Erith

A winter’s day at Erith

irlandesuk poésie, poetry

The wooden jetty that gently slopes
into the river at Erith is covered
with the rising tide – uncovered
when the tide recedes

Midstream a black iron barge with
two cormorants perched on its prow
A cold blue winter’s day with sunlight
dappling the water’s silvery surface

They say that at last the salmon
have returned to spawn upriver
now that levels of pollution have dropped
Down by the deep wharf the remains

of stone age settlements have been found
reminding us of times before there was ever
a remembered past and life drifted on
at a leisurely pace and little ever changed

John Lyons

Un jour d’hiver à Erith

La jetée en bois qui descend en pente douce
vers la rivière à Erith est recouverte
par la marée montante, puis découverte
à marée descendante.

Au milieu du courant, une barge en fer noir
arbore deux cormorans perchés sur sa proue.
Une journée froide d’hiver, d’un bleu profond,
où le soleil fait scintiller la surface argentée de l’eau.

On dit qu’enfin, les saumons sont revenus
frayer en amont, maintenant que la pollution
a diminué. Près du quai profond,
des vestiges d’habitations

de l’âge de pierre ont été découverts, témoins
d’une époque antérieure à tout souvenir,
où la vie s’écoulait paisiblement
et où peu de choses changeaient.

A view of the Thames at Erith

irlandesuk poésie, poetry ,

A view of the Thames at Erith

The river of a time remembered
man-made – lined with cranes
and warehouses The bustling river
of commerce and prosperity
for some – the river of hard labour
of a time remembered – gone forever
This life – all of the sun’s making
A childhood schooled in time
in family and friends and the dream
of sustained love  The smooth flow
of waters that slowly become the sea
On the northern bank a landfill site
that has grown throughout my years
that has been landscaped and greened
and now encloses a multitude of sins
the detritus of human life no different
from the middens from prehistoric
periods of occupation as natural
as any hillside except for the absence
of trees and shrubs – a poverty of
intelligence where no shadow walks

John Lyons

Vue de la Tamise à Erith

Le fleuve d’une époque rémemorée,
façonné par l’homme, bordé de grues
et d’entrepôts. Le fleuve animé
du commerce et de la prospérité
pour certains, le fleuve du dur labeur
d’une époque révolue, à jamais disparue.
Cette vie, entièrement façonnée par le soleil.
Une enfance bercée par le temps,
la famille et les amis, et le rêve
d’un amour éternel. Le doux cours
des eaux qui deviennent lentement
la mer.  Sur la rive nord, une décharge
qui s’est étendue au fil des ans,
aménagée et verdie, et qui renferme
désormais une multitude de péchés,
les détritus de la vie humaine, semblables
aux amas coquilliers des périodes
préhistoriques d’occupation, aussi naturels
qu’une colline, si ce n’est l’absence
d’arbres et d’arbustes – une pauvreté
d’intelligence où aucune ombre ne rôde.

Believe in love

irlandesuk poésie, poetry , ,

In the distance the river
that runs down to the sea
Today it flows with a calm
majesty all of its own
I have spent my entire life
on the banks of these waters
The sloping wooden jetty
where as a youngster I chased
my brothers up and down
is still there at the place
where pilgrims once crossed
north to south in shallow boats
on their way to Canterbury
Last night the sky was ablaze
with pilgrim stars The universe
is on the move carrying us
God knows where  Believe
in love and you will be saved

John Lyons

Croyez en l’amour

Au loin, la rivière qui
se jette dans la mer.
Aujourd’hui, elle coule
avec une majesté calme
qui lui est propre.
J’ai passé toute ma vie
sur les rives de ces eaux.
La jetée de bois en pente douce
où, enfant, je poursuivais mes frères,
est toujours là, à l’endroit même
où les pèlerins jadis traversaient
du nord au sud dans des barques,
en route vers Canterbury.
Hier soir, le ciel s’embrasait
d’étoiles pèlerines. L’univers
est en mouvement, nous emportant
Dieu sait où. Croyez en l’amour
et vous serez sauvés. 

Down by the Thames

irlandesuk poetry ,

Down by the Thames

The flow of language
that runs down to silence
: the rivers that bury
themselves in the sea

just as today at Erith
Thames waters glide away
into the distance
out of my sight and mind

Farewell to the idea
to the passing moment
to the creatures that live
within beneath or above

these tidal reaches
to times marked
by the sun and the moon
A lone fisherman casts a line

into the deep unknown
What passion lurks
within his heart what loves
has he known and lost ?

His head is in his dreams
his hope in the bite of a fish
his life has brought him
to the pier where for a while

he will be

John Lyons

On Erith pier

irlandesuk poetry

On Erith pier

So I go and sit with my soul
           watch the clouds head east
see a flurry of white gulls
           begging for bread from a lady
who’s crumbling a loaf
           in a plastic bag
before hurling the pieces
           over the railings

All the while the river
           has its silence and I have mine
I note that the beauty of autumn
           rivals that of spring
the trees awash
           with radiant hues
of copper and gold
           and I nurse the notion
of changing seasons
           praying only
that the season of love
           will soon return

John Lyons

 

How much more local

irlandesuk poetry ,

How much more local

Life from breath to breath
           living on the spur of the moment
among roses and daffodils
           down by Erith Deep Wharf
the river’s ebb revealing
           the mudflats where long-legged
oyster-catchers and other waders
           eke out an existence
so much memory
           so much sunken time

so much change since I was a child
           the wooden jetties collapsed
replaced by the cold hard cement
           of progress and the dull hand
of municipal planning in which
           the imagination is forced
into a backseat or is totally costed
           out of the process
degenerate regeneration
           as though nobody was ever expected
to survive the onslaught
           all that corrodes
with no eye for beauty
           no ear for the truth
no rest for the innocent
           no life for lovers

John Lyons

 

In these cold waters

irlandesuk poetry , , , , ,

In these cold waters

Low mist lying across
           the Thames at Erith
a wide stretch known
           to Daniel Defoe

no warmth in these waters
           where bream and perch
and pike and roach
           and rudd and carp
and gudgeon live out
           their cold-blooded lives

Between October and January
           salmon may be seen
heading upriver
           to Hampton Court
and rainbow trout
           are known to spawn
in the Wandle
           at Croydon

A Siberian sturgeon
           that had lost its way
was once caught
           at Dartford provoking
rare excitement
           among devotees

John Lyons

Erith

irlandesuk poetry

A few words for a cold Sunday morning. Poetry is in the rhythm as it is in the wind, in the coalescence or energies that keep the world warm and alive on this frosty morning. The silence of meditation, the white canvas across the land. On days such as these we search for warmth. We wrap up well in our coats or lie longer in bed under the covers. But whether at home or out and about, what we seek is human warmth, a smile, a hand held, a kiss, the clench of love, anything to remind us that this too will pass, that the cold season will shift into spring and on into summer and that patience will get us through these challenging times.

Poetry is in the steps that words take, how they move through the mind at a trot, or flow smoothly like a river or rush over a wintry weir, driven always by the passion for life and by the sustaining energies that come directly from the sun. November. The month of remembrance and of memory, of those who are in the cold cold ground, of those who move warmly above it. Memory, the living gallery of moments and places and feelings and faces and sensations and hopes and dreams and love. 

Erith

From Holly Hill to the river’s edge
           a chill November day
with an icy wind
           soughing among the alders
and the damp chrysanthemum petals
           blown about the garden-ways
beneath a low grey sky

Lassitude
           languor,
                      a sluggish tide
slapping the charred beams
           of the abandoned jetty
           the air thick with decay
                      and obsolescence

The future too has its backwaters
           where light will gather in
dark pools of neglect
           who bathes in these waters
may be lost
                      lost forever