wallace stevens

When politicians posture

irlandesuk poésie, poetry

After the leaves have fallen
where does the lark build its nest?
By autumn we had come to the end
of the imagination : war raged
under a blaze of stars and words
had been stripped of any meaning
Silence in the face of inhumanity
and blatant crimes unpunished
not a single pastoral text to redeem
the sacrilege of slaughter : nor a single
trace of guilt on their faces  It takes
a poet to reveal the plain sense of things
Wretched times are these when
politicians posture and make a mockery
of the pursuit of peace and justice

John Lyons

Quand les politiciens prennent la pose

Après la chute des feuilles, où
l’alouette construit-elle son nid ?
À l’automne, nous étions arrivés
aux limites de l’imagination : la guerre
faisait rage sous un éclat d’étoiles
et les mots étaient dénués de tout sens.
Silence face à l’inhumanité et aux crimes
flagrants impunis. Pas un seul texte pastoral
pour racheter le sacrilège du massacre : ni
la moindre trace de culpabilité sur leurs visages.
Il faut un poète pour révéler le sens simple
des choses. Quelle époque malheureuse
que celle où les politiciens prennent la pose
et se moquent de la quête de paix et de justice.

Love is the only bravura

irlandesuk poésie

All those years
of writing and reading
and the constant search
amid the earth’s inscriptions
for a sense of what it all means

Wake from the edge of night
hear the patter of rain
Not a note from the birds
but in the distance a train
passing through the cutting

Without my knowledge
I’ve grown old and the time
for dreams is running out
My heart is still warm
even as my breath fades
Love is the only bravura
of any consequence
I’ve done my best

John Lyons

L’amour est la seule bravoure

Toutes ces années
d’écriture et de lecture
et la recherche constante
parmi les inscriptions de la terre
pour comprendre ce que tout
cela signifie

Réveiller au bord de la nuit
et entendre le crépitement
de la pluie
Pas un chant d’oiseau
mais au loin un train
passant à travers la tranchée

À mon insu j’ai vieilli
et le temps des rêves s’épuise
Mon cœur est encore chaud
même si mon souffle s’estompe
L’amour est la seule bravoure
de quelque importance
J’ai fait de mon mieux

A chapel of warm breath

irlandesuk poésie, poetry , , , ,

The irony that Catullus knew
so well : that a poem
has greater permanence
than a man and a woman
That in his verse Lesbia
and her sparrows will live
forever  The rocks and stones
of poetry : the field of daffodils
that grew on the banks of the lake
The bud and bloom of nature’s
cycles and the shift of seasons
Nothing changes Nothing lasts
forever  Renewal as Einstein
discovered is the secret
of the universe Nothing
ventured nothing gained
Newton’s tree continues
to bear fruit and young couples
act as though they invented
the art of love  All our lives
we are schooled in fiction
and as winter approaches
we ask where are the snows
of yesteryear and I recall
how I hung on every syllable
from her luscious mouth
A chapel of warm breath
wherein I worshipped

John Lyons

Une chapelle de souffle chaud

L’ironie que Catulle connaissait
si bien : qu’un poème a plus
de permanence qu’un homme
et une femme. Que dans ses vers,
Lesbie et ses moineaux vivront à jamais.
Les rochers et les pierres de la poésie :
le champ de jonquilles qui poussait
sur les rives du lac. Le bourgeonnement
et la floraison des cycles de la nature
et le changement des saisons.
Rien ne change. Rien ne dure éternellement.
Le renouveau, comme Einstein l’a découvert,
est le secret de l’univers. Qui ne risque rien
n’a rien. L’arbre de Newton continue
de porter ses fruits et les jeunes couples
agissent comme s’ils avaient inventé
l’art de l’amour. Toute notre vie,
nous sommes instruits dans la fiction.
Et à l’approche de l’hiver, nous nous
demandons où sont les neiges d’antan.
Et je me souviens comment
je m’accrochais à chaque syllabe
de sa pulpeuse bouche. Une chapelle
de souffle chaud où je l’adorais.

A view from my room

irlandesuk poetry

A clear day and no memories
        I see the tall overgrown grass
bathed in the grey light and
        here and there the stems
of dandelions waiting for the sun
        before they’ll unfold their flowers
: birds are flying overhead
        but there is complete silence

As the wind rises the branches
        of the trees at the end of the garden
begin to sway to its rhythm
        The picnic table is littered
with dry faded blossom and the empty
        wooden chairs have that forlorn
abandoned look as though none of us
        had ever been here before

John Lyons

In praise of peace

irlandesuk poetry ,

A clear day
and no memories
I sip coffee at daybreak and
stare out at the ragged horizon
drawn by the ancient woodland

Overnight it rained gently
but enough to subdue
the giving earth—
summer is its busy season
so much bloom and blossom
so much fruit on the vine
so many nests to find
for new arrivals
from distant lands

I hear the constant coo
of pigeons and the thin
trill of the dawn chorus
as nature stakes its claim
to a life of peace

Wherever
there is war in this world
the birds will always
rise above it

John Lyons

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Shared hours

irlandesuk poetry

The mineral voice of the earth
        the breeze that moves
through the fresh
        green leaves of summer
leaves that sustain
        the patter of rainfall
and are soon dry
        once the sun appears

And how her mood changed
        how her body grew lighter :
the step of a dancer
        as she made her way
through the warmer days
        clear days with no memory
other than the pattern of love
        drawn across shared hours

John Lyons

Compass of my day

irlandesuk poetry ,

Not least because the sun shone
the air clear of memories
did I find myself the compass
of my day

Small birds sung their morning hymns
and I listened to their world in awe
and pondered the great mystery
of why such accidental beauty
was granted to us on all sides

This being the world in which I walked
and heard and saw and felt for myself
the western day into which I descend
each morning from my dreams of a love
brighter than any star above

John Lyons

A clear day and no memories

irlandesuk poetry

A clear day and no memories
        a young summer’s day
expected to fulfil all the rituals
        of the season : a magpie
proclaiming its matey boasts
        from the summit of a garden conifer

In the live living air
        knowledge of this day
is there to create
        since none of us
has ever been here before
        nor will ever return

But the poet throws down
        a trusty gauntlet : how
might we transform the shallow
        spectacle of our lives
and endow our activities
        with lustrous meaning

John Lyons

Time out at Wapping

irlandesuk poetry , ,

A clear day
        and no memories
sun glistening
        on the water’s surface
of Spirit Quay where a grey wagtail
        is hopping from one
lily pad to another—
        a yellow-bellied male
with a black throat and
        whitish moustachial stripes

Barges moored by the riverside
        are flying the Ukrainian flag
and people are sunning themselves
        in the Hermitage memorial garden
: the tide is out and time
        is taking a break

John Lyons

Fallen roses

irlandesuk poetry ,

A clear day
        and no memories
the treeline in the distance
        dappled with sunshine
Today I will walk and ride
        and sit and dream
by the riverside
        where our life flowed
so sweetly

All those years
        that meant so much
the many bridges
        we crossed
the many sunsets
        we shared
the laughter
        and the love
the many petals
        of fallen roses

John Lyons