We are
the stuff
of light
of energy
of mass
our movements
are planetary
galactic
cosmic
deep
relationships
abound
on all sides
feather
wing
beak
sparrow
love too
the coalescence
of two sources
two beams
that shine
brighter
alongside
each other
our dreams
too the stuff
of light
of being
in a universe
in which
no nothing
exists
John Lyons
Under the sycamore
the dry seeds
worn to dust
thousands of them
from a single tree
I sit in the shade
and look out
across the meadow
where away
in the distance
a young couple
is sunbathing
This is still summer
and the leaves
are still green
and their flesh
is still supple
and unmarked
by time
A universe of light
and cinders :
all things turn to ash
and ash to dust
and every memory
will be forgotten
Salad days pass
the young grow old
even language tires
of endless repetition
All things are senseless
all life unless
imbued with love
John Lyons
King Lear, John Lyons (24 x 30 cm, oil on canvas)
A method to the madness
an underlying grid a pattern
an old canvas pitted with pigment
swathed in buff titanium
upon which a trellis of cadmium red
and finally gentle strokes of the brush
to deposit patches of burnt umber
ashes to ash applied
Out of the earth Lear and his daughters
and the love that each has or has not
a stage for the passage of time
for a shift in the power of prevailing winds
Choices choices as the blood circulates
as the words vanish along with their breath
into thin air : the play is always the thing
the capture of colour under the fading light
When I was a boy I would have sold
my kingdom for a horse for a pony
to carry me off into the sunset
Now age has mottled my skin
and confined me to local horizons
under a heavy head of silver hair
I gather my dust and count
the few blessings that remain
: on my lips the tempestuous taste of real love
as in Spitalfields where the final curtain fell
John Lyons
As the fire blazed
in the mouth of the cave
pigments were mixed
and applied to the walls
the deer and antelope admired
and keenly observed
and hunted for food
: art in order to render
their deep respect for
this source of life
that others might know
their story
their values
the word inseparable
from the deed
an imagist language
a timeless articulation
in time and space
John Lyons
Le reste est silence
Alors que le feu flambait
dans l’embouchure de la grotte
les pigments ont été mélangés
et appliqués sur les murs
le cerf et l’antilope admirés
et vivement observés
et chassés pour se nourrir
: l’art pour rendre
leur profond respect pour
cette source de vie
que d’autres puissent savoir
de leur histoire
de leurs valeurs
le mot inséparable
de l’acte
un langage imagiste
une articulation intemporelle
dans le temps et dans l’espace
The cutting room floor, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, mixed media on canvas)
Think of the canvas
as a board
as a Shakespearean stage
imagine who treads here
Lear or Hamlet or Othello
Ophelia or Desdemona
words words words
cut up and thrown
haphazardly as though
chance were a fine thing
all of this scissored
out of yesterday’s news
present states
relentlessly slipping
into the past
make no bones about it
whether it were better
or nobler in the mind
enough drama to last us
a lifetime or more
decisions decisions
that the artist must take
much editing to be done
only twenty-four hours
before it’s time to sweep
the cutting room floor
John Lyons
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
johnjosephlyons 