The world as we imagine it
the magnificent cause
of being
not simply
seeming to be
Constructs of the heart
a sentimental imagination
all that ties people together
feeling our way through life
in the knowledge
that darkness fades
with the light
that love is the one true
illumination
John Lyons
A mind of winter
snow on the roofs
on the window ledges
on stretches of grass
Inside a satellite dish a bird
sheltering from the wind
December fading
into the new year
the purity
of the silence
reaffirmation
of the world’s innocence
John Lyons
Here now before me
is a fine yellow poplar
quite straight
perhaps ninety feet high
and four thick at the butt
How strong and vital
how enduring
how dumbly eloquent !
What suggestions
of imperturbability and being
as against the human trait
of mere seeming
Then the heroic
almost emotional
palpably artistic
qualities of a tree
so innocent and harmless
yet so savage
It is
yet says nothing
How it rebukes all weathers
by its tough and equable serenity
this gusty-tempered little whiffet
man
that runs indoors at a mite
of rain or snow
Perhaps the greatest moral lesson
from earth and rocks and animals
is that same lesson of inherency
of what is
without the least regard
to what the looker-on supposes or says
or whether he likes or dislikes
What worse
what more general malady
pervades each and all of us
our literature our education
our attitude toward each other
even toward ourselves
than a morbid trouble
about seems
and no trouble at all
or hardly any
about the sane
slow-growing perennial
real parts of character
books and friendship and marriage
humanity’s invisible foundations
The all-basis
the nerve
the great-sympathetic
the plenum within humanity
giving stamp to everything
that is necessarily invisible
Walt Whitman
Adapted from Specimen Days (1882)
I’m in a place
where nobody understands me
where I don’t speak the language
and cannot read the script
The temperature is low
close to freezing
and it might snow later
I’m in a place of history
where many things are new
and many things are old
I’m in a place of learning
and I have so much to learn
I’m in a place
John Lyons
Beneath the pomp and circumstance
there is the body and the soul
and the Christmas market at Schönbrunn
that feeds both the body and the soul
So the rain falls upon us incessantly
as we do the rounds and feed ourselves
on bread and cheese and sip mulled wine
Conversation is the thing
meeting a friend and exchanging time
and the warmth of human words
Here in the courtyard of the Kaiser’s
summer palace where it is winter
and the solstice a day old
and Christmas Eve almost upon us
we celebrate the civility
of our common language
There are baubles to hang on trees
and tiny sculptures of the nativity
but what is being born is the moment
in which we live the moment
in which we love : the precious moments
in which we are pleased to draw breath
John Lyons
Somewhere in the Milky Way
it’s not raining
there are blue skies and
people are going about
their business
with broad smiles
and a spring
in their step
As evening falls
lovers stand
below a full moon
bathing in its light
Somewhere in the Milky Way
there’s a world
free from discord
a world of peace and love
a world where you might
want to be forever
call it heaven
call it what you will
it exists somewhere
in the Milky Way
John Lyons
Sonnet 2
And it was almost a girl that emerged
from that happy coincidence of song and lyre
who shone clearly through her spring veil
and laid herself down to rest in my ear.
And she slept within me. And her sleep was all.
All the trees I’ve ever admired, those
palpable distances, those meadows known to me
and every moment that ever astounded me.
She slept the world. O God of song how did you
arrange that she should have no desire,
to be woken first? See, how she rose and slept.
Where is her death? O will you continue to invoke
this motif before your song is done? –
Where does it fade to within me? … Almost a girl …
Rainer Maria Rilke
(translation by John Lyons)
Und fast ein Mädchen war’s und ging hervor
aus diesem einigen Glück von Sang und Leier
und glänzte klar durch ihre Frühlingsschleier
und machte sich ein Bett in meinem Ohr.
Und schlief in mir. Und alles war ihr Schlaf.
Die Bäume, die ich je bewundert, diese
fühlbare Ferne, die gefühlte Wiese
und jedes Staunen, das mich selbst betraf.
Sie schlief die Welt. Singender Gott, wie hast
du sie vollendet, dass sie nicht begehrte,
erst wach zu sein? Sieh, sie erstand und schlief.
Wo ist ihr Tod? O, wirst du dies Motiv
erfinden noch, eh sich dein Lied verzehrte? —
Wo sinkt sie hin aus mir?… Ein Mädchen fast ….
