Month: Oct 2019

Excavations of the heart

irlandesuk poetry

Excavations of the heart

Beneath these lives we lead
           beneath the surface
the truth of ourselves
           the depths that are hidden
the strengths and the fragilities
           that we display when we enter
into relationships
           the text of ourselves
that we offer to the other
           all the versions of ourselves
that have gone before
           refined and tailored
for present company
           all that we lived
and all that we loved
           way back in the present
of those past times
           the curve that brought
learning and sometimes
           forgetfulness
an easing of the burden
           of our histories

To have loved in innocence
           to have survived the thrills
of childhood and adolescence
           to be where we are to day
where you are today
           where I am today
self-contained bodies
           brimming with love

John Lyons

My sentiments exactly

irlandesuk poetry

My sentiments exactly

I was born under my stars
           you were born under yours
and though we share
           the same universe
there are still silences between us
           that stretch out across space
my quietness and yours
           imponderable
as cracked autumn leaves
           tumble through the galaxy

If we dig deep enough
           we will hit upon
pockets of the past
           your childhood and mine
our parents now long gone
           dreams that are ripe
for resurrection
           the lust for love

In Spitalfields market
           I bought black leather gloves
to keep my fingers warm
           those fingers
that know your body
           so well

When you blush
           your blood vessels fill with desire
I can read your face
           like the back of my hand
Never forget that we share
           the same minerals
nor that the shadows
           that trailed behind us
on the edges of the Grand Canal
           will be there for all eternity
I own the light in your eyes
           just as you own the light in mine
: we are a constellation of two
           our nights know no darkness

John Lyons

 

The early morning air

irlandesuk poetry ,

The early morning air

I love the early morning air
           the way it hits the lungs
and tells me how good it is
           to be alive and to be walking
the streets around Shoreditch
           where Shakespeare once performed
in the early hours
           just before the offices open
It’s one of the most alive places
           on the planet
full of the real buzz of life
           people who have come
from their beds
           with fresh energy
ready to engage with the day
           with the win-some lose-some
open mind you get
           from a good night’s sleep

I love the bustle and the jostle
           of people prepared
to make a go of it
           I love the sound of friendship
in the air as people greet or part
           and go on their way to work
I love the simple affections
           that bind us all together
and the deep love
           in my heart

John Lyons

Resurrections 

irlandesuk poetry ,

Quercus_robur

Resurrections        

The common English oaks
         cast a towering shadow
over the platform
         at Barnehurst station
the pedunculate oaks
         with their sessile lobed
spirally-arranged leaves
         twisted into rhyme

Time has again gone up in smoke
         as autumn has drained
their lush green leaves
         to the colour of tobacco
Clad in thick fuses of ivy
         from head to toe
these trees are doomed
         as their lifeblood
is slowly sucked away
         No glorious spreading crown
for these emaciated specimens
         no monstrous girth—
their acorns litter the ground
         cracked and crushed
under relentless waves
         of commuter feet

Time feeds on time
         a parasite that will
one day bring these trees
          crashing down to the earth
and so these rugged branches
         will rot back into the soil
from which they once emerged
         ash to ash
dust to dust
         But the minerals
will rise again
         the resurrection
of the molecule
         is not an article of faith :
oak leaves are indeed
         hands reaching out
to future hands
                  Wallace

John Lyons

The pianist

irlandesuk poetry , ,
Kissin
Evgeny Kissin

The pianist

Home in the early hours
         along the lonely path
from the railway station
         the temperature has fallen
the dew is descending
         and the grass is furring up
with a delicate frost

and I remember his hands
         as he felt his way through Brahms
felt his way through his feelings
          tentative and yet decided:
the instruments of passion
         at his fingertips melody
which he caresses as the lover
         that lies within
gently phrasing his affections

Leaning in he extracts a cascade
         a stream of notes picked
from the calm domestic world
         that surrounds him
the rhythm shifts but the identity
         doesn’t change
He has nothing to reveal
         he is the revelation
on a walk through the woods
         here a rose there a robin
an eagle soaring above a stream
         of crystal clear water
He has become
         part of the world narrative
a rich fragment
         a billowing love song to life
and to natural beauty
         : here children play
you can hear their laughter
         as they race down the hill
here love goes hand in hand
         surges in moments of ecstasy
and subsides into peace :
         the piano has become a carapace
he bears the weight
         on his shoulders—a shell
a habitat          an exuberant
         meteorological space

Lost within a score
         he leans back
adjusts his cuffs
         and shakes his wrists
to loosen the remaining
         notes that lie within him
Faith and hope and charity
         the variegated satisfactions
of a domestic universe
         an impassioned partnership
in which he has dissolved into Brahms
         a marriage and a resurrection

and so the frost falls
         and the night sleeps on
until lovers
         refreshed
rise from each other’s arms
         into the new day

John Lyons

The poem above is based on notes taken during a brilliant performance of Brahms’ Three Intermezzos Opus 11 given by Evgeny Kissin at the Barbican theatre on 10 March 2016.

Good care of souls

irlandesuk art, poetry ,
city fragment.jpg
City fragment, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Good care of souls

Good care of souls
           in the hands
of the poet
           in the words

Let us terminate
           our season in hell
and go forth
           in joy and charity

Let us dispel
           those mists
that keep us
           from seeing

what is
           before our eyes
In order to be one
           we must first separate

so as to conjoin
           in love’s singularity
A cloud
           has enveloped my days

but with a vengeance
           the sun will return
and with it spring
           with all its blossom

and blithe airs
           and you will shine
in all your inexhaustible
           beauty

John Lyons

Why would I not ?

irlandesuk art, poetry
GPS
Life script, John Lyons (20 x 20 cm, oil on canvas)

Why would I not ?

Of course I take it personally
           whether you love me or not
whether you betray me or not
           whether you fail me
or fail to understand me or not
           I bear the soul of a private man
ploughing by day the furrows
           of city streets in which squirrels
run rampant and gold is amassed
           in steely towers of greed

So I live and die for words
           for unsolicited acts of tenderness
for the beauty of light on water
           for the delicacy of moonlight
that pierces the night sky
           Of course I take our lives seriously
your life and mine : and tell me
           why would I not ?

John Lyons

 

The primeval sea

irlandesuk art, poetry
sea of colour
Sea of colour, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

The primeval sea

The primeval sea
           awash with colour
the underbelly
           of creation
whence all life
           whence all love

See how the light
           shimmers
on the shifting surface
           restless ocean
restless life
           colours that coalesce
wave upon wave
           here where the sun
sets and rises
           and where the surf
pounds on the shore
           so mimicking
the passionate pant
           of our human breath

John Lyons

Reading the coffee grounds

irlandesuk art, poetry
coffee
Coffee grounds, John Lyons, photo 

Reading the coffee grounds

A fine autumn day
           with a brisk breeze
and magpies
           ten of them
playing catch me if you can
           flying under and over
the garden table and chairs
           There are dandelions in the grass
and a few late blossoms
           in the bushes—
most of the berries
           have been eaten

and I’m sitting here 
          alternately
looking out of the window and staring
           into the empty depths
of my morning coffee mug
           Nothing there now
but the dried grounds
           and I try to read the pattern
traces of light appearing
           out of a dark cloud
She loves me
           she loves me not
she loves me
           I’ll know
soon enough
           that’s for sure

John Lyons

Revised text.

Found art, at the bottom of my cup!

A nosegay for my love

irlandesuk art, poetry
posies
A nosegay, John Lyons (oil on wooden lid)

A nosegay for my love

a posy
a spray
a bunch
a bouquet

art
of the moment
a cast-off
on the lid
of a wooden box

a throwaway
dashed off
with scant attention
to detail

an action painting
an act of love
to render a thought
or rather
a feeling

an engagement
with the medium
flowers that emerge
out of nothing

ephemeral
merely to state
that love
is the part of us
that never dies

John Lyons

In an essay entitled, A process of painting, Robert Motherwell wrote : “A painting is not a picture of something in front of your eyes—a model, say, primarily. It is an attack on the medium which then comes to “mean” something.”