poetry

In so many words

irlandesuk poetry ,

In so many words

It is words that bind us
         words that shape our lives
words that capture our gestures
         words that guide our minds
out of the darkness
         The rose for all its beauty
is inarticulate and carries
         no inherent message
its wordless script
         is but a summer long
its status springs entirely
         from the words
of our imagination
         in love or sorrow
it assumes the mantle
         that our emotions assign
Without the rain
         there is the sadness
of the rain that haunted
         the verse of Verlaine
the sobbing sound of notes
         from the violin
falling upon the silent city
         a city that is perhaps no more
than a congregation of words
         a text of intelligence
a single multi-tongued voice
         and so it goes—words
words watery words
         awash with meaning
words in which reality
         is pinned to the ground
words with the aid of which
         our dreams reach for the stars

John Lyons

Being is

irlandesuk poetry

Being is

The life of being
         is purpose
is direction
         is hope and motive
is trial and error
         an opening of the appetite
for evermore life
         it is seed and green growth
a rising up
         from the winter ground
a summer bloom
         and autumn fruit
a body that burns to be
         that endures the onslaught
of desire and aches to achieve
         smoke against the pale sky
an array of infancies
         a parting of confusions
knowledge laid bare
         celebration of the tongue
that sets us apart

Blessed be the absolutes
         that rise above indifference
Blessed be the power
         of denunciation
Blessed be the lips
         upon which love lingers
that worship at the shrine
         of unblemished beauty
the thigh the breast the womb
         that shapes the soul of being

Blessed be the word
         that rises above petty vanities
that hungers for the precision
         of the rose of the gardenia
or the orchidean sense of truth
         the life of being stripped
to its illustrious essence

John Lyons

 

No ideas but in things

irlandesuk poetry ,

lilac

No ideas but in things

Across the garden wall
         I see a tall array
of common lilac blooms
         the flowered cones
dipping gently
         in the easy summer air
as they bathe in the sunshine
         that will prove to be their ruin :
their season is on the cusp
         and by winter they will be gone

I hear the sparrow’s song
         the drone of pigeons
the harsh cry of magpies
         and I know that nature
is there to be heard
         and to be seen
I know that it is
         performance
that it clamours
         for our attention
that it is in fact
         the articulation
of Eden
         there
for the discerning eye
         for the discriminating ear
the spectacle of life
         unfolding
the to and fro of time
         that we call seasons
all out of the mineral earth
         from which we too
are shaped
         a heartfelt home
that is of the mind
         that feels its way
through life
         sufficient habitat
for those who have fallen
         on their feet

John Lyons

 

Reflection

irlandesuk poetry ,

Reflection

sad warmth
         of my childhood
grown cold
         in the dust

the streets
         have been renewed
new life new dust
         gathered in the gutters

here we played
         here we won and lost
exchanged our innocence
         for broken promises

sad night
         of my wasted years
my lovelorn paths
         untrodden dreams

sad loss of those
         so close to my heart
a pile of dry leaves
         slung upon fading embers

sad warmth of those days
         snows long gone
slow melt of voice
         into silence

John Lyons

The edge of life

irlandesuk poetry ,

The edge of life

In the night silence
         heart beating
through veins of love
         desire at rest
murmur of lips
         language beyond words
hungers in abeyance
         so she sleeps
nights fall
         days fall
leaves fall
         by the wayside
so the body rests
         secure in its truths
its gentle autumns
         universe of dreams
of breath
         and dilated lungs
the frosted glass
         at dawn
the waspish planet
         Venus rising
grace and beauty
         a lightness of touch
her mind her soul
         the cutting edge

John Lyons

Beauty

irlandesuk poetry ,

Beauty

People may say
         that beauty is abstract
that it is a concept
         or a notion
a paragon or an ideal
         an archetype
or a quintessence
         a gold standard
by which to measure

But I say no
         I have held beauty
in my arms
         stroked the hair
caressed the flesh
         felt the pulse
of warm blood
         coursing through
her veins
         looked deep
into her eyes
         watched as
a red-rose blush
         spread down
from her cheeks
         over her neck
and across her breast
         a beauty to be culled
time and time again
         and again

John Lyons

First fruit

irlandesuk poetry ,

First fruit

The unsullied garden
         of language
purity of utterance
         a seeing and believing
we are
         after all compositions
coming into this world
         not fully formed
but shaped
         by the love around us
we are by definition
         yet to be defined
: first fruit of love
         brushed by the wind
and the rain
         mere air and blood
we are not
         Compact in its ignorance
the mind hums
         with thought and feeling
foundlings as we are
         clinging to the safety
of our innate certainties
         but we are the idiom
and speech
         of investigation
we are the origin
         of man and woman
of child
         who else could ever sing
of the rose or the face
         that launched a thousand ships
who else could ever die
         for the love of love
We are in our awakening
         fortuitous and yet sensitive
to the perfections of nature
         which remain unmatched

In the town of Liberia
         northern Costa Rica
all those years ago
         I heard the cock crow
as the day broke
         heard it call me
to my necessary
         resurrection
and in the main square
         the trees fruited
with the song of birds
         gently stirred
under a palpable sun
         that burnt my brow
that singed my soul—
         there is no final elegance
but words simple words
         have been a consolation

John Lyons

A fragment

irlandesuk poetry

A fragment

It’s not alchemy
         but the transfer of energy
from one expression to another
         the green leaves fused
by decadent sunlight
         the long slow quantum feed
and we of it
         an expression
fed as we are
         by a single voice

the rose
         and its fragrance
that disengages and drifts
         on the balmy summer air
All that fades
         and all that persists
if only for a time
         an articulate nature
that makes its presence
         known constantly
the gestures of oak and ash
         as the howling wind
thrashes their branches
         all that sounds off
in the silence
         and we who have
born-in-the-blood
         words for it all

It is an intimate universe
         every breath a cosmic force
and everywhere apparent
         the coalescence of love
that drives one body
         to seek another
to lie cocooned
         in the time-tendered threads
of a common narrative
         that knows no end

John Lyons