art

Paul Éluard – 8 lines

irlandesuk art, poetry, translation ,
signs of life

There were two of us and we’d just lived
A sundrenched day of love
Our sun we embraced together
The whole of life was visible to us

When night came we were left without a shadow
To polish the gold of our common blood
We were two at the heart of the only treasure
The light of which never sleeps

Paul Éluard, from Le phénix (1951)
translation by John Lyons

 

Nous étions deux et nous venions de vivre
Une journée d’amour ensoleillé
Notre soleil nous l’embrassions ensemble
La vie entière nous était visible

Quand la nuit vint nous restâmes sans ombre
A polir l’or de notre sang commun
Nous étions deux au cœur du seul trésor
Dont la lumière ne s’endort jamais

Fate of the wild rose

irlandesuk art, poetry

wild rose

Fragrant flower
           of the earth
supple mineral mistress
           that rises up
out of the cold-blown
           loveless dust

The burst bud
           from which
the petals unfold
           seeking nothing
but admiration
            ignorant of the thorns
she bears
           Blood-red
or pale-white
           her most emblematic
colours : time
           her most mortal enemy
oblivion
           her greatest fear

John Lyons

In a love poem

irlandesuk art, poetry ,
why

In a poem of love
there are feathers and fish
and roses and butter
and slow-burning candles
there are tables and chairs
and a sky made of rain
and curtains to be drawn
and sunshine over the horizon

in a poem of love
it is summer and winter
and beaches and sandals
and today and tomorrow
and happily ever after
and blushes and kisses
and words made of silence
and naturally we celebrate
and swim in the mountains
and sweet as a baby
and tall as a castle

in a poem of love
there is time and again
and bells gently ringing
and Saturdays and Sundays
and moons to be baking
and an alphabet of promises
and sharp needles for mending

in a poem of love
there are paintings and photos
and pearls made of wisdom
and sonnets for reading
and beds for the lying
and pleasures for sharing
and songs for beginning
and streets never ending

John Lyons

Dust of ages

irlandesuk art, poetry ,

detail

Cosmic ash drifting
through the universe
and that special light
in Venice
in which the artists
caught a glimpse of heaven
a composite of glorious colour
every square inch adorned

and the words that survive
: layer upon layer of faith
in the promise
of rewards to come
and the art
a bulwark against
falsehood and betrayal
trust and steadfast belief

beauty and truth
chiselled into stone
or worked
into precious metals
an artist’s honesty
valued for all time
love of life and of love
honoured in all ways

John Lyons

Poussière des âges


La dérive des cendres cosmiques
à travers l’univers
et cette lumière spéciale
à Venise
dans laquelle les artistes
ont aperçu le paradis
un composite de glorieuse couleur 
chaque pouce carré orné

et les mots qui survivent
: couche après couche de foi
dans la promesse
de récompenses à venir
et l’art un rempart contre
le mensonge et la trahison
inébranlables
la conviction et la confiance 

la beauté et la vérité
ciselées dans la pierre
ou travaillées
en métaux précieux
l’honnêteté d’un artiste
appréciée pour toujours
l’amour de la vie et de l’amour
honorés de toutes les manières

Paul Éluard – 4 lines

irlandesuk art, poetry, translation

bind

                          Colours, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

I tie and I untie I give and I refuse
I create and I destroy I adore and I punish
My flower is thought I caress and I sow
I see with my fingers I touch and I understand

From Paul Éluard, Perspectives (1948)

Je noue et je délie je donne et je refuse
Je crée et je détruis j’adore et je punis
Ma fleur est la pensée je caresse et je sème
je vois avec mes doigts je touche et je comprends

Slow drizzle

irlandesuk art, poetry

melting world

Slow drizzle
of time
of memory –
light grey rain
at the window

a confusion
of blackbirds
and magpies
in the air
and settling
here and there

your wild hair
thinner than ever
sleek silver threads
and around the eyes
the years marked
in soft lines

your thoughts
awkward –
clumsy recollections
of a moment
when you knew
that it was love

his words
his touch
his laughter
his love of life
his love of you
and how you
betrayed it all
for the shallow
promise
of fool’s gold

John Lyons

By Putney Bridge

irlandesuk art, poetry


thorns_2

Down by Putney Bridge
slow day descending

into darkness –
river high

but not unduly
temperature falling

but not that cold –
late joggers

back and forth
ducks and geese

on the causeway –
first lights of evening

I watch the waters flow
I think of you
           
your one betrayal
after another

John Lyons

Words are not love

irlandesuk art, poetry

chaos of colour

Words are not love
just as leaves
are not autumn

dismissive gestures
and empty smiles
as the questions
tumble one by one

between your world
and my world
there is a world
of a difference

I too have crossed
Brooklyn Bridge
in the blazing heat
of a distant summer

dust upon my shoes
and city grime
etched into my collar

you were a shape once
you were a sense
you were a direction
full of promise

now nothing but words
sounds corralled
into a meaningless grid
of petrified ambition

John Lyons

The road less travelled

irlandesuk art, poetry ,

road less      Parksville NY, John Lyons (30 x 25 cm, oil on canvas)

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 deep dense green
           of ancient woodland

and who knows
           where a road might lead
or what awaits us in our day-to-day
           as we make our way
along paths known or unknown
           how for better or worse 
a random choice may change
           a life forever

John Lyons

Text revised

Of art poetry and love

irlandesuk art, poetry ,

infancy
Infancy, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

Of art poetry and love

Nothing changes
           from generation
to generation
           but the thing seen
and that makes
           composition

writing and painting
           are like that in that
what is observed
           whether internally
or externally
           provides the material
necessary to live
           as an outlaw
in defiance of rules
           and totally open
to the unexpected
           that is why lovers
are always ahead
           of their time
because they create
           something entirely new

a bond composed
           of myriads of affinities
alongside refreshing
           disparities—
love like that
           is always beginning
is never ending
           is a fount of constant
innovation and harmonious
           consolidation
art poetry and love
           are the natural trinity
in which beauty and truth
           are enshrined

John Lyons