Matisse, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)
Blue is
the colour
With one leap
and a bound
Matisse entered
the room
Matisse means
movement
John Lyons
poetry
Two pigeons
I’m sitting in the sun
leisurely
watching two pigeons perform
synchronised flying : their wings
almost touching : their wings
never touching
Such perfect control at every
sudden twist and turn : as
though they had trained
for days for months : or
ever since birth : impossible
to know their age : or whether
before they completely
found their wings they were
ever clumsy : bumping into
each other in awkward flight
I’m sitting in the garden
sun beating on my face
wondering why the rest of us
make such hard work
of moving around
each other
John Lyons
Too many to mention
Time draws on
but what of our memories
what of our dreams ?
Night stretches into day
and in the mirror I notice
new lines etched
while I slept
All my past is in that face
and what’s left of me
is there too
I write and I paint
the subjects of my life
the moments of my life
the lips and the hair on her head
the memory of all those kisses
the knowledge that nothing
is ever lost
Trees I have known from birth
are still there : oaks and birches
and sycamores and laburnums
will all outlive me
though age is no accomplishment
survival of the fittest means little
quite a different matter
are the paths we tread
the paths we have trodden
and the indelible memories
of love sweet love
how our hands met
how our eyes locked
into one another
how slowly but surely
we began to share
the same breath
lines cut deeply
blood-rich memories
curated in our beating hearts
to have tasted paradise
made it all worthwhile
Regrets
too many to mentioned
but not you
John Lyons
Life’s bare bones
The bare bones of life
breath drawn at dawn
a new day to be lived
in peace and in love
We are the stars
of our known universe
and our task is to shine
as best we can
John Lyons
A view from my room
A clear day and no memories
I see the tall overgrown grass
bathed in the grey light and
here and there the stems
of dandelions waiting for the sun
before they’ll unfold their flowers
: birds are flying overhead
but there is complete silence
As the wind rises the branches
of the trees at the end of the garden
begin to sway to its rhythm
The picnic table is littered
with dry faded blossom and the empty
wooden chairs have that forlorn
abandoned look as though none of us
had ever been here before
John Lyons
Let innocence age
Let innocence age
how light travels
through the decades
a young child
on a suburban train
gazes at me
smiles
across the cosmos
down the tunnel
of time
seeing his origins
in reverse
Those early years
of which so little
is remembered
life’s preamble
barely off hands
and knees
and how the hands
themselves vie
with the eyes
in the search
for understanding
and palpable love
John Lyons
Not of words
Not of words
the poet uses words
to denounce words
longs for a love
not of ideas but of gestures
stability of the land
lapped by the sea
not an expression
but as the sun pulses
as lilies in the field grow
and as the bees
collect their nectar
Words are brief
are soon over
are often lost
or displaced
by the mind
but love is strong
and quiet and peace
and tenderness
are its embodiment
the kiss its seal
John Lyons
Shoulders bear the weight of the world
Comes a time when we no longer say: my God.
A time of absolute stripping to the bone.
A time when we no longer say: my love.
Because love turned out to be useless.
And the eyes don’t cry.
And the hands only weave coarse work.
And the heart is dry.
Women knock at the door in vain, you won’t open it.
You were left alone, the light goes out,
and your eyes shine enormous in the dark.
You’re full of certainty, can suffer no more
And you expect nothing from your friends.
That old age approaches matters little, what’s old age?
Shoulders bear the weight of the world
and it weighs no more than a child’s hand.
Wars, famines, and conflicts in buildings
Merely confirm that life goes on
And not everyone has yet broken free.
Some, finding the spectacle barbarous,
Would prefer (the sensitive ones) to die.
Time has come when there’s no point in dying.
Time has come when life is an imperative.
Mere life, without perplexity.
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
(translation by John Lyons)
corrected version
Tangled web
Tangled web, John Lyons (70 x 50 cm, oil and enamel paint on canvas)
We have been
over this ground
a thousand times
she said
This is the tangled web
we have woven—
a landscape
in which we can
barely distinguish
the wood for the trees
John Lyons
Sea privilege – Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-1987)
On this tolerably comfortable terrace,
we drink beer and look out at the sea.
We know that nothing will happen to us.
The building’s solid and so too the world.
We know that every building houses a thousand bodies
toiling away in a thousand identical compartments.
Sometimes some wearily enter the elevator
and come up here to breathe the ocean breeze,
which is a privilege of these buildings.
The world really is made of reinforced concrete.
Surely, if there was a rogue cruiser,
anchored in the bay opposite the city,
life would be uncertain. . . unlikely. . .
But in the calm waters there are only trusty sailors.
How cordial the fleet is!
We can drink our beers with honour.
1940
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
(translation by John Lyons)
Privilégio do Mar
Neste terraço mediocremente confortável,
bebemos cerveja e olhamos o mar.
Sabemos que nada nos acontecerá.
O edifício é sólido e o mundo também.
Sabemos que cada edifício abriga mil corpos
labutando em mil compartimentos iguais.
Às vezes, alguns se inserem fatigados no elevador
e vêm cá em cima respirar a brisa do oceano,
o que é privilégio dos edifícios.
O mundo é mesmo de cimento armado.
Certamente, se houvesse um cruzador louco,
fundeado na baía em frente da cidade,
a vida seria incerta.. . improvável. . .
Mas nas águas tranqüilas só há marinheiros fiéis.
Como a esquadra é cordial!
Podemos beber honradamente nossa cerveja.
johnjosephlyons 