- St Tropez, John Lyons (50 x 40 cm, oil and snail shells on canvas panel)
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Author: irlandesuk
Forget the hyperboles
Forget the hyperboles
Forget the hyperboles
the sun the moon
and the stars
the bed of roses
I loved the simplicity
of her breath
her elegant posture
as we walked
side by side
across all the bridges
we ever crossed
at home and abroad
and all our days
and all our nights
John Lyons
Lockdown heatwave
Lockdown heatwave
Slept till dawn
till the rain
woke me
listened
in the silence
not a breath
of air
not a sound
but for the
staccato of rain
against the skylight
thick drops
of summer rain
my bed linen moist
my brow too
and now I sit here
first coffee of the day
writing these words
I would have shared
the coffee with her
if she were here
the silence too
the silence
filling the space
between us
John Lyons
Particles of night
Particles of night
Particles of night sky
of hues and pigments
cadmium and titanium
I paint with cosmic debris
myself a part of that debris
my arms my hands my eyes
built from the same particles
my spent breath
part of the shared dust
I shed
time that beats in the temples
universal time
pulsating fragments of infinity
a sparrow that moves
unconsciously on its wings
through the dense emptiness
of an elastic placeless
universe
my life a silk screen
an etching on the earth’s surface
a collision of atomic material
tugged inwards
by the gravity of love
feelings of prussian blue
and lamp black
and the landscapes I carry
within the studio
of my mind
my articles of faith
particles of every kiss
I ever gave
orbiting in the memory
the solar solace
of our conmingled bones
enmeshed the particles
of our being
John Lyons
The road less travelled
The road less travelled
Just after the dawn dust
had settled
after the larks had risen
into the vacant sky
I chanced upon
this fork in the road
a yellow wheat field
and in the distance
the dense deep green
of ancient woodland
and who knows
where a road truly leads
or what awaits us in our day-to-day
as we make our way
along paths unknown or known
how for better or worse
a random choice may
change a life forever
John Lyons
Revised text
Summer recess
Summer recess
High-pitched whine
of a circular saw
cutting through wood
: the birds at dawn
were silent
are silent still
The world it seems
is on vacation
even the foxes
are away visiting
their country cousins
on the North Downs
My love sulks
in blue silk
wishing that the blaze
of summer days
would pass :
she hankers after
wind and snow and ice
the withering cold
to which her temperament
is so well adjusted
John Lyons
Time all out of joint
Time all out of joint
Take a lucky dip
into memory
see what you get
the Brooklyn Bridge
and the tide of time
streaming below
unconscionable heat
sucking the juice
out of the air
dust of moth wing
on your brow
as you pound
the aimless
crumbling streets
O daughter of sunlight
where were you conceived
where were you born
where were you raised
what violence drove you
to abandon all hope
striving to survive
on the pique of your beauty
blunted the cutting edge
of your intelligence
The play’s the thing
but time’s all out of joint
your birth stars are receding
in the outer regions
of outer space
your matter-of-fact fantasies
have waned and life
is the only truth left to tell
and it is a sorry tale at that
all caution thrown to the wind
along with love leaving a senseless trail
of unmitigated disasters
John Lyons
I love the stillness
I love the stillness
I love the stillness
of these early summer mornings
when the sun is up
but most of the world is still asleep
already the sky is blue
and the air warm
I water the plants and flowers
in the garden and soak in the silence
Yesterday was a fine day
full of satisfaction
and I was happy to note
the achievement of others
By the railway line I noticed
the canes of blackberry
coming into their own—
this year should be a bumper crop
Yesterday was truly a fine day
but today could outshine it
I have my expectations
It’s good to be alive
to be drawing breath
in these troubled time
to have contact
with friends and family
and to know that love
is never far away
and to be thankful
for all the old loves
and the new loves that give
so much meaning to my life
John Lyons
Her body his love
Her body his love
Love not an open wound
nor a bruised heart
nor a broken promise
Words that heal
supplicant gestures
a kiss soon repairs
How supple the mind
that moves through light
unpicking the tainted silence
that stains the rose
my hands are tied
but in my eyes
her naked beauty
never fades
Say that all thoughts
lead back to her
that her salt tears
are petals
Though he refuses
to concede defeat
her lips await a song
her body his love
John Lyons
Apart from love
Apart from love
I read Frank O’Hara
who never made it
to the twenty-first century
but I imagine
he would have loved it
and all the people in it
all the artists and musicians
and poets and writers
busy inventing it
just as they always did
in centuries gone by
time immemorial
Listen to Duke Ellington
and you can appreciate
Frank O’Hara’s ear
or to Rachmaninoff
and you get a real sense
of O’Hara’s nimble fingers
shuffling along the keyboard
or slip into the gallery
to cast a cold eye over
a Rauschenberg or a Pollock
and it will tell you something
of what it was like
to see the world through
O’Hara’s blue-tinted eyes
and then in a poem
he uses the phrase
apart from love
and you realise that
that line is a great divide
a real line in the sand
that apart from love
to Frank at least
nothing else really mattered
not culture not wealth
not status not ambition
not age not youth
nothing really matter
apart from love
his poetics
in a nutshell
and I guess
I just have to agree
John Lyons
