Author: irlandesuk

On Hampstead Heath

irlandesuk poetry

On Hampstead Heath

The beauty of light
           or of a single solitary
colour that flames
           in the eye
rose or daffodil
           under a blue-grey sky

and the gleaming scales
           of a salmon moving
through the still waters
           a shadow among shadows

crocuses and snowdrops
           in the lush green spaces
between the thickets
           of ancient woodland
a natural Jackson Pollock
           with a loose hand
broad sweeps of the brush
           and delicate dribbles of detail
the texture of love
           at the tips of one’s fingers
beauty infused
           with warm breath

Hampstead where Keats once lived
           alive with the sound of barking dogs
and the cries of children playing
           kites hovering above the trees
and the coming and going
           of generation after generation
we who inherit the earth
           and marvel at clusters of birth
maturity and decay
           the known feelings that we share
the sight and sound of love
           and the silence that dwells within

John Lyons

A song for January

irlandesuk poetry

A song for January

Handsome blood formed in the womb
           with accurate eye seeks to bond
with impeccable scruple
           Fresh from the toil of night
they shift into the morning rhythms
           bold rise of sun and bird song
and all objective freshness :
           he delights in the intimate intricacy
of her beauty and raises fingers
           five to her lips
caresses the structure
           of her warm being and makes
of each gesture an annunciation
           love held in the palm of his hand

Beauty and light are but the variations
           of this truth illuminated
in the complexities of her skin
           This we might call the earth dance
the conjoining of destinies
           tender bones bound at the hip
gentle waves of universe that flow
           from one to the other
and the soft satin glow
           of their articulate joy

John Lyons

 

Engima variations

irlandesuk poetry ,

Engima variations

What lies at the heart of love
           variations of the enigma
what draws one to another
           deeply and in constancy
It’s neither a word
           nor a series of words
but a manner of being
           just as a rose is what it is
and we know it instantly
           so too love is apprehended
in its existence
           It is not an appetite
nor a dream but as real
           as the rose or the waters
that rise upriver
           in the Vale of Avoca
a multicoloured raiment
           spun from the purest silk

John Lyons

Happy 2019

irlandesuk poetry

Happy 2019

And so to begin again
           yearly and dearly
I shall marshal my resources
           and keep faith with the first duty
which is to defend the small truths
           against those woeful follies and fantasies
that would corrode and eat away
           the body politic

The daily bric-a-brac I shall
           leave behind me
and grieve not one iota
           over the ashes of it
so long as I walk the face
           of this fertile earth

I shall be the flesh and bone
           of my better self
and simply dare to do and be
           and love where love wills life
and wed my good blood
           to all that is deserving of me

John Lyons

Black stone upon a white stone

irlandesuk poetry, translation

Black stone upon a white stone

I’ll die in Paris when it’s pouring with rain
On a day whose memory I cherish.
I’ll die in Paris (it makes no odds to me),
On maybe a Thursday like today, in autumn.

Yes, a Thursday because today, Thursday
O what dull verse. . . my upper arms won’t respond,
And never like today have I about-faced
To see myself all alone, the years I’ve known.

César Vallejo has died, beaten by
One and all, though he did them no harm.
They beat him hard with a stick
Hard too with a rope: his upper arms;
The Thursdays; the rain and loneliness;
The journeys, all bear witness. . .

César Vallejo (1892-1938)

Translation by John Lyons

A poem by any other name

irlandesuk poetry

A poem by any other name

I see the gulls circling
in the grey sky
above the copse on the hill
their wide wings fully stretched
they glide effortlessly
round and round and round
but settle nowhere

To see them so far inland
creates a sense of foreboding
signalling perhaps a sudden change
in the weather or a storm at sea :
in these parts they are interlopers
harmless enough but not welcome

We are at the year end
when the season of joy peters out
and we must ready ourselves
for the long haul into spring
with the threat of ice and snow
or any other natural disaster

What life teaches us is to resist
to be open to change but not
to allow it to defeat us
to cling to hope
and where there’s love
to value and nurture it
so that it never dies :
there is nothing else

John Lyons

A belated Christmas card

irlandesuk poetry

A belated Christmas card

I’ve seen the tree
           in the Rockerfeller Plaza
mine is smaller
           much
and its decorations
           are sparse
but it is green
           as Christmas should be
and it can grow
           in the imagination
since it has roots
           and needs to be watered
and fed like any living
           creature

My blood is a refined red
           adding colour to my festive
persona
           and there are fluffy white clouds
trailing in the distance
           under a flickering sun

I wish I had thought
           of the phrase
the lipstick of life
           but I didn’t
nevertheless I saw you
           the last time you took it
from you bag
           and applied it to your lips
intimately
           and when you’d finished
you looked so divine
           I thought I might kiss you
forever but I did not
           because I didn’t want
to disturb
           your perfect beauty

John Lyons

You do the maths

irlandesuk poetry

You do the maths

Number lies at the heart
           of a countable universe
Three white dogs
           playing tag in the park
seen with my own two eyes
           Even infinity is infinitely
countable and galaxies
           have fingers that point
to other constellations
           and every planet
is a matter of arithmetic
           just as every sparrow
in the field and every hair
           on every head
and every gullible fool
           who ever fell in love

John Lyons

A live worm

irlandesuk poetry ,

A live worm

After the rain
           I see a large thrush
tugging at a patch of grass
           to extract a live worm
that the moisture has driven
           to the surface

So one life feeds another
           and I move about the world
with my eyes open
          harbouring what Olson called
the root curiosity
           and there’s so much to see
so much with which
           to nourish the senses

I walk rhythmically
           but constantly on the lookout
for what has changed
           for what is the same
and for all the differences
           It rains often here
but no two rains
           are ever the same
no two birds
           no two clouds
no two paths
           no two stars

and the perplexed mind settles
           for what sustenance it can get
as it moves on through the days
           through the nights
And in the end my hopes
           my dreams my fears
are of no consequence
           provided there is love

John Lyons

The above text has been modified from an earlier post

Pollination

irlandesuk poetry

Pollination

Petals
           modified leaves
that surround a flower’s
           reproductive parts
Brightly coloured
           seductively shaped
organic lingerie
           worn under the cover
of protective scales
           until the time is ripe
at which point
           the scales fall away
and all is revealed
           finally
to the desired
           pollinator