poetry

Pale rags of cloud

irlandesuk poetry

Pale rags of cloud
       sweep across
the pale morning sky
       pearl grey day
yet to be infused
       with light

A single magpie
       waits for others
to join it in its play
       in the background
the desultory song
       of thrush and robin

my mind a haze
       of broken dreams
a spidery web
       of disconnected
thoughts and feelings

In all these years
       the ragged elms
have barely changed
       those that witnessed
my birth : from winter frosts
       to summer storms
they’ve weathered it all

Time stretches out
       its ragged horizon
: roses and daffodils
       and autumn leaves
the measure of me
       love another — times
I met a fair wind
       and a warm heart

John Lyons

When calm and quiet

irlandesuk poetry

When calm and quiet
I step into the past
Childhood is as
Another room
Open the door
Cross the threshold
On gentle tiptoes

Watch the characters
Interact as through
A curtain as light
As a butterfly wing

They make you laugh
Sometimes cry
Always longing for
A glance
A gentle touch
A nod of acknowledgement

A brief respite from
What is today
What has to be
Faced, dealt with
Fixed
Renewed, refreshed
To go on.

Molly Rosenberg

How gently she moves

irlandesuk poetry

How gently she moves
       through my mind
an image without words
       a fleeting presence
and how the quiet returns
       in moments of respite

Who among us
       has never loved in vain
has never fought
       for a cause that was
doomed to failure or turned
       an eager hand
for it to come
       to naught

But there is no pain
       in the imagining
or when we shake down
       the dust of distant days
Our dreams our hopes
       wind in circles that recur

old tunes rattled out
       on an ageing gramophone
the long-legged flies
       that scuttled across
the shallow pond’s
       smooth summer surface

our lives a convoluted
       race against time
and all the while obsessed
       with truth and beauty
a lonely face that flashed
       before my eyes
a whisper barely heard
       before it dies

John Lyons

Love’s complaint

irlandesuk poetry , , ,

Upon Troy’s battlements

I will not say
       that the cards dealt
were marked
       or that such were
the merciless stars
       that shone upon
those dark nights
       when I struggled
to find my path
       my soul

in the stillness
       in the morning silence
broken only
       by voice of thrush
and sparrow and
       cooing dove
I stand by my choices
       and the consequences
thereof
       and look to the future
my body yet to collapse
       into wrack and ruin
my desire to love
       and be loved intact

Today I hold
       my hand to the fire
hell has no mysteries
       it is heaven that eludes
or provokes with promises
       of rude passion to tempt
our tender flesh
       into submission
or beguiles us with
       crude images of beauties
that stalk the flaming
       battlements of Troy

John Lyons

Love be brief

irlandesuk art, poetry , ,

minimum

History – dead time
       a past buried
in a chromatic wilderness
       a burnt match floating
in a greasy pool
       of rainwater
an old hair
       on an old pillow case

Be minimum
       with your words
in your actions
       resolve to move forward
to write new texts
       in a world
of warmth and affection
       the past is scribble
of fret and fear and fate
       beyond absolution

Be minimum
       cut to the quick
courage and conviction –
       angels will appear
on the edge of night
       by day they will mingle
with crows and sparrows
       foxes will pay allegiance

She who is not worthy
       will lose her way
be lost forever –
       exercise discretion
: in the forgetting
       there is forgiveness –
be minimum
       say no more

John Lyons

The rest is silence

irlandesuk art, poésie, poetry , ,

lascaux

As the fire blazed
       in the mouth of the cave
pigments were mixed
       and applied to the walls
the deer and antelope admired
       and keenly observed
and hunted for food
       : art in order to render
their deep respect for
       this source of life

that others might know
       their story
their values
       the word inseparable
from the deed
       an imagist language
a timeless articulation
       in time and space

John Lyons

Le reste est silence

Alors que le feu flambait
       dans l’embouchure de la grotte
les pigments ont été mélangés
       et appliqués sur les murs
le cerf et l’antilope admirés
       et vivement observés
et chassés pour se nourrir
       : l’art pour rendre
leur profond respect pour
       cette source de vie

que d’autres puissent savoir
       de leur histoire
de leurs valeurs
       le mot inséparable
de l’acte
       un langage imagiste
une articulation intemporelle
       dans le temps et dans l’espace

The road to love

irlandesuk art, poetry

parkville2
                       Parksville, N.Y. revisited, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

A life is a shape
       of sorts
a series of directions
       a series of choices
a series of decisions
       which we sometimes
take for granted
       or to which we pay
less than sufficient
       attention

A fork in the road
       an option or dilemma
it can puzzle us
       unless we know
where we are heading
       what life lies ahead
the road to heaven
       the road to hell
the road to nowhere
       the road to love ?

John Lyons

On the cutting room floor

irlandesuk art, poetry

  news1                       The cutting room floor, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, mixed media on canvas)

Think of the canvas
       as a board
as a Shakespearean stage
       imagine who treads here
Lear or Hamlet or Othello
       Ophelia or Desdemona

words words words
       cut up and thrown
haphazardly as though
       chance were a fine thing
all of this scissored
       out of yesterday’s news
present states
       relentlessly slipping
into the past
       make no bones about it

whether it were better
       or nobler in the mind
enough drama to last us
       a lifetime or more
decisions decisions
       that the artist must take
much editing to be done
       only twenty-four hours
before it’s time to sweep
       the cutting room floor

John Lyons