Venice

Poetry is word time

irlandesuk poetry , , ,
Holocaust_memorial
Holocaust memorial, Berlin, December 2017

Word time

Poetry is word time
           the running metre
swift of foot
           along the streets
of Paris or Berlin
           or Venice with its canals
The impertinence of history
           the microbes’ biological clock
or doomed stars
           as their batteries deplete
: what drives heaven
           and hell and every nook
and cranny of creation
           Drinking mulled wine
in the Christmas markets
           as snow gently falls
through the universe
           as it settles upon the living
and the remembered dead
           throughout the vales
of northern Europe
           and far beyond

Locked into the land
           with our earth gaze
ears cocked to capture
           a friendly voice
and it comes through
           crackling with radio
interference
           our bridled thoughts 
to be mounted at will
           eternity in the saddle
time holding the reins
           And love a living thing
palpable flesh
           squeezed with delight
as darkness falls
           or at dawn
as the cattle egrets
           begin their day
and the host herd
           shuffles down to the river
to slake their thirst
           all in good time
solid word time
           cosmic rhyme time

John Lyons

 

Venice : an observation

irlandesuk poetry

Venice : an observation

Ostentation is one thing
           beauty another
and underlying it all
            there is or is not love
For a moment
           put to one side
the glorious mosaics
           the painted ceilings
and take to the streets
           that flank the canals
wealth is personally perishable
           insofar as it does not
survive one’s own
           generation
it transcends nothing
           it merely remains
acquiring the sad dust
           of monumental history
where tourists tread
           in their ungainly droves
Possession and power
           are one thing
but it is love alone
           that drives bodies
to meet and lips
           to touch

John Lyons

Mosaic

irlandesuk poetry ,

Mosaic

I remember the cascade of light
refracted through the droplets of rain 

I remember the amber gleam of your eyes
gazing at me from time to time

I remember the love that I saw there
and how our bodies flowed together

effortlessly as we crossed bridges
and strolled along the endless canals

I remember thinking how all things end
but how love if it is true transcends all things

I remember thinking that the beauty
of the Venetian mosaics was like the beauty of life

a narrative painstakingly assembled piece by piece
years in the making never to be undone

John Lyons

Untitled Willem De Kooning

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De Kooning.jpg
Untitled, Willem de Kooning (1958)

Untitled Willem de Kooning

Do you see what I see
           notes for a landscape
a shore and a beach
           and a river and a sky
a path to enlightenment
           a horizon viewed
from a cliff top
           waves perceptible
in the brushstrokes
           mimicking the tensions
in the earth’s crust
           and in all our relationships
abstract cartography
           of the soul

it took a human body
           to paint this
to select the colours
           and to control the brush
it took human energy
           to express this to execute this
rather than accept
           the docility of a pacified
environment in which nature
           sits tamely on a canvas

I came here scriptless
           Willem and I searched high
and low for love
           I am an accident of birth
whatever is concealed
           in this composition
will be revealed in due course
           at its heart is the illumination
of sunlight and a brightness
           that never fades
the joy we associate
           with the loving application
of human vitality
           everywhere apparent
the long sinews
           of genitive muscle

it could be a walk
           on a Sunday afternoon
or a three-penny opera
           in which we all appear
and notice a perfectly positioned
           pinmark in each of the corners
no abstract could ever be
           so inexhaustibly
calculated which is why
           I am not a painter

John Lyons

Painting observed on 10 February 2017 during a visit to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice. Click here for an appraisal of this work.

Love in Venice

irlandesuk poetry

Love in Venice

One day we will remember
           that unblemished time
when we strolled
           along these canals
peered into the calm waters
           drenched
with darkness and light
           our shadows
our reflections
           dissolving as we went

What lasts forever
           if not your beauty
your ageless smile
           bright flesh of starlight
golden threads of hair
           beneath a dark
fur-trimmed hood

Hand in hand
           the hours passed
the days and nights
           in a simplicity of love
and the unrest
           of love’s wild lips

John Lyons

Venice – a draft

irlandesuk poetry

Venice – a draft

Sumptuous sea city
           haunts the mind
built out of nothing
           translucent waters
turned to stone
           turned to energy
essence of light
           refracted through glass
through sand and water
           light filtering light
web of untold hours solidified
           bedded down
on the sea floor
           arrested in luminous reliefs
etched into the air
           space and time
displaced
           wisdom of the owl
ferocity of the lion
           beauty at any price

John Lyons

In the Basilica di Santi Giovanni e Paolo, Venice

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tommaso-mocenigo
Tomb of Tommaso Mocenigo

In the Basilica di Santi Giovanni e Paolo, Venice

Behold upon the sarcophagus
           the recumbent figure 
of one Tommaso Mocenigo
           so faithful and tender a portrait
wrought without painfulness
           of the doge as he lay
in ducal robe and bonnet
           deep in his death
how peaceful his head lies
           aslant upon his pillow
hands simply crossed
           as they fell

observe the emaciated face
           the features large
in their natural chiselling
           but so lordly pure
that even in his warm breath
           they must have looked
as cold as marble stone
            at once so deeply worn
by thought and now in death

upon his temples the veins
           branched and upraised
the skin in sharp folds puckered 
           and the brow high-arched
and surprisingly unkempt
           the unseeing eye-ball
so magnificently large
           and curvature of the lips
lightly veiled
           by the moustache at the side
and in a final flourish a short 
           sharp-pointed double-beard

how noble and how still he rests
           stern angle of cheek and brow
so subtly softened beneath the pale light
           of the cool and white sepulchral dust

John Lyons