Three accepted for thunderclap magazine

On Tue, 20/4/10, Amanda Deo <thunderclap.mag@gmail.com> wrote:

Date: Tuesday, 20 April, 2010, 2:31

PD,
I’d like to publish these three. Is that okay?

—————And I said yes.

acceptance/ Blue Lotus Review

Thank you to Amy for such a nice letter and for her interest in publishing my work in Blue Lotus Review.

“Dear PD

I would like very much to run your poem “When We Lived on Nelson Ave” in our June 2010 issue. If this poem is still available, please let me know. I would also like to run a photo if you have one you would like to use.

Thank for sending such wonderful material.

Amy Willoughby-Burle
Editor”

Three poems published by The Legendary

Three Poems published by The Legendary

http://www.downdirtyword.com/poetrypage.html 

for April 20

by PD Lyons

Angus Gets It Right

breathe in the fever
perfect wood wind violin
single note shape sigh release
weightless tongues
sweet water curls up
fine black pearls clung
each finger brought to your rowan mouth
until unable to bear it any more
laugh and plunge
this time even deeper

<> <> <>

where are you singing?
where are you dancing?

tonight in open spaces of my heart
memories keeping us together or apart

when life is only looking back
trading places with the dark

wisdom drawn with silver sticks
without books without roots

unspeakable night this time
I will not medicate fear

I will not dogma soul
I will wide open in the dark

Looking For Work In Dublin

The same girl sitting on different buses going by over and over I knew if I saw her one more time the rest of the world would completely liquefy and go with her. Wishing to avoid that whirlpool of a thing I knocked back the coffee, paid and left keeping my eyes firmly focused on the sidewalk made my way to Eccles Street. Sidewalk, crosswalk not daring to look up risking my life in the traffic like a blind man saving the world.

In the crumbling doorways tilted columns boarded windows planning permission posters all along the way safe to be looked at on the right side of the street I had no fear of buses as the decaying signs of Eccles street lead me down to the Georgian centre for saving the ruined life of city boys saving ruins among the ruins 90 days repairs a lifetime then out with you maybe meet again in some emergency of violence queued up amidst the hospital flu wishing you weren’t here.
there must be some as yet undiscovered carpet to sweep you under.

On my helter skelter straight way down to the bus station maybe O’Connell street. instead some nameless to me slope of a road not to far is that the tower of Ulysses where once Telemachus watched black mass Mulligan sacred shaving interrupted by old Ireland who may have forgotten her own tongue but remembering to bring the milk had her tits compared to moocows and other things I cannot now remember. everything old once was new like some profundity this rolls around in my brain tickling something in me I’m not sure of any more than why.

Cutting across I decide on O’Connell, I am afraid of the city only now when I am so indecisive about destinations as if there is some gang of violence waiting for that sign I send of not knowing where I’m going. Jackals of the lost man wandering seeking safety in the numbers of O’Connell, safe among the herds, oblivious to the old, ignorant of the new. penniless. No merchants sanctuary, a foreigner among the African languages and Friesian competitors, children named Rosalitta frown then smile, German hippies Burberry plaid guitars,

Somehow I don’t belong except to old bullet holes on the GPO, rusted tin enamelled placards above the discount shop on Talbot, soldier statues, new inns ward, eroded Grecian friezes on greasy brick work, stained glass window cracked holes. Noticing no one seems to notice like me wanting to some how take the time to repair myself, remind myself, inquire of the passer byes as to whom they attribute freedom to.

We are in a hurry to forget, do our best to not remember.

There has never been another day like today
There has never been another way
It has always been so
World without life
Amen.

A long cat stretch beach of green benches
Cobble stone tides break debris from yesterday’s storm
Soggy cardboard
Bleached pigeon bones
Desperate for sunglasses
Into the leather sleeves of my dreams

Old Shirt

days
walking laying
sleeping eating
over-steamed radiators
warm spells February spring
But
the colour is good
fit is right and when I catch myself
passing mirrors in hallways
bathrooms
shop windows
turned off televisions
Stop
and/or
glance
who am I
breath caught a moment
Old shirt smell
still me
still who I was
and am now
in need of a shower