poetry

Whitstable festival

irlandesuk poetry ,

Whitstable festival

The warm body
         that durable fire
that we call life
         Along the sea shore
from Whitstable to Tankerton
         young families and groups of friends
playing on the pebble beach
         gazing out to sea
consuming
         what the sea gives back
cockles and rock oysters
         The sun warm on the face
just a light breeze
         enough to fill the white sails
music and laughter
         cementing the bonds
of community
         Sea shanties that hark back
to other times
         and to ways of life
long gone
         A pirate with a squawking parrot
is now an amusement
         almost a coastal cliché
An immense crowd
         but everything understated
all in good measure
         and in good taste
a well-tempered blend
         of humanity

John Lyons

How beautiful is candor !

irlandesuk poetry

How beautiful is candor !

We are of the earth
         gathered in a mass
subject to the same
         first principles
our inner and outer
         selves with the same
restlessness of the ever
         expanding cosmos
beauty that derives
         from sharp definition
so that things are
         as they are and not
as they might seem to be
         —after all there are
no approximate roses

The world is in our nature
         as much as in the badger
or the fox or the lilies in the field
         which is to say
we are the necessary
         agents of creation
here to use our dexterities
         and our imagination
to embellish the soul’s
         environment

We are the physiology
         of love expressed
in our kisses
         and in our tender words
in the portraits we paint
         and in the songs with which
we lull the heart
         We are waves of energy
turned to good purpose
         atoms bound by the bonds
of deep romance
         What beauty there is
in her candour
         in her smile
in the eagerness of her eyes
         what beauty in her posture
and in her poise
         in the elegance of her hands
and in the firmness of voice
         with which she nominates
the world around her
         Honesty emanates
from the soul
         and beauty is its own
ornament it requires
          no other !

John Lyons

A continuation from yesterday

irlandesuk poetry

A continuation from yesterday

The dank air
in this stretch of woodland
by the slow silent river

A blue tit sits immobile on a branch
staring straight into the distance
without making a sound

A moorhen wades in the shallow waters
and I’m struck by its green twig-like legs

Six or seven fish of different sizes
are swimming against the current
—perhaps a family at play

They head upriver just a few yards
then allow the current to carry them back
and for a moment they hold their ground
before repeating the sequence

And along the gravel path that leads
away from the river
a number of elderly couples are sitting
on wooden benches passing the time of day

Numerous faceless sunflowers face them

A woman in her late fifties
is pushing her mother in a wheelchair
along the same path and points out the sunflowers

A young boy perhaps three years old
is gingerly walking on the narrow concrete curb
to the pathway step by step testing his balance
His mother who is ahead of him waits patiently

What are we to learn
from the breathtaking beauty of the rose garden
in full bloom
or from the silent song bird
or from the school of fish that in themselves
have nothing to say ?

What are we to learn from the day-to-day
lessons of love
from the abiding ageing beauty of love ?

John Lyons

Hiding down by the River Cray

irlandesuk poetry

Hiding down by the river Cray

Here beneath the broadleaf canopy
gentle ripples of sunlight move across

the surface of the crystal clear stream
On the edge of the far bank a tiny sparrow

sits in a hollow dry earth bath throwing up
clouds of dust as its preens its feathers

while on the nearside a young coot cavorts
splashing up and down in the waters

quite oblivious to the world around it
A young carp drifts lazily into view

hugging the bank before it slips away
I hear the buzz of the dragonfly’s wings

but see only its shadow trailing behind it
On this hot mid-afternoon I wait in the hope

of catching a glimpse of the proud kingfisher
that on my last visit I saw with a tiny fish

freshly snatched dangling from its beak
But today watching and listening from the hide  

I have no such luck—and to myself I wonder
what eyes are upon me unknown and unseen

John Lyons

 

In the realm of fact

irlandesuk poetry ,

In the realm of fact

In the realm of fact
         the poet utters
syllables of faith
         dream cancels dream         
A new breed of towers
         in the golden city :
here is no empire
         but labyrinth
into which life strays
          Here he in her arms
lived the blind
         ecstasy of love and read
the prophetic script
         of the stars that dangled
above the bridge

Each day is a new universe
         the past trashed in time
Behold a fresh panorama
         arises out of the debris
of unbridled tides
         the low song of the cormorant
that devours space
         with every beat of its wings
A thousand ships or more
         in days long gone
and destinies beyond
         the circumference of hope

These are words
         lines from a canto
rife with doom
         sad infinities
taken to task
         A poet on patrol
records the strength and path 
          of the prevailing wind
Eden and Hesperus
         for the cultivation
of beauty and truth
         Beware of the slow
cancellation of ambition
         we are but clouds of atoms
the loose association
         of minerals born of the earth :
even the rose
         has greater definition
than our sluggish shadows
         It is a windswept stage
upon which we wake
         into the dream of act
our words fly up
         dust within a shroud
of dust and
         O how our sinews ache
how love’s great muscle
         dilates and contracts
sending pulses
         of pleasure
through our veins
         unknotting the hours
of unrepentant attrition :
         a coil or contraption
that fires and then reloads
         and fires again
until every hope is finally
         finally spent

John Lyons

More considered

irlandesuk poetry

More considered

Aromatic
         the summer smoulders
the wheat harvested
         straw baled in the fields
On a narrow ridge
         horses shelter
under the shade of oak
         A crop of lavender extends
almost to the horizon
         Roses white and red—and pink
carnations and in the lake
         the lily pads and beneath them
the shifting shadows of carp

Time moves effortlessly
         through the green fuse
flowers in the petals
         wafts through the scented air
Time and love for a moment
         hand in hand
in the ease of the day
          For all things
there is a moment
         and there is a cusp
upon which that moment stalls
         until time pushes on
and the moment is lost
         for all time—the journey
is not the destination
         better to have loved
better to have sipped the wine
         to have broken bread
together
         better to have sheltered
in the innocence
         of each other’s arms

John Lyons

Boiling over

irlandesuk poetry

Boiling over

Poetry is hot
         the weather is hot
poetry slept poorly
         tossed and turned
in the sweltering night
         slipped in and out of sleep
fragments of dreams
         until the early hours
too hot to think
         and so nothing to say
but still the words come
         the relentless words
the constant stream
         the mind never still
the mind never quiet
         a web of words
trawling the unconscious
         hungry for wisdom
hungry for knowledge
         where did it go wrong
where did it go right
         all those years
all those opportunities
         all those kisses
all that love
         all those gains
and all the loss
         and all the pain

John Lyons

A blue sky in the darkness of space

irlandesuk poetry

A blue sky in the darkness of space

A world that is process and paradox
         the flimsy atomic structures
that bind all things and all people
         together and in which nothing
in its place is bad and nothing
         out of its place is good

A constantly evolving universe
         of fixed particles and elements
the fluidities of time
         and energy and mass
in this shape-shifting creation
         in which expansion tugs
at concentricity and coherence
         the energy that raises the rose
from the soil so that its petals
         may openly embrace its destiny
which is a recurring death :
         beauty that comes not once
but for all time in unique
         but seemingly endless repetitions

And so the gift of tongues
         the gift of poetry that sees
the solid and beautiful forms
         of the future in bright vistas
of revelation in the moving lips
         of our humanity—a universe
capable of transcending
         its own boundaries
a life that interrogates
         its own origins and questions
its apparent transitions
         amid the transience
of the immortalities
         of hydrogen carbon and oxygen
love incarnate
         and the sacredness
of all that is demonstrable
         natural life with its rivers
and lakes and oceans
         the cat owl and the fish-hawk
the eagle and the night heron
         all in the full thrift of time

John Lyons

Stretching a point

irlandesuk poetry

Stretching a point

The mind that moves
         back and forth in time
that muses and reflects
         ponders and weighs up
past experiences
         and future prospects
—it is after all
         all in the mind
As a child I thought
         and played as a child
innocence in my words
          in my deeds

Time is a tale
         and in my bones
I feel the geology
         of all those years
the discourse
         of my days in the world
Born in the woods
         in the company
of foxes and squirrels
         the open field
was my natural habitat
         sunrise and sunset
the demarcations
         of my games
and ever since
         the accidental life
is the life I have led :
         love and betrayal
and the sorry mess
         of trial and error
Memory is the chain
         that binds me
to my being
         the memory
of my nature
         set among the roses
and the green lawns
         the endless autumns
of falling leaves
         the white winters
the sunstroked summers
         the gentle kiss
of time upon time
         lip to luscious lip
the saving grace
         of unaffected affection

John Lyons

Oxford sketch

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Oxford sketch

Oldness etched into the stone and wood
the worn steps of precedent and tradition

cloisters in which prayer has fallen silent
quadrangles with manicured grass and

flower beds filled with competing blooms :
this is the summer of our contentment

faith and hope and love are in the air
Sweet stay awhile why will you rise

Here couples float upon the streams of time
under the arches of Magdalen Bridge

The enigma of what passes of what remains
how down the centuries age not youth survives

John Lyons