poetry

Acting up – a rehearsal

irlandesuk poetry

Acting up – a rehearsal

There was always the lure
                  of fame and fortune
to tread the boards
                  or take a job in the City
and in your head
                  the incessant voiceover
telling you to do this
                  to do that
to give it one more year
                  before finally deciding
to do it no more
                  to abandon your vocation
to throw your hat
                  into the ring along with
all the others
                  the bleary-eyed commuters
become a titan of industry
                  well not quite a titan :
commuters commune
                  whereas actors lounge
on the sidelines until
                  they are called to perform
they grow lonelier
                  by the day until
they are called to perform
                  and then it suddenly seems
the best job in the world
                  what you were born to do
how could you ever have thought
                  of throwing in the towel
of settling for less
                  in the old nine to five

Well maybe one more audition
                  maybe one more rendition
after all it’s in your blood
                  it’s not addiction
a way of life
                  not an affliction

John Lyons

Out of infancy

irlandesuk poetry

Out of infancy

Out of infancy
         into the world
into the web of life
         in which our innocence
is challenged by all
         the temptations of self-destruction
out of infancy into our dreams
         our doom-laden ambitions
our lovelorn days
         the hop and the skip
replaced by the nonchalant stroll
         ignorance replaced by denial
the eager child
         that always wants to know
usurped by the adult eye
         of worldly wisdom
blind to life’s true charismas 

And so to old age
         to the relics of youth and beauty
that hang loosely on the bone
         to time that shuffles
in the slow lane
         that stumbles in doorways
that cannot string a sentence
         is niggard in its energies
old men who haunt themselves
         poring over their past-best years
banished from the eternities of love
         trembling in their dust
out of infancy into the unknown
                   out of words

John Lyons

A moment of abstraction

irlandesuk poetry

A moment of abstraction

Time moves imperceptibly
         through our days
through our lives
         but it’s there in our bones
Time is there in the daffodils
         and the roses
in the rise and fall
         of all things
in the coming and going
         of the seasons — but these
are merely the showy
         manifestations of chronometry
Real time is hardcore and very much deeper
         than the metered moments
captured in clocks and watches
         and every other device
these days under the sun
         that have made time so cheap

Time moves imperceptibly
         but with the stealth of a leopard
stalking its prey
         What became of all our hopes
and dreams what became
         of our ambition ?
What became of every joy
         and all our happiness
the warmth of our words
         the promise in every kiss
and the tenderness that saw us
         through the dark nights
prepared us for the challenges
         of even darker days ?
What became of love ?

John Lyons

DNA

irlandesuk poetry ,

dna

 

 

 

 

DNA
         the nucleic acid containing
                  the genetic instructions
used in the development
         and functioning of all known
living organisms
                  Words
                           : hydrogen
oxygen
                  nitrogen
                           carbon
phosphorus
         the bearer of light : words again
the light in your eye
                  borne again
                           through the days since birth
through the years
         and all the words,
                  the double helix of poetry
which shapes our lives
         and our loves
                           words sustained
by photosynthesis
                  words that breathe
                           on the page
and in the mind
                  and in the heart
                           There are no children
as such
         in this brotherhood of sisters
                  or this sisterhood of brothers
         all of us siblings of the sun
         we are carbon
         we are water
         and we are words
                  brief pauses
         here and there and there
         supple carbohydrated punctuation
in the articulation of eternity
         that ever is and ever was
         that here and now of flowers
         and fish and forests and flames
         of passion
                  contemporaries
         of the earliest expansion
         of the universe
                  but blueprints
with a will of our own
                  Blood was drawn on the thorns
                           of a rosebush
a thick velvet droplet
         hung upon the petal
                  a tear
uncried
         a word longing
                  to be spoken
We pulse with words
         even as we occasionally glimpse
their atomic energy
                  : and language
                           is the highway
                  of the heart

John Lyons

 

Navigations

irlandesuk poetry

Navigations

Put down your burden
           and accept the comforts of the night
Live for the joy
           of the breathing rose and ignore
the slow tyranny of the day
           your hand can turn nothing to perfection
the secret lies in your heart
           in the deep codes of your nature

Your soft flesh is the embodiment
           of your thirsting soul that longs
for moments of escape
           but only love can pull you
out of the densities of time
           that would embroil you
in a web of failure

The firmament is within you
           so too the stars so too
the tideless oceans
           that you must navigate
so too the only words
           that can bring you to yourself
This is the true discovery
           the continent that you contain :
disdain all other mysteries

John Lyons

Credences

irlandesuk poetry

Credences

Whatever evasions there have been
           the truth is that reality
carries a deadly sting in its tail
           Nonchalance has brought me so far
it carried me through tropical dusts
           where life oozed from succulent fruits
where exotic birds swooped and soared
           and cats purred and paraded themselves
through the days that they owned
           In those years beauty led me astray
made promises I knew to be false
           projected a mirage in a desert of love
but I had put out my own eyes
           blind as I was to the consequence

Now love comes softly
           with a whisper in the ear
built as she is from a humbler
           but more authentic grade of dust
Yes we are dust but with more
           than the illusion of cohesion
We have purpose and direction
           guided by the tenderness
                      of our feelings

The old schoolhouse is still there
           though the slates and chalk
and endless talk
           are long gone and the curriculum
has changed beyond recognition
           And across the street
the centuries-old church
           built from Kentish flint
stands as custodian
           of the human debris
that lies in its yard

We know the sun
           to be sleepless
we know that nature
           will replenish its store
that leaves and chestnuts
           will once again adorn
the trees in Shenstone Park
           We know that the past
is tougher than flint
           that it cannot be broken
We know that a single day
           can enrich a year
And we know that a kiss
           can save a life forever

John Lyons

A Kind of Blue

irlandesuk poetry , , ,

A Kind of Blue

The day begins with
             a kind of contralto blue
a blue-grey sky
            and a rising wind
Is it a colour or a mood
            or is it both ?
Birds are warbling
            and a motorcycle
has just driven
            out of earshot
My senses are alive
            to life and all that jazz
The first of the month
            and a time of expectations
it may even snow
            but one thing is certain
in the coming weeks
            life will move
at a quicker pace
            just to keep warm

There is a new year
            just around the corner
and I’m doing the numbers
            the countdown of idle days
checking my sums
            totting up the lessons
I’ve learnt and those
            I have yet to master
But I am master of so little
            and certainly not
of my mirror
            I can do nothing
with my reflection
            except to keep a low profile
when my image
            grazes the silvered glass

Today I will shower
            and shave and dress
as though nothing has happened
            as though nothing
will ever happen again
            I am in denial of time
my head buried in nature
            and the eternal return
of the nightingale
            in Berkeley Square

Today I will pamper my skin
            whisper under my breath
that everything
            is going to be all right
Years ago a man stood
            on a street corner
in Portobello Road
            and his dreadlocks swayed
as Bob Marley blared
            from the speakers
and on that day
            there was a smile
on the world’s face
            and everything
was all right

1 December 2015

John Lyons

 

Oxford days

irlandesuk poetry ,
Quad
Magdalen College

Oxford days

What are years
       and days and hours
as you stroll hand-in-hand
       through the streets of Oxford
on a late November Sunday ?
       What is history
and education and knowledge
       and where will it all end ?
Humanity is in the earth
       and it rises and falls
with the generations
       in the spice of summer
and the shiver of winter
       in the shimmer of ice
in the gutter

She of the stars
       and he of the stars both
washed up from Ireland
       both longing
for the red ripeness of love
       Rose and wisteria
and hydrangea in the quad
       in Magdalen College
and tight tiny buds
       already formed on many
of the trees and bushes
       in Addison’s Walk
Nature is conserving
       it resources
silently rearming
       in preparation
for the spring offensive
       when explosions
of leaf and flower
       will reassert its authority
over the territory

We are self-made
       and out of the earth
and out of love
       ambassadors
of heavenly bodies
       who admire the deer
as they carelessly
       stare back at us
species under the same spell
       of carbon and oxygen

And time —
       what of time
in the grand scheme ?
        Time is the quarry of passion
and dust is the only secret

John Lyons

 

Albert: a deafness not of hearing

irlandesuk poetry ,

Albert: a deafness not of hearing

In a little village of the Midi
you can see an old man, in his eighties,
confined to short walks with the aid of a stick,
taking regular gasps of breath as he proceeds,
like a champion swimmer ready to touch home
              after a gruelling race.
Test him in English as though he were Winston Churchill
he has Churchill’s physique
his baldness and gruff voice.
He will reply in tones that remind you of Churchill,
a thirties’ English which he learnt in the thirties
                       in England.
He will tell you perhaps
         of the young schoolmistress
who fell in love with him
                but he had come to England
to learn English, not to fall in love.
He will probably tell you of his visits
                                        to Speakers’ Corner
in Hyde Park where every cause of the day could be aired.
Then the years in Paris teaching English
                                                         and Spanish
but mainly teaching English to arrogant
young Frenchmen who felt so superior
although no Speakers Corner existed in France.
A career of antagonism, bearbaiting
             (there was something
                                       of the bear about him)
terminating
              in retirement and
                                       depression.
As if wishing to defy his countrymen
he reads his favourite novelist
           Balzac
                     translated into Italian
the young man at Speakers’ Corner
                                                       depression
the depleted library, half the books
thrown away in a fit of gloom, given to his housekeeper
to be burned with the rubbish, now regretted
                            done in depression.
Educated by accident; the Scottish woman who lost her wombripener
to German shells on the fields of Flanders, forced back
to this same village with three young sons; his nephews.
Learning English from her (till sixteen merely
passing exams through her – a shepherd)
leaving for Paris thanks to her
                                                  to begin,
                                                               or to end.
Notice finally his deafness, the left ear hoisted
into view, like the old trumpets, but serving
little purpose, little motivation to listen
except to his own voice,
       as he pours you a cognac,
                             a deafness bottled up and matured
a private delectation.

1977