Author: irlandesuk

The waste of memory

irlandesuk poetry

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

The mind has mountains

irlandesuk poetry

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

irlandesuk art, poetry

poortrait
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

Schevchenko – Testament

irlandesuk poetry, translation , ,

Schevchenko statue

When I die, make me a grave
High on an ancient hill
In my beloved Ukraine,
Out on the endless steppe:
Where one may see vast fields of wheat,
The steep banks of Dnipro
And hear the wild river’s
Turbulent roar.

Not until Ukraine’s forces
Have swept the enemy’s blood
Into the deep blue sea
Will I depart from these hills
And wheatlands forever :
Leave all behind, and ascend
To the throne of God
Where I’ll make my prayer.
But until that time
I’ll know nothing of God.

Make my grave there—rise up,
Throw off your shackles,
Bless your freedom with the blood
Of the enemy’s evil veins !
Then in that great family,
A new and free family,
Never forget, with kindness,
Speak of me fondly.

Taras Schevchenko

(version by John Lyons)

Taras Schevchenko (1814-1861), is Ukraine’s national poet and the personification of the Ukrainians’ thirst for liberty and independence. The statue stands in Taras Schevchenko Park opposite the National University in Kyiv. 

Flag

Eventual silence

irlandesuk poetry

Stones to sand
and bones to bonemeal
and latterly to dust

There is no refuge
from time’s onslaught
the very beginning
is the beginning
of the end

Oak outlives us
blackbirds and starlings
take shelter in the branches
and human energies
dwindle as a matter of course

There is however
much to be said for love
and how the engaged heart
takes delight where it finds it
and turns a blind eye
to transience and decay
and eventual silence

John Lyons

Until the light fades

irlandesuk poetry

What without words
        can be said
a silent gesture
        of the hands
a flicker of recognition
        in the eyes

The swans by the river
        elegant and aloof
bow their heads
        as we walk by
side by side

It’s spring again and you are
        more beautiful than ever
and when I glance at you
        you say nothing
there is no need to talk
        and my stream of consciousness
flows on through the day
        until the light fades
and in the darkness
        we merge into one

John Lyons

Groundwork

irlandesuk art, poetry

groundwork
             (Groundwork, John Lyons (40 x 40, oil on canvas)

Marks on the surface
        a splash of colour
here and there :
        the mere suggestion
of a face
        a serious expression

Lines are left suspended
        just as time appears
to stagnate
        What if the figure
could speak ?
        What would it say
about the state
        of the world ?

John Lyons

Chains of memory

irlandesuk poetry

The chains of memory
        the shackles the bonds
that bind the beloved
        to the beloved
the all-knowingness
        of love which each day
resurrects and brings out
        into the light

Grace and desire
        hand in hand
something that changes
        so that nothing ever changes
the state in which there is
        no restlessness
and no discomfort

Yes there are words
        but sometimes
they are unvoiced
        each syllable
closely guarded
        latent speech
kept in reserve

this is what I saw
        in her eyes
this what I felt
        when I held her hand
and then the brush
        of her lips on my skin
her breath aligned
        with my own—

and out of love
        all those gestures
that rise into being
        the creativity that battles
against the onslaught of death
        the tenderness that softens
every blow and soothes
        one’s wounded vanity

John Lyons

Working the land

irlandesuk art, poetry

buffer
       Land, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)


Think of it thus
as a garden
as a small plot of land
the soil recently
turned in preparation
for a new crop

In the artist’s mind
the seeds may already
have been sown

Who knows what
may appear—a portrait
of a face once beloved
or a landscape remembered
with affection or
some other grand gesture

Earth colours
will be applied —
this too is the work
of sunlight
and what is born here
will live forever

John Lyons