The smile of hours
the fresh fragrance
of ancient woodland
foxes and squirrels
about their business
as though the world
did not exist
or as though theirs
was the only world :
crows and magpies
looking down
on sparrows –
and delicate wild flowers
in the meadows
My boots damp
from the morning dew
an expectancy in the air
everything
you name it
about to happen
John Lyons
Again I ask
how many dawns ?
I wake to rain
pelting the roof tiles
to a dawn chorus
sung slightly off-key
to a damp world
and the muffled sound
of trains rattling
through the distance
We all have places to go
and places to stay
and bridges to cross
before we put the past
behind us and seek
to atone
for all the errors
all the mistakes
Only in the immaculate darkness
do the stars shine
and last night before I slept
I counted them and felt
at peace with their pulse
running through me :
imperfect though we are
they are there to guide us
to fill us with a necessary
sense of purpose – namely
to make love and in so doing
to shine
John Lyons
History – dead time
a past buried
in a chromatic wilderness
a burnt match floating
in a greasy pool
of rainwater
an old hair
on an old pillow case
Be minimum
with your words
in your actions
resolve to move forward
to write new texts
in a world
of warmth and affection
the past is scribble
of fret and fear and fate
beyond absolution
Be minimum
cut to the quick
courage and conviction –
angels will appear
on the edge of night
by day they will mingle
with crows and sparrows
foxes will pay allegiance
She who is not worthy
will lose her way
be lost forever –
exercise discretion
: in the forgetting
there is forgiveness –
be minimum
say no more
John Lyons
How many dawns
how many bridges
draped in mist
how many gulls
gliding namelessly
through the air
how many thoughts
and hopes
and expectations
as the sun rises
into a panoramic
crimson sky
Soon cinematic streets
will fill with purpose
the bustle of daily life
the wheeling and dealing
of commerce and work
as across London Bridge
a speechless caravan
of souls drifts towards
offices set in towering
structures
of steel and glass
and from their windows
the idly occupied will gaze
down into the streets
and dream of love
as the hours leak away
How many dawns
how many bridges
John Lyons
And again we ask
how many dawns
and what lasts
unbroken
on the wheel of time
what is built to last
a bridge or a cathedral
or a castle in the sky
yet what outlasts them all
is the word
Even though the language dies
the words remain
intact somewhere
in the collective mind
What lasts
is what returns
time and time again
promises and vows
and declarations
of love
its ebb and flow
amid the light
and the darkness
Love lasts
love the word
verb and noun
the love forever
on lovers’ lips
John Lyons
Anonymous moon
half-moon
globe of dust
and dreams
and measurement
of my life
Sleepless moon
empty of promise
empty of time
empty of love
Tunes played
on a fractured harp
amid the mist
and at times frost
But for your breath
I would be cold stone
But for your palpable breath
I would not be
John Lyons
Anonymer Mond
Halbmond
Kugel aus Staub
und Träumen
und Messung
meines Lebens
Schlafloser Mond
leer von Versprechen
zeitlos
leer von Liebe
Melodien gespielt
auf einer gebrochenen Harfe
inmitten des Nebels
und manchmal Frost
Ohne deinen Atem
wäre ich ein kalter Stein
Ohne deinen fühlbaren Atem
ich würde nicht sein
(German version by John Lyons)
How many dawns
did we wake to sunshine
and to the chill fresh air
down by the river
In my thoughts
you are everywhere
you are your very likeness
but there is within you
a hidden voice that is distracted
that reaches for words
but cannot find them
Love you say
flies on faded wings
it has no meaning
once you surrender
to your mirrored fate
and so your heart tears
into thin strips
the linen of your soul
rent to tatters
The bridge was a monument
to tenderness
to boldness
a place to defend
with your life
should you so desire
but in darkness you prefer
to fritter away your tears
and to make your mouth
absent from mine
And so silence
that arises from the calm
slop of sleep
and caprice has done
your destiny to death
in dishonoured time
So be it
loveless there is no joy
indecisive
you serve no one
not even yourself
and all that you have
to give and to share
goes unspent
John Lyons
I am told that this section
of Brooklyn Heights
is very much like London
Certainly it is very quiet and charming,
with its many old houses
all a little different
and with occasional trees
jutting up an early green
through the pavements
I have just come back from breakfast
and saw some tulips
dotting the edge of one of several
beautiful garden patches
that edge the embankment
that leads down to the river.
It certainly is refreshing
to live in such a neighborhood
and even though I should not succeed
in acquiring a room that actually
commands the harbor view
I think I shall always want to live
in this section anyway
A friend who has such a back room
in this house has invited me
to use his room whenever he is out
and the other evening
the view from his window
was one never to be forgotten
Every time one looks at the harbor
and the NY skyline across the river
it is quite different and the range
of atmospheric effects is endless
But at twilight on a foggy evening
such as it was at this time
it is beyond description.
Gradually the lights
in the enormously tall buildings
begin to flicker through the mist
There was a great cloud
enveloping the top
of the Woolworth tower
while below in the river
were streaming reflections
of myriad lights
continually being crossed
by the twinkling mast and deck lights
of little tugs scudding along
freight rafts and occasional liners
starting outward
Look far to your left
toward Staten Island and there
is the Statue of Liberty
with that remarkable lamp of hers
that makes her seen for miles
And up at the right
Brooklyn Bridge
the most superb piece of construction
in the modern world I’m sure,
with strings of light crossing it
like glowing worms
as the L’s and surface cars
pass each other
going and coming
And I have been able
to give rein to freedom and life
which was acknowledged
in the ecstasy
of walking hand in hand
across the most beautiful bridge
in the world
the cables enclosing us
and pulling us upward
in such a dance
as I have never walked
and never can walk
with another—
and you will see
from my address
that I am living
in the shadow
of that bridge
It’s so quiet here
a moment of communion
where the edge of the bridge
leaps over the edge of the street
In the evening darkness
of its shadow I began
the last verse of that poem
In the realm of fact
the poet utters
syllables of faith
dream cancels dream
A new breed of towers
in the golden city :
here is no empire
but labyrinth
into which life strays
Here he in her arms
lived the blind
ecstasy of love and read
the prophetic script
of the stars that dangled
above the bridge
Each day is a new universe
the past trashed in time
Behold a fresh panorama
arises out of the debris
of unbridled tides
the low song of the cormorant
that devours space
with every beat of its wings
A thousand ships or more
in days long gone
and destinies beyond
the circumference of hope
These are words
lines from a canto
rife with doom
sad infinities
taken to task
A poet on patrol
records the strength and path
of the prevailing wind
Eden and Hesperus
for the cultivation
of beauty and truth
Beware of the slow
cancellation of ambition
we are but clouds of atoms
the loose association
of minerals born of the earth :
even the rose
has greater definition
than our sluggish shadows
It is a windswept stage
upon which we wake
into the dream of act
our words fly up
dust within a shroud
of dust and
O how our sinews ache
how love’s great muscle
dilates and contracts
sending pulses
of pleasure
through our veins
unknotting the hours
of unrepentant attrition :
a coil or contraption
that fires and then reloads
and fires again
until every hope is finally
finally spent
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 