wallace stevens

My Sunday morning

irlandesuk poetry

My Sunday morning

Sunday moves slowly
           through the day
I feel the emptiness of space
           all around me
the silence and the air
           moving imperceptibly
through the trees
           Life is breathing
and I’m soaking it in
           my mind dipping
into and out of
           a number of memories
flicking through emotions
           through times and places
where we were happy
           together

She is never far
           from my thoughts
though she’s far
           from me now
There was a time
           when so much of her life
was a part of my life
           making absolute separation
impossible
           I learn to live with it
one day at a time
           I read poetry
for consolation
           poetry that is about
what truly counts
           human feelings
love for all things
           that are good
and the truest of all loves
           that never fades

John Lyons

Lightness of being

irlandesuk poetry ,

Lightness of being

Momentary in the mind
            a reflection caught
in the mirror
            or a sudden gust of wind
that nearly blows me
            off my feet

Portion control
            and the weight dropping
since mid-October
            16 pounds to date
nosing slowly towards
            my target
I walk on air
            a spring in my step
one less person to carry
            around

I catch buses and trains
            I might have missed
Love is immortal
            the flesh is not
Care must be exercised
            but life as the poet says
is a sacrament of praise
            the beauty of all good things
the interminable flow
            of the seasons
along with my breath
            along with my blood
The only strings attached
            are those of the viol
the melodies that arise
            in my heart’s chamber

John Lyons

 

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

A bravura of the mind

irlandesuk poetry ,

A bravura of the mind

Fret fear fate
           new texts in the world
as though time dragging its heels
           even though time does not exist
outside of our perception
           the archaic forms of poetry
from worlds long gone
           the shift in customs and belief
and so much forgotten
           or abandoned and yet
the struggle is the same
           how to deal with the day
how to fill our lives
           with being

and how to remain open
           to love in all its gestures
receptive also to truth
           the beauty of it
to know the value
           of our breath
a bravura both of the mind
           and of the heart

John Lyons