poetry

Live and learn

irlandesuk poetry ,

boots

Live and learn

And so to Portobello Road
           for a new pair
of navy boots
           for the New Year
for the new life ahead
           the agony
while I break them in
           the ecstasy
once they’re broken
           Pop into García’s
for chorizo
           and black pudding
and notice that they also sell
           cured pork fatback
like Italian lardo
           and when I get it home
it tastes much the same
           a delicious silky sensation
on the tongue
           And so it goes on
and you live and learn
           some of the time

John Lyons

 

Came now to peace

irlandesuk art, poetry
north america
North America, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Came now to peace

Came now to peace
           the darkness
and the silence
           before the light
before the day broke
           Heard foxes in retreat
the first cries of the pigeons
           Heard the crows
scampering across the roof
           all this
before the local world awoke
           before the buzz of traffic
in the distance
           Peace in the darkness
and in the silence
           alone with my thoughts
before the turbulence
           of the day
nursing memories
           mindful of the blessings
I have received
           the love that came and went
but that was for a while
           worth living for

John Lyons

Fields of gold

irlandesuk art, poetry ,
yellow
Yellow, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Fields of gold

I shall set this yellow canvas
           aside for a while
and wait to see
           what might grow in it
in the imagination
           Yellow the colour of
joy and energy and loyalty
           of intellect and fresh hope
of the wheat fields
           on the foothills
around Arles
           or the sunflowers
that Vincent so lovingly 
           painted with his life
the sky above him
           a chrome yellow
almost as bright
           as the sun itself

John Lyons

 

What do we know

irlandesuk poetry

What do we know

What do we know
           of ourselves
much less of others
           when words come
so easily
           but not at the speed of light
nor the speed of thought
           and feelings have no speed

Who really means love
           when they say it
and do they even know
           or is it merely an illusion
clung to
           to provide some shape
the shape of a rose
           for example
or of a diamond ring
           or of a home

In return for love
           came small change
a petty meanness
           of self-assertion
such that old bones tremble
           as blackness seeps back
into the blood
           and silence prevails

Honesty there was
           for a while
in the eye
           now stone cold
What I longed for
           was love at the speed of life
and memories
           not condemned to pass
like the breath of time
           footsteps that counted
for something more
           than idle words

John Lyons

 

Ode in A minor

irlandesuk poetry

Ode in A minor

Bare winter time
           dark barren skies
a city out of tune
           with the stars

None prepared to pay
           the price of light
or of love
           The old narratives

done to death
           Where is there
a vision
           to cut through

the drudgery ?
           the years
of hollow living
           and empty promise ?

Love
           is our birthright
betrayal
           the most heinous

of crimes
           All things end
except love
           God preserve

John Lyons

 

Going down of the sun

irlandesuk poetry

Going down of the sun

Sitting alone by the creek
           the sun still shining
a fresh wind blowing
           the grass and trees
looking their best
           every shade of green
the shadows and the half-shadows
           the dappling glimpses of the water

The wild note of a quail near by
           the quiver of leaf-shadows
over the pages as I read
           the sky aloft with white clouds

And now the sun
           going down in the west
the fragrance of oak and cedar
           light on the air
the inherent beauty
           of all that is

John Lyons

On Hampstead Heath

irlandesuk poetry

On Hampstead Heath

The beauty of light
           or of a single solitary
colour that flames
           in the eye
rose or daffodil
           under a blue-grey sky

and the gleaming scales
           of a salmon moving
through the still waters
           a shadow among shadows

crocuses and snowdrops
           in the lush green spaces
between the thickets
           of ancient woodland
a natural Jackson Pollock
           with a loose hand
broad sweeps of the brush
           and delicate dribbles of detail
the texture of love
           at the tips of one’s fingers
beauty infused
           with warm breath

Hampstead where Keats once lived
           alive with the sound of barking dogs
and the cries of children playing
           kites hovering above the trees
and the coming and going
           of generation after generation
we who inherit the earth
           and marvel at clusters of birth
maturity and decay
           the known feelings that we share
the sight and sound of love
           and the silence that dwells within

John Lyons

A song for January

irlandesuk poetry

A song for January

Handsome blood formed in the womb
           with accurate eye seeks to bond
with impeccable scruple
           Fresh from the toil of night
they shift into the morning rhythms
           bold rise of sun and bird song
and all objective freshness :
           he delights in the intimate intricacy
of her beauty and raises fingers
           five to her lips
caresses the structure
           of her warm being and makes
of each gesture an annunciation
           love held in the palm of his hand

Beauty and light are but the variations
           of this truth illuminated
in the complexities of her skin
           This we might call the earth dance
the conjoining of destinies
           tender bones bound at the hip
gentle waves of universe that flow
           from one to the other
and the soft satin glow
           of their articulate joy

John Lyons

 

Engima variations

irlandesuk poetry ,

Engima variations

What lies at the heart of love
           variations of the enigma
what draws one to another
           deeply and in constancy
It’s neither a word
           nor a series of words
but a manner of being
           just as a rose is what it is
and we know it instantly
           so too love is apprehended
in its existence
           It is not an appetite
nor a dream but as real
           as the rose or the waters
that rise upriver
           in the Vale of Avoca
a multicoloured raiment
           spun from the purest silk

John Lyons

Happy 2019

irlandesuk poetry

Happy 2019

And so to begin again
           yearly and dearly
I shall marshal my resources
           and keep faith with the first duty
which is to defend the small truths
           against those woeful follies and fantasies
that would corrode and eat away
           the body politic

The daily bric-a-brac I shall
           leave behind me
and grieve not one iota
           over the ashes of it
so long as I walk the face
           of this fertile earth

I shall be the flesh and bone
           of my better self
and simply dare to do and be
           and love where love wills life
and wed my good blood
           to all that is deserving of me

John Lyons