Monthly Archives: September 2010

vox poetica new poem


http://poemblog.voxpoetica.com/2010/09/23/contributor-series-6-a-currency-of-words-wordsilk.aspx

POEMBLOG.VOXPOETICA.COM published a new entry entitled “Contributor Series 6: A Currency of Words, Wordsilk” on 9/23/2010 10:36:34 PM, written by Annmarie. 


Contributor Series 6: A Currency of Words, Wordsilk

 
 
 
 

Contributor Series 6: A Currency of Words
Wordsilk
By PD Lyons
reminding me of words like
border line
crescent coyote
ancient timbers
polished smooth as kisses
paradise
abandoned eyes of ship-wrecked sailors
myriad pin prick suns
flightless birds
something Spanish that you
said along a twilight
turquoise
Ishmael to Ishmael
all the nights we’ve ever known
not bothering the quiet
PD Lyons made his most recent appearance at vox poetica in August 2010 with Perennials.

 

 

 

 

Permalink: poemblog.voxpoetica.com/2010/09/23/contributor-series-6-a-currency-of-words-wordsilk.aspx 


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coffee table work


m at school other m away a job, me all the windows open autumn sunny breezy morning my first work in America begins…

http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/pdlyons.html#ps


PD Lyons
PD Lyons newest book Caribu&Sister Stones published by Lapwing Press Belfast click for preview:
http://books.google.ie/books?id=m4v3dIprgUIC&printsec=frontcover&client=firefox-a&source=gbs_navlinks_s#v=onepage&q=&f=false
Post Scripts (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)

Three Poems (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)

Post Scripts (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)

After a year and a day of Pearl Harbour
Your eyes would be this blue….

Should I sit here on the street?
Haven’t I had enough of streets?
All my life, hasn’t that been enough?
Inside, the safety of the cafe is
Like a tomb, full of concrete and steel.
So I sit on the street side, eat from un- labelled tins,
Tired of everything.
What pearls?
Only swine.
What tombs?
Only wet cardboard bodies.
Sucked into the current.

Paradise is not so very far from this.

Remember, she sat on the White Stone Bridge
Talking about how she and another woman,
Both singing, both draped in doves, stood above Mount Fuji.
Appropriately deified
By waiting photographers,
Black and white
Smudged
Yet attempting to fly.

Remember, you losing your way
In Frisco over some slick little penis,
Piercing your armour with its determined
Burrowing motion only to slip out with a whimper,
Leaving you to know – you should have known better.
Later, out on the veranda, squatting over
An enamelled basin, your hands a smear full of pleasure
Needing nothing then from any man.

After a year and a day,
My thoughts snake until broken
Stream along that gentle surf
Deserted now except by occasional reptiles
Come to feed on whatever it is they find attractive
Here in the harbour of lost cities –
I walk alone accidentally remembering
What lovers?
What ambitions?
What crimes?
Against what humanity?
These haunt my waking hours
Run rampant through my sleep.
Although these days it’s difficult to tell the difference,
Like yesterday or what may have been a yesterday,
Was that really someone on the beach? Someone running?
My pursuit sucked away by sand until I’m spinning.

So what happens?
After a year and a day of pearl Harbour
How can I tell?
The days
The sleep
Waking
Walking
Standing
Talking
All
Dreaming.

Sometimes I make believe your pastel messages from Europe, still come.
I spend hours writing back
Drop you a line
Confetti
Over the Arizona.

Once I hid your letters all over the place
So after forgetting where they were I’d accidentally find them
Sometimes I still do – find them.
They are the real ghosts here.

Run rope against my skin. Stick myself with things.
Lay in the sun until reassured by burns.
It got that difficult to tell –
Alive or dead? Asleep, awake?
For a while these things mattered
But now, no longer into pain
I mostly keep to the shade.
So sometimes are those sails on the horizon?
Trails of smoke as if from ship?
I don’t know. Maybe I am just dreaming,
Just waiting for news from the mainland,
Just waiting for the phone to wake me up.
After a year and a day of Pearl Harbour,
You know, I really don’t give a fuck
Either way there’s 9,227 cigarettes to go.

z z z
e e e
r r r
PPS xxx- o o o

Table of Contents

Three Poems (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)

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

Table of Contents

writers n readers : FYI


Dear Writers & Readers,

The new Caper Literary Journal issue is live now, complete with new poetry, prose and memoirs. On the Issue 7 homepage, you’ll find details about our literary contest, literary readings and interviews.

Cheers!
Lisa Marie Basile


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Adieu,
Editor, Lisa Marie Basile
Caper Journal | Monthly Journal
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caperjournal@gmail.com

Caper Blog
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Caper Literary Journal/ published in issue 7


Oakwood’s Ethan
(1966-1991)

At that moment
I did not know the world
Only the rain came as if the world
Knew of me, kneeling
Where he lay.

“To the Earth, To the Sky
To returning ghosts in springtime –
Give this dear one peace
He was a little crazy
But he was a good bay.”
For Lee

new poem to be published by vox poetica


Hi PD,
Your poem, Wordsilk, has been accepted as part of Contributor Series 6: A Currency of Words. It is scheduled to post on the today’s words page of vox poetica on the night of September 22.
As with other works published at vox poetica, rights to your work remain with you, although I do ask that you credit vox poetica if you choose to reprint elsewhere and this collection is expected to be anthologized at some point in the near future. You will be contacted about that at a later date. Please reply to this e-mail indicating that you accept these terms. Inclusion in the series will not occur without your reply to this e-mail.
I will not be including bios in the series, but rather a link to your most recent poem at vox poetica. It is my intent to let the work of this series speak for itself so I will not be introducing the work with my own words.
Congratulations on this acceptance!
Regards,
Annmarie Lockhart
editor
vox poetica

Guantanamera lyrics


Below are the lyrics based on the poem by Martí; as described above, many other versions exist.

Spanish language English language
Yo soy un hombre sincero
De donde crece la palma
Y antes de morirme quiero
Echar mis versos del alma
Guantanamera, guajira, Guantanamera
I am an honest man
From where the palm tree grows
And before dying I want
To share the verses of my soul.
Mi verso es de un verde claro
Y de un carmín encendido
Mi verso es de un ciervo herido
Que busca en el monte amparo
Guantanamera, guajira, Guantanamera
My verse is a clear(light) green
And it is flaming crimson
My verse is that of a wounded deer(servant, slave)
Who seeks refuge in the woods.
This third verse of “Versos Sencillos” is usually not part of the song

Cultivo una rosa blanca
En julio como en enero
Para el amigo sincero
Que me da su mano franca
Guantanamera, guajira Guantanamera

I cultivate a white rose
In July as in January
For the sincere friend
Who gives me his honest hand.
Y para el cruel que me arranca
El corazón con que vivo
Cardo ni ortiga cultivo
Cultivo la rosa blanca
Guantanamera, guajira Guantanamera
And for the cruel one who would tear out
the heart with which I live
I cultivate not nettles nor thistles
I cultivate the white rose
Final verse of song, as published:

Con los pobres de la tierra
Quiero yo mi suerte echar
El arroyo de la sierra
Me complace más que el mar
Guantanamera, guajira Guantanamera

With the poor people of the earth
I want to cast my luck
The brook of the mountains
Pleases me more than the sea

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guantanamera

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