak-like in the field
        Verbose pollens shaped
by the tongue and lip
       dance in the saturated air
breathless and eager
       and edged with deep affection
for which much thanks

John Lyons

A Second Draft of Redemption

Ice on the streets
       dance of stars in the dark sky
in this flickering universe
       seasoned by time
My steps are hurried
       I shiver
needing to be inside
       within the warmth
to curl up
       with a good book
or a good woman
       Catalysts there are
that will open the way
       to deeper dreams
and admit us
       to circles of paradise

Age drops away
       as does infirmity
when the emotions
       are suitably aligned
Sense
       the sense of happiness
that you can reach out
       and touch with the tips
of your fingers
       happiness that you can
enfold in your arms
       press tightly to your chest
seal with a tender kiss
       a commonplace
yet all too rare

Sun rise
       and the dribble of melting
frost makes its way
       into the gutter
Here we are
              still
not for the purpose of fate
       but to be
be it ever so brief
       a flowering
an unfolding of beauty
       of the word
and in our deeds
       love kindled
in those around us
       a chord struck
a numerical congress
       to bring a sparkle
into eyes that would
       otherwise brood
to prove consolation
       to those bruised
by the inclemencies
       of their own redemption

John Lyons