poetry

The mating game

irlandesuk poetry , ,

The mating game

How many days does it take
           I mean really take
to make a year
           and how many years
add up to a life
           and what’s a life ?

words are cheap
           words words words
two pigeons on the window ledge
           cooing dating mating
it’s a black and white world
           which is why they are grey

he says—
            no why don’t we do
what we said
           we were going to do
while Miss Universe says
           but I can change my mind

meanwhile the grass is getting greener
           everywhere daffodils are sprouting
and the first bees of the season
           are out on patrol :
it must be spring
           so the syrupy sap rises
and a young man’s thoughts
           turn to love

John Lyons

None of your business

irlandesuk poetry

None of your business

Yes these days do occur
           blue skies and sunshine all the way
and me feeling good
           about life as we head
into spring and all the promise
           that summer days will bring

if you could peer beneath my skin
           you’d see that I’m full of hope
perhaps naively so but full
           nevertheless and for a change
I expect things to go my way
           that all the chaotic 
bits and pieces of my life 
           will finally fall into place

The dawn chorus
           is currently in full throttle
as I write these words
           and I think of the timeless
pleasures of pen and ink
           the technologies of composition
and the need to express :
           there is a kind of certainty
in birdsong and in all sorts
           of instinctive behaviour
and today I too feel certain
           about my feelings
about my hopes and fears
           for the future and how totally
I am at peace with my past
           If you were to ask me
am I in love I would say
           that’s none of your business
but I know how I feel
           and I hope you do too

John Lyons

Conundrum

irlandesuk poetry ,

Conundrum

The thought occurs to me :
           would a bird want to be
a butterfly or vice versa ?
            How attractive
are the featherless
           paper-thin wings
how appealing
           the more robust plumage
: each to his own
           I suppose

Wallace Stevens was
           obsessed with numbers
John Ashbery can be
           a little snooty about some
of Frank O’Hara’s poetry
           but Frank’s verse
is so full of friends
           it’s like a party on a page
and Ashbery’s pales
           in comparison

Today the rain has returned
           and I observe
the drizzle’s delicate lament
           for lost time
for the sad poetry of our being
           for the exuberance of our love
lately so neglected
           and for so much
of our lives
           gone to waste

John Lyons

Mystery

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Mystery

In the marshlands
           alongside the railway line
that runs between
           Dartford and Barnehurst
there are sheep grazing

always the same sheep
           with their long woolly coats
I’ve never seen them sheared
           nor at any time
have I seen lambs :

cutting the marshlands
           almost in two
is a narrow meandering stream
           which may or may not
run into the River Cray

there are extensive reedbeds
           too and these never seem
to alter through time
           and every time I pass by
these wetlands I look

for signs of human life
           someone perhaps
tending to the sheep
           but I’ve never seen a soul
and it makes me wonder

John Lyons

Tikal remembered

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Tikal remembered

Those sultry nights I slept
           in the rain forest in Tikal
lying in a hammock
           watching the fireflies flit
back and forth
           listening to the owls
I would think of the temples
           I had explored during the day
and how the forest
           had closed in on the past
and regained its territory
           how everywhere
the thick roots of plants
           were prizing the stonework
apart causing the masonry
           to crumble 
mostly reducing the once proud city
           to rubble

and through
           the frail morning mists
deer and monkeys could seen
           roaming the grounds
at the base of the great pyramid
           indifferent to the sculpted
limestone stelae upon which
           the Mayans had recorded
pivotal moments from their history
           : and at night lying
in the hammock
           I remember asking myself
what I was doing
           so far from home and love
and whose history
           was I really exploring

John Lyons

We hold these truths

irlandesuk poetry

We hold these truths

Morning noon or night
             beauty is timeless
as under a full moon
             or a sun rising

she stretches her limbs
             throws back her head
eyes beguiling 
             her hair catching the light

her pale skin untouched
             by the passing hours :
beauty is in the innocence
             of a life that leaves no scars

and in which the words
             are always fresh and exciting
every observation a discovery
              But beauty is no pushover

with her firm legs
             she can stand her ground
her left as sharp as her right
             and able to give

as good as she gets —
             we hold these truths
to be as simple
             as they are self-evident

John Lyons

Wake up call

irlandesuk poetry

Wake up call

A plush navy-blue billowing sky
           as the sun set yesterday
and I wonder what
           that portends
Today a dawn chorus
           worthy of spring 
life on the cusp
           renewal and growth
every reason to feel
           relaxed and optimistic
about the days to come :
           through the banks
of drifting cloud
           there is light
coming from the east
           I hear pigeons courting
nearby and see other birds
           hastening to their action
stations and a lone jet
           has bisected the sky
with a thin white line
           travellers to and fro
It’s one of those days
           when you just know
that nothing can go wrong
           that a kiss could not put right

John Lyons

Lyric

irlandesuk poetry ,

Lyric

Love lifts the grey day
           from the grey waters
of the grey river
           that flows by the Tower
of cold hard grey flint

Love lifts the day
           with her warmth
and her kiss
           and her kind words
and the tenderness
           of her smile
and the openness
           of her arms

Time is a single measure
           and not of all things
but of things only
           that pass and fade
and grow dimmer
           and decline and ultimately
wither away —
           petals consumed
in the fiery furnace :
           not so love
that lifts the day
           however grey
and fills the minute and the hour
            with bliss enjoyed  
and the promise 
             of more to come

John Lyons

The glory

irlandesuk poetry

The glory

The palpable substance of life
             evident in all things
all that grows and flourishes and dies
             all that process of being
the glory of nature
             and we part of it
the glory of swift-flowing rivers
             and seas and mountains
and the endlessness of life
             the throngs of people on the street
seeing them and hearing them
             and knowing the ties that exist
between strangers
             the common bond shared
the glories with which life
             is adorned daily
and not least
             the glory of love

John Lyons

Agenda

irlandesuk poetry

Agenda

It has taken generations
           of imagination to arrive
at the world we have today
           to develop the sense of things
and a sense of the self :
           there was a time of innocence
but we live in an age of complicity
           and intricate evasions of the truth

and still the approach to summer
           has its separate silence
which may be detected
           in the modulated signals
of birdsong

Nature with its own
           unfretted agenda : yesterday
daffodils and crocuses
           and swathes of cherry blossom
and buds barely able
           to contain their leaves

John Lyons