Willem de Kooning, Summer Couch, 1943
You get the picture
it’s a shut-in weekend
pale drizzle out on the streets
and Frank is home relaxing
after a hard few days
at the museum office
and he’s listening
to Grieg and to Prokofiev
to relieve those feeling-
sorry-for-oneself feelings
and he’s dreaming
of the painting
Dutch Willem de Kooning
has promised him
and because he’s Dutch
it has an orange bed in it
and Frank muses that it’s
more than the ear can hold
John Lyons
A bad marriage, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)
There are no abstracts
I paint what I see
sometimes what I see
in the paintings of others
There are no sardines
nor were there ever
but what looks like
some sort of seafood
though there is no blue
nor water no shade of sky
and the composition
is trapped within
a narrow palette
There is a continent
of white and a patch
of dark leather and yet
it amounts to nothing
that we can define
Words and colours
are poor relations
each one jostling
hopelessly
to out-express
the other
John Lyons
The painting illustrated is an unfaithful copy of a painting by William Scott (1913-1989) which can be viewed in Tate Britain.
Rainfall, John Lyons (70 x 50 cm, oil on canvas)
The rain perhaps
the rain as it used to rain
in my childhood
slow steady rain
an ablution of the earth
the damp air heavy
with the scent of soil
The rain perhaps
tiny droplets of memory
falling through the universe
and my mind wanders
to far forgotten places
and the faces
that I knew there
The rain perhaps
when we first built a shelter
and called it love
and we huddled there
together tightly and listened
to the rain and wind
and were content
The rain perhaps
that is neither a beginning
nor an end in itself
as though I had
always known you
always wanted you
forever in my life
John Lyons
General Sherman, NYC
So the weather takes a dip
the wind retrieves its bite
tears at the fresh spring leaves
gusts under the eaves
drives the rain hard
against the skylight
displacing the Saharan dust
that blew up days ago
Last night I counted the doors
featured in an Antonioni movie
Sometimes it’s meaningless
to watch films or to eat
or to drink coffee
out of a paper cup
This morning
I’m reading Frank’s poems
wondering about how many
daydreams I will see today
whether any of them
will notice my lavender lips
will talk to me
will listen to me
Tonight promises to be
a clear sky with stars :
nobody owns them
as far as I know
though I am tempted
to add the word yet
John Lyons
Covid-19, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, mixed media)
From newsprint
these flowers
standing in a vase
daubs of red paint
against a blue
background
How the eye
has its memory
plays tricks on us
creates a virtual
reality
fools us into thinking
fools us into feeling
Take a closer look
news of the pandemic
Covid-19 in faint type
and how the unconscious
brings colours
to the surface
creates unexpected
associations
and there is the light
reflected from the canvas
the bright cadmium hue
that captures today’s
glorious sunshine
tells of the happiness
in my heart
this art
this simple meditation
in times of emergency
is an agent of life
there is hope in shapes
cut with scissors
glued to a surface
that will hang forever
in my heart
John Lyons
I’ve been listening
to Charlie Parker
for most of my adult life
I never tire of the riffs
the sweet melodies
the effortlessly inventive energy
he applies to the saxophone
the awesome power of his breath
that lives on in the recordings :
masterworks indeed
Like the poetry
of Frank O’Hara
who is alive and well
in the Lunch Poems
his tone of voice too
captured for all time
in a poetry that positively
sings of friendship and love
‘My words are love’
Frank wrote
and Charlie might well have said
the same about his notes
Stepping away
from the world of work
Frank worked the world
into his verse
His poems – as with all art –
are affairs of the heart
John Lyons
I think how different
the world would be
if the gasmen
digging up the road
outside my house
had taken a vow of silence
But no – it’s early morning
and they gather
and their excited chatter
is as though
they had not seen
each other for years
The foreman arrives
at eight on the dot
and sets them to work
: only the drills and
the mechanical diggers
finally silence them
John Lyons
This has been a beautiful day
unbroken sunshine
and young families strolling
in the park and down by the river
and everyone subdued
and yet determined
to enjoy every minute
I walked past the magnolia
with its splendid votive blooms
and once again
heard the woodpecker
tapping to its own code
a day not to be deconstructed
but to be lived for the moment
I thought of Apollinaire
standing on the Mirabeau Bridge
watching as the waters passed
beneath him
I thought of Frank O’Hara
never one to be lost for words
I thought of all the love
that passes by and of the love
that alone endures
John Lyons
This is a quiet poem
: it’s New Year’s Day
and the streets are silent
the party’s over
the birds are relaxing
in their respective nests
there’s virtually no traffic
It’s as though
the previous twelve months
have been erased
the world is giving itself
a chance to freshen up
Lovers repeat their vows
their promises and stare
into each other’s eyes
It’s the newborn year
it doesn’t wish
to be disturbed
There are expectations
of peace and a resolution
to all conflicts
This is a quiet poem
and I’m sitting here
in Vienna awaiting
the orders that only I
can give myself
I love the sound
of certain voices
and their silence too
I love the gentleness
of the day and the ease
with which my lungs
fill with air and empty
each time I take
a deep breath
John Lyons
With corrections
I was born under my stars
you were born under yours
and though we share
the same universe
there are still silences between us
that stretch out across space
my quietness and yours
imponderable
as cracked autumn leaves
tumble through the galaxy
If we dig deep enough
we will hit upon
pockets of the past
your childhood and mine
our parents now long gone
dreams that are ripe
for resurrection
the lust for love
In Spitalfields market
I bought black leather gloves
to keep my fingers warm
those fingers
that know your body
so well
When you blush
your blood vessels fill with desire
I can read your face
like the back of my hand
Never forget that we share
the same minerals
nor that the shadows
that trailed behind us
on the edges of the Grand Canal
will be there for all eternity
I own the light in your eyes
just as you own the light in mine
: we are a constellation of two
our nights know no darkness
John Lyons
