Somewhere Still by pd lyons for donald lyons with regards to WB Yeats

This year I notice that Father’s day and WB Yeats birthday ( June 13, 1865 ) are close. So with that in mind I’m re posting the following poem that i wrote for my father and mother along with my fathers favourite WB Yeats poem,  Song of the Wandering Aengus. It was the poem I tried to read at his funeral but was unable to do it any justice. My father was the book man of the family his collection of books was a constant inspiration and resource for me growing up. He read me Longfellow, Kipling, Shakespeare  before i could read. He gave me Tolkien when i was 11, he gave me Henry miller when i was older, he gave me WB Yeats and Aubrey Beardsley, Tanith Lee and Djuna Barns, Brautigan and Shakespeare….

He was a Marine in the South Pacific, he was a policeman ( https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/2014/06/12/cop-by-pd-lyons/  ) in an old mill town, he was a seller of out of print books, he was the guy who loved my mother very much and no matter what when the chips were down he was always there for us.

Somewhere Still

Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages run, jump, cling, – immune bare foot impervious to sun, skin frosted with salt, lotions, and cake icing.

Somewhere grand children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, take them sometimes instead to lunch.

Long time companions, comforts old age, afternoon naps, books, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – a love, a marriage, a death, a wound never in twenty-three years of healing cured…

Somewhere still she takes you by the hand, Ohs your name, laughs into the open window, ’55 Chevy, summer bright chrome, so close to flying great American V8 highways 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 you 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; saying yes when the barman offers to sweeten her drink , not knowing that here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want ‘cause she’s your wife now and you’ve 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?  That 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., his favourite poet)

~from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – poems of an Irish Descent, by PD Lyons, 2011, ISBN 1466272996

 

http://www.poetry-archive.com/y/the_song_of_wandering_aengus.html

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

by: W.B. Yeats

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 some one 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.

‘The Song of Wandering Aengus’ is reprinted from An Anthology of Modern Verse. Ed. A. Methuen. London: Methuen & Co., 1921.

 

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