Down by Putney Bridge
slow day descending
into darkness –
river high
but not unduly
temperature falling
but not that cold –
late joggers
back and forth
ducks and geese
on the causeway –
first lights of evening
I watch the waters flow
I think of you
your one betrayal
after another
John Lyons
Words are not love
just as leaves
are not autumn
dismissive gestures
and empty smiles
as the questions
tumble one by one
between your world
and my world
there is a world
of a difference
I too have crossed
Brooklyn Bridge
in the blazing heat
of a distant summer
dust upon my shoes
and city grime
etched into my collar
you were a shape once
you were a sense
you were a direction
full of promise
now nothing but words
sounds corralled
into a meaningless grid
of petrified ambition
John Lyons
Parksville NY, John Lyons (30 x 25 cm, oil on canvas)
Just after the dawn dust
had settled
after the larks had risen
into the vacant sky
I chanced upon
this fork in the road
a yellow wheat field
and in the distance
the deep dense green
of ancient woodland
and who knows
where a road might lead
or what awaits us in our day-to-day
as we make our way
along paths known or unknown
how for better or worse
a random choice may change
a life forever
John Lyons
Text revised
How he describes her
her easy allure
a truth to go to
each day
Stability and assurance
in all weathers the same
judiciously loving
in her own way
birdsong at dawn
and owls at play
in the silence
of night rapture
doubtless boundless love :
and true to her word
long may her chosen
stars hold sway
John Lyons
Nothing changes
from generation
to generation
but the thing seen
and that makes
composition
writing and painting
are like that in that
what is observed
whether internally
or externally
provides the material
necessary to live
as an outlaw
in defiance of rules
and totally open
to the unexpected
that is why lovers
are always ahead
of their time
because they create
something entirely new
a bond composed
of myriads of affinities
alongside refreshing
disparities—
love like that
is always beginning
is never ending
is a fount of constant
innovation and harmonious
consolidation
art poetry and love
are the natural trinity
in which beauty and truth
are enshrined
John Lyons
And so to Deptford
to St Paul’s
where death lies buried
in the empty grounds
where fresh-blown roses
are washed in the dew
petals gone in a final gasp
to dust
In the broken darkness
the birds fly silently
from oak to ash to sycamore
and strands of light
filter through the dying leaves
Here we remember
her silken hair
her rosy lips
the shape of her smile
the taste of her kiss
her gentleness of voice
What lies here
under the earth
is love and beauty
held on a threshold
by the edge of the creek
the ash of stardust
awaiting resurrection
Here lie the remains
of sweet young lovers
laid bone to bone
in everlasting embrace
in the darkness
while all around them
the swirl of autumn light
the frail dust
of day-to-day debris
piled high in the gutters
and — long forgotten
the ghost of silenced voices
never to be heard again
John Lyons
St Paul’s in Deptford is a Grade 1 Listed Building designed by the architect Thomas Archer, dating from 1730. It is one of the places of worship built following the 1711 Act for building new churches in London and its suburbs. These are generally known as the Queen Anne churches. The poet, John Betjeman, described St Paul’s as “a pearl at the heart of Deptford”, and it is indeed a remarkable and important example of English Italianate Baroque.
Thomas Archer was specifically influenced by two churches in the Historic Centre of Rome: the interior, by Francesco Borromini’s restyling of S. Agnese in Agone, Piazza Navona using Corinthian pillars, 1653 onwards, and the portico by the semi-circular porch of S. Maria della Pace, (which is just off the Piazza Navona) by Pietro da Cortona, constructed 1656-1661.
A note on Deptford to place St Paul’s in its context: The deep ford which gave Deptford its name crossed the River Ravensbourne at what is now Deptford Bridge. It was on the ancient road from London to Canterbury and Dover, and Deptford is mentioned in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. One part of Deptford grew up here, beside the ford and the later bridge. The other part was the fishing village beside the Thames called Deptford Strand. There were fields between the two settlements until the nineteenth century.
In 1513 Henry VIII founded a dockyard at Deptford to build ships for the Royal Navy. In the eighteenth century a Victualling Yard was established alongside, where ships stores and provisions were assembled. The Dockyard closed in 1869.
After use as a cattle market and in other military and industrial capacities, the area is now being redeveloped for housing. The Victualling Yard remained until 1961. Its site is now occupied by the Pepys Estate. Samuel Pepys often visited the Dockyard when he was Clerk to the Navy Board, and his friend and fellow-diarist John Evelyn lived here, in the manor house called Sayes Court.
In this big house that nobody knows
With its façade, its walls caught
Between stone and human existence,
With the air that envelops it and always about to pulsate
With its secret life that makes a window rattle
Or rather showers it with tears,
In this big house a lamp shines day and night
It shines for no one
As though the Earth were uninhabited
Or as though hope had already withdrawn from the world.
And when I attempt to dash to catch the light
My legs go awry beneath me
And for an instant my heart
glimpses glacial eternity.
But perhaps one day the lamp
Constrained to move as when ice melts
Will spontaneously approach me to shine and reveal
Its colour to my soul
Its ardour to my spirit
And their true shape.
Meanwhile I must live without glooming about such gloom.
What’s called noise elsewhere
Is nothing but silence here,
What’s called movement
Is a heart’s patience,
What’s called truth
A man chained to his body,
And what we call tenderness
Ah! what would you have it be?
Jules Supervielle
Translation by John Lyons
Jules Supervielle (1884-1960) was born into a French-Basque family living in Uruguay. Aged ten, he was sent to Paris, where he completed his education at the Sorbonne. For the rest of his life, he divided his time between Uruguay and France. He was friends with André Gide, Paul Valéry and Jacques Rivière, and in 1923, he met the Austrian poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, a crucial influence on his later work.
Memory of fish in deep coves,
What can I do here with your slow memories,
I know nothing about you except a little foam and shade
And that one day, like me, you’ll have to die.
So why do you come to question my dreams
As if I could be of help to you?
Go out to sea, leave me on my dry land,
We weren’t made to share our days.
Jules Supervielle
(translation by John Lyons)
Mémoire des poissons dans les criques profondes,
Que puis-je faire ici de vos lents souvenirs,
Je ne sais rien de vous qu’un peu d’écume et d’ombre
Et qu’un jour, comme moi, il vous faudra mourir.
Alors que venez-vous interroger mes rêves
Comme si je pouvais vous être de secours?
Allez en mer, laissez-moi sur ma terre sèche,
Nous ne sommes pas faits pour mélanger nos jours.
See also I dream you from afar.
A light blue and a dark blue
and a faded pink
what do they make ?
An arrangement of shapes
suggestive of other shapes
an odd kind of ornament
There were swans on the Serpentine
on Monday resplendent in the sunlight
their plumage a deep titanium white
Swans are never careless
they know exactly what they are doing
at all times without fail
Most flowers have their season
but once they are cut
their days are numbered
So what is the lesson?
That some things last
and others do not ?
It’s hard to believe that the stars
are gliding through space
they seem so fixed in the heavens
Lovers who would be guided by their stars
can very often lose their path
they must trim their sails to the cosmic wind
John Lyons
What burns
just below
the horizon
a palette
of mixed feelings
love in flames
in its purity
its sky-blue sky
against
an oxidised earth
where pristine rivers flow
where untamed oceans
beat against wild shores
where green pastures
stretch into long-ago years
upon the mountain roads
lined with gorse
and golden heather
that carry me down
to Dingle Bay
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 