A robin
with fiery red breast
chilling out on a branch
in the chill wind
insignificance
is its significance
I watch as the branch
slowly rises and falls
the bird virtually
weightless
but a moment
nevertheless
in my life
I who still have
the breath to appreciate
and to admire it
John Lyons
The foxes
have gone to ground
in the silence
in the stillness
they know
that something
is seriously wrong
with the world
No more sunbathing
on sheds roofs
no more slinking
from garden to garden
no more wandering
the streets after dark
no more chattering
in the early hours
the foxes
are self-isolating
mothers are confining
their litters
to the lair
they can sense
that something serious
is afoot
John Lyons
Never has space
flight of birds
flight of angels
aerial distance
the poet’s mind
eyed from a castle
or from a tower
in Sligo
the act ever
incomplete
the arrow speeding
through the air
how thoughts soar
carried on the wind
a child’s kite
with unending string
never has space
and within it love
the heartfelt impulse
flight of fancy
eclipsing all fear
never has space
known such a time
inwardly
outwardly
as now and then
John Lyons
Hat nie Platz
Flug der Vögel
Flug der Engel
Luftentfernung
der Geist des Dichters
von einer Burg aus gesehen
oder von einem Turm
in Sligo
die Tat immer
unvollständig
Der Pfeil beschleunigt
durch die Luft
wie Gedanken steigen
im Wind getragen
Drachen eines Kindes
mit endloser Schnur
hat nie Platz
und Liebe darin
der warme Impuls
Flug der Fantasie
alle Angst in den Schatten stellen
hat nie Platz
eine solche Zeit bekannt
innerlich
außenlich
wie jetzt und dann
Only those who have already
raised the lyre among the shades
can foresee
the infinite praise.
Only those who consumed
poppies with the dead,
will not lose the least
of their notes.
Our reflection in the pond
may often blur:
know the picture.
Only twixt the twin realms
will our voice turn
gentle and everlasting
Rainer Maria Rilke
(translation by John Lyons)
Sonnett 9
Nur wer die Leier schon hob
auch unter Schatten,
darf das unendliche Lob
ahnend erstatten.
Nur wer mit Toten vom Mohn
aß, von dem ihren,
wird nicht den leisesten Ton
wieder verlieren.
Mag auch die Spieglung im Teich
oft uns verschwimmen:
Wisse das Bild.
Erst in dem Doppelbereich
werden die Stimmen
ewig und mild.
It was a very pleasant day yesterday
and it is pleasant that today
is as warm as yesterday
a blue sky is always welcome
long hours of sunshine
the birds were in good voice yesterday
and today is no different
I heard the foxes in the early hours
they were planning their day
they sensed it was going to be
a very pleasant day
a day as warm as yesterday
it was no surprise to me
it is no surprise to me
naturally the world is never
always full of bad news
there is always some light
some hope to cling on to
and there is always room
for love and gratitude
and so I gave my love a kiss
and she agreed that it was
a very pleasant day yesterday
and that so it would be today
John Lyons
it’s raining on the Río de la Plata and it’s almost
36 years since they killed Federico García Lorca but
what’s the relationship between that
outer reality and this inner unreality? or
what’s the relationship between that outer unreality
and this inner reality?
I don’t know the river’s gray line
looks like the knife with which they slit the sky
looks like the knife with which they slit childhoods in Azul
slit childhoods in Santa Fe and other places in the republic
sometimes forever or always forever
it’s one of the country’s great agonies
that’s for sure in the west
the sunsets are not inflamed by the sun here
children’s blood inflames the republic’s sunsets
children from Salta children from Tucumán little angels
blood evaporated or fallen swept away by the sunset
each and every each and every day
and what’s that got to do the death of Federico García Lorca
with the execution of Federico García Lorca in Granada in 1936?
or the sunset in the west of Spain
that is inflamed not by the sun but from the blood
of Federico García Lorca poet
each and every each and every day
I don’t know I don’t know
“child, you’re going to fall into the river!” said Federico García Lorca
“when he was lost in the water I understood” said Federico García Lorca
“within the rose there’s another river” said Federico García Lorca
but why does his blood inflame
Granada each and every day every day?
and the children of Azul Santa Fe Tucumán Salta
why do they inflame the sky of the republic
beneath which they have forgotten them or pretend to forget?
why did they fall into the river were lost
in the water went to the river of another rose from
ugly poverty?
what’s the relationship between that
outer reality and this inner unreality? or
what’s the relationship between that outer unreality
and this inner reality?
when did they kill Federico García Lorca in Tucumán?
when was he shot in Azul Santa Fe Salta?
Juan Gelman
(Translated by John Lyons)
In this poem, Juan Gelman – of Ukrainian origin and one of Argentina’s greatest poet – draws a parallel between the murder of the poet Federico García Lorca by Franco’s fascist troops at the start of the Spanish Civil War and the slaughter of innocents in Argentina during the so-called Dirty War (the name used for the period of United States-backed state terrorism in Argentina from 1976 to 1983). Azul, Santa Fe, Salta and Tucumán are representative provinces of Argentina, though the military dictatorship spread terror throughout the country.
Yesterday
under a blue sky
in the ancient woodland
by the railway line
a woodpecker
beating time
on an old oak tree
John Lyons
I’m not young and I’ve always seen
injustice and fear all around me
It’s always been this way,
I gratefully learned
from the heavy books of the good old days.
I live in a country that’s not free,
very tired, cruel, corrupt, very cowardly,
I have to live in an unworthy country
but the rest of the world is no better.
And I can raise only a few fragile words
against the contempt of the lords of power,
the princes’ lips are just smiling,
barely a smile that comes from oblivion
and then dictate forever
icy laws of fear and force,
a firm support
most generous crutches
upon which the lame
may walk towards death.
How will I fight with nothing
but useless words,
what good is the cry of the dreamer?
I wake up slowly and in silence I contemplate
the great bonfire lit in the far south,
the shame and dishonour of all peoples
It will spread everywhere
and in it we shall burn,
now someone has understood
but soon everyone will know
that we’re completely lost.
Salvador Espriu
(translated by John Lyons)
“Vietnam” by the great Catalan poet, Salvador Espriu, was written in 1968, ostensibly as a denunciation of the Vietnam War, but was aimed more particularly at fascism and the corrupt regime of Franco’s Spain which sought to suppress Catalan culture.
Never forget that nature
is the great sculptor
we are surrounded on all sides
by beautiful shapes
most so common
that we take them for granted
Yesterday I walked across
a gently undulated park
tramped through a field of daisies
and admired the breathtaking
splendour of so many trees
the shape of which
was known from the seed :
love too known
from the moment
it seeds in our hearts
John Lyons
I greet you who never left my heart
ancient sarcophagi through which
the happy waters of Roman days
flow like a wandering song.
Or those as open as the eyes
of a happy shepherd upon awakening
– full of silence and the sucking of bees –
around whom enchanted butterflies flutter;
I greet all those wrenched from doubt,
mouth again agape who already knew
what it means to be silent
We know, my friends, don’t we know?
Both configure the hour that wavers
on the human face.
Rainer Maria Rilke
(translated by John Lyons)
Euch, die ihr nie mein Gefühl verließt,
grüß ich, antikische Sarkophage,
die das fröhliche Wasser römischer Tage
als ein wandelndes Lied durchfließt.
Oder jene so offenen, wie das Aug
eines frohen erwachenden Hirten,
—innen voll Stille und Bienensaug—
denen entzückte Falter entschwirrten;
alle, die man dem Zweifel entreißt,
grüß ich, die wiedergeöffneten Munde,
die schon wußten, was schweigen heißt.
Wissen wirs, Freunde, wissen wirs nicht?
Beides bildet die zögernde Stunde
in dem menschlichen Angesicht.
Rainer Maria Rilke
johnjosephlyons 