art

Three’s a crowd

irlandesuk art, poetry

spiral
         Three’s a crowd, John Lyons (acrylic on paper)

We’re all winning
we’re alive
for the time being

I could sit here all day
and count squirrels
running across the tops
of the garden fences
or the coming and going
of magpies and pigeons
sometimes gathering
on the garden furniture
sometimes on the shed roof

or the black and white cat
that pads around
in a world of its own
daydreaming
of something fun to chase
tiny rodents for example

Yesterday a fox
sitting proudly
on a pile of earth
surveying its domain
taking a break
from the family

Today is Sunday
a slow news day –
she might have written
I’d hoped she would
but she didn’t

John Lyons

My words are love

irlandesuk art, poetry ,

Autumn
           Autumn, John Lyons (acrylic on paper)

a line taken from
a poem by Frank O’Hara
who describes
the stubbornness
of his feelings
that simply won’t
shift no matter what

Is art ever
anything but
an act of love ?

I leave this
to the reader
to figure out

John Lyons

The quality of light

irlandesuk art, poetry

starleaf
             Starleaf, John Lyons (acrylic on paper)

Well here we are
       and what are we going to do ?
It’s not as though the questions
       ever change just the seasons
that rotate and the leaves fall
       and we look each other
in the eye and ask ourselves
       how long can this go on ?

And yet we have learned
       to read the universe
like a book and we know
       that falling leaves
are star fragments
       that energy and mass
are bosom buddies
       that nothing ventured
is ever lost in the infinite
       sum of things and that
love has the quality of light
       which never fades

John Lyons

Paul Éluard – Clouds in my hands

irlandesuk art, poésie, poetry ,

Man Ray

This confused despair
Impalpable source rainy night
Far from burgeoning leaves
Far from salubrious tears
This disdain of the Orient
This livid paradise
This backtracking
Exhausted unbeliever
Towards a handful of memories

The miracle cure accords gift trust.

From Les mains libres (1937), drawings by Man Ray

Des nuages dans les mains
Ce désespoir confus
Source impalpable nuit de pluie
Loin des feuilles naissantes
Loin des larmes salubres
Ce dédain de l’orient
Ce paradis livide
Cette marche en arrière
Incrédule exténuée
Vers quelques souvenirs

Le remède miracle accord cadeau confiance.

Times unsung

irlandesuk art, poetry

buff titanium
         Buff titanium, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

Time is distance
and distance is also
unused time

How wasteful of us
to be apart
our hands
our arms
our lips pointless
in this drought
of love

Dreams that have gone
their separate ways
rose petals that unfold
in a wilderness of dust

It was invention
that kept us together
a shared language
of gestures

This coldness
is a failure
of the imagination
this silence
the kiss of death

John Lyons

The business of love

irlandesuk art, poetry ,

table
                         Table, John Lyons (70 x 50 cm, acrylic on paper)

A steadfast table
Icelandic blue
on an arctic white
chequered cloth
that cannot contain
every object
the shoes and plates
and tickets to ride

A table
a tenderness
a place in time
an invitation to all
who are absent
a necessary space
where laughter
and silence may
congregate

A table where chance
would be a fine thing
and intimate moments
may be played out
or where a hat may be left
or a bunch of keys
and a dog may bark
off camera

A table fit
for the business of life
or the business of love
or to address the appetite
or to say grace
before a meal
or to lay or to clear
or to be in between
or to bear the weight
of a cool red rose
in a cut glass bowl

John Lyons

Condensed lines

irlandesuk art, poetry

bottles
                Sketch (60 x 40 cm, acrylic on paper)

Oak and ash and sycamore
bear testimony to life’s purpose
a truth in themselves
affording peace and harmony

wherever they stand –
their breath our breath
their shadow our refuge
In fierce winds unflinching

a life of beauty and service
they dwarf all human ambition –
fearless in the face of time
indifferent to the clamber of birds

Steadfast – to all comers
they are generous to a fault

John Lyons

Earlier draft below

Oak and ash and sycamore
       bear testimony to life’s purpose
they are a truth in themselves
       wherever they stand
there is peace and harmony
       their breath is our breath
their shadow our refuge
       in fierce winds

they do not flinch
       theirs is a life of beauty
and service and observe
       how they dwarf
every human ambition
       how fearlessly they endure
in the face of time
       indifferent to the clamber
of birds among their branches
       to all comers generous to a fault

Flat earth

irlandesuk art, poetry

Flat earth

             Flat earth, John Lyons (30 x 25 cm, oil on canvas)

A topography
of the flat mineral earth

of fields and pastures
fertile in the imagination

a surface upon which
colours have been laid

and certain symmetries
marked out which please

the mathematical eye
the circle of life

from root to rust
finally squared

John Lyons

Ode to autumn

irlandesuk art, poetry , ,

orange flowers

            Orange flowers, John Lyons (oil on wood)

Finally the fallen leaves
       are turning from copper
to pure gold
       This is the currency
that poets eagerly mine
       each autumn
It’s a subject that appeals
       to their inner Keats
the mellow sadness
       of a year on the way out

Self-deprecating
       Richardson’s Pamela
called herself
       a piece of painted dirt
and so it is
       the cycle in and out
of the earth
       the human comedy
one door closes
       another door opens
and while there is breath
       there is hope
and where there is life
       there is love

Whose hands are those
       painted on the cave walls
men women children
       the whole community ?
The caves are time capsules –
       behind the art is the perception
that creation goes the distance
       and that the thread of life
is eternal and breath alone powers
       the thread of love

John Lyons

Mike Goldberg’s sardines

irlandesuk art, poetry ,

sardines
                    Sardines, by Michael Goldberg

So I like to keep
tinned sardines
in my cupboard
for a rainy day
and whenever
I think of them
I think of Frank
O’Hara visiting
Mike Goldberg
who is painting
sardines into
his picture
but when it’s
finished Frank
goes back and
says : Where’s
the sardines?
They’re gone
they were too
much says
Mike Goldberg

John Lyons