wallace stevens

An aside on Wallace Stevens

irlandesuk poetry ,

An aside on Wallace Stevens

I read him for the granulations of time
            for the immaculate imagery
with which he sketches our existence
            the true interior life that sums us up
for the transparence of place he inhabits
            and for the thoughtfulness of his voice

He is a master of landscapes
            of rivers and mountains and plains
and trees and blackbirds with an acute eye
            for anything that moves
in a field of snow
            and in his observations he is always
central and necessary and just as the stars
            he stands naked in the cosmos

How often do we note that the sea
            breaks on the edges of his lines
that are composed
            for oboe or hautboy
intuitive melodies to be performed
            in the haunted forests of our cities
evoking all those unsettling truths
            so deeply buried in our blood

John Lyons

Fruit of the stars

irlandesuk poetry ,

Fruit of the stars

A sky
            full of snowflakes
obscures the stars but
            from their hydrogen
and their oxygen
            comes water
a marriage made
            in a molecule

Yes
            fruit of the stars
and chain of constant
            resurrection
that for which
            we were born
moving within the light
            at rest within the shade
a temperate life
            capable of noble deeds
energized from before
            the moment of conception
and measured against
            the inspirations of time
and judged
            by our capacity to love

Love
            that supreme fiction 
poetry of all that’s made
            bonds of flesh
bound in words and intoned
            in tender hymns
to our humanity
            cherished thoughts
that elate the heart
            and fire passion
in our blood until we attain
            the proud pangs of paradise

John Lyons

Revised

In praise of Wallace

irlandesuk poetry ,

In praise of Wallace

Some say that he’s no poet
           but what do they know
he is succinct and always
           to the point
and shadows run freely
           through his verse
and the heavens are a backdrop
           to the endless mountains
Men and women live
           in his lines and he observes
more than a blackbird
           will ever see

He hears the strumming
           of a poor pale guitar
but he is generous
           in his appraisal
because he knows
           that things are as they are
and so he gives them a voice
           and poetry is the subject
of his poetry
           and his life’s summation
the flesh the bone
           the dirt the stone

In Margravine
           where the squirrels romp
and crows fill the air
           with their raucous song
and the tombs sink deeper
           into the earth while nature
flourishes all around
           and young lovers walks by
without batting an eye
           and not so much as a sigh

John Lyons

More imagining

irlandesuk poetry

More imagining

A rose needs the light
           in order for its beauty to shine
though the thorns can
           prick a finger in the dark
and a rose shared becomes
           much more than itself
it establishes a dialogue
           even if unspoken
between two perspectives
           a flow of feeling and meaning
that does not need
           to be put into words
the silence for example
           of two people in love
in the presence of a rose
           that adds a third dimension
nothing more substantial
           nothing more real
than the kiss that is
           yet to be given

John Lyons

The common life

irlandesuk poetry

The common life

I lead the common life
           I too am a result
of mixed blessings
           of wild gifts
and irresistible flaws
           I’m familiar with church steeples
and power plants
           and black lines on the horizon

I know who made me
           and for what purpose
and I prefer boots to shoes
           and yes I know which way
the ball bounces
           I’m conscious of the poetry
that I write and anxious
           not to waste my breath
Birthdays come and go
           but I remain
and I’m open to love
           always

John Lyons

The intelligence of trees

irlandesuk art, poetry
tree.jpg
Tree, John Lyons (oil on wood)

The intelligence of trees

Wallace refers to the intelligence of trees
the famed tree of knowledge is related
the thing that grows organically
and the metaphors that we may apply
the roots that reach so deep into the earth
the branches that reach constantly for the sky
the leaves that burst from buds in spring
that bring delight in the summer until
in the autumn they fall as all things fall
the rings of age that mark the wood
the gnarled bark of ancient specimens
the shade under which lovers lounge
the stillness of time until the wind rises

John Lyons

The surface of things

irlandesuk poetry ,

The surface of things

The beautiful surface of things
           life in all its infinite detail
and in all its glory
           the capacity to articulate
to put two and two together
           the chalk hills
of the North Downs
           at present covered
in pure white snow
           where pure white lambs
will graze unknowingly
           in days to come in spring

the rich hue and cry of life
           lived and held
in the conscious mind
           assembled in our language
a world built word by word
           and recalled word for word
just as our love grows
           accumulating acts of affection
mutual and stored
           in the necessary memory
of living words :
           there was a wedding feast
at which the water
           became wine and filled
the imagination
           as all art does in changing
the face of the earth
           in its becoming

John Lyons

The mind takes a break

irlandesuk poetry , ,

The mind takes a break

When I am lost
           for words to write
I reach for the poems
           of Wallace Stevens
and allow my mind
           to drift in his obsessions
two figures in the dark night
           the voice of the moment
and the place in which
           he has Florida in his ear
and always the singularity
           of the eye that builds
from what it sees
           a world of the imagination

I think of his restless fingers
           and his rule of thumb :
say it and it shall be
           the conceiving words
from which he constructs
           a composite of reality

Below Key West
           there’re stars I’ve never seen
and on the roof of a rusty barn
           there are buzzards
crouched in anticipation
           there are palm trees
etched against the blue-black sky
           and there is a full moon
with nothing to reveal
           other than itself
Finally there is the sea
           sleeping in silence in the bay
and this silence I tell you 
           is such a welcome serenade

John Lyons

Plain sense

irlandesuk poetry ,

Plain sense

The plain sense of things
           the end of the imagination ?
I don’t think so— and certainly
           not for a fallen leaf
We imagine all our lives
           we envisage and plan and hope
and sometimes pray
           and whether we gamble or not
we are always calculating odds
           she loves me she loves me not

Stare out from the train
           as it passes Deptford Green
where children still skateboard
           within office hours
where the ornamental pond
           is covered in thick green slime
the trees bare these winter days
           and all the time I’m imagining
what will happen next
           and where will it end
and I think of all those
           I have loved and love still
and wonder what they’re about
           imagining all the time so that
nothing inanimate or inert
           will ever lay down the law
and condemn me to silence
           Thoughts and feelings are
expressions sometimes
           voiced sometimes not
and our world a construct
           of collective consciousness
so fragile it could pass
           in the blink of an eye

John Lyons