Month: Jul 2016

At sunrise

irlandesuk poetry

At sunrise

The volatile light of day
         streams through the room
stirs the retina
         illuminates the objects
that lie within :
         a bed
a sofa
         a table
fresh cut flowers
         in a glass vase
a purple allium
         or a bird of paradise
the pleasure of things
         as they are
each precise object or condition
         or combination or process
exhibiting its own beauty
         facts overshowered with light
harmonies of intention and action
         fixed by first principles
And love lies sleeping still
         naked life in abeyance
beneath the blanket
         the majesty unmatched
of the human form
         body and soul
of my contentment
         warm by my side
to have and to hold
         and to love

John Lyons

Grecian Urn revisited

irlandesuk poetry

Grecian Urn revisited

It is the intensity
         the thingness
of made objects
         that Keats captured
in his Grecian Urn
         an energy that derives
not merely
         from the simplicities
of the bridal narrative
         nor the implied music
piped down the centuries
         but from the density
of time manifest
         in the vessel
forever shaped
         by the potter’s
temporal hand
         the craftsman
who one day rose
         from his bed
and set about
         his daily work
to fabricate eternity

Art first and foremost
         is a matter
of shaping matter
         whether it be out of air
or stone or words or clay
         or the dance
of thought and movement
         across space and time

Art is the quintessential
         labour of love – that is –
a necessary confection
         of heart and soul
Form is creation
         the means by which
we elevate our humanity
         above the senselessness
of nature 

Form predicates relationship
         structures shaped
from elemental content
         It is we – by the way –
who bestow beauty
         on the rose

Creation alters by adding
         to our condition
It despises the replica
         scorns the dullness of duplication
it animates the affirmation
         of beauty’s truth
silence begone
         stasis
there is none
         all things express
—the status quo
         is a lie

John Lyons

Grecian Urn

irlandesuk poetry ,

Grecian Urn

It is the intensity
         of objects
that Keats captured
         in the Grecian Urn
an energy derived
         not merely
from the bridal narrative
         nor the implied music
piped down the centuries
         but from time manifest
shaped by the potter’s
         temporal hand
the craftsman
         who one day rose
from his bed
         and set about
his daily work

Art first and foremost
         a matter of shaping matter
whether it be air
         or stone or words or clay
or an arrangement
         of complex 
or simple movements
          A labour of love
it is a necessary confection
         of heart and soul

Form is creation
         the means by which
we raise our humanity
         above senseless nature
and form is relationship
         a structure shaped by content
an elemental marriage

Creation is that which
         adds and alters
despises the replica
         and scorns the dour dullness
of endless duplication
         Beauty is the animation
of truth — truth
         the animation of beauty
there is no silence
         there is no stasis
expression in all things :
         the status quo
is a lie

John Lyons

Leaves of Grass

irlandesuk American literature, poetry ,

Leaves of Grass

Nothing is finer than silent defiance
         advancing from new free forms
poems of philosophy or politics or
         the mechanisms of science
or the craft of art
         and the throes of human desire
and the dignity of nature and passion
         all in the cleanest expression

What it is to be alive
         and to confront the turbulence
of time with all its privileges
         and all its challenges
to observe the flight of the grey gull
         over the bay or the mettlesome
action of the blood horse
         or the tall leaning of sunflowers
on their stalk or the sun’s daily
         journey in the heavens
or the magnetic phases
         of the moon

Remembrance and understanding
         faith in the flush of knowledge
and the beauty of body and soul
         an independent eye in thrall
to no vested interest or party
         that thrives on the investigation
of the depths of qualities and things
         with all the impartiality of one
who loves and is content
         every motion and every spear
of grass every miracle of being
         that frames the perfect spirits
of men and women examined
         and honoured in awe

John Lyons

Of leaves and days and nights

irlandesuk poetry

Of leaves and days and nights

Sad smell of the lilacs
doomed to return

to the earth
from which they sprang

sad wisdoms that falter
as the weekend ends

the soil that is turned
late in autumn

that will lie barren
through the winter frosts

How distant we have become
from our own lucidities

how estranged from
time-honoured intelligence

seduced by the gimmicks
of hand-held electricities

John Lyons

In so many words

irlandesuk poetry ,

In so many words

It is words that bind us
         words that shape our lives
words that capture our gestures
         words that guide our minds
out of the darkness
         The rose for all its beauty
is inarticulate and carries
         no inherent message
its wordless script
         is but a summer long
its status springs entirely
         from the words
of our imagination
         in love or sorrow
it assumes the mantle
         that our emotions assign
Without the rain
         there is the sadness
of the rain that haunted
         the verse of Verlaine
the sobbing sound of notes
         from the violin
falling upon the silent city
         a city that is perhaps no more
than a congregation of words
         a text of intelligence
a single multi-tongued voice
         and so it goes—words
words watery words
         awash with meaning
words in which reality
         is pinned to the ground
words with the aid of which
         our dreams reach for the stars

John Lyons

Being is

irlandesuk poetry

Being is

The life of being
         is purpose
is direction
         is hope and motive
is trial and error
         an opening of the appetite
for evermore life
         it is seed and green growth
a rising up
         from the winter ground
a summer bloom
         and autumn fruit
a body that burns to be
         that endures the onslaught
of desire and aches to achieve
         smoke against the pale sky
an array of infancies
         a parting of confusions
knowledge laid bare
         celebration of the tongue
that sets us apart

Blessed be the absolutes
         that rise above indifference
Blessed be the power
         of denunciation
Blessed be the lips
         upon which love lingers
that worship at the shrine
         of unblemished beauty
the thigh the breast the womb
         that shapes the soul of being

Blessed be the word
         that rises above petty vanities
that hungers for the precision
         of the rose of the gardenia
or the orchidean sense of truth
         the life of being stripped
to its illustrious essence

John Lyons

 

No ideas but in things

irlandesuk poetry ,

lilac

No ideas but in things

Across the garden wall
         I see a tall array
of common lilac blooms
         the flowered cones
dipping gently
         in the easy summer air
as they bathe in the sunshine
         that will prove to be their ruin :
their season is on the cusp
         and by winter they will be gone

I hear the sparrow’s song
         the drone of pigeons
the harsh cry of magpies
         and I know that nature
is there to be heard
         and to be seen
I know that it is
         performance
that it clamours
         for our attention
that it is in fact
         the articulation
of Eden
         there
for the discerning eye
         for the discriminating ear
the spectacle of life
         unfolding
the to and fro of time
         that we call seasons
all out of the mineral earth
         from which we too
are shaped
         a heartfelt home
that is of the mind
         that feels its way
through life
         sufficient habitat
for those who have fallen
         on their feet

John Lyons

 

Reflection

irlandesuk poetry ,

Reflection

sad warmth
         of my childhood
grown cold
         in the dust

the streets
         have been renewed
new life new dust
         gathered in the gutters

here we played
         here we won and lost
exchanged our innocence
         for broken promises

sad night
         of my wasted years
my lovelorn paths
         untrodden dreams

sad loss of those
         so close to my heart
a pile of dry leaves
         slung upon fading embers

sad warmth of those days
         snows long gone
slow melt of voice
         into silence

John Lyons

The edge of life

irlandesuk poetry ,

The edge of life

In the night silence
         heart beating
through veins of love
         desire at rest
murmur of lips
         language beyond words
hungers in abeyance
         so she sleeps
nights fall
         days fall
leaves fall
         by the wayside
so the body rests
         secure in its truths
its gentle autumns
         universe of dreams
of breath
         and dilated lungs
the frosted glass
         at dawn
the waspish planet
         Venus rising
grace and beauty
         a lightness of touch
her mind her soul
         the cutting edge

John Lyons