Month: Dec 2016

Battle of Britain

irlandesuk poetry

Battle of Britain

Suddenly out of nowhere a flock
           of rose-ringed parakeets appears
above the trees : these beautiful
           hardy tropical birds have adapted
to our cooler climate
           and love nothing more than to scavenge
for buds and berries in our back gardens
           For a moment they settle on the top
of a tall conifer and the air is alive
           with their endless raucous chatter
then one launches into the air
           into a long sinuous graceful glide
and one by one the others follow
           then they scatter in pairs
one chasing the other
           playing spitfires
playing tag
           before reassembling once more
in the upper branches
           of the same conifer
and for a moment they are still
           perhaps catching their breath

These birds are true survivors :
           out of the blue news arrives
of a fresh food source
           and the squadron scrambles
into the air
           and they are gone

John Lyons

Burnt stars

irlandesuk poetry

Burnt stars

Burnt stars in the heavens
           and cosmic dust falling
through the universe :
           it’s on our streets
and on our roofs
           this debris
from the dawn of creation
           and in our hearts
there is ambition
           for love and for success

/ to be measured
           on what scale ? /

Desire has us
           all of a fever
and yet we know how soon
           the liquid hours will pass
each day is a flicker
           each night a fading flower
and summer soon elapses
           into the weary web of winter

Hers is the heart that beats
           hers the lip of love
hers the shadow of a dream
           an invasive solitude
hers is the body of music
           at which my fingers clutch
and in my mouth
           a taste of ash
ocean air in my blood
           dilapidated life

John Lyons

Miracle

irlandesuk poetry

Miracle

That your body has been built
           cell by cell
fed on the food of light
           every fibre of your being
formed from a meticulous
           array of atoms
that every phrase
           or syllable you utter
is conceived in a mind
           made of mineral matter
that all the love you ever make
           results from a collusion of molecules
your hunger your thirst your desire
           all stem from variants
of carbon and oxygen
           that your spirit is
in its own way
           as solid as a rock
and far less ethereal
           than the air you breathe

I am the medium
           I am the journey of myself
I am the dawn to dusk of my life
           my cradle to the grave
the sum of all kisses given
           the sum of all kisses received
though I move beyond the circle
           it is my circumference
I am whatever roses
           my hands have held
I am whatever thorns
           have pierced my skin
I am the architect
           of my would-be paradise
I only ask you to join me
           in its construction

John Lyons

Rare flower

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Rare flower

Rare flower soaked
           in the summer rain
the wind will outlive you
           your petals will wither
and fall and your dust
           will be a distant memory

though you hale
           from a proud corridor
of stars your beauty
           will not survive the season
of salmon rising

dragonflies will buzz
           above your head
indifferent to your charms
           and through the black night
you will feel abashed
           in the shadow of the rose

there is no wisdom in old age
           merely senescence
a paltry figure in a tattered coat
           as the poet would have it
bones that fail and eyes
           out of focus
a limp from day to day

of her he recalls
           how he penetrated the light
how she listened enrapt
           to his song of innocence
and how their hearts were lost
           in a tangle of limbs

rare flower in spring
           do not raise false hopes
do not long for love everlasting
           delight in the bed in which you lie
and know that time will take its revenge
           come what may

John Lyons

Seasons of the heart

irlandesuk poetry

Seasons of the heart

How we move
           from life to life
in a constant state
           of flux and
from love to love
           over the years
but rarely discern
           the pattern
in our life trails
           our love trails
and mirrors fail us
           constantly
being as they are
           merely windows
on our past
           our present past

These fragments
           are annotations to my life
written in the quest
           for understanding
of myself and
           of the world in which
I am immersed :
           as yet there is no whole
just me in parts
           me in moments
I wish only to breathe
           only to love and be loved
if only it were
           that simple

Though I take her
           by the hand
I do not know where
           she will lead me
Love is an act
           of vision
of life trails
           and of love trails
it is a heart
           at the end of exile
a welcome homecoming
           it is what we make it
if we allow ourselves
           the freedom

John Lyons

The map

irlandesuk poetry

The map

There is an undrawn map
           that led me to you
out of the dense wood
           where bluebells grow
where holly is thick
           with succulent berries
where the ivy clings
           to elm and ash and birch
perhaps a map in the stars
           but I can’t be sure

I have seen so many
           different trees and birds
and mountains and rivers
           and heard so many
different songs
           and held in my hand
flowers that wanted
           only for water
and a little sunshine
           I have crossed fields
and oceans and travelled
           through day and night
and all the time I sensed
           that there was a map
and that I was being drawn
           ever closer to you and here
after so many years
           finally I am

John Lyons

Oak

irlandesuk poetry

Oak

Rising up out of the earth
           an oak tree fully formed
thick with lobate leaves
           and smooth acorn seeds
held in elegant cups :
           and I think of the many years
it has taken for it to achieve
           such a majestic stature
and of the winters it has endured
           of the radiant summers
through which it blossomed
           and hung heavy with fruit
an icon of the countryside
           a beauty that all its life
has grazed on sunshine
           its dense shade a haven
to young lovers
           who would lie beneath it
and simply dream that their day
           would never end

John Lyons

Life

irlandesuk poetry

Life

A point of entry
           a point of exit
time’s blade
           blunted by love
the cobblestoned heart
           night holds no terrors
a point of arrival
           a point of departure
nothing provisional
           and what comes
in between
           explicitly
everlastlingly

John Lyons

A taste for words

irlandesuk poetry , ,

A taste for words

A taste for words
           for the energies of poetry
for artless time
           and timeless art
What shall we do
           with this world
but sing its praises
           and denounce
the human corruption
           of beauty and truth
the dry bones interred
           or the ashes placed
in the urns
           but the poetry
with a life of its own

who has a taste for roses
           for the rise and fall
of the sonata
           for the light and darkness
on a Caravaggio canvas
           And let’s be objective
facts are not symbols
           no meaning
where none intended

Dante asks :
           Was there ever a love
not tinged
           with eternal beauty
and nothing loose
           about his line
A taste for the craft
           for workmanship
for the construction
           of rhythms that harness
the full power
           of verbal energies

Let me tell you a tale
           of Shem and Shaun
and sweet Anna Livia
           and the river
that never runs dry
           . . .and of love

That’s a fact

irlandesuk poetry

That’s a fact

High above
           in the bare branches
of the tall trees that line
           Gray’s Inn Road
a number of birds
           have feathered their nests
Here in 1679
           an excavation revealed
elephant bones
           and alongside them
a pointed flint hand axe
           first thought to have originated
from the time of Noah’s flood
           According to today’s estimation
the axe is over 350,000 years old
           and was buried during a period
in the Ice Age and at a time
           when elephants still lived
in Britain when the climate
           was much as it is today
and this has absolutely
           no bearing on the many
legal chambers that now
           occupy the area

John Lyons