More empty words

More empty words

A mind set in stone
            or cast in bronze
a monument
            to living breath
a form first caught
            in a sketch
in pencil
            or pen and ink

Shapes that engage
            the heart
and the memory
            of days
when we walked
            through these galleries
or when I held
            her warm hand in mine
and we were in love
            or so I thought

How solemnly the river flows
            tirelessly
past the Tower
            on these grey days
on these dark nights
            no stars to be seen

An empty sky

            an empty ocean
an empty heart full
            of empty words

John Lyons


Revised from a version posted earlier today

Sculpture

garden
Henry Moore

Sculpture

Beauty
in stone or metal
or wood or paper
bronze by gold
just as in skin
capturing
a quality of time
of space
of weight
and of balance
thrusting rhythms
with energies
that push outwards
that overcome fatigue
failure and collapse
so as to dynamically
unfold
in spacious time
and thus grow
exponentially
in the mind
Postures
rich in suggestion
that excite curiosity
and so well executed
that a rich dialogue
is engaged
thereby animating
the apparently
absurdly
inanimate

John Lyons

Moon Head

 

Moon Head 1964 Henry Moore OM, CH 1898-1986 Presented by the artist 1978 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/T02297
Henry Moore, Moon Head, 1964

 

 

Today’s poem, written this morning, was inspired by the eponymous sculpture by Henry Moore, contemplated during a visit to Tate Britain in Pimlico last Sunday. This relatively small piece, dating from 1964 and cast in bronze, is one of Moore’s most intimate and expressive sculptures. Its eloquent, wordless beauty, like that of any true classic, is inexhaustible.

 


Moon Head

The face has phases
       that ebb and flow
with the tides of time
       the soft sensuous bronze
of your face
       illuminated at the eyes
and the mouth :
       the smoothness of your skin
the modest inclination
       of the head poised
on the erect neck

The face has phases
       of intimate conversation
is locked in endless
       dialogue and through
a series of discreet whispers
       conveys confidentially
the irreducible delicacies of love
       Tough love
with its wisdoms that will outlive
       the futility of day-to-day
depradations

Here is a honeyed kiss
       cast in bronze
here at the point
       where lip and face
and panting breath
       interlock tenderly
here where beauty lies in
       the arms of the beholder

John Lyons


 

Hell freezing over. . . ?

herringSo did our blogsworth sit upon his crestfallen hands this sunny summer’s afternoon and pine away the hours with heavy heart? He did not. He lunched heartily upon herring in an exquisite mango and peppercorn sauce, with a side of lettuce firm to the bite and a modest helping of potatoes, fresh and tender on the palate. Whereupon with feet shod in his dear DMs, he capered down to the tracks and rode the railway all the way into London town.

Dislodging from the Tube at Lancaster Gate, he strolled into the sumptuous grounds of Hyde Park and struck out in the direction of the Old Magazine, home now, and proudly so, to the wonderful Sackler Gallery.

moore_arch

En route he could not fail to admire the ornate Italian Gardens, which in 1860 had been commissioned by Prince Albert as an adoring gesture of love for his beloved Queen Vic. Our hero’s heart sank a little!

But next, a majestic white swan on the lake rode beside him and led him on, and on, until he passed The Arch, a 6-metre sculpture by Henry Moore: created in 1978, from Roman travertine marble, it recalls the towering stone blocks of Stonehenge or the triumphal arches of antiquity. To think that it had been inspired by a mere fragment of bone the size of a small bird, made our hero think.

And so finally on to the Sackler Gallery, to take in the very different but equally remarkable sculptures by American artist, Duane Hanson, on exhibition until 13 September, more of which on the morrow.

That evening, as he lay beneath his duvet, one eye about to follow the other into the depths of sleep, he sensed a sudden chill. Temperature falling? Hell freezing over? Who could say? He would die an unrecovered optimist!