art

Squirrel takes a turn

irlandesuk art, poetry

aimless 2

You would think
       that that squirrel
that spritely rodent
       with its grey bushy tail
was in training
       for something

All morning
       it has been running
back and forth
       along the rim
of the garden fence
       making a great show
of its enviable sense
       of balance : freezing
from time to time
       in quintessential poses
before leaping forward
       with acrobatic ease

Winter is approaching
       already the sun has dipped
the first frosts are days away
       the squirrel will have its sport
before summer utters
       its last call

John Lyons

What goes around

irlandesuk art, poetry

Erin

The season will soon
       be upon us again
of Vacherin Mont d’Or
       the winter cheese
in the round pine box
       sumptuously
unpasteurised
       deliciously baked

Think of the hillsides
       where the cows graze
where the pine trees grow
       and the wooden disks
from the base and the lid
       which I decorate
year after year
       to celebrate the force
of nature and the power
       of the imagination

John Lyons

Slender words

irlandesuk art, poetry

mond

Aimless art, John Lyons (25 x 30 cm, oil on canvas)

As the wind moves
through a field
of tall flowers

or through a forest
in winter
when all the leaves
have fallen

As it moves through
her hair displacing
the sunlight
as it goes

As her breath moves
through her lips
passes out
into the air

and the sound
of her laughter
of the voice shaped
by her words

her gentle smile
and the kiss
she blows
for me alone

John Lyons

Memory is distance

irlandesuk art, poetry ,

drift
               Coffee grounds on yellow background, John Lyons

Memory is distance
       over time
is wholeness
       is struggle to prevent
fragmentation –
       perceptions saved
within the senses
       the dragonfly
that skimmed the pond
       summer after summer
all those years ago
       and the scent of cherry blossom
of peach and pear and plum
       and cut grass
and ice on my tongue
       the joy and sadness of rain
and winter dreams
       and the discontent of bees
as flowers fade and dust gathers
       on the gilded earth
and love comes lately
       if it comes at all

Memory is sharpness
       of the mind
we forage for it
       and sometimes stumble
upon past realms
       resurrected in the heart
savoured on the lips
       or a soft voice heard
on the edge of night
       a tender text of angels
a sudden knowledge
       of years reborn
a body politic
       to which we clasp
until daylight breaks
       across our bones

John Lyons

The second coming

irlandesuk art, poetry

descent 2
       Descent 2, John Lyons (50 x 70 cm, oil on canvas)

I make minor adjustments
       to yesterday’s canvas
a thin additional strip
       of cobalt blue
and an enlargement
       of the buff titanium patch

Remnants of the underpainting
       are clearly visible
and I am deciding whether or not
       to eliminate them although
they’re a part of the painting’s history
       or should I say archaeology

Whatever –
       the painting is still there
lurking in a corner of my study
       and I gaze at it from time to time
looking for small pointers
       listening for signs that might
in some manner enrich it
       before I let it loose

John Lyons

The descent of angels

irlandesuk art, poetry

50 x 70_angel descent
      Descent, John Lyons (50 x 70 cm, oil on canvas)

Above the treetops
       on the horizon
the early birds are
       stretching their wings
practising aerodynamics
       gliding back and forth
as they get a feel
       for the new day

Soon they will be off
       to their feeding grounds
but for now they’re celebrating
       the fact that they have
come through the night –
       they know that there is
food in abundance during
       these summer months
that none of them
       will go hungry

There is a reason
     why we associate
angels with wings and
       though their presence
is mysterious we know too
       that they continually
move among us : sparrows
       are their distant cousins

John Lyons

Deadly nightshade

irlandesuk art, poetry

night_flowers2

Isn’t it all an illusion
       the shapes and colours
the proportions
       the perspectives
the assumptions we bring
       to the drawing table ?

What tricks of the trade
       have been employed
what realities have been
       abstracted and brushed over
to be replaced by sheer pigments
       of the imagination ?

John Lyons

Seen on the radio

irlandesuk art, poetry , , ,

Summer Couch
Willem de Kooning, Summer Couch, 1943

You get the picture
it’s a shut-in weekend
pale drizzle out on the streets
and Frank is home relaxing

after a hard few days
at the museum office
and he’s listening
to Grieg and to Prokofiev

to relieve those feeling-
sorry-for-oneself feelings
and he’s dreaming
of the painting

Dutch Willem de Kooning
has promised him
and because he’s Dutch
it has an orange bed in it
and Frank muses that it’s
more than the ear can hold

John Lyons

The conversing mind

irlandesuk art, poetry

ange_qui_descend

                 L’ange qui descend, John Lyons (50 x 70 cm, oil on canvas)

Yesterday seen
       through an acre of grass
honeysuckle and petunias
       peonies and nasturtiums
and sweet lavender in the air
       and my life under glass

The rag and bone of me
       and all the years
run through the mill
       of the conversing mind
the long shadow of age
       cast not as affliction
but as an accomplishment
       classed under mighty oak

In his heart of hearts
       the poet knows
that the nutshell
       that the end of life
is life itself
       and that every page
is a stage upon which
       to strut his stuff

Pen to paper
       with an eagle eye
he surveys it all
       committed to the call
of truth – inspired
       if not besotted
by the frenzied memory
       of love’s youthful follies

In time the clouds
       will dissipate
in time his silences
       will ring loud and clear
the dead will cast off
       their shrouds
and the angels among us
       will dry their tears

John Lyons

How angels descend

irlandesuk art, poetry

angel descending
                     Angel descending, John Lyons (50 x 70 cm, oil on canvas)

This is how angels descend
       out of the blue into the pink
when least expected
       free-falling through the universe
time and distance no object
       space an illusion at best
at worst a failure
       of the imagination

I defy you to say
       that your life is complete
that there are no ragged edges
       no moves you wish
you’d never made :
       art affirms all things
it can declare love
       and it can express regret
for a love that has
       slipped away

art is a way of life
       just as poetry is
and just as love is
       hence the shoulder
on which we bear
       all things
all our joys
       and all our sufferings
and art brings colour
       and warm words
and delight in the beauty
       of shapes that take on
a new energy
       when placed on canvas
or within the perimeters
       of a poem : angels descend
when we are willing
       to celebrate the rough patches
the incomplete journey
       never the end

John Lyons