Frank O’Hara

Conundrum

irlandesuk poetry ,

Conundrum

The thought occurs to me :
           would a bird want to be
a butterfly or vice versa ?
            How attractive
are the featherless
           paper-thin wings
how appealing
           the more robust plumage
: each to his own
           I suppose

Wallace Stevens was
           obsessed with numbers
John Ashbery can be
           a little snooty about some
of Frank O’Hara’s poetry
           but Frank’s verse
is so full of friends
           it’s like a party on a page
and Ashbery’s pales
           in comparison

Today the rain has returned
           and I observe
the drizzle’s delicate lament
           for lost time
for the sad poetry of our being
           for the exuberance of our love
lately so neglected
           and for so much
of our lives
           gone to waste

John Lyons

Untitled Willem De Kooning

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De Kooning.jpg
Untitled, Willem de Kooning (1958)

Untitled Willem de Kooning

Do you see what I see
           notes for a landscape
a shore and a beach
           and a river and a sky
a path to enlightenment
           a horizon viewed
from a cliff top
           waves perceptible
in the brushstrokes
           mimicking the tensions
in the earth’s crust
           and in all our relationships
abstract cartography
           of the soul

it took a human body
           to paint this
to select the colours
           and to control the brush
it took human energy
           to express this to execute this
rather than accept
           the docility of a pacified
environment in which nature
           sits tamely on a canvas

I came here scriptless
           Willem and I searched high
and low for love
           I am an accident of birth
whatever is concealed
           in this composition
will be revealed in due course
           at its heart is the illumination
of sunlight and a brightness
           that never fades
the joy we associate
           with the loving application
of human vitality
           everywhere apparent
the long sinews
           of genitive muscle

it could be a walk
           on a Sunday afternoon
or a three-penny opera
           in which we all appear
and notice a perfectly positioned
           pinmark in each of the corners
no abstract could ever be
           so inexhaustibly
calculated which is why
           I am not a painter

John Lyons

Painting observed on 10 February 2017 during a visit to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice. Click here for an appraisal of this work.

After Pierre Reverdy

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pierre-reverdy
Reverdy, by Modigliani (1915)

Pierre Reverdy (1889 –1960) was a French poet whose works fed into the art movements of his day, Surrealism, Dadaism and Cubism.

He also had an enduring relationship with Coco Chanel. Reverdy’s poetry was revered by Frank O’Hara and John Ashbery, both of whom were translators of his work.

After Pierre Reverdy

Who knows where time will end
         nor the long night of betrayal
as when the morning comes
         and one has not slept
as when arctic winds
         sweep down
to efface all passion
         and cool the blood of desire
as when reason
         stiffens into ice

See how the dead stars
         veer in the black sky
and we reach for our souls
         but we have lost
all sense of distance

In the present debacle
         even a fool can be a king
many are
         and soulless
we have become detached
         from the memory of those beauties
that once nourished our dreams

Life consumes us
         day by day
it gnaws at our flesh
         until our muscles grow slack
and we mutter
         heavenless prayers
as slowly we sink deeper
         into the damp clay
whence we sprang

He who loved wisely
         he who loved well
may yet have the last laugh
         but make no mistake
the rest are all damned
         to eternity

John Lyons

Icon

irlandesuk poetry ,

Icon

A steel foot planted in Manhattan
         with cables that touched
the feet of the stars
         a vehicle and a machine
a radio voice
         amid the thrum of aviation
a steel paw
         built of earth bone
and Rosendale cement
         a choir of strings
plucked in the night

Adjusting the collar of his shirt
         in 1925 Mayakovsky sauntered
across the bridge
         composing as he went
his poem
         syllable by syllable
longing for the catastrophe
         of his personality
to seem interesting
         and beautiful and modern again
and through the eventual
         dust of destruction
he recognised the structure’s
         immortality
the rattling of trains
         the hardship and height
of the stifling city
         and Frank O’Hara
would have lived forever
         had he not died

John Lyons