Guatemala

In the Guatemalan forest

irlandesuk poésie, poetry ,

The quetzal in the rain forest
sings for its own delight
It knows nothing
of the sacred ceremonies
based around its vibrant
red and green plumage
its long flowing tail feathers
mimicked in the priests robes
It knows nothing of the arrival
of the Spanish nor the devastation
that accompanied them
It feeds largely on fruit and small
grubs and insects and both
the male and the female
incubate the eggs 
The wind moves slowly through
the branches  The quetzal attends
to its own business – nothing more

John Lyons

Dans la forêt guatémaltèque

Le quetzal dans la forêt tropicale
chante pour son propre plaisir
Il ne sait rien des cérémonies sacrées
basées sur son vibrant plumage
rouge et vert, ses longues plumes
de queue flottantes imitées
dans les robes des prêtres
Il ne sait rien de l’arrivée des Espagnols
ni de la dévastation
qui les a accompagnés
Il se nourrit principalement de fruits
et de petits larves et d’insectes
et le mâle et la femelle couvent les œufs
Le vent se déplace lentement
à travers les branches  Le quetzal s’occupe
de ses propres affaires – rien de plus

A new knowledge

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Tikal

                     It was like
                    A new knowledge of reality.
                                                     Wallace Stevens

As evening falls,
    so too, the relentless rain, the air
        dense with the stench of rotting
    vegetation. I am typing a letter to
        myself and there are children all

around me,
    curious to see the neat rows of black letters
        appear on the crisp white paper. So few
    typewriters make it to the forest depths.
        The rain does not ease and I’m

sitting now
    in the restaurant run by an elderly Chinaman
        who is desperate to buy my wristwatch.
    There are candles on the tables and they
        splutter and die as clouds of termites

envelope them:
    they are relit and die again, charred termites
        trapped in the smouldering wax. It is almost
    impossible to talk through these flurries of insects
        that find their way into ears and mouths

and nostrils.
    Mortality borne on frail white wings. An ancient
        city quarried from limestone lies now in ruins.
    a place of visitation rather than a centre of celebration.
        The Mayan time wheel halted in its tracks.

At dawn
    the mists rise above the temple pyramids, monkeys
        haul themselves over dilapidated walls, and deer
    and tapirs roam freely; wild turkeys scavenge
        in the undergrowth, unperturbed by the raucous

caw of toucans
    and parrots in the branches above. No human
        prayer will bring this city back to life.
    Nature has regained control: or rather, one life has
       surrendered to another in all its tacit mystery.

14 October 2004

John Lyons

Drawn to the light

irlandesuk poetry ,

At night in the forest in Tikal
        when it rained, clouds of termites
took shelter in our huts : we had
        only candlelight and the insects
blinded by its heartless beauty swirled
        around the flaming wicks

Some of these frail creatures
        with their long thin paper wings
were instantly singed, and dropped
        helplessly onto the table
while others self-immolating
        were burnt almost to a cinder
as they smothered
        the murderous flame

and in the darkness
        in the silence, the dense
whirling cloud flew off
        leaving the charred remains
of their dead in the cold
        congealed wax

John Lyons

Tikal remembered

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Tikal remembered

Those sultry nights I slept
           in the rain forest in Tikal
lying in a hammock
           watching the fireflies flit
back and forth
           listening to the owls
I would think of the temples
           I had explored during the day
and how the forest
           had closed in on the past
and regained its territory
           how everywhere
the thick roots of plants
           were prizing the stonework
apart causing the masonry
           to crumble 
mostly reducing the once proud city
           to rubble

and through
           the frail morning mists
deer and monkeys could seen
           roaming the grounds
at the base of the great pyramid
           indifferent to the sculpted
limestone stelae upon which
           the Mayans had recorded
pivotal moments from their history
           : and at night lying
in the hammock
           I remember asking myself
what I was doing
           so far from home and love
and whose history
           was I really exploring

John Lyons

Words from a photo

irlandesuk poetry ,

Words from a photo

Memory that pulls a moment from the past
a sensation a scent or a taste perhaps a kiss

the gentle waters lapping on the shore
of Lake Atitlán and in the distance

the clear silhouette of three volcanoes
I’m wearing a straw hat bought

on the Day of the Dead in the Mexican city
of Cuernavaca and around my neck

a red bandanna : it was early morning
and the sunlight already fierce and

I was waiting for a launch to take me across
the lake to the foot of one of the volcanoes

at that point in time I had my whole life
ahead of me and everything seemed

to be right on track and as we crossed the lake
I leant over the side of the boat

and trailed my fingers in the calm waters
no thought of the love I had left behind

John Lyons