A passerine
a chat
a flycatcher
a small brown bird
with orange breast
and a whitish belly
perched within
the branches
of a small bush
in the back garden
and sang
as the sun set
on Doughty Street
a fluting warbling song
that filled the air
and thrilled my heart
John Lyons
Life’s imponderables :
by night the star-glistered sky
into which we peer
with wonderment tinged
with awareness
of our own insignificance
The mere thought of infinity
can be exhausting
hence the need to personalize
to imagine that there are
other vibrant worlds inhabited
by beings just like us
convinced as we are
that we are the defining
consciousness of the universe
In a park just outside Peckham
the first crocuses seen
yesterday from the train
a tightly packed patch
of mustard-coloured leaves
standing proud
on the long green grass
Such are our common or
garden vectors – today
tomorrow and yesterday –
which as our imagination
hurtles into outer space
become increasingly redundant
: and yet anatomies obsess
beauty that is in the naked eye
of the beholder and symmetries
that make suburban sense
Soon the daffodil will follow
buds will burst and spring
will be upon us : thereafter
the rose and with it
the beguiling thorns of love
and the petalled bed upon which
lovers lie late into the night
gazing out through the window
at the vast ancestral home
where their forebears first met
John Lyons
Did she brush her hair
or powder her nose
pencil her eyes
apply blush
to her cheeks
gloss her lips
then check her teeth
dab sweet fragrance
behind both ears
and on her wrists
did she cross her heart
did she straighten her skirt
adjust her blouse
admire her shoes
and blow a big kiss
to what she saw
in the glass
before stepping out
into the wide
wicked world ?
Did she ?
*
brush hair
powder nose
line eyes
apply blush
gloss lips
check teeth
dash scent
behind ears
both wrists
cross heart
straighten skirt
adjust blouse
admire shoes
blow kiss
back to the glass
and step out
into the wicked
wide world ?
John Lyons
A summer situation
and love
such a sensible surprise
strawberries on a plate
roses in a vase
a table laden
with welcome guests
amid air that circulates
lung to lung
Sweet summer
palpable sensation
risen temperatures
and an eye
calibrated for beauty :
dainty black slippers
and white lace
A day less weary
hair winnowed
in the nightbreeze
Moonlight streams through
open windows
gilds the silver spoons
A stroll in the park
is never an accident
John Lyons
Time and decay
nothing lasts
a single rosebud
a thorn in the side
nothing lasts
Sentences that creak
to the very end – full-stop
Clutch at straws
in a howling gale
sooner than trap time
There in the churchyard
bones gone to dust
stones gone to dust
names of wife
and husband
mother and lover
and son and daughter
all gone to dust
the limestone cracks
the letters peel
nothing to be read
of the mason’s craft
weathered away –
time reduced to rubble
Yet there in the caves
walls daubed
with the bright blood of berries
a vivid remembrance
to celebrate the hunt
and the life lived
for and in the moment
gathered under a single roof
to share their time—
that which never lasts
except perhaps in creation
and in acts of love
A single rosebud :
and a swallow swoops
and is gone
like François Villon
And love—
love is so rare
but it’s all that’s left
John Lyons
This fine leafmeal tossed in the air
by the wild west wind
will sooner or later
settle into the dust
the dust of all things
from which all things arise
He is gone
against the grain but gone
albeit willingly departed
leaving us to mourn his passing
on this harrowed midwinter night
that howls at my window
with such a vengeance
He was a boy a man
a husband then. . .
now gone to dust
to mingle with the ash
of dandelion
to dwell in that other place
where no winds blow
See where the damselfly roosts
above the thorny wetlands
where the kingfishers hunt :
there flows a river
out of Eden
Out of Eden
out of place
out of time
out of the unawakened earth
but in our hearts
always
John Lyons
A fading blue sky
piled high with clouds
but backed by a red glow
a promise of days to come
and down by the railway
shadows gathering
in the tall oaks
where birds are
straining their throats
in evensong
I think of the dear dead days
my father in the lounge
listening to John McCormack
on the old gramophone
Just a song at twilight
and the dreams that rose
out of his heart
that wove themselves
into our lives as children
the flickering gleam of the firelight
and his gentle reflection caught
in the gold-framed mirror
his smile unabashed
Sundays when he would sit
at the piano and sing
to my mother
one of love’s sweet songs
with delicate notes
at his fingertips
enraptured but
neither sad nor weary
And as the train pulls in
with the ear-piercing grind
of steel on steel
I note how the chorus
from the trees
has grown in volume
as though the birds
in the ensemble
are quite decided
that they will
under no circumstances
be outsung
John Lyons
Measure
and the shape of things to come
as seen in the glass
the slow advance of years
how time sneaks up
and gets in under the skin
patches of rust around the ankles
a stiffness in the joints
in need of a little lubrication
No the stars are not numberless
each and every one
as blades of grass
or sparrows in the field
accounted for
and so too the flesh
records it all
the aches and pains of ageing
the sedimentation
the laying down of experiences
year on year
and the subtle changes
Ambition has had its day
and left no laurels to rest upon
optimism has been sorely tested
but hope springs eternally
as they say
and so an accommodation
to the realities is in order
If only wisdom
were par for the course
what a wise world
it would be
John Lyons
Neither the gentleness
of your breath
nor the softness of your skin
should go unsung
nor the mystery in your eyes
at the low and splendid
rising of the moon
Five planets
perfectly aligned
at daybreak
should cause no greater stir
than your smile
your curved lips
at a tangent
your heart pressed
against my heart
I brush your hair
away from your temple
and beneath my fingers
feel the warm flutter
of your pulse
I stroke your cheek
hold in my arms
the flesh shaped
from the flesh of stars
though none ever shone
more brightly than you
This sky that stretches
away from the earth
is our portal
into the heavens
whence we came
and where we belong
John Lyons
The American poet, Cid Corman (1924-2004), a translator and founder and editor of the literary magazine Origin, was a key figure in the history of American poetry in the second half of the 20th century. Corman lived for much of his adult life in Japan and maintained his friendship with Louis Zukofsky and Lorine Niedecker, among many others, through extensive correspondence.
A prolific writer, the influence of Japanese poetry is evident throughout his work. Introducing a volume of his poetry entitled Word for Each Other (1967), Corman wrote: “Something in them, in the sounded meanings joined here, should feed something in you that merits sharing—a little life that feels beyond itself, the dying implied in every word, in every thing, in every legend man has devised, in ache in ache in ache, invoking the only judgment man is worthy of: love.”
the man dying
loved red roses
like those he grew
you looked for some
everywhere
in the city
and finally
brought him the best
carefully so
he shouldn’t know
you picked them
from his own garden
Cid Corman
For an interesting profile of Cid Corman, see the following link http://jacket2.org/article/man-who-always-was
johnjosephlyons 