Author: irlandesuk

The politics of poverty

irlandesuk poetry , ,

The politics of poverty

Not all saints are friends
           not all friends are saints
and words are easier
           than any actions
but there is a sense
           of what it is to be human
and to love and care
           for another and for others
and this prohibits
           all violations of the body
in every sense
           of the word

Life pared back
           to its essentials
stripped of excess
           and lived from
the very core of being
           Vanity is a citadel
that must be torn down
           duty brought to task
the politics of poverty
           offends us all
who would care to be
            ruler of this realm
of destitution :
           my kingdom for a horse
diamonds and sapphires
           in the mud

John Lyons

Scraps

irlandesuk poetry

Scraps

I need no eyes
I stumbled when I saw

fleshly pencils

one thing from itself
never turning
time’s fool
the mind’s peace

this composed wonder
of your frame
my eye is in my mind

tongue lose your light
love’s mind
the red meat on the rug

Out of chaos
this composed wonder
a world framed
in your image

Time is a fool
to leave so much
behind

John Lyons

Life story

irlandesuk poetry

Life story

Temper and belief
           as we move through
the transparent air
           and embrace
the solitude of the self
           Our thoughts

words and deeds
           are the particulars
of this life story
           the shifting colours
of autumn winter
           and spring with their
unique silhouettes
           and time that runs
through our flesh
           and bones from
the very first tick
           of the clock

We’re here
           to love and be loved
there’s no mystery
           each of us is a new text
in the world
           born of our breath

John Lyons

Reading ready

irlandesuk poetry

Reading ready

A man is reading
           a novel to himself
out loud
           in the library :
he seems totally
           engrossed
in the story
           and oblivious
to everything
           around him

He’s about
           forty-five years old
casually dressed
            wearing
trainers and
           a light jacket

He reads slowly
           but without
stumbling
           over words

I remember the transition
           to silent reading
when I was at school
           a minor milestone
to be sure
           but I have to admire
this character sitting
           in Holborn public library
on a cold December afternoon
            comfortably
immersed in the joy
           of his fictional world

John Lyons

Elsewhere

irlandesuk poetry

Elsewhere

Do not mistake my body for me
I am sometimes there
and yes it’s an address of sorts
but I’m often absent
simply elsewhere
sometimes in the future
sometimes strolling through
past locations in which I accumulated
thoughts and feelings and experiences
there are hills and rivers and walled cities
and boats that cut through
the choppy waters of a beautiful lake
and there are men and women and children
and lips that I once kissed and still cherish
in an absent kind of way
so much so that when Rimbaud wrote
that his true life was elsewhere
I felt as though but for a quirk of time
he had read my mind
and stolen my thoughts

John Lyons

Plain sense

irlandesuk poetry ,

Plain sense

The plain sense of things
           the end of the imagination ?
I don’t think so— and certainly
           not for a fallen leaf
We imagine all our lives
           we envisage and plan and hope
and sometimes pray
           and whether we gamble or not
we are always calculating odds
           she loves me she loves me not

Stare out from the train
           as it passes Deptford Green
where children still skateboard
           within office hours
where the ornamental pond
           is covered in thick green slime
the trees bare these winter days
           and all the time I’m imagining
what will happen next
           and where will it end
and I think of all those
           I have loved and love still
and wonder what they’re about
           imagining all the time so that
nothing inanimate or inert
           will ever lay down the law
and condemn me to silence
           Thoughts and feelings are
expressions sometimes
           voiced sometimes not
and our world a construct
           of collective consciousness
so fragile it could pass
           in the blink of an eye

John Lyons

 

How it is

irlandesuk poetry

How it is

Poetry all in a day’s work
           that brings together
the particulars of life
           the soup boiling on the stove
the smell of freshly baked bread
           that eager hands will soon break

and outside snow is falling
           gently on the land
laying a blanket of silence
           and on the window ledge
resplendent in the winter light
           a crystal vase holds a clutch
of pale yellow roses
           that betray an act of love

John Lyons

Making do

irlandesuk poetry

Making do

What the sun has made
           and what we have made
from words alone
           a version of the world
cast in syllables
           shaped into poetry
and with breath
           the sound waves
the gentle rhymes
           that soothe the heart

What we have made
           from love alone
words with which
           to fill the silence
to record the song
           of nightingales or
the croak of crows
           to pick lilies and
contemplate the rose
           world of sunrise
and sunset and words
           without end

John Lyons

It’s not ideal

irlandesuk poetry

It’s not ideal

In that sense
the good bishop
was right
attention is all

a world depends
upon it

look about you
look within you

the fine detail
of your breath

the shimmering
synapses
that fire you up

beauty has a depth
that demands
concentration

life is too rich
to let slip

feel it down
to the very core

John Lyons

Riding the Big Dipper

irlandesuk poetry ,
reflection-of-the-big-dipper
Reflection of the Big Dipper, Jackson Pollock (1947)

Riding the Big Dipper

Follow the trail of paint
           the boundless
shapeless energy
           the thin line
that speeds Pollock on
           to reveal his inner likeness

a see-through heart
           a tangled coil of veins
with the ceaseless
           coming and going
of the courageous mind
           addicted to freedom

He of the multitude
           perpetually present
in the scene of selves
           and just imagine
the sensual pulse
           that flicks the wrist
all colours fused
           in passionate exhalation

compositions that disturb
           the veils of dishonesty
burying them beneath
           a bed of his truth
for this truly is
           beauty
in the eye
           of the beholder

John Lyons

This poem appeared earlier today in a slightly different version.