poetry

Plain sense

irlandesuk poetry ,

Plain sense

The plain sense of things
           the end of the imagination ?
I don’t think so— and certainly
           not for a fallen leaf
We imagine all our lives
           we envisage and plan and hope
and sometimes pray
           and whether we gamble or not
we are always calculating odds
           she loves me she loves me not

Stare out from the train
           as it passes Deptford Green
where children still skateboard
           within office hours
where the ornamental pond
           is covered in thick green slime
the trees bare these winter days
           and all the time I’m imagining
what will happen next
           and where will it end
and I think of all those
           I have loved and love still
and wonder what they’re about
           imagining all the time so that
nothing inanimate or inert
           will ever lay down the law
and condemn me to silence
           Thoughts and feelings are
expressions sometimes
           voiced sometimes not
and our world a construct
           of collective consciousness
so fragile it could pass
           in the blink of an eye

John Lyons

 

How it is

irlandesuk poetry

How it is

Poetry all in a day’s work
           that brings together
the particulars of life
           the soup boiling on the stove
the smell of freshly baked bread
           that eager hands will soon break

and outside snow is falling
           gently on the land
laying a blanket of silence
           and on the window ledge
resplendent in the winter light
           a crystal vase holds a clutch
of pale yellow roses
           that betray an act of love

John Lyons

Making do

irlandesuk poetry

Making do

What the sun has made
           and what we have made
from words alone
           a version of the world
cast in syllables
           shaped into poetry
and with breath
           the sound waves
the gentle rhymes
           that soothe the heart

What we have made
           from love alone
words with which
           to fill the silence
to record the song
           of nightingales or
the croak of crows
           to pick lilies and
contemplate the rose
           world of sunrise
and sunset and words
           without end

John Lyons

It’s not ideal

irlandesuk poetry

It’s not ideal

In that sense
the good bishop
was right
attention is all

a world depends
upon it

look about you
look within you

the fine detail
of your breath

the shimmering
synapses
that fire you up

beauty has a depth
that demands
concentration

life is too rich
to let slip

feel it down
to the very core

John Lyons

Riding the Big Dipper

irlandesuk poetry ,
reflection-of-the-big-dipper
Reflection of the Big Dipper, Jackson Pollock (1947)

Riding the Big Dipper

Follow the trail of paint
           the boundless
shapeless energy
           the thin line
that speeds Pollock on
           to reveal his inner likeness

a see-through heart
           a tangled coil of veins
with the ceaseless
           coming and going
of the courageous mind
           addicted to freedom

He of the multitude
           perpetually present
in the scene of selves
           and just imagine
the sensual pulse
           that flicks the wrist
all colours fused
           in passionate exhalation

compositions that disturb
           the veils of dishonesty
burying them beneath
           a bed of his truth
for this truly is
           beauty
in the eye
           of the beholder

John Lyons

This poem appeared earlier today in a slightly different version.

 

 

Berlin memorial

irlandesuk poetry ,

Holocaust_memorial
Berlin memorial

The nameless shadows
           untimely laid to rest
in avenues of cold hard stone
           cemented into the merciless
grey of winter skies

collective or individual lives
           arranged in rigid alleys
that rise and fall underfoot
           but not a single angle less
than ninety degrees
           no soft circles or tender arcs
or any hint of creative
           deviation from that norm
that awaits us all one day

Here no birds perch
           and no song is heard
as the memories filter
           through and into the dust
these were our cities
           these were our streets
this is the place
           where we finally rest

John Lyons