Life As We See It


todays lesson is –

Kaushal Kishore

One day a school teacher decided to do an experiment with the children in her class. She asked them to bring a bag of potatoes after writing the name of the persons they hate, on each potato. The next day, each child brought their bags with two, three or five potatoes.

She asked them to keep their bags closed for ten days with them at all times. As the days went by, the children started complaining about the stench of rotten potatoes. On tenth day, when they were told to throw their bags and assemble, children breathed a sigh of relief.

The teacher asked the children how they felt about taking care of those potatoes. They complained that it was very difficult for them to carry the stinking bag with them. Then the teacher said, “Hate is like potato, it pollutes your heart. So it’s wise to forgive ones you…

View original post 284 more words

Split Seconds, from Bella & Shirley by pd lyons


Pdlyons's Explorations

Split seconds

I saw the horrible red rose bloom upon her chest
heard the splatter from her back
then the rifle crack.
Our eyes meet
she whispers Bella
as she falls manages to grip my arm
pulls me to the ground
just before the next bullet
harmless ricochet.
I scramble hands and knees
Shelter among the rubble.
She had taught me well.
No point in trying to spot the sniper
the point – survive.
Hands , knees, sometimes flat on my belly
safety among the ruins.
Once again I am alone
Once again I have lost
But this time there is a difference –
she  taught me well
likewise armed me well
named me  from her blood stained mouth – Bella.

Bella, once she’d whisper with each kiss.
so she whispered with her death and once more gifts me life.

dsc_2505

View original post

Atlantic Seascape by pd lyons


the overwhelming wave

leaves me like a cork bobbing

on a sunny sea

dsc_4171-3

my father, my mother, Yeats, golden apples & silver apples – reading by PD Lyons


read by PD Lyons poet~

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats & Somewhere Still by PD Lyons

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats from Eveeryman’s Poetry, J.M. Dent, Orien Publishing. London 1998 Somewhere Still by PD Lyons from When You Worship Swans No Longer Limited Edition, Supported by Westmeath County Arts, 2017

 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

.Noun. 1. Aengus – Celtic god of love and beauty; patron deity of young men and women. Angus, Angus Og, Oengus.

SOMEWHERE STILL by PD Lyons

Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages running jumping clinging – immune bare feet impervious to sun. Skin frosted with salt, lotions, cake icing.
Somewhere children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, taking them sometimes instead to lunch…
Long-time companions, comforts of old age, afternoon naps, books, TV, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – love, marriage, a hole never in twenty-three years has time healed.
Somewhere she still takes you by the hand. Ohs your name laughs into the open window, Fifty-five Chevy, summer bright chrome. So close to flying great American V8 highways up through the Canadian border dwindling into heavy Nova Scotia sands.
There has never been an ocean too cold for her to swim in. Long after your retreat to safety – Flamingo towels, Knickerbocker beer, USMC Zippo, Old Gold cigarette spiral prayers. Gratitude at last. Unable to fathom any reason to feel bad about surviving.
Deep breath wonderful (not a god damn palm tree in sight). Watch that woman of the sea; only wish there would never have to be a time to leave.
Later she gets tipsy; acquiescing when the waiter offers to sweeten her drink no knowing here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want because she’s your wife now and you always liked the Mills Brothers.
Sometime after midnight, small cedar room, Stuart tartan blankets, crisp white sheets. Strange night sounds traipsing gingham curtains. As if tiny fingers, she ohs your name. Answer back with words you never knew before.
This spring by the sea your little house will not find you. Gone now perhaps to wander just like W.B. said –
Glimmering girl once more beside you and pluck
Till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
(For: D.R.L. – with regards to W.B. Yeats, his favourite poet.)

This Is How We Live from Bella & Shirley by PD Lyons


Together we sleep in one another’s arms.

As if that safety protects us from the world.

Between our breathing and our heart beats

all the brutality of the day

each night melts away.

And should the world find us so vulnerable?

Our accord is this;

always our side arm within reach.

Our promise,

to deliver each other into the protection of death

freed forever then from harm.

This is how we live

Now

This is how we love.

he stood with wailing tempest, pd lyons


he stood with wailing tempest

against the unjust world
as if a howling protest
could bring insanity to sense

he thought the problem
was they couldn’t
he saw how clearly
that they could
his heart broke by their simple truth
not couldn’t but wouldn’t

Bagdad Dove

Fallen Lilies, by PD Lyons Poetry


 

Fallen Lilies

 

We will surround you with silence

Like the voices of our children never to be heard again

We will surround you with fallen lilies

Like each of one our children cut mid bloom

 

We won’t ever know what to do

With a hypocrite’s thoughts and prayers

 

We won’t ever find anything

In a hypocrite’s concern for  grief

 

But we’ll not match the hardness of such hearts

By hardening our own

 

We will not meet such hearts with violence

We know too well that path of sorrow

 

So, we will meet you in silence

Like the voices of our children never to be heard again

We will meet you in fallen lilies

Like each one of our children cut mid bloom

 

Unlike you

We will do what must be done

Unlike you

We will remember and continue to find days to be thankful for

 

Mothers rocking babies rocking mothers

Fathers rocking babies rocking fathers

Altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Notre – Dame

My Thoughts on Silence in the Age of Noise br Erling Kagge


Silence in the Age of Noise by Erling Kagge.

I bought this book a few years back and hadn’t read it. Until rediscovered while packing ( endless fucking packing). What a wonderful read. A book of unpretentious elegance, intelligence perfectly measured medicinal.

Cesur – pauses between the notes. Oh my Beethoven! I never knew there was a word for it! And like Kagge it is one of my favorite places. The space between the notes ah cesur.

There is a love no one remembers – Jon Fosse

For me as a poet it is my “job” to bring things back from the quiet. And then the paradox of it is to try and use the clumsy allusion of words to entice others to explore their own quiet of their human nature.

Do yourself a favor and let Erling’s silence sooth inspire and find you.

A joyful celebration (NPR) that shows us why silence is essential to our sanity and happiness–and how it can open doors to wonder and gratitude–from a renowned explorer and acclaimed author. … Google Books

Originally published: 2016

poets we know and live with ~ ROWING & THE AUTHOR OF THE JESUS PAPERS SPEAKS by Anne Sexton


 
ROWING
 
 
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plastic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn’t work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trench-coat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I’d say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyeball,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.

 
– from The Awful Rowing Towards God 1975
 
( Her eighth collection of poetry is entitled The Awful Rowing Toward God.The title came from her meeting with a Roman Catholic priest who, unwilling to administer last rites, told her “God is in your typewriter.” This gave the poet the desire and willpower to continue living and writing. The Awful Rowing Toward God and The Death Notebooks are among her final works, and both center on the theme of dying

 
1928–1974
 
Anne Sexton

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Sexton#Death

Within 12 years of writing her first sonnet, she was among the honored poets in the U.S.: a Pulitzer Prize winner, a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and the first female member of the Harvard chapter of Phi Beta Kappa.[10][11]

On October 4, 1974, Sexton had lunch with Kumin to revise galleys for Sexton’s manuscript of The Awful Rowing Toward God, scheduled for publication in March 1975 (Middlebrook 396). On returning home she put on her mother’s old fur coat, removed all her rings, poured herself a glass of vodka, locked herself in her garage, and started the engine of her car, ending her life by carbon monoxide poisoning.[12]

In an interview over a year before her death, she explained she had written the first drafts of The Awful Rowing Toward God in 20 days with “two days out for despair and three days out in a mental hospital.” She went on to say that she would not allow the poems to be published before her death. She is buried at Forest Hills Cemetery & Crematory in Jamaica Plain, Boston, Massachusetts.

Sexton is seen as the modern model of the confessional poet. Maxine Kumin described Sexton’s work: “She wrote openly about menstruation, abortion, masturbation, incest, adultery, and drug addiction at a time when the proprieties embraced none of these as proper topics for poetry.”[13]


THE AUTHOR OF THE JESUS PAPERS SPEAKS

In my dream
I milked a cow,
the terrible udder
like a great rubber lily
sweated in my fingers
and as I yanked,
waiting for the moon juice,
waiting for the white mother,
blood spurted from it
and covered me with shame.
Then God spoke to me and said:
People say only good things about Christmas.
If they want to say something bad,
they whisper.
So I went to the well and drew a baby
out of the hollow water.
Then God spoke to me and said:
Here. Take this gingerbread lady
and put her in your oven.
When the cow gives blood
and the Christ is born
we must all eat sacrifices.
We must all eat beautiful women.

Anne Sexton  from The Book of Folly 1972
 

 
the girls i knew in high school were all enamored with Sylvia. and i must admit i was some what smitten. but there was this teacher of English. she did not debate but rather exposed the rare woman genius the all too common crucifixion the dark stronger than the bright, the strength to take control in a time in a place where all is only waiting around food feeding on food attracted like horseflies to tenderness. the time was she said now and so the time was and so she said it was therefore it would be now and never any other time but. – pd lyons

all photos C. pd lyons photography.

Dublin Girl, by pd lyons


Dublin Girl

in a doorway
pale hands search
the rain for softness

who has never touched the world
with little fingers,
who has never longed to never leave,

she is always there somewhere

The sea
The gulls
The Liffey
Joyce
And the ship in the window on Berkeley road
Still
Claim
Her

.

Bagdad Dove

there is a Dublin of which i am in love with. it is a culmination of miles of wanderings and the songs and poetry my father brought to my life. Even before I ever got there it had taken root in my heart.  – She is always there somewhere.

%d bloggers like this: