Autumn, John Lyons (acrylic on paper)
a line taken from
a poem by Frank O’Hara
who describes
the stubbornness
of his feelings
that simply won’t
shift no matter what
Is art ever
anything but
an act of love ?
I leave this
to the reader
to figure out
John Lyons
Rainfall, John Lyons (70 x 50 cm, oil on canvas)
The rain perhaps
the rain as it used to rain
in my childhood
slow steady rain
an ablution of the earth
the damp air heavy
with the scent of soil
The rain perhaps
tiny droplets of memory
falling through the universe
and my mind wanders
to far forgotten places
and the faces
that I knew there
The rain perhaps
when we first built a shelter
and called it love
and we huddled there
together tightly and listened
to the rain and wind
and were content
The rain perhaps
that is neither a beginning
nor an end in itself
as though I had
always known you
always wanted you
forever in my life
John Lyons
General Sherman, NYC
So the weather takes a dip
the wind retrieves its bite
tears at the fresh spring leaves
gusts under the eaves
drives the rain hard
against the skylight
displacing the Saharan dust
that blew up days ago
Last night I counted the doors
featured in an Antonioni movie
Sometimes it’s meaningless
to watch films or to eat
or to drink coffee
out of a paper cup
This morning
I’m reading Frank’s poems
wondering about how many
daydreams I will see today
whether any of them
will notice my lavender lips
will talk to me
will listen to me
Tonight promises to be
a clear sky with stars :
nobody owns them
as far as I know
though I am tempted
to add the word yet
John Lyons
I’ve been listening
to Charlie Parker
for most of my adult life
I never tire of the riffs
the sweet melodies
the effortlessly inventive energy
he applies to the saxophone
the awesome power of his breath
that lives on in the recordings :
masterworks indeed
Like the poetry
of Frank O’Hara
who is alive and well
in the Lunch Poems
his tone of voice too
captured for all time
in a poetry that positively
sings of friendship and love
‘My words are love’
Frank wrote
and Charlie might well have said
the same about his notes
Stepping away
from the world of work
Frank worked the world
into his verse
His poems – as with all art –
are affairs of the heart
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 