Minor detail, John Lyons (oil on canvas)
Figment done
in pigment :
the devil
is in the detail
a composition
to raise a hue
and cry
If you must have it
at least let me see
the colour
of your money
Here there is
light and darkness
within the geometry
of chaos
A representation
of mood
of a life lived
on the hoof
a mere hint at
the hard lines
of the love left
in her wake
John Lyons
Two peppers
painted for no reason
green and white pigment
on a background
of cadmium yellow
on a circle of wood :
rough surface
rough texture
The old argument
art versus nature
rehearsed down
the centuries :
that which lives
and breathes
and that which may
last forever
John Lyons
They let the grass
grow high in the meadow
then bring in the sheep
to keep it trim
In one corner
the church with its
tall steeple : on
summer days
it casts a long
shadow
So many shadows
in their blighted lives
Here so many hearts
failed as the years
bled them to death
Everywhere else
was a land of plenty
and love was the ticket
She finally left
when the roses
were in bloom
One summer’s day
For years nobody
noticed she was gone
John Lyons
Out of the air
out of the sun
out of the earth
all beauty
a world
made flesh
the bone and blood
sustained
by the warmth
of her breath
the long hair
that spins
in the wild wind
that lashes
her ruddy cheeks
her voice strung
with the strings
of a harp
I could listen
for hours
for a lifetime
watch her fingers
admire the spoils
of her handiwork
Those were fine days
never to be forgotten
a life lived
in the shape of love
John Lyons
A gaggle of geese
overhead heading
for a family reunion
at Blackheath
by the pond
where willows weep
Sunshine brings out
the best in us
the best being
that ability to live
in the moment
To love in the moment
grateful for small mercies
Life and death
at our fingertips
The grass is greener
in winter : parched
under summer skies
My advice ?
Identify a single star
and stick with it
rain or shine
thick or thin
And a dose of love
can do no harm
John Lyons
Steel fireworks
How charming these illuminations
Artificer’s artifice
Lends a little style to courage
Two air-burst shells
Pink explosion
Like two breasts set loose
Their nipples insolently pointing
WHAT A LOVER
What an epitaph
A poet in the forest
His revolver half-cocked
Observes with indifference
Roses dying of hope
He thinks of Saadi’s roses
And suddenly his head slumps
When a rose reminds him
Of the soft curve of her hip
The air stinks with a terrible alcohol
Filtered by half-closed stars
The shells caress the soft
Night perfume where you rest
Mortification of the roses
Guillaume Apollinaire
(translation by John Lyons)
Note: A later version of this poem appeared in the previous post
Celebration with steel lanterns
How charming these illuminations
Murderous fireworks
But with courage one has a good time
Two rockets pink explosion
Like two breasts that one releases
Insolently point their nipples
What a lover What an epitaph
A poet in the forest
Observes with indifference
His half-cocked revolver
The roses dying in silence
Roses from an abandoned park
And which he gathers at the fountain
At the end of the diverted path
Where each evening he strolls
He thinks of Sâdi’s roses
And suddenly his head slumps
When a rose reminds him
Of the soft curve of her hip
The air is filled with a terrible alcohol
Filtered by half-closed stars
The shells sob in their flight
The amorous death of roses
September 1915
Guillaume Apollinaire
(translation by John Lyons)
From Poèmes à Lou, a series of poems Apollinaire sent from the front line in letters addressed to his girlfriend at the time.
The waste of memory—
digital images caught
on devices doomed
to obsolescence
with the advance
of new technologies
Once upon a time
a mind was sufficient
to recall happy times
places where love
was shared
on a day full of sun
and laughter
a birth
a marriage
significant moments
of pride or pleasure
or achievement
Once upon a time
There is no return
no way back
to the vast empty days
we leave in our wake
One day I may struggle
to recall that I ever loved you
in those days when no one
was dearer to my heart :
a certain dress you wore
in a certain unforgettable
location growing dimmer
by the day
even as the sunlight fades
One day will one day
be the last and all our loves
and all our regrets
will be lost forever
and a day
John Lyons
What gives shape to a life
the physical features
the scuttling back and forth
the hills climbed
the seas in which we bathed
the dry dust of different cities
different arrays of stone
and in the distance mountains
and deep valleys
our bodies ever changing
growing and adapting
and ultimately ageing
and all the while
the emotional features
shaping our feelings
our hopes and dreams
ideas of romance
ideas of love
ideas of achievement
as we reconcile
to almost inevitable
failures and count
our blessings
Hopkins wrote
of the topography
of the mind
that rollercoaster
of the inner life
the one we live
silently to ourselves
knowing that we are
our own deepest
mystery : easier
to know another
to see through
the pretences
the subterfuges
concocted
out of fear : and yet
the truth
will aways out
Hopkins who clung
to the precipice of faith
by his fingertips
who feared the darkness
into which his heart
might one day plunge
John Lyons
Shape of things to come, John Lyons (30 x 25 cm, oil on canvas)
A map of the face
incomplete
a few salient features
a few boundaries
unworldly colours
applied impasto
cautionary
exploratory
the gaze is there
the expression
all that the artist
assumes
that the viewer
will see
the broad forehead
darkness and light
an air of authority
ermine and red velvet
princely or despotic
shape of things to come
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 