Year: 2018

Heron in flight

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Heron in flight

What roused me
           from my daydream
was the sound of a heron
           flying overhead as I stood
in the supermarket car park
           It was down by the Thames
one cold January morning
           and the heavy flap flap flap
of its wings surprised me
           I looked up and watched
as it flew off into the distance
           into the silence

I knew that it was heading south
           perhaps to Crayford marshes
or beyond and I wondered
           whether I would ever see it again

John Lyons

I sometimes paint

irlandesuk poetry , , , ,

I sometimes paint

I’m a poet and a patriot
            but I sometimes paint
though I make no claims
            for my artistic skills
I simply try to lay down
            the colours and shapes
of the words I carry around
            in my head along with
whatever energies
            I can bring to bear

If I was a painter
            I would strive to be
a de Kooning or
            a Jackson Pollock
or wherever the action is
            but there’s no hope
of that so relax
            it’s Saturday
and my mind’s on
            the walk we are about
to take over the river to Spitalfields
            to try a Philadelphia
cheese steak sandwich
            and on Sunday
I will be watching the Superbowl
            and cheering on the Eagles
even though I have
            only the vaguest
understanding of the game :
            it’s just not my game

John Lyons

White bluebells

irlandesuk poetry ,

White bluebells

White bluebells in a narrow
            strip of land on Holly Hill
Hampstead : and brambles
            with their white buds
tightly packed with life
            holly bushes too
with tiny bullet-like buds
            on the slender stems
and not a single berry
            left by the birds

John Lyons

Residents only

irlandesuk poetry ,

Residents only

By night the supermoon
           and by day a fierce sun
burnishing the dry leaves
           of the copper beech

A whole year has passed
           for this moment in time
to return and it is as though
           in all that interval
nothing happened
           last year a spider hung
from a flimsy web
           stretching from a nook
in the ceiling
           to the skylight

I watched as it travelled
           back and forth
counting the tiny prey
           it had accrued
and then one day
           it was gone
all swept away
           and I wonder when
the next one will appear
           and by the bank
of the Union Canal close to
           Kensal Green Cemetery wall
a locked gate with a sign
           residents only

John Lyons

A song for Candlemas

irlandesuk poetry

A song for Candlemas

A day dawning
           sky blue with the cold
birdsong oblivious
           in defiance
the blunted thrum
           of traffic in the distance
and last night the moon
           the supermoon that makes
astronomers of us all
           and then the silence
as the world lay dormant
           And I think of candles
the flickering flame
           above pure white wax
lighting us into
            territories unknown
futures upon which
            no bets may be placed
days which I wish to live
           with my whole body
and with my whole heart
           with you

John Lyons

 

Grey clouds lifting

irlandesuk poetry

Grey clouds lifting

Air moving gently
           through the air
and then a sudden gust
           and then all still
and still the rain falling
           seeping into the earth
into the empty earth
           from which the rosebushes
have been lifted :
           they will return in spring
along with light and colour
           and dreams and all kinds
of fresh aspirations
           and where we have failed
we will try again
           and where we succeed
we will celebrate
           what it is to know beauty
and to know love
           and to live in joy

John Lyons

The meeting of the waters

irlandesuk poetry , ,

The meeting of the waters

That summer’s day
           we drove north of Arklow
up to Avoca to where
           the two rivers meet
and we parked the car
           and strolled down
to the water’s edge
           and my father
put a finger to his lips
           to hush us
so that we could hear
           the gentle rustle
of the streams
           as they merged
above the copper-
           coloured stones
that line the shallow bed
           and the sun was high
and hot and the air fresh
           and for a moment
we stood still and immersed
           in the innocence
of my father’s
           younger years

John Lyons

The Brexit complex

irlandesuk poetry , ,

The Brexit complex

The darkness had barely settled
           before I heard the cackle of the foxes
their shrill voices disrupting the peace
           It sounded like a political meeting
at which not a soul could agree
           each one trying to shout the other down
but these were foxes members of nothing
           representatives of no one but themselves

And I wondered what decisions
           or what prospects could have them
so at each others’ throats
           But within half an hour it was all over
and silence reigned as they slunk off
           into the night to do
what a fox has to do when it’s cold
           and the lights are low

John Lyons

Just another Sunday

irlandesuk poetry

Just another Sunday

How in later life
            you come across words that thrill
with their apparent simplicity
            words coined by poetries
that touch upon
            the very essence of being
what it is to be being alive
            to know love
through years of other
            bitter disappointments
to reflect upon
            the changingness of life
with its swings and roundabouts
            a constancy in a shifting world
clinging to the central purpose
            free of all muted expession

I had once an idea of myself
            only to discover that my self
had another agenda
            another conception of itself
with no defining complacencies
            a life to be continued

John Lyons

Scorpion grasses

irlandesuk poetry , ,

mysotis

Scorpion grasses

Mouse’s ears
            or myosotis
forget-me-nots
            one thing
to describe another :
            different registers
of taxonomy
            a delicate
pale blue or white
            or pink flower
with five sepals
            and petals
the seeds bound
            in tulip-shaped pods
along the stem
            One thing 
to describe another :
            constancy
friendship
            love

John Lyons