poetry

After Pierre Reverdy

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pierre-reverdy
Reverdy, by Modigliani (1915)

Pierre Reverdy (1889 –1960) was a French poet whose works fed into the art movements of his day, Surrealism, Dadaism and Cubism.

He also had an enduring relationship with Coco Chanel. Reverdy’s poetry was revered by Frank O’Hara and John Ashbery, both of whom were translators of his work.

After Pierre Reverdy

Who knows where time will end
         nor the long night of betrayal
as when the morning comes
         and one has not slept
as when arctic winds
         sweep down
to efface all passion
         and cool the blood of desire
as when reason
         stiffens into ice

See how the dead stars
         veer in the black sky
and we reach for our souls
         but we have lost
all sense of distance

In the present debacle
         even a fool can be a king
many are
         and soulless
we have become detached
         from the memory of those beauties
that once nourished our dreams

Life consumes us
         day by day
it gnaws at our flesh
         until our muscles grow slack
and we mutter
         heavenless prayers
as slowly we sink deeper
         into the damp clay
whence we sprang

He who loved wisely
         he who loved well
may yet have the last laugh
         but make no mistake
the rest are all damned
         to eternity

John Lyons

In the realm of senses

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In the realm of senses

Can poetry heal a body
         broken on the wheel of time
can words redeem
         what the senses have lost ?
All my life I have been
         in two minds or more
the number is an irrelevance
         my imagination crowded out
by the glow of winter stars
         What I have thirsted for
I have yet to find
         but I have been driven
to know the nature of things
         of love principally
and beauty and truth
         perhaps all part and parcel
of the fabric and burden 
         of the world

Poetry the voice
         of acquired intuitions
fed by the fret and fury
         and tender frailties
of human commerce
         Do not say
that reason is maimed
         that the tongue raves
or that the mind stumbles
         into darkness
nor that there is no wit
         in love :
it is the body
         that makes sense of the mind
that makes sense of the body
         and from that marriage
all dreams are born
         and lived out in substance
so that the frost that clings
         to every blade of grass
clings as much to the mind
         that shivers with the cold
so that when love too turns away
         and a light is extinguished
the gentle warmth of a cheek
         is lost forever

John Lyons

Birth day

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Birth day

And so at dawn the rain falls
         and I hear the patter
as it beats
         against the window pane
watch as it collects
         into tiny irregular streams
and runs down the glass
         and finds its way
to the ground : and I know
         that the rain will return
time and time again
         an endless natural cycle
but not eternal
         because it’s not impossible
that conditions may change
         and so too
the nature of life circumstances
         may continuously alter

Take accidental love
         that is not present at the start
is not a thing in itself
         but is a process of being
or coming into being
         a love of one loyal to another
and to the creation
         of a common good
in a shared space
         but unlike a property
free of floor and ceiling
         that thrives nevertheless
on its own air
         a poetry inseparable
from its own inner constitution
         not owned but lived
a radiant simplicity
         a necessary love

John Lyons

Coda

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Coda

My eyes trapped in time
         but not my heart
which can rove to and fro        
         back and forth
catch my second breath
         and as the evening
closes in so the mind is released 
          from its shackles
and lives for a moment
         untrammelled

How many days
         add up to a life
and what is there to tell
         in the telling ?
I have sat
         by so many windows
entered and left
         by so many doors
shed so much in the process
         been ruled by a restlessness
a desire to accumulate
         petty wisdoms
knowing all the while
         that we are but reflections
of momentary flames
         overrun in the end by time

To be
         better than not to be
Louis wrote — one fine day
          woven into the next
and to retain a certain texture
         a blend of novelty
and the recurrence of pleasures
         that mitigate the pain

This evening a red sunset
         bitterly cold but a promise
of better days ahead
         make what you can of it
that’s all you have : we are actual
         and nothing else

John Lyons

A noise in the clouds

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A noise in the clouds (revised)

We are not born of a nothing
         but from substantial energies
At night we chase the stars
         in our fleeting dreams
but these scattered constellations
         are far from being figments
of banal fantasy — we too are
         fragments from the Big Bang
there is only one origin after all
         and nothing is lost
in this closed universe
         neither wisdom nor nonsense

On this cold wintry morning
         I see the play of soft light
on the panels of the wooden fence
         at the end of the garden
I see leaves gently ruffled
         by a winnowing wind
and I know that all things
         bear the same imprint
the rocks and stones and trees
         the daffodils in the meadows
that rise up from the banks of the lake
         every aspect perfectly mirrored
just as each star illuminates its neighbour
         we in our so separate souls
share this common bond
        all being extraterrestrials
and this earth a mere landing craft
         upon which our atoms
have gathered into clusters
         that are an ardent expression
of the energies within :
         we are the light in our eyes
the living word on our own lips
         we are the sense of it all
and for that reason
         love is nothing less than
the revolution of one body
         around another

John Lyons

f MichelAn

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f MichelAn

The name signed
           in the blood of the Baptist
he who would prepare the way
           the tongue of truth
silenced forever
           the burial of knowledge
the word extinguished
           the struggle between
light and darkness
           chiaoscuro
a life led on the edge
           turmoil consigned
to canvas
           every portrait
a self narrative
           betrayed
by a venal dancer
           violation of violence
the sad geometries
           of repression
right angles
           the steel lattice
the arc of defeat
           a price on his head
the imprisoned mind
           29 August 1608
he who lived
           by the sword
innocence of art
           Caravaggio

John Lyons

Virtue

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Virtue

The mind turns to the body
         the body turns to the mind
to thoughts and to the thing
         to the rose and the thought of it
beauty felt in body and mind
         in what we call the heart
or the soul or the spirit
         and that which we most desire
put a name to that face
         put a name to that love
and so in the pronunciation
         infuse that sound with feeling
so that she is always
         on the tip of my tongue

she inseparable
         from her image
every sinew of her being
         condensed into that sound
beauty in the nature
         of her warm soft body
impossible to remove
         from my mind
and so I touch her
         with my words
envelop her
         in the syllables
of these lines
         express the love
of which enough
         is never enough

John Lyons

Childhood memory

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Childhood memory

Smoke from a heap of leaves burning
as darkness fell and life smouldered on
 
That night a sharp frost and the following day
awoke to a white lawn crisp under fox foot :
 
if the king is a thing so too a man and a woman
and a child and all bodies made under the sun
 
and so our lives are lived among such things
and yet all things as we know will pass
 
fame and glory and pride and wealth and position
and what remains is what we can secure

against the cold and bitter depredations of dust
the warmth stored in our hearts and in our minds
 
though those too will pass just as the smoke
rose unseen and faded into the sky and the fire died

John Lyons

Life

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Life*

Yesterday evening
         as the sun was setting
the sky seared with red light
         thirty or more ducks
flying in that characteristic
          ragtag bobbing V-formation
heading home
         to Crayford Marshes

As Charles Olson puts it
         anger came after man
there is none in nature
         Nature is pure beauty
all life from the division
         from the exuberant
multiplication of single cells
         through the sharing
of cellular resources
         two for the price of one
literally each my other half
         and from this process
the rich complexity of the rose
         of the spider’s web
or the webbed feet
         of amphibians

so that always at the heart
         of all that is beautiful
an essential simplicity
          and so too I ache
for the kiss of her lips
         for the warm press
of her breast on mine
         for her sweet compliance
as I enter the openness
         of her kindred flesh
again and again
         so softly

John Lyons

*Revised from earlier posting

The silence of the lambs

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The silence of the lambs

Poetry has gone into hiding
         poetry is nowhere to be seen
or it is masquerading
         under the guise of genteel verse
fit only for polite society
          : poetry has lost its cutting edge
has lost its nerve
         is anxious to please
and not to rock the boat
         or cause waves
or generate confusion
         or overtax the readers’ minds

Perhaps poetry is on vacation
         far away from the hue and cry
and the rage of savage war
         with its incessant barrel bombs
that kill clusters of innocents
         that send whole suburbs of hell
to kingdom come
         while poetry is rambling
through the hills admiring
         the lakes and the daffodils
recollecting
         at the end of an emotional day
with a cool pint in hand
         the tranquility of it all
the delicious peace and the quiet
         and the silence of the lambs

John Lyons