poetry

Sleep on

irlandesuk poetry

Sleep on

Sleep
         a respite
within time’s gift
         a permission
to absent oneself
         to rest and to repair
to dream
         wound loosely
within a cocoon
         of silent intelligence
that is of a different order
         in which fragments
of consciousness
         appear to make sense
and sense appears
         to fragment
a realignment
         of the soul perhaps
of our desires and
         of our affections
that which we live
         without understanding
the understanding we have
          Sleep is the ultimate
self-care when we are
         truly alone with ourselves
and yet feel in touch with
         and buoyed up by
the entire universe
         or do I exaggerate?

John Lyons

 

Jonah and the tree

irlandesuk poetry

Jonah and the tree

Sun shining through
the bare bones of nature :
with what vigour their branches
thrust skywards in their
everlasting lust for life
for green leaf
for growth
for flower and for fruit

In the shade
of one of the species
Jonah once took shelter
and pondered who he was
and where he was
and why he was
and what he was supposed
to do with his life
while the answers
were all around him

John Lyons

Phases of beauty

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Phases of beauty

Time does not move us
         we are within time
masters of our own fate
         to the extent that we transcend it
Creation
         a new text in the world
patterns of words and sounds
         exempt from entropy
the second law of thermodynamics
         that energies decay
Have Shakespeare’s sonnets decayed
         or the odes that Keats dedicated
to the transcendence of truth and beauty ?

Her hair falls across her face
         in the course of the evening
: it moves it lightens it relaxes
         it comes down
and so the features are reframed
         the skin tones alter
the subdued light plays
         with the texture of her skin
the intense glow of her eyes
         a deep confident brown
her words that rise and fall
         that come and go in waves
that wash over me
         absorbed as I am
in the shifting phases
         of her beauty
Time moves through me
         as I bear witness
to her breath
         to the softness of each syllable
that emerges from her lips
         I have no need of a Grecian urn
it is all there before me
         not just before my eyes
but every sense in my body
         hungering
for every expression
         of herself

Patterns of flesh and bone
         patterns of thought and feeling
Time does not move us
         we move within it
and if we care
         we seize the moment

John Lyons

 

Terms of Endearment

irlandesuk poetry

Terms of endearment

Names : our first resumé
         names we live up to
and names we live down
         names that we become
and which become us
         destinations we travel home to
or sometimes leave behind
         a whole mixture of emotions
the name we own
         and by which we are owned
give a dog a bad name
         and it will come back
to haunt you
         the naming of parts
and parcels of affection
         the intimate nicknames
that lovers often share
         a ferreting away
of that part of the person
         that is all and only ours

Alex and Myra
         and Michael and Pat
and Paul and Tracy
         and Harrison and

Faith and Hope
         the infant twins
growing in love and beauty
         day by day
effortlessly easing themselves
         into their identities
that will accrue organically
         through the years
along with their hair
         and their bones
and their skin
         and whatever talents
are bound to emerge
         along with their energies
and their charm
         names that trip so lightly
on the tip of people’s tongues
         the ultimate terms of endearment

John Lyons

Simplicities of being

irlandesuk poetry ,

Simplicities of being

Behind the complexities of life
         there are the radiant simplicities
the single cells that divide
         and the multiplicities of divisions
that lead to the complexity
         of our singleness
and to the robust biochemistry
         of carbon and hydrogen and oxygen
the supple atomic chemistry of the rose
         of the robin’s winter song
and the dandelion that dances
         in the summer breeze
not to mention her pale skin stretched
         against her high cheekbones
flushed by the fine flow
         of her handsome blood

And so within the complexity of our minds
           and the million upon million cells
that keep our consciousness together
         it’s the simple things we hanker for
—the notes of a pure Chopin melody
         move us like no other
so too Matisse colours and textures and shapes
         in fact the simplicities of any medium
however complex their contrivance

We are creatures of simple tastes
         happiest when our lives are focused
on the essence of what it is to be—
         a stroll in the green park 
or a day on the beach
         lived in and for the moment
the simplicity of the human touch
         the subtle sensitivity of skin on skin
and the engaging warmth of word 
         upon word upon word
the tender and irreducible mathematics 
         of love : that essential integer
the couple that lies behind
         every single simplicity

John Lyons

 

Gross domestic profit

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Gross domestic product

The politics of platitude
         with which they would smother us
that this is a great country
         the fifth largest economy in the world
but that the poor must be chased
         into the ground / the disabled hounded
the weak trodden further down
         so many thousand more children
being raised in poverty
         evictions and homelessness on the rise
thorns trimmed from the rose
         before it is sold into slavery

Read back in time : a king is a thing
          What drove Ophelia to distraction
was utter madness
         the parameters are all wrong
the indices askew and beside the point
          Something rotten on the streets of London
prejudice and intolerance and greed
          We have a duty to care so that the child
may be protected and prosper
         so that the elderly may be treated
with dignity and respect
         so that a hand may be extended
to those who suffer persecution

These are indeed austere times
         in which the public discourse
has been hijacked by the corrupt
         pilferers of the commonwealth
Money buys a very big lie
         trumping the truth at every turn
: a king is a thing is the thing
         and enough is enough is enough

John Lyons

States of Mind

irlandesuk poetry ,

States-of-mind-main

The poem below was inspired by a visit last Saturday to the States of Mind exhibition at the Wellcome Collection in Euston, which follows on from Ann Veronica Janssens’ astounding installation ‘yellowbluepink’, in which visitors entered a room to be immediately immersed in coloured fogs of such a density that all bearings of consciousness were suddenly lost: an eerie and yet very exciting experience, forcing the individual to readjust to a totally disarming environment. The secret was to keep cool, not to panic, and to feel.

The current States of Mind exhibition, which runs until 16 October, examines perspectives from artists, psychologists, philosophers and neuroscientists who question our understanding of the conscious experience. Using a whole range of media, it embraces a variety of phenomena such as somnambulism, synaesthesia, sleep paralysis, and the disorders of memory and consciousness. Ideas around the nature of consciousness are explored, and in particular, what can happen when our typical conscious experience is interrupted, damaged or undermined. Well worth a visit!

 

States of Mind
         
Where is her beauty held
         if not in my mind
her eyes her lips her hair
         her slim frame
the elegance of her hands
         her voice and her turn of phrase
the pace at which she walks
         decisive and determined
always to arrive and to depart
         and back to the darting eyes
the light that flickers there
         curiosity alive and eager
to absorb the world around her

Where is her beauty held
         if not in my thoughts
conscious and unconscious
         my feelings for her
are a state of mind
         and in that state
there are London streets
         we have walked together
held hands and kissed
         if only so fleetingly
and thoughts and impressions
         have passed loosely between us
from one to the other
         artful opinions
and points of view
         separate knowledges
and experiences that shape
          our knowingness
of each other and how we
         begin to size each other up
a tantalising tangle
         a dance of consciousnesses
two material minds
         holding and releasing arms
and twirling and reeling
         in the delight of the company

Where is her beauty held
         if not in the touch of her skin
the brush of her smile
         against my lips and captured
in the coordinates we share
         the realization that we are
neither body nor soul
         but absolutely mindmatter
we are the unity
         of sense and sensibility
such that in order to advance
         in this atomic world
we must feel our way
         through life and admit
that in love at least
         we are not two but one
and dichotomies and dualities
         be damned

John Lyons

Love story – chapter seventeen laid bare

irlandesuk poetry

Love story – chapter seventeen laid bare

Mousy brown hair
          neither short nor long
thin frame thin legs
          a pretty face
lips thin ears unseen
          modesty prevailed

A fast walker
          a fast talker
an inquisitive mind
          but softly spoken

Did he hear what she wanted
          or did she want what she heard ?
Was there ice on the road perhaps
          a quick flurry of snow 
just not enough to get excited ?

Did he kiss or she kiss him
          or did they not kiss at all
or did they hug or embrace
          or the arms merely entwine
or did they part with no word
          at all ?

And

Did she care if he cared
          or even know
what he might feel
          and if she did
did she care really care
          I mean
                    at all ?

John Lyons

Love story – chapter three

irlandesuk poetry

Love story – chapter three

Did she hear
              and if she did so
did she ever understand
              and if she did so
did she even ever care
              at all

Did she want him
              or did she need him
or did she know
              what she wanted
or know
              who she needed
or anything
              at all

did she feel
              what he felt
and if she did so
              did she care

did she know
              what he needed
know exactly what he wanted
              and if she did so
did she care did she really ever care
              at all

and if she knew
              what she wanted
and felt she knew
              what he needed
and felt she wanted
               what he needed
did she care
              if he really cared
about her
              at all

Saturday Sunday
               all above board
and all below ground
              a train to the market
and a gallery performance 
              and eating for two
come hell or high water
              So be happy
go lucky
               for with a hug
and a kind kiss
              all is forgiven
and all is forgotten

And so back home to sleep
               perchance to

John Lyons