In the beginning

In the beginning

A magical notion
         a concept
in the beginning
         the Bridge belonged
to the mind
         an idea in suspension
a shape that gradually
         took shape
through the language used
         a language that grew
in complexity
         the language of dreams
and of calculation
         a measured language
that was transformed
         into designs
into meticulous drawings
         every nut and every bolt
a language engineered
         into a structure
an act of the imagination
         inserted into the reality
of the space that separated
         Brooklyn from Manhattan
a word made flesh
         born out of the material mind

John Lyons

Icon

Icon

A steel foot planted in Manhattan
         with cables that touched
the feet of the stars
         a vehicle and a machine
a radio voice
         amid the thrum of aviation
a steel paw
         built of earth bone
and Rosendale cement
         a choir of strings
plucked in the night

Adjusting the collar of his shirt
         in 1925 Mayakovsky sauntered
across the bridge
         composing as he went
his poem
         syllable by syllable
longing for the catastrophe
         of his personality
to seem interesting
         and beautiful and modern again
and through the eventual
         dust of destruction
he recognised the structure’s
         immortality
the rattling of trains
         the hardship and height
of the stifling city
         and Frank O’Hara
would have lived forever
         had he not died

John Lyons

Hart Crane to his mother May 1924

Hart Crane to his mother May 1924

I am told that this section
         of Brooklyn Heights
is very much like London
         Certainly it is very quiet and charming,
with its many old houses
         all a little different
and with occasional trees
         jutting up an early green
through the pavements
         I have just come back from breakfast
and saw some tulips
         dotting the edge of one of several
beautiful garden patches
         that edge the embankment
that leads down to the river.
         It certainly is refreshing
to live in such a neighborhood
         and even though I should not succeed
in acquiring a room that actually
         commands the harbor view
I think I shall always want to live
         in this section anyway

A friend who has such a back room
         in this house has invited me
to use his room whenever he is out
         and the other evening
the view from his window
         was one never to be forgotten
Every time one looks at the harbor
         and the NY skyline across the river
it is quite different and the range
         of atmospheric effects is endless

But at twilight on a foggy evening
         such as it was at this time
it is beyond description.
         Gradually the lights
in the enormously tall buildings
         begin to flicker through the mist
There was a great cloud
         enveloping the top
of the Woolworth tower
         while below in the river
were streaming reflections
         of myriad lights
continually being crossed
         by the twinkling mast and deck lights
of little tugs scudding along
         freight rafts and occasional liners
starting outward

Look far to your left
         toward Staten Island and there
is the Statue of Liberty
         with that remarkable lamp of hers
that makes her seen for miles
         And up at the right
Brooklyn Bridge
         the most superb piece of construction
in the modern world I’m sure,
         with strings of light crossing it
like glowing worms
         as the L’s and surface cars
pass each other
         going and coming

110 Columbia Heights

110 Columbia Heights

And I have been able
         to give rein to freedom and life
which was acknowledged
         in the ecstasy
of walking hand in hand
         across the most beautiful bridge
in the world
         the cables enclosing us
and pulling us upward
         in such a dance
as I have never walked
         and never can walk
with another—
         and you will see
from my address
         that I am living
in the shadow
         of that bridge

It’s so quiet here
         a moment of communion
where the edge of the bridge
         leaps over the edge of the street
In the evening darkness
         of its shadow I began
the last verse of that poem

[Hart Crane to Waldo Frank
Brooklyn, NY, 21 April 1924]

Act of the moment

Act of the moment

Act of the moment
         language of the moment
: language of the instant
          the not-thought-about instant
words laid into limestone
         chisel-minds creating stelae
beauty beyond explanation
         beyond the need for explanation
just as the hawk and the dove
         seek no redemption

no inner and outer
         but a wholeness
fired with energy
         with self-purpose

Nature does not demur
         nor does it suffer
from crises of conscience
         through the mist
through the frost
         a white moon
feeds on the grass
          My mother was
my place of birth
         she grew
where cattle grazed
         where every step
was a dance
         and in the mountains
the deer ran wild
         and stars kept their faith
in the lonely sky

John Lyons

Design

Design

The world
a single seed bed

a single grave
nothing is lost

nobody escapes
all is cycle

love and grief
all is process

all is time
within time

carbon never dies
deciduous

coniferous life
beauty lies

in the combination
of detail

and in the complex
simplicities

of atomic truth

John Lyons

Without rhyme nor reason

Without rhyme nor reason

How one thing
         leads to another
a sequence
         a chain of events
bound by conjunction
         the loose links
that hold it all together
         the turbulence
of the spoken word
         from me to you
or you to me
         so that a bridge
is a relationship
         it delivers a message
a path of conveyance
         an enabler and a solution
the removal of an obstacle
         a static craft that ferries
the living crowd
         I had not thought
that the earth contained
         so many. . .

and poetry
         the impalpable substance
ideas and sentiments
         for generations to come
others will watch
         the run of the floodtide
but Walt’s text is there
         for all time
a bridge between
         now and then
others will see Ellis Island
         or the Staten Island ferry
creeping into Gotham City
         at night under a winter sky
flakes falling
         into the depths below
as you cross
         from shore to shore
the current rushing
         loose and swollen
by recent rains
         the white snow
and the white gulls
         their bodies oscillating
in the bitter wind
         one word after another
life love sight sound
         time for all time
and in the distance
         the march of money
that rises skywards
         that conquers the air
the swells
         in the swollen vaults
that lies sleepless in its bed
         gone the white sails
of schooners and sloops
         money into steel and glass
and the East River
         in its ebb-tide
falling back to the sea
         I too am with you
and know how it is
         the view of and on
and from and beyond
         the bridge

John Lyons

Concatenations

Concatenations

The catenary curves
         that bind us together
the cables or chains
         firmly fixed
at both ends
         but which
hang loose :
         not a parabola
but more akin
         to the graph of
a hyperbolic cosine
         a relationship
that permits
         freedom of movement
that can bear
         considerable weight
yet never loses
         its strength

Concatenations
         of the heart
day after day
         tomorrow
and tomorrow
         and tomorrow
creeps on
         this petty pace

John Lyons

Howdy neighbour

Howdy neighbour

This is the last picture show
         the sense that nothing
will ever be the same
         because nothing
ever is the same
         Walking down Main Street
at high noon
         a saloon brawl between
two hoodlums is celebrated
         with a public shootout
violence has become
         an entertainment
death simply a denouement
         Heat and dust in the nostrils
Here we discover
         that we are history
the implements of our childhood
         there on exhibition
This is a town where
         clockwork really works
ritual delivered
         with a broad smile
You woudn’t need to be mad
         to live there
but it would help
         Heard about the place
in Dallas Forth Worth
         on the grapevine

John Lyons

Bridge

Bridge

Love that is sleepless
         that spans the space
between one body
         and another
harp and altar
         ambitions and lives
held in suspension
         a crossing of paths
a folding in of destinies
         time’s exploration
of human frailty
         and the gift of true
communication
         back and forth
to and fro
         the sun-cusped days
and the winter nights
         two sides to a single
location : desire
         is always on
a distant shore
         the sweat streaming
down their foreheads
         on they walked
stray angels
         loosed into
Lower Manhattan
         There is a time
and a place
         for everything :
their bodies cut shapes
         from the shadows
wind merges into wave
         night into day
poetry and love and creation
         as ever unfinished

John Lyons