Month: Oct 2018

A scripted universe

irlandesuk art, poetry
Universe
The Big Bang

A scripted universe

A scripted universe
           of energy and matter
and words
           a cosmic narrative
driven by processes
           that began with a single event
that is still unfolding
           underpinned by a language
that speaks to us
           from the very origins of time
a language that we have translated
           into our own necessary tongues
but a unique story
           of indivisible creation
a language that gives us
           the rose in all its beauty
that gives us love
           in all its tenderness
and an articulate constantly
           innovating expansive existence
that brings both change
           and permanence
because all art outlives life
           as love does too

John Lyons

For all the words I might have said

irlandesuk art, poetry
Random
Random figures, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

For all the words I might have said

I need more sky
           I need it blue and wide
and unencumbered
           by towering steel and glass
I need clear skies at night
           so that I can track the stars
in which my destiny
           is written

I need more sky
           into which I can propel
my dreams and figure out
           a way to turn back the head
of the woman I love
           and I need more birds
to populate my skies
           and remind me
of the lightness of being
           and the ease of movement
from one place to another
           the exhilaration of flight

I need more sky
           and less dusty roads
that merely carry me away
           from the one I love
less long dry roads
           that snake out
into the wilderness
           never to return

I need all the welcoming sky
           I can get and under that sky
I need her to tell me
           that I’m forgiven
for all the things I never did
           for all the words I might have said
for all the times I might have slipped and fell
           and for all the times

John Lyons

Can of worms

irlandesuk poetry
worms
Intuitions, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Can of worms

All things in flux
           in this timepiece
we call the universe
           mass into energy
energy into mass
           and not even stone
           is set in stone

and who owns the story
           of Romeo and Juliet
the love narratives
           with which we fill our lives
           from dawn to dusk

Off and on
           yes and no
she loves me
           she loves me not
the hopes and dreams
           that sustain the day
and the words we spin
           truths on the tip
of our tongues
           what we believe
and what we wish
           to believe

October sun lingering
           and the fat-bellied moon
swelling to fullness
           the clear skies
the early morning frosts
           and love that gives us a sense
of being alive for a purpose
           nothing more natural
nothing more real
           than love

John Lyons

There is no doctrine

irlandesuk poetry

There is no doctrine

There is no doctrine to love
           no laws no regulations
it has an intelligence all of its own
           it may or not go hand in hand
with desire but it’s never
           subservient it just is
a situation of equals in which
           each other is the destination
or the destiny and one
           in which instants easily flower
into flames of passion
           when eyes and lips lock

Love is active
           and it honours itself
at all times and in all places
           faithful to its hallmarks
generous in its patience
           and tenderly attentive
in its deliberate
           shared permissions—
its absence
           is equally apparent

John Lyons

Love’s non sequitur

irlandesuk poetry

Love’s non sequitur

Love you one time
love you two times

I understand
but what does

“love you always”
mean on the lips

of a lover who
excludes you

from her life
who says and does

nothing to affirm
that love but allows 

those very sentiments 
to settle as silent sediment

in a soon to be
forgotten past

John Lyons

Budapest recalled

irlandesuk art, poetry
thorns_1
Thorns, John Lyons  (toothpicks aith acrylic)

Budapest recalled

Between Buda and Pest
on a pleasure boat
sailing the Danube
as snow fell

my hands frozen
my teeth chattering
in the cold night
and you beside me

One more memory
to add to our stock
of shared moments
of love and kisses

but time marches
to a drum tap
and all things pass
in this field of battle

John Lyons

Winter overture

irlandesuk poetry

Winter overture

For a time we shall refrain
           from love games
and from all the charades
           built on false words
and empty gestures
           and senseless betrayals

The swallows have all
           flown south for the winter
and I shall join them
           in my heart at least

With the summer heat
           they will return
in that I trust
           but in not much else

John Lyons

Poetry is word time

irlandesuk poetry , , ,
Holocaust_memorial
Holocaust memorial, Berlin, December 2017

Word time

Poetry is word time
           the running metre
swift of foot
           along the streets
of Paris or Berlin
           or Venice with its canals
The impertinence of history
           the microbes’ biological clock
or doomed stars
           as their batteries deplete
: what drives heaven
           and hell and every nook
and cranny of creation
           Drinking mulled wine
in the Christmas markets
           as snow gently falls
through the universe
           as it settles upon the living
and the remembered dead
           throughout the vales
of northern Europe
           and far beyond

Locked into the land
           with our earth gaze
ears cocked to capture
           a friendly voice
and it comes through
           crackling with radio
interference
           our bridled thoughts 
to be mounted at will
           eternity in the saddle
time holding the reins
           And love a living thing
palpable flesh
           squeezed with delight
as darkness falls
           or at dawn
as the cattle egrets
           begin their day
and the host herd
           shuffles down to the river
to slake their thirst
           all in good time
solid word time
           cosmic rhyme time

John Lyons

 

City of light

irlandesuk poetry , ,

City of light

Beneath our various lives
           beneath the day-to-day
that timeless centre of self
           where our serenities gather

and here a horde of memories
           set in gold and untouchable
a meal in a small bistro
           up from the Musée d’Orsay

steak tartare and frites
           and the pelting rain
that kept us trapped
           for an hour or two

up from the museum
           where the dead hunted
for our love and admiration
           but all we had was mutual

John Lyons