Tangled web, John Lyons (70 x 50 cm, oil and enamel paint on canvas)
We have been
over this ground
a thousand times
she said
This is the tangled web
we have woven—
a landscape
in which we can
barely distinguish
the wood for the trees
John Lyons
Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-1987)
On this tolerably comfortable terrace,
we drink beer and look out at the sea.
We know that nothing will happen to us.
The building’s solid and so too the world.
We know that every building houses a thousand bodies
toiling away in a thousand identical compartments.
Sometimes some wearily enter the elevator
and come up here to breathe the ocean breeze,
which is a privilege of these buildings.
The world really is made of reinforced concrete.
Surely, if there was a rogue cruiser,
anchored in the bay opposite the city,
life would be uncertain. . . unlikely. . .
But in the calm waters there are only trusty sailors.
How cordial the fleet is!
We can drink our beers with honour.
1940
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
(translation by John Lyons)
Privilégio do Mar
Neste terraço mediocremente confortável,
bebemos cerveja e olhamos o mar.
Sabemos que nada nos acontecerá.
O edifício é sólido e o mundo também.
Sabemos que cada edifício abriga mil corpos
labutando em mil compartimentos iguais.
Às vezes, alguns se inserem fatigados no elevador
e vêm cá em cima respirar a brisa do oceano,
o que é privilégio dos edifícios.
O mundo é mesmo de cimento armado.
Certamente, se houvesse um cruzador louco,
fundeado na baía em frente da cidade,
a vida seria incerta.. . improvável. . .
Mas nas águas tranqüilas só há marinheiros fiéis.
Como a esquadra é cordial!
Podemos beber honradamente nossa cerveja.
A clear day
and no memories
a birth at dawn
in the heart of the woodland
where foxes and squirrels
roam timelessly
where owls sit out
the sunlight scarcely
stirring until dusk
where the air is dank
from decaying vegetation
damp soil out of which
new growth new life
the sting of nettles
and the beauty
of blue bells
we who are of the earth
must pay our dues
with our love
with our ash
John Lyons
The beauty of beauty
innocence in an age
of experience
a fresh wistful face
as yet unlined by life
a body scarcely knowing love
details yet to be added
language without words
she on the verge
of womanhood
the purity of the body
as yet unveiled
in the rite of love
simplicity of the pose
the dress and hair
an almost boyish look
slant of the shoulders
her top rolled down
but barely revealing
the simplicity
of the pleated skirt
elegance of the arms
relaxed by her side
we wonder what
became of her
with her quizzical smile
and where she went
when she left
the painter’s life
John Lyons
This painting may be viewed at Tate Britain.
A clear day
and no memories
I sip coffee at daybreak and
stare out at the ragged horizon
drawn by the ancient woodland
Overnight it rained gently
but enough to subdue
the giving earth—
summer is its busy season
so much bloom and blossom
so much fruit on the vine
so many nests to find
for new arrivals
from distant lands
I hear the constant coo
of pigeons and the thin
trill of the dawn chorus
as nature stakes its claim
to a life of peace
Wherever
there is war in this world
the birds will always
rise above it
John Lyons
Support Ukraine
The mineral voice of the earth
the breeze that moves
through the fresh
green leaves of summer
leaves that sustain
the patter of rainfall
and are soon dry
once the sun appears
And how her mood changed
how her body grew lighter :
the step of a dancer
as she made her way
through the warmer days
clear days with no memory
other than the pattern of love
drawn across shared hours
John Lyons
Not least because the sun shone
the air clear of memories
did I find myself the compass
of my day
Small birds sung their morning hymns
and I listened to their world in awe
and pondered the great mystery
of why such accidental beauty
was granted to us on all sides
This being the world in which I walked
and heard and saw and felt for myself
the western day into which I descend
each morning from my dreams of a love
brighter than any star above
John Lyons
A clear day and no memories
a young summer’s day
expected to fulfil all the rituals
of the season : a magpie
proclaiming its matey boasts
from the summit of a garden conifer
In the live living air
knowledge of this day
is there to create
since none of us
has ever been here before
nor will ever return
But the poet throws down
a trusty gauntlet : how
might we transform the shallow
spectacle of our lives
and endow our activities
with lustrous meaning
John Lyons
When I was born a slim angel,
the type that blows trumpets, announced:
she’ll carry the flag.
Very heavy load for a woman,
even today a downtrodden species.
I welcome the tricks that suit me,
without having to lie.
Not so ugly I can’t marry,
I think Rio de Janeiro’s beautiful and
do and don’t believe in painless childbirth.
But, what I feel I write. I’m true to my stars.
I inaugurate bloodlines, found realms
—pain is not bitterness.
My sadness has no pedigree,
but my longing for joy,
its roots go back a thousand years.
To limp through life is man’s fate.
Women are flexible. I am.
Adélia Prado
(translation by John Lyons)
Brazil’s greatest living poet, Adélia Prado was born in 1935 and lives in Divinópolis, Minas Gerais.
Com licença poética
Quando nasci um anjo esbelto,
desses que tocam trombeta, anunciou:
vai carregar bandeira.
Cargo muito pesado pra mulher,
esta espécie ainda envergonhada.
Aceito os subterfúgios que me cabem,
sem precisar mentir.
Não tão feia que não possa casar,
acho o Rio de Janeiro uma beleza e
ora sim, ora não, creio em parto sem dor.
Mas, o que sinto escrevo. Cumpro a sina.
Inauguro linhagens, fundo reinos
—dor não é amargura.
Minha tristeza não tem pedigree,
já a minha vontade de alegria,
sua raiz vai ao meu mil avô.
Vai ser coxo na vida, é maldição pra homem.
Mulher é desdobrável. Eu sou.
A clear day
and no memories
sun glistening
on the water’s surface
of Spirit Quay where a grey wagtail
is hopping from one
lily pad to another—
a yellow-bellied male
with a black throat and
whitish moustachial stripes
Barges moored by the riverside
are flying the Ukrainian flag
and people are sunning themselves
in the Hermitage memorial garden
: the tide is out and time
is taking a break
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 