New York

Gratitude costs nothing

irlandesuk poésie, poetry , , ,

Autumn early morning sunshine
filters through the mellowing trees
In the distance the river is running
placidly out to sea There is a slight
breeze but no call for heavy coats
There is that lovely Saturday silence
as of a world at peace with itself
If I was in New York I’d take a stroll
in Central Park and sit on a bench
and consider my good fortune
to be alive here and now and
in good health and still with
everything to live for But who
needs New York when a view
of the Thames at Erith will do
perfectly. Gratitude costs nothing

John Lyons

La gratitude ne coûte rien

Le soleil matinal d’automne
filtre à travers les arbres aux teintes
douces. Au loin, la rivière coule
paisiblement vers la mer. Une légère
brise souffle, mais nul besoin de gros
manteaux. Il règne ce doux silence
du samedi, comme dans un monde
en paix avec lui-même. Si j’étais
à New York, je me promènerais
dans Central Park, m’assiérais
sur un banc et méditerais sur la chance
d’être en vie, ici et maintenant,
en bonne santé et avec encore
tant à vivre. Mais qui a besoin
de New York quand la vue sur
la Tamise à Erith fait parfaitement
l’affaire ? La gratitude ne coûte rien.

Remembering Frank O’Hara

irlandesuk poésie, poetry , ,

I have a mental picture
of the poet Frank O’Hara sitting
in his apartment
on a glorious New York summer’s day
He’s wearing a crisp
white shirt and new sneakers
and is nervously tapping his fingers
on his desk in time
to a phrase from Rachmaninoff
that has been running
through his head
ever since he woke

Through an open window
he can also hear the city creating
its usual dusty cacophony
he also has an eye on the clock
: the friend who is giving him
the ride to the beach is late
and he has so been
looking forward to the trip

Just then the doorbell rings
and at once
he is overcome
by the sudden surge of love
in his heart and struggles
to get to his feet
fearing he might drown
in the emotion

John Lyons

En souvenir de Frank O’Hara

Je visualise le poète Frank O’Hara
assis dans son appartement,
par une magnifique journée d’été
new-yorkaise. Il porte une chemise
blanche impeccable et des baskets
neuves ; nerveusement, il tapote
des doigts sur son bureau
en rythme avec une phrase musicale
de Rachmaninov qui lui trotte
dans la tête depuis son réveil.

Par la fenêtre ouverte,
il entend aussi la ville produire
sa cacophonie poussiéreuse habituelle ;
il garde également un œil sur l’horloge :
l’ami qui doit l’emmener à la plage
est en retard, alors qu’il attendait
cette sortie avec tant d’impatience.

C’est alors que la sonnette retentit
et qu’il se sent aussitôt submergé
par un élan d’amour soudain ;
il peine à se lever, craignant
de se noyer dans cette émotion.

it’s meaningless

irlandesuk poetry , , , , ,

General Sherman, NYC

                      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

The power of one word

irlandesuk poetry , ,

FrankO'Hara

The power of one word

I have a mental picture
           of the poet Frank O’Hara sitting
in his apartment
           on a glorious New York summer’s day
He’s wearing a crisp
           white shirt and new sneakers
and is nervously tapping his fingers
           on his desk in time
to a phrase from Rachmaninoff
           that has been running
through his head
           ever since he woke

Through an open window
           he can also hear the city making
its usual dusty cacophony
           he also has an eye on the clock
: the friend who is giving him
           the ride to the beach is late
and he has so been
           looking forward to the trip

Just then the doorbell rings
           and at once
he is overcome
           by the sudden surge of love
in his heart and struggles
           to get to his feet
fearing he might drown
           in the emotion

John Lyons

Materiale grezzo

irlandesuk poetry , ,

Ecco una versione italiana del poema “Raw material” .

Materiale grezzo

Visto l’ultima volta la notte
           attraverso il trapezio
del lucernario
           nero come la pece
una sola stella
           impassibile e immobile

chi ha cercato attraverso
           le ombre di questo mondo
per un’anima palpabile
           per un angelo di saggezza
che lo potrebbe portare
           illuminismo

è quello che facciamo
           la vita in parole
stringendosi suoni randagi
           a immagini e profumi
e sensazioni
           tutto ciò che è grezzo
e radicato nella terra
           inchiostro nero attraverso il quale
il mondo possa splendere
           interno ed esterno

oggi gloriosa blu
           danza luce
come si posa
           sulle foglie verdi freschi
l’ebbrezza del sole
           tutto in pace
e pieno di promesse
           la mia mente piena di parole altrui
echi di amori sconosciuti
           e le osservazioni

le strade polverose di New York
           la punta di diamante della poesia
sulle labbra di Frank O’Hara
           gatto nero con la pancia bianca
la vita in tutta la sua ricchezza
           tempo con tutte le possibilità
offre
           scopo il taglio di un percorso
attraverso la confusione
           amore dove si può fidare
un bacio a costo zero
            ma un bacio a tutti i costi

John Lyons