art

Intelligence is energy

irlandesuk art, poetry , ,
David by Michelangelo
Michelangelo’s David

Intelligence is energy

I make no claims
           other than to say
that intelligence is energy
           and it manifests itself
for better or worse
           in every realm of art

the king is a thing
           that Shakespeare moves
around a stage
           before our eyes
and in our head
           painting too
is poetry
           and poets paint
composers offer us
           their soundscapes

out of Carrara marble
           using hammer and chisel
and the energy
           of his intelligence
Michelangelo extracted
           his David which now exists
in an active universe
           eternally bent on creation

John Lyons

Memories arrested in space

irlandesuk art, poetry , ,
tray2
Tray, John Lyons (oil on plastic)

Memories arrested in space

Paint that captures
           the shape of gestures
memories arrested in space
           sinuous as the body is curved
And he thinks too
           of the unbound energies
they expended
           and of the shapes
that their bodies made
           when they came together

the arc of a breast
           a mouth agape
the slope of a thigh
           or an angled elbow
Form and the absence of it
           light and the absence of it
colour and the absence of it
           love and the absence of it
and under a wrathful sky
           their union and the absence of it

John Lyons

Gertrude Stein – a portrait

irlandesuk art, poetry ,
gertrude stein
Gertrude Stein, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Gertrude Stein – a portrait

Neatly folded napkins
           and freshly cut roses
in a cut glass vase
           a long oak table
guests to populate it :
           amid the wealth of words
silences cultivated
           in every nook and cranny

Alice and her embroidery
           Gertrude with hers
a carafe of red wine
           sparkling silverware
shining porcelain 
           At the window
heavy drapes
           to keep out the dust
and for the world
           to know its place

Sometimes always
           occasionally
loving glances
           often exchanged
time under orders
           and life
on its best behaviour :
           a dog with a name
a stern smile
           the making of history
word by word
           line by line

John Lyons

Revised

By my own hand, 2015

irlandesuk art, poetry
self-portrait
The poet, John Lyons (charcoal on paper)

By my own hand, 2015

In the process of being
           this is whom I once was
before being
           who I am now

A portrait
           by my own hand
by my own eyes
           on A4 vellum
in pen pencil
           and charcoal

this is
           the crushed ash
of whom
           I once was
will be again
           caught here
just before
           love struck

John Lyons

Snail’s pace

irlandesuk art, poetry
tray
Tray, John Lyons (oil on aluminium)

Snail’s pace

Under the cover of darkness
snails engage in erratic movement

leaving a thin trail behind them :
survival of the species demands

that they seek out new sources
of nutrition in order

to secure their line
energy to drag their shells

forward into the future
just as I leave in my wake

a haphazard dribble
of words and colours

John Lyons

Les Illuminations

irlandesuk art, poetry ,
Unfinished II
Eggshell, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Les Illuminations

Bursts of lightning
           scattering the darkness
thick drops of rain
           beating against the pane

I stare out
           across the green horizon
: yesterday a butterfly
           today a moth
come to bury its eggs
           in her cashmere

she counts her trinkets
           under an atrocious moon
a sad child squats
           in silence

John Lyons

Prelude to the day

irlandesuk art, poetry
dawn of time
Dawn of time, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Prelude to the day

Instances of what we are
           shifting portraits
temporal illusions
           dressed for the occasion
in which context is all

The sea retains the memory
           of creatures that crawled
onto dry land and evolved
           into the open air
our beginnings like all
           fresh starts
humble and grateful
           for the opportunity to grow

We pray for the gift of music
           for the gift of words
for the gift of love
           for the gift of human solidarity
for the fragrance of flesh
           freely given freely taken
for the imagination
           to move forward
leaving the past behind
           old lessons learnt

We despise effigies
           and make our monuments
from the moment
           we despise all that is feigned
that reeks of indifference
           and phoney affections

The authenticity of life
           demands
that love be genuine
           that it should never be betrayed
and that the tongue
           should be generous in its praise
of true beauty
           and all earthly freedoms

John Lyons

Why I paint

irlandesuk art, poetry
why
Why, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Why I paint

This image of colours
on canvas
means nothing but
cadmium red
and cadmium yellow
applied with strokes
of a thick fibred brush

Is it a landscape
or a thoughtscape
or do the shapes refer
to anything at all ?

There are sensuous lines
that seem to flow
around a hollow
providing elements perhaps
for a composition
There is light and darkness
and just enough to create
the illusion of mystery

and yet this image
I should say this canvas
no longer exists
except in this archived
electronic shot
the original having been
obliterated by layer upon layer
of other colours
in other shapes

I paint because every attempt
is a voyage of discovery
I paint in the hope that one day
I will reach my newfoundland
I paint to create a context
within which to live
my life and my love to the full

John Lyons

The snows of yesteryear

irlandesuk art, poetry ,
snowfield
Snowfield, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

The snows of yesteryear

When lost for words
           I reach for the poets
Charles Olson
           or François Villon
luminous words
           scrawled on paper
genius is almost always low tech
           it comes in flashes
in aperçus
           in fleeting moments of insight

All that has been
           suddenly is : time
is the face of recognition
           where are the loves
of yesteryear
           the snowfields of yore ?

Each of us has
           our own unique antiquity
some die in their bed while others
           swing from hallowed gallows
Notre Dame
           a place of visitation
a monument to belief
           in the resurrected spirit

John Lyons

 

Rule of thumb

irlandesuk art, poetry
early days 3
Early days, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Rule of thumb

Sometimes
           when preparing
a canvas
           it’s best
just to allow
           the basic geometries
of energy and colour
           to take over
not to overthink
           the composition

In this canvas
           the paint has been
thinly applied
           at first with a brush
before being marshalled
           by the palette knife

The blank page
           and the blank canvas
have so much in common :
           the rule is simple
don’t hang back
           if it doesn’t work out start again
but don’t get uptight
           Sometimes she loves you
sometimes she does not
           Get over it

John Lyons