Author: irlandesuk

Italian strawflower

irlandesuk poetry

strawflowers

Italian strawflower

Intense fragrance
           of the immortelle
clusters of yellow flowers
           that retain their aroma
-reminiscent of wormwood-
           long after picking
Life in all its glory
           beauty in every detail
an inflorescence
           that never dies

What it has taught us
           is that to be alive is good
that to practise virtue
           on behalf of others
beatifies our breath
           that hands are instruments
of the heart
           that love is a call to action
and that through us
           the voice moves words
to express compassion
           and tenderness

John Lyons

 

The final betrayal

irlandesuk poetry

The final betrayal

Watched the day descend
           into night
different shades of blue and light
           and lilac
and a soft rosy hue that simmered
           just above the horizon

Saw the tree line
           turn to dark silhouette
heard the birds’ final evensong
           and watched
as pale clouds sped south
           and in my heart
I put her final betrayal
           behind me

John Lyons

Lawless love

irlandesuk poetry

shelley

Lawless love

As poets
           we are keepers
of the wonders
           of the human world
of space and matter
           of time and mind

Our songs are
           to renew
and strengthen
           all failing hope

All things are recreated
           and the flame
of consensual love
           inspires all life

John Lyons

With words taken from the poetry of Shelley (1792-1822)

Endgame

irlandesuk poetry

Endgame

The patter of rain after days
           of unbroken sunshine
grey skies and a hush
           across the world
birdsong silenced
           and the foxes snug
in their burrows
           As shadows shelter
beneath oak and ash
           I marshal my dreams
and plan for a future
           without her

John Lyons

Yes culture too is breath

irlandesuk poetry

Yes culture too is breath

Yes culture too is breath
           and all breath comes
from the stars
           and we know
that when the breath cools
           it’s time to move on

She will withhold her kisses
           and in her eyes there will be
disdain and she will glance
           away into the future 
toward the life she has planned
           for your absence

Passion is our birthright
           and we are born
to hold one another
           in our arms
and our words are there
           to console in times of grief
to support in times of distress
           and to express the love
that never dies when it is
           true love

John Lyons

Natural philosophy

irlandesuk poetry

Natural philosophy

On the footpath
           in the garden yesterday
a butterfly settled
           its wings raised
so that only
           the dark underside showed

At first I had mistaken it
           for a leaf
but though there was
           a gentle breeze
the butterfly did not move
           not even the slightest tremor :
it stood its ground
           for ten minutes or more
and I wondered whether
           this was not an extravagance
to idle away
           such a stretch of time
given the brevity
           of its life

But there perhaps
           was the lesson it was
unwittingly there
           to deliver to me
and to you dear reader
           without a care in the world

John Lyons

The intermittences of the heart – Marcel Proust

irlandesuk poetry, translation ,

“For the intermittences of the heart are closely linked to the troubles of memory. Without doubt, it is the existence of our body, to us akin to a jar in which our spiritual nature is enclosed, that leads us to suppose that all our inner wealth, our past joys, all our sorrows, are perpetually in our possession.” (translation by John Lyons)

A thought for the day, taken from Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu. Proust’s monumental exercise in voluntary memory, in which he seeks to reclaim the narrative of his past life. The work is permeated with episodes of involuntary memory, some ecstatically joyful, others full of the pain of loss and lost love.

Disjecta Membra

What are our memories
           but living thoughts
and feelings
           our minds a ragbag
of experiences
           of hopes and dashed
expectations
           of moments of tenderness
set against the shifting veil
           of darkness and light
and that never-ending tussle
           between precision
perfection
           and sheer chaos

John Lyons 

A certain idea of order

irlandesuk poetry

A certain idea of order

There is unity
           and there is particularity
a universe put together
           from a handful of building blocks
There is the sky and the sea
           and swallows come and go
filling our latitude with
           their grace and beauty
without ever overstaying
           their welcome

And she who sings in the dark
           whose voice is heard in my soul
whose unembittered gestures trace
           patterns of affection in my life
a summer without end
           a body drawn from the dust of stars
whole and intemperate in her passion
           the sound of love present
in every articulation
           she strides daily into my life

John Lyons

New dawn

irlandesuk art, poetry
dawn2
New dawn, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

New dawn

What is striking
           are the bare spaces
the bare sky the bare streets
           the bare park hidden behind
the thick summer foliage
           These are times
of tenderness and grief
           times in which to care
scrupulously
           for the body
and let the devil
           take the soul

Company that is comfort
           has given way to avoidance
and now more than ever
           distance separates us
and love’s versatile touch
           is so out of reach

Yours was a name
           I once loved
but in that name
           a space has grown
larger than any
           I have ever known
it tells me that though
           you are still here
you are long gone
           long gone

John Lyons

Pure white petals

irlandesuk poetry

magnolia

Pure white petals

Lying in the dust
           the pure white petals
of the magnolia
           are tossed
this way and that
           as they catch the breeze

The tree
           with its naked branches
stands forlorn :
           its blooms were ahead
of their time and now
           their time has passed

Life has its debris
           and beauty its span
perhaps love too
           but come spring
the magnolia
           will bloom again—
as for love tell me please
           when will love return ?

John Lyons