poetry

What?

irlandesuk poetry

Today’s poem was written by Kate Yorke James

What?

What does it feel like to be a taker?
Stripping the moment of all fidelity
Corrupting trust while deranging truth.
How easy is it to sleep sweet dreams
And look forward to a new, bright day?

What does it feel like to have just your own heart to fondle
And slip your hand in your own empty spaces?
To toy with words of air and liquid promise
And the gluttony of hungerless indulgence
Feeding rootless wantings and vacant ways?

So sad that eyes like yours would drift
Into the rotten realms of self-provision,
Bruising – yes bruising the chocolate dreams of pleasure
To cast an irredeemable shadow on time spent
Only to leave a soured, distorted memory.

How does it feel to be a taker ?
How does it feel?
How does it?
How does?
How?
Words words. . .vacuous, libidinous words. . .

Kate Yorke James

Aeolus – a first draft

irlandesuk poetry , , , ,

Aeolus – a first draft

The winedark sea that Homer saw
         only in his imagination
the sea that Ulysses sailed
         en route to Troy
a man both mortal and immortal
         one inseparable from the other
a man and his destiny
         laurel leaves and the bitter taste
of unripe olives
         such a tale from the cocoon
of his blindness

Art is from the eyes
         it is perception and intuition
a hunger for human narrative
         for what will make sense
of a universe in which meaning
         is neither here nor there

Fate spins
         and everywhere is felt
the footfall of the gods
         Aeolus a draft
driven by a line from Pindar
         What is a man
but a dream of a shadow
         his splendour
but a gift of the heavens
         Say nothing of love

John Lyons

A place of home

irlandesuk poetry

A place of home

The place of first words
         of first family
of first games
         of first flowers
of first love
         roads I have walked
all my life
         long forgotten
long remembered
         here by a wounded willow
where I once took shelter
         here where with
net and jar
         I first fished
the shallow waters
         or through these woods
where I first wandered
         gathering chestnuts
to roast on the open fire
         there with coal in the scuttle
and snow on the ground
         winter with its subtle shades
of darkness and summer
         greens with proud thorns
on the rose the blood
         of my innocence
drip
         dripping
here in the place
         of first words
I am once again
         at last at home

John Lyons

In a natural world

irlandesuk poetry

In a natural world

In a natural world dressed
         in such simplicities
the truth is so plain to see
         nothing duplicitous
nothing tendentious
         and no dishonesty :
everything is as it is
         which explains Gertrude’s
rose is a rose is a rose
         though by any other name
it would have been as sweet

Choice and preferment
         single us out—
and then there’s love
         that takes its course
free from ritual and process
         that which in living
outlives the moment
         that inclines towards infinity
and is beyond measure
         which is love’s true measure
not the glint in her eye
         nor the quickening of breath
not the contraction of muscle
         nor the stroke of a hand
not a pouting lip
         nor hair that falls loosely
across her broad forehead
       nor the blush of her cheeks
nor the ache of the limbs
        nor a convulsion of the flesh
but simply a being
       in the moment
moment to moment
       with neither judgment
nor expectation other than to revel
         in that moment
and the untrammelled pleasure
         of pure existence

John Lyons

Way of the world

irlandesuk poetry

Way of the world

Out of the window
          -an inclined skylight-
in the distance
         a tall conifer
heaves restlessly in the wind
         against a grey sky
A roof hip attached
         to the roof ridge
of the house opposite
          at an angle
of 135 degrees :
         weather-worn tiles
a little moss growing
          all due for renewal
soon

All things have a life
         the birds warbling
in the bushes
         the rose garden
where the birds
         sometimes sing :
the train Emily heard
         passing through
the mountain pass
        and through her life :
the pebbles pounded to oblivion
         on Brighton beach
All things drifting
         towards extinction
All in good time

John Lyons

Extinction

irlandesuk poetry

Extinction

Out of the window
          -an inclined skylight-
in the distance
         I see a tall conifer
it heaves restlessly
         in the wind
against a grey sky
         I see too
a roof hip attached
         to the roof ridge
of the house opposite
         noting an angle
of 135 degrees :
         the tiles are weather-worn
a little moss has gathered
         they are all due
for renewal
         soon

All things have a life
         the birds warbling
in the bushes
         the rose garden
where the birds
         sometimes sing
the train heard
         passing through
the mountain pass
         by Emily Dickinson
who in turn had a life
         the pebbles pounded
to oblivion on Brighton beach
         all things hurtling
towards extinction
         all in their own good time

John Lyons

Only asking

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Only asking

This race to discover extraterrestrial life
the race to Mars and beyond

Space and time and the fool notion
that these are somehow abstracts

They are not !

Space is as real as a red rose
that takes time to live and die

So Hank Williams sings
I’ll never get out of this world alive

Given that mass is neither created
nor destroyed – where exactly is this OUT ?

And so to the next big question :
Does love exist on other planets ?

John Lyons

Aftermath

irlandesuk poetry

Aftermath

It is late afternoon
         and the storm has passed
leaves litter the paths
         —bird silence
Toppled
         one of the two bay trees
that stood as sentries
          either side of the door step
a large fragment
         of the wounded terracotta
cast to one side
         Stillness now
as nature draws
         a kind of breath
I’m still here
         in this place
little changed
         but for the hours
that have passed
         through me
and around me
         I’ve generated no events
but I’ve written words
         shaped words
with a rhythm and a purpose
         moulded words into a poem
that seeks more to celebrate
         than to make sense
After all
         who am I to attempt
to ‘make sense’ of a world
         that is perfectly competent
in all its accomplishments
         I have nothing of value
to teach to the rose or anyone else
         I look and I listen
and I hope to learn
         what’s there to be learnt
I have no qualm
         no quarrel

John Lyons

 

Rain

irlandesuk poetry

Rain

A fierce gale is blowing
         rain pounding on the glass
pray that the wind
         does not disrupt the imagination
does not disturb my words

Is the rain any more real
         than my words ?
By the power of words
         I can abstract the rain
turn it into fiction
         or a cinematographic device
a private detective
         out on a case
lurking in a doorway
         as rain falls
tailing a suspect
         waiting perhaps
for one false move
         but the rain
the rain is a character
         a mood-changer
long shot
         along the empty boulevard
the dull glow of a streetlight
         reflected in the wet tarmac
what is happening
         is precisely nothing

Nothing
         but a torrent of words
rains I have known
         over the seas and faraway
Poetry is all
         that includes the weather

John Lyons