Month: Jul 2016

Beauty

irlandesuk poetry ,

Beauty

People may say
         that beauty is abstract
that it is a concept
         or a notion
a paragon or an ideal
         an archetype
or a quintessence
         a gold standard
by which to measure

But I say no
         I have held beauty
in my arms
         stroked the hair
caressed the flesh
         felt the pulse
of warm blood
         coursing through
her veins
         looked deep
into her eyes
         watched as
a red-rose blush
         spread down
from her cheeks
         over her neck
and across her breast
         a beauty to be culled
time and time again
         and again

John Lyons

First fruit

irlandesuk poetry ,

First fruit

The unsullied garden
         of language
purity of utterance
         a seeing and believing
we are
         after all compositions
coming into this world
         not fully formed
but shaped
         by the love around us
we are by definition
         yet to be defined
: first fruit of love
         brushed by the wind
and the rain
         mere air and blood
we are not
         Compact in its ignorance
the mind hums
         with thought and feeling
foundlings as we are
         clinging to the safety
of our innate certainties
         but we are the idiom
and speech
         of investigation
we are the origin
         of man and woman
of child
         who else could ever sing
of the rose or the face
         that launched a thousand ships
who else could ever die
         for the love of love
We are in our awakening
         fortuitous and yet sensitive
to the perfections of nature
         which remain unmatched

In the town of Liberia
         northern Costa Rica
all those years ago
         I heard the cock crow
as the day broke
         heard it call me
to my necessary
         resurrection
and in the main square
         the trees fruited
with the song of birds
         gently stirred
under a palpable sun
         that burnt my brow
that singed my soul—
         there is no final elegance
but words simple words
         have been a consolation

John Lyons

A fragment

irlandesuk poetry

A fragment

It’s not alchemy
         but the transfer of energy
from one expression to another
         the green leaves fused
by decadent sunlight
         the long slow quantum feed
and we of it
         an expression
fed as we are
         by a single voice

the rose
         and its fragrance
that disengages and drifts
         on the balmy summer air
All that fades
         and all that persists
if only for a time
         an articulate nature
that makes its presence
         known constantly
the gestures of oak and ash
         as the howling wind
thrashes their branches
         all that sounds off
in the silence
         and we who have
born-in-the-blood
         words for it all

It is an intimate universe
         every breath a cosmic force
and everywhere apparent
         the coalescence of love
that drives one body
         to seek another
to lie cocooned
         in the time-tendered threads
of a common narrative
         that knows no end

John Lyons