Unsoiled in love

Unsoiled in love

Think of the perfectness
           of the rose unchallenged
never called into question
           a rose of no virtue
knowing nothing
           of the speed of life
with all its vexatious
           complexities

The beauty that drives the rose
           derives from the fecund
mineral soil
           and from the pedigree
of its earthly stars
           a tight knot of molecules
shaped from the simplicities
           of sunlight
the radiance of its petals
           lives on in the kiss
in man and woman sexed
           in the coalescence
of their flesh
           unsoiled in love

John Lyons

El mono

El mono 

Es casi humano,
                        casi,
            pero no tanto.
Cuando duerme parece un niño.
            Paco lo llaman:
Paco Paco.
(A veces se llaman Paco
                        a veces no,
a veces otra cosa).
            Dormido
seguro sueña con ser grande
                        como los grandes.
Pero de día
                        se lo pasa jugando
            como niño:
da vueltas y volteretas,
                        se agarra de un palo
                        y se columpia,
o sube en el árbol
                        y se cuelga
            bocabajo
de la cola
            o de las dos piernas,
                        que parecen
brazos.
            Mas lo que más le gusta
                        es saltar
de una bancada
                        a otra
            así no más,
sin criterio
            pero con una gran agilidad
que a uno le da envidia,
            de veras,
                        envidia:
vive en circo
            permanente.
Y cómo come
                        ¡dios mío cómo come!
            y no parece engordar:
es que parece mentira.
                        Será el
            ejercicio y todo,
supongo yo,
            los brincos
                        de un lado
            a otro,
¡qué maravilla!
                        Y se rasca,
            como un niño,
se pasa todo el día,
            rascándose,
                        o agarrándose
del ombligo
            o de otra cosa
            ¿qué sé yo?
                        sin pena,
o aparentemente sin pena
            aunque es penoso
cuando uno se le acerca,
            y tapa la cara
con las manos
                        o con la cola
            o con las dos
y no te mira
            para nada
                        sino de reojo
como si algo bien
                        vergonzoso
            sintiera,
aunque pronto se le pasa
            y en seguida está
otra vez
            brincando
                        de una bancada a otra
como si nada.
            Monterroso me dice
                        que en Guatemala
hay unos monos
            muy sabios
                        ¿qué sé yo?
Políticos,
            por lo menos
            ¿verdad?

John Lyons, Managua, 1992


Note: Paco was the name that Ernesto Cardenal gave to a monkey he once bought from a poor family, thinking perhaps to give it a better life. The monkey was kept in the back garden and his antics were an endless source of entertainment.


 

Two songs of silence

Two songs of silence

Listen how silence
Suddenly descends
For our love

Horizontally. . .

Believe only in love
    And in nothing else
Hush; listen to the silence
    That speaks to us
Most intimately; listen calmly
    My dear as love
Strips the petals of silence
    One by one. . .

Leave words to poetry. . .

Vinicius de Moraes, Oxford 1939


translation by John Lyons


 

Not for want of asking

Not for want of asking

Animate the still-life
           bring passion in
bring drive
           and determination
Through the threads
           of autumn and winter
sap will rise
           cherries will bloom again
trees will extend their branches
           to provide shade and comfort
through the summer months
           Admire the crisp new leaf-edge
that softens the bleak urban sprawl
           let the lines of poetry grow long
as they romp chapter and verse
           through the purple clover

Lend an ear to the vowels
           that bend in the breeze
and to those words
           that might save you :
you from yourself
           or your self from you

Learn from the wind that breathes
           life into us all
the air that burns in our lungs
           and think :
is there any other purpose
          than love ?

John Lyons

After the fall

After the fall

What poets have
           in common with
disgruntled lovers
           a desire
to give you
           a bit of their lip

true
           the eyes have it
quick to spot
           the nest
with the feathered
           bed

and that’s life
           ear in ear out
the heart beating
           on a conundrum

Out of Eden
           there ran a river
hubble bubble garden
           of toil and trouble
we are all
           fall guys and girls

John Lyons

On reading James Schuyler

On reading James Schuyler

There’s a lot to be learnt
from reading a poem
by James Schuyler
just as there is
from looking at
a blue shadow painting

The gift is
to look at the world
freshly and free of cliché

to look
with a good eye
and to listen
with a good ear

to devour life
with the senses
let it all flood in
and cherish
every experience

Nobody lives for ever
it’s a shame
but get over it
get on with it
and love it

John Lyons

Window of opportunity

Window
Window, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Window of opportunity

What sunrise gives us
           each day is sky
limitless space in which
           to cast our dreams
as far as the eye
           can see

No longer enclosed
           in darkness
the imagination
           can run riot
all things being
           possible

even now
           the birds have
changed their tune
           and are singing
a song they learnt
           on Broadway

Blue sky
           more profound
than any ocean
           and it takes
only a mind to navigate it
           a mind and a brave
heart scudding along
           on waves of poetry

the hawthorn
           will soon be in flower
and roses will follow on
           from daffodils
nests will fill
           and field populations
will swell
           with new birth

and the city
           will pick up its feet
and dance
           late into the night
each day a promise
           each night a fulfillment
and your breath
           and your pulse will race
to the end of love’s
           sweet palpitation

John Lyons

There is a time

There is a time

There is a time for
           fresh strawberries
and dandelions on
           the lawn and swifts
and swallows darting
           back and forth
and a slight case
           of sunburn on my cheeks
and a stroll through
           the ornamental garden
when everything
           is in flower and you
are by my side
           and we are still in love :
I can’t wait
           for that time

John Lyons