What’s in
a snail ?
a name
a shape
a notion
of speed
an inner
ear
cochlea
helix
such perfect
geometry
a plump
tasty pod
filled with
damp desire
an aristocrat
among others
in its blue robe
its horned crown
sitting upon
a bloody throne
John Lyons
I love the early morning air
the way it hits the lungs
and tells me how good it is
to be alive and to be walking
the streets around Shoreditch
where Shakespeare once performed
in the early hours
just before the offices open
It’s one of the most alive places
on the planet
full of the real buzz of life
people who have come
from their beds
with fresh energy
ready to engage with the day
with the win-some lose-some
open mind you get
from a good night’s sleep
I love the bustle and the jostle
of people prepared
to make a go of it
I love the sound of friendship
in the air as people greet or part
and go on their way to work
I love the simple affections
that bind us all together
and the deep love
in my heart
John Lyons
Shakespeare’s pulse
is in the language
his poetry speaks
for itself
and he offers
no explanation
Simply put
it is what the words say
The culture is not
in the knowledge
but in the expression
He puts breath
into desire
and all those questions
that make us human
and so we wonder
and we want
but only love
brings reconciliation
and contentment
John Lyons
As the year turns
and seasons slip
one into another
the still air lies lightly
above the land
nature on its marks
about to burst
into colour
and this our trade in love
the history of our blood
the lines that have brought us
to this convergence
to the ceremony
of our commingled flesh
each with an inexhaustible
appetite for life
our nails pared
our hair trimmed
the deep breath
as we embrace
Passion’s give and take
our lives no less mysterious
than those of the foxes
that live in the reality
of our imagination :
and in your body
I see the map of my heart
the endless path
that I must take
time and time again
John Lyons
Give me some music; music, moody food
Of us that trade in love.
Antony and Cleopatra
Out of an ionized
and undifferentiated soup
of matter and radiation :
poetry
and the petrified hare
diving beneath the hedgerow
the sparrow singing
on your garden fence
the fox sunning itself
on the shed roof
Romeo and Juliet
and William Shakespeare
and Tooley Street
and your hand in mine
and all things
and all feelings
and all moments
and Weinberg who wrote
of the first three minutes
and this poem in particular
out of that selfsame
articulate cosmic soup
out of the petri dish
of my heart and mind
John Lyons
She said :
you think
you’re the centre
of the universe
I said : I do
I am
as you are
too
as we are
all
Look around
the landscape
the tall city
the ocean depths :
where do you
imagine
the edge to be ?
All eyes :
tongue
be silent !
John Lyons
Not born of nothing
but from a substance
extracted from the stars :
and so our mineral minds
reason with our feelings
hearts remote yet not asunder
and everywhere number
and simplicities compounded
distance and space all relative
the objects of sense and love
a noise that radiates
throughout the known universe
the character of the affections
so deep that either was
the other’s mine and wisdom
an affair of the embedded soul
John Lyons
So Monday morning
I look into the closet
and there it is
hanging there
the last clean shirt
and it’s ironed
and ready to wear
but it’s the last clean shirt
and I have a whole week
ahead of me
It’s a white shirt
and for some reason
I think of Othello and Shakespeare
and wonder if he
was ever in this situation
or Walt Whitman or John Donne
or any of the other metaphysicals
for that matter —not that I would ever
compare myself to any of them
it’s just a thought
but who did wash and iron
their shirts for them ?
and so I watch the short film
by Alfred Leslie with subtitles
written by Frank O’Hara
and I discover that
the last clean shirt
is a metaphor
for ashes to ashes
and dust to dust
and please see that my grave
is kept clean
John Lyons
Old poets’ idle prattle
words that would wound
the wayward wind
Lives hollowed
by the wearing
of cheap trinkets
all celebrate
in sanctimonious ceremony
the abject anecdote
and view
with sour-eyed disdain
the truth of beauty
So saying
disentangle the nets of being
cut down the webs
of intrigue and deceit
shun scarcity and want
release the ensnared foot
and invoke the majesty
of the magic we make
Throw out the baseless fabrics
of fame and fortune
the trumpery
upon whose nature
nurture can never stick :
from spider learn
the fragility of life’s ladders
and scorn the cankers
that lie
within the body politic
John Lyons
This is what was made to be
a world to be measured
in coherent time
the ungathered rose
apple blossom and the smell
of a new-mown lawn
Last night the sun set
with a red glow
that infused the horizon
with hope for better days to come
the bright Spanish doubloon
that Columbus saw sinking
slowly into the Caribbean sea
off the coast of Hispaniola
We make and spend our own time
and all we make is to be measured
every step of the dance
every beat of the baton
every phrase on the page
something made that is to be measured
even love and even lips
and hair that cascades across a brow
and hands that hold
and eyes that beckon
and breaths that mingle
all made to be in some way
measured
immeasurably so
In any canvas
or in the simplest sketch
there are proportions to consider
what the dimensions will hold
and what is made with the imagination
soundscape lovescape lifescape
the fault lies only in the stars we choose
she of the rose she of the lily
she of the dream-drenched eyes
and if I dwell I am seduced
and rendered speechless
in a silence that is to be measured
deliberately delicately measured
with all the courage of a culture
that goes against the grain
that refuses to be fossilized
but soldiers on into the intimacies
of affection and made things
Love is a thing that we make
and the making of it
is the making of us
a creation that is
free and faithful and spontaneous
and delicate and forethoughtful
a multiplication of ungathered roses
And so to her loving beauty :
peerless—that is
measured to be
beyond measure
John Lyons
