Year: 2018

Dogwood – Philadelphus coronarius

irlandesuk poetry ,

Dogwood – Philadelphus coronarius

With green smooth-sided 
          oval leaves with curving veins
that turn crimson in autumn
           A hermaphrodite
its flowers encompass
           the female and the male
Small flowers with creamy white petals
           that grow in clusters
Pollinated by insects
           the flowers develop
small black berries
           dogberries

In Victorian times
           a sprig of dogwood
could determine the fortunes
           of the suitor— if she declined
to accept it he was doomed :
           please accept mine

John Lyons

On time

irlandesuk poetry

On time

Time is the direction
           it is the space in which
faces appear
           a place of being
and here life occurs
           from birth onwards
and along the way
           things are singled out
roses the sea the stars
           the sun the earth
in all its properties
           and at the core comes
tenderness
           the disposition to love
and to be loved
           one life enhancing another
and putting down markers
           so as to say
here we experienced great joy here
           we felt that we were one
here we got the better of time
           and lulled its rhythm
so that we could love
           at leisure

And Venus
           rose on those mornings
and we felt
           that it was our planet
a more significant moon
           and its light struck a chord

Time is so many things
           luminous time
that flows along rivers
           ascends mountains
gusts in the wild winds
           and sometimes settles curled
into a corner and gently sleeps
           by the lovers’ bed

John Lyons

The intelligence of trees

irlandesuk art, poetry
tree.jpg
Tree, John Lyons (oil on wood)

The intelligence of trees

Wallace refers to the intelligence of trees
the famed tree of knowledge is related
the thing that grows organically
and the metaphors that we may apply
the roots that reach so deep into the earth
the branches that reach constantly for the sky
the leaves that burst from buds in spring
that bring delight in the summer until
in the autumn they fall as all things fall
the rings of age that mark the wood
the gnarled bark of ancient specimens
the shade under which lovers lounge
the stillness of time until the wind rises

John Lyons

Early morning questions

irlandesuk art, poetry
Sketch_2
The cathedral of confusions, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Early morning questions

What is love if not
           a place of kindness
a time and a place
           a disposition to care
one for another
           not a hard silent
inhospitable terrain
           or a sour tongue

Is it too much
           to ask for clarity of the heart
to cut through the myths
           and fantasies
how else shall we know
           the sheep from the wolves
There is virtue too in love
           that speaks only of the truth
seeks only to give of itself
           recognises the sanctity
of the kiss and the sacredness
           of the consensual bond

John Lyons

Tangled threads

irlandesuk poetry

Tangled threads

The nets in which
           we are entangled
the multiple threads
           I look now at the flaking light
at the splintered wood
           at the fallen leaves
ground to a mulch
           and the green fields
that stretch into the distance
           here where children and dogs
run their afternoons away
           when time takes a break

but I feel the tug
           in so many directions
the impertinence of life
           always at my heels
as though I should be
           constantly at its beck and call
have nothing better to do
           than live in its thrall

Rosebuds
           Yes I will gather these
when summer comes
           when swifts and swallows
fill the skies and love
           is there for the taking

John Lyons

On Erith pier

irlandesuk poetry

On Erith pier

So I go and sit with my soul
           watch the clouds head east
see a flurry of white gulls
           begging for bread from a lady
who’s crumbling a loaf
           in a plastic bag
before hurling the pieces
           over the railings

All the while the river
           has its silence and I have mine
I note that the beauty of autumn
           rivals that of spring
the trees awash
           with radiant hues
of copper and gold
           and I nurse the notion
of changing seasons
           praying only
that the season of love
           will soon return

John Lyons

 

Down by the river

irlandesuk art, poetry
synapses
Synapses, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Say it
           it’s a glorious autumn day
to be sitting by the river
           at Erith with the tide out
and the mudflats revealed
           and in the distance
a white sailing boat
           leaning to starboard
and along the pier
           anglers are casting their flies
and children are playing
           on their scooters
a vast blue sky
           with white clouds
receding into the distance
           and though she is absent
and I miss her
           I still carry her in my heart
and I’m good and at peace
           and hope she is too

John Lyons

 

The archaeology of love

irlandesuk poetry

The archaeology of love

Today this Sunday
           when rain clouds hover
and the light falls
           greyly upon the world
let us delve into
           the archaeology of their love
let us examine
           with a forensic eye
the smallnesses that led
           to their separation
the petty slights that occasioned
           wounded pride
the insignificant hurts
           felt on both sides
that were simply
           not tended to in time

We need not ask
           whether it was he or she
that loved the most
           for the measure of love
is to love beyond measure
           :  just as the rose
is never more than a rose
           love too either is or it is not

And yet the heart stirs
           is human and prone
to the restless confusions
           of day and night
and the tongue is loose
           and the mind wanders
and there are times
           when even what is right
is wrong and a bruise
           needs to heal and the dust
needs to settle and a pardon
           to be bodily begged

John Lyons

 

Light to dust

irlandesuk poetry

Light to dust

How the light filters
           down through the leaves
of the tall trees that line
           the railway line
thin wafers of gold at the top
           as oxidation has its way
but still fairly green and moist
           at the base

The sun it would seem
           is both the giver
and the taker of life
           all things grow in it
and it turns all things
           to dust

John Lyons