art

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

Faith in my hands

irlandesuk art, poetry ,

simplified

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

My hands tanned
       mottled and freckled
have aged but not grown old
       an absurdity I know
but it is as if
       for reasons unknown
they have been spared
       the ravages of time

I observe them
       this way and that
hold them up
       to the light
relieved that they are
       still fit for purpose
secure too in the knowledge
       that neither the right
nor the left one
       will ever betray me

John Lyons

A bad marriage

irlandesuk art, poetry, Tate Modern , ,

Scott4
        A bad marriage, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

There are no abstracts
I paint what I see
sometimes what I see
in the paintings of others

There are no sardines
nor were there ever
but what looks like
some sort of seafood

though there is no blue
nor water no shade of sky
and the composition
is trapped within

a narrow palette
There is a continent
of white and a patch
of dark leather and yet

it amounts to nothing
that we can define
Words and colours
are poor relations

each one jostling
hopelessly
to out-express
the other

John Lyons

The painting illustrated is an unfaithful copy of a painting by William Scott (1913-1989) which can be viewed in Tate Britain.

The beauty of colour

irlandesuk art, poetry

Scott
           Burnt Sienna, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

The beauty of colour
of shade and hue
of darkness and light
an uncluttered space
across which the eye
may travel at leisure
take in the air and allow
the mind to wander
with a ripple of emotion

Into this space
a stake has been driven
a subtle ivory black
buried in the canvas
that remains to be
consummated

Almost anything
could occur at this moment
as other gestures as yet unseen
queue to enter the picture
and yet restraint is called for
so as not to overwhelm
this peaceful terrain with a mass
of unwarranted marks
There is still work to be done
but in art as in life as in love
more is often less and less
if often more so let’s wait
and see

John Lyons

Where the blood flows

irlandesuk art, poetry

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

Where the blood flows
       where the flesh is warm
where darkness never
       defeats the light and yet
where the light retains
       dark mysteries of how
life will pan out and how
       love diminishes all pain

Nothing is ever abstract
       every gesture has meaning
every shape and colour
      an intentional composition
a cotton canvas from threads
       plucked from the earth
stretched on a wood frame
       all things deeply rooted
in life and raised up
       by the power of light

Figments of my imagination
       following the intuitions
I scarcely understand
       as I make my way
through life as I stumble
       on through love

John Lyons

The art of love

irlandesuk art, poetry

Revision

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

This then is life
       a canvas gone astray
in which the colours
       simply did not work
an abstract landscape
       buried beneath
buff titanium
       just the edges remaining
a few outlines
       to facilitate
a reconstruction
       the right tone of pink
a warmer shade of blue
       and a mingling of green
upon yellow yellow
       upon green

Art is not necessarily
       a one-day event
it can be expeditionary
       a reconnaissance
of unknown terrains
       best to leave markers
in case steps need
       to be retraced

This then is love
       in which feelings
congregate and one
       explores another
and confidences
       are exchanged
and it all begins
       to resemble the way
we pictured it
       in our hearts

John Lyons