who made the leap
from hunting gathering
to hand prints
bison and antelopes
on the cave wall
and Jackson Pollock
scouring a white canvas
prowling back and forth
waiting to pounce
to lunge at the surface
in stabbing motions
to open wounds
that drip
with colour
John Lyons
Paint that captures
the shape of gestures
memories arrested in space
sinuous as the body is curved
And he thinks too
of the unbound energies
they expended
and of the shapes
that their bodies made
when they came together
the arc of a breast
a mouth agape
the slope of a thigh
or an angled elbow
Form and the absence of it
light and the absence of it
colour and the absence of it
love and the absence of it
and under a wrathful sky
their union and the absence of it
John Lyons
Momentary flames
a brief fire that flickers
in the mouth of a cave
a time for reflection
and for expression
Pollock’s hand prints
on the wall
the colours mixed
with intention
a scheme of things
in the mind
deliberately executed
Not to leave a record
but simply to tell
of how it is
of how it was
that day when we walked
through the rain
or when we parked our bikes
and stood in the shadow
of Chartres cathedral
and admired its beauty
Days that we will never forget
until the end of our days
and our love held
in the memory
John Lyons
I’m a poet and a patriot
but I sometimes paint
though I make no claims
for my artistic skills
I simply try to lay down
the colours and shapes
of the words I carry around
in my head along with
whatever energies
I can bring to bear
If I was a painter
I would strive to be
a de Kooning or
a Jackson Pollock
or wherever the action is
but there’s no hope
of that so relax
it’s Saturday
and my mind’s on
the walk we are about
to take over the river to Spitalfields
to try a Philadelphia
cheese steak sandwich
and on Sunday
I will be watching the Superbowl
and cheering on the Eagles
even though I have
only the vaguest
understanding of the game :
it’s just not my game
John Lyons
Follow the trail of paint
the boundless
shapeless energy
the thin line
that speeds Pollock on
to reveal his inner likeness
a see-through heart
a tangled coil of veins
with the ceaseless
coming and going
of the courageous mind
addicted to freedom
He of the multitude
perpetually present
in the scene of selves
and just imagine
the sensual pulse
that flicks the wrist
all colours fused
in passionate exhalation
compositions that disturb
the veils of dishonesty
burying them beneath
a bed of his truth
for this truly is
beauty
in the eye
of the beholder
John Lyons
This poem appeared earlier today in a slightly different version.
When I think of Pollock’s
‘Number One’ I think
of Frank O’Hara’s digression
________________________
both are balancing acts
on a tightrope
and in Pollock one sees
the twisted narrative
almost impossible
to unravel as he tiptoes
across the ravine
on a perfect day for it
as Frank writes :
warm for winter
cold for fall—
do you see ?
John Lyons
When I was a child
all the talk was of
how to grow the best roses
and what types of soil
make for a better lawn
I remember those roses
with their savage thorns
their soft petals
dripping with morning dew
but nobody told me
anything about the challenges
I would face in later life
I was not a sickly child
and I learned most things
with relative ease
I played out on the streets
my feet dragging home the dust
only when the sun set
Life seemed in those days
to be administered
by perfect hands and reality
was representational
Had someone shown me
a Jackson Pollock
I might have had an inkling
of what was to come
No I am not ill today
or any other day
not even tired
simply perplexed
by the mystery of the stars
scintillating above
an empty ocean
and yet I know exactly
what I need to make
a perfect day and so do you
so why don’t we ?
John Lyons
