poetry

Twenty-four years

irlandesuk poetry

Here’s a new poem contributed by the writer, Molly Rosenberg.

Twenty-four years

Twenty-four years, time passes, cobwebs gather,
Dust settles into crevices and cracks so tiny
They are imperceptible to the naked eye.
I hear the echoes of laughter, the tears of misery
The rustle of paper long since discarded
From beribboned gifts.
I hear the eager, excited footsteps on the path
And then retreating as the door is closed
For that one last time. . . gone for ever.

Twenty-four years, time passes,
The garden wraps itself around the house,
The wheels on once shiny Birthday bikes no longer spin.
The moss has overtaken the goal mouth,
The balls – punctured – lie in undergrowth
So thick it appears to have devoured
All formality of neat lines and ordered beds.
I see a muddied toy soldier embedded in the earth,
Missing the soft skin that once drilled him
Through the forests of the imagination. . . gone for ever.

Molly Rosenberg

 

That further mile

irlandesuk poetry

That further mile

All the loss of the bloom and odor
         of the earth and of the flowers
and of the atmosphere and of the sea
         the toss and pallor of years of moneymaking
the scorching days and the icy nights
         the stifling deceits and underhand dodgings
the shameless stuffing while others starve
         A life without elevation or aspiration

What wisdoms fill the thinness of years
         what prudence protects and enhances
the good fortune of the body-soul ?
         So the poet questions all false economies
that blotch the surface and system
         of dysfunctional civilization
Word and deed—all that a person
         does or thinks or dreams
is of consequence
         From the first inspiration
down the windpipe
         all that a male or female
does that is vigorous
         and benevolent and just
is sure profit to him or her
         in the unshakable order
of the universe
         Innocence lives in parallel
an open book of revelations
         the hawk and the sparrow
the cabbage white
         or the iridescent dragonfly
that skims the shimmering surface
         of summer ponds and cool lagoons
all periods and locations and processes
         and animate and inanimate forms
held in the bond of time
         anchored in the day of our day

John Lyons

Job specification

irlandesuk poetry

Job specification

Whatever satisfies the soul
         the truth that the human heart craves
and works toward unceasingly
         prudence decision and courage
freedom justice and equality
         the poet who takes the word
into live regions
         who dispels conceit
who baulks at sheltered fatness
         and unthoughtful ease
a companion to the birth
         and progress of the stars
a mind cohered
         out of tumult and chaos
a live interrogation
         of executive detail
and legislative contempt
         for our common humanity
a voice well nigh capable
         of expressing the inexpressible
life on the line
         for the commune
of brothers and sisters
         and lovers alike

John Lyons

A ramble

irlandesuk poetry

A ramble

Life a preoccupation
         with itself
the urge to explore
         and to discover
to cohere and to define
         a world made
in the image and likeness
         of our language
a rose by any other name
         Adam who never left the garden
never fell into the trap
         the absurdity
that the pursuit of knowledge
         could ever lead
to such a dire debacle
         the rose and its ancestors
microbial life that still provides
         the necessary gut feeling
Thirteen ways of observing
          an evolving adult poetics
It’s not about the girl
          much less
about the snake in the grass
          or the thief in the night

Poetry’s no whitewash
         and beauty and truth
are not empty epithets :
         evil is ugliness personified

John Lyons

Whitman unchained

irlandesuk poetry ,

Whitman unchained

Liberty relies upon itself
         invites no one
promises nothing
         sits in calmness and light
is positive and composed
         and knows no discouragement
It is as the fox
         as the nightingale
natural and honest
         acute and mellifluous
a law unto itself
         the beauty of candour
innocence with a backbone
         inviolate in the passage of time
it goes under no disguise
          A rose among thorns
its openness wins
         the inner and outer world :
deceit and subterfuge
         and prevarication
are its enemies
          It is the voice and expression
of the poet
         stung with compassion
It keeps faith with all
         who are enslaved
a taunt to the tyrant
         a scourge on the swarms
of cringers and suckers
         and the sly lice of politics

John Lyons

At sunrise

irlandesuk poetry

At sunrise

The volatile light of day
         streams through the room
stirs the retina
         illuminates the objects
that lie within :
         a bed
a sofa
         a table
fresh cut flowers
         in a glass vase
a purple allium
         or a bird of paradise
the pleasure of things
         as they are
each precise object or condition
         or combination or process
exhibiting its own beauty
         facts overshowered with light
harmonies of intention and action
         fixed by first principles
And love lies sleeping still
         naked life in abeyance
beneath the blanket
         the majesty unmatched
of the human form
         body and soul
of my contentment
         warm by my side
to have and to hold
         and to love

John Lyons

Grecian Urn revisited

irlandesuk poetry

Grecian Urn revisited

It is the intensity
         the thingness
of made objects
         that Keats captured
in his Grecian Urn
         an energy that derives
not merely
         from the simplicities
of the bridal narrative
         nor the implied music
piped down the centuries
         but from the density
of time manifest
         in the vessel
forever shaped
         by the potter’s
temporal hand
         the craftsman
who one day rose
         from his bed
and set about
         his daily work
to fabricate eternity

Art first and foremost
         is a matter
of shaping matter
         whether it be out of air
or stone or words or clay
         or the dance
of thought and movement
         across space and time

Art is the quintessential
         labour of love – that is –
a necessary confection
         of heart and soul
Form is creation
         the means by which
we elevate our humanity
         above the senselessness
of nature 

Form predicates relationship
         structures shaped
from elemental content
         It is we – by the way –
who bestow beauty
         on the rose

Creation alters by adding
         to our condition
It despises the replica
         scorns the dullness of duplication
it animates the affirmation
         of beauty’s truth
silence begone
         stasis
there is none
         all things express
—the status quo
         is a lie

John Lyons

Grecian Urn

irlandesuk poetry ,

Grecian Urn

It is the intensity
         of objects
that Keats captured
         in the Grecian Urn
an energy derived
         not merely
from the bridal narrative
         nor the implied music
piped down the centuries
         but from time manifest
shaped by the potter’s
         temporal hand
the craftsman
         who one day rose
from his bed
         and set about
his daily work

Art first and foremost
         a matter of shaping matter
whether it be air
         or stone or words or clay
or an arrangement
         of complex 
or simple movements
          A labour of love
it is a necessary confection
         of heart and soul

Form is creation
         the means by which
we raise our humanity
         above senseless nature
and form is relationship
         a structure shaped by content
an elemental marriage

Creation is that which
         adds and alters
despises the replica
         and scorns the dour dullness
of endless duplication
         Beauty is the animation
of truth — truth
         the animation of beauty
there is no silence
         there is no stasis
expression in all things :
         the status quo
is a lie

John Lyons

Leaves of Grass

irlandesuk American literature, poetry ,

Leaves of Grass

Nothing is finer than silent defiance
         advancing from new free forms
poems of philosophy or politics or
         the mechanisms of science
or the craft of art
         and the throes of human desire
and the dignity of nature and passion
         all in the cleanest expression

What it is to be alive
         and to confront the turbulence
of time with all its privileges
         and all its challenges
to observe the flight of the grey gull
         over the bay or the mettlesome
action of the blood horse
         or the tall leaning of sunflowers
on their stalk or the sun’s daily
         journey in the heavens
or the magnetic phases
         of the moon

Remembrance and understanding
         faith in the flush of knowledge
and the beauty of body and soul
         an independent eye in thrall
to no vested interest or party
         that thrives on the investigation
of the depths of qualities and things
         with all the impartiality of one
who loves and is content
         every motion and every spear
of grass every miracle of being
         that frames the perfect spirits
of men and women examined
         and honoured in awe

John Lyons

Of leaves and days and nights

irlandesuk poetry

Of leaves and days and nights

Sad smell of the lilacs
doomed to return

to the earth
from which they sprang

sad wisdoms that falter
as the weekend ends

the soil that is turned
late in autumn

that will lie barren
through the winter frosts

How distant we have become
from our own lucidities

how estranged from
time-honoured intelligence

seduced by the gimmicks
of hand-held electricities

John Lyons