true

 

 

 

 

Loneliness

 is

 a

sacred

 space

 

Poet as someone I envy

Pdlyons's Explorations

there are not many poets that i envy – but here is an example of a piece of work that makes me wish i had been born this man. Also included a stunning reading of it by Liam Clancy

Mary Hynes

(The most beautiful woman in the West. Padraic Fallon translation
of the Anthony Raftery poem)

That Sunday, on my oath, the rain was a heavy overcoat
on a poor poet; and when the rain began in fleeces
of water to buck-leap like a goat, I was only a walking
penence reaching Kiltartan

and there so suddenly that my cold spine broke out
on the arch of my back in a rainbow;
this woman surged out of the day with so much sunlight,
that I was nailed there like a scarecrow.

But I found my tongue and a breath to balance it,
and I said:

‘If I’d bow to you…

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Today Is Tuesday ( sometimes in this writing life 2 )by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

Today Is Tuesday (Sometimes in writing Life 2)

have to cut back on the computer
it’s pretty bad
hours of my life a day sucked away
nothing done
neck aches wrist aches
contacts dry fall out of my eyes like pieces of glass

from now on check in once a week
cater to those fan-based minions
socialize with those multitudinous faces
post a plog upon the blogs
once a week
maybe Mondays

got dressed drove into town
picked up a case of Lebanese red
two bottles Tyrconnel
litre of un-oaked Chardonnay for cooking
stack of legal sized pads,
and a few pounds Italian coffee

Today is Tuesday
I have liberation to celebrate.

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Now Safe In Snug Harbour, by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

Now Safe In Snug Harbour

Think there is nothing left because
Things are not they way they were?
I have shouted at the city-blocked midnight
Danced fence post crooked side walked racially slurred neighbourhoods
Found my way past numerous boot strap bras soft slung underwear
Love named and nameless roof tops vestibules pine wood parked cars basements garages around the corner from some bar
All long railroads of dreams no longer gleaming dull rust into misuse

What is this pulse less thing?
Where is the pushing through my blood?
Undeniable maniacal all experience worth while
How failing of words to name you muse?

Once I belonged to your ancient word
Once midnight meant something swinging at the park
Shouting strings continuous words
Stars  sky earth and bug sounds
Hardly known girl beside me
Waiting supplicant for the dew that would soon cover us
Cold reservoir air upon one another
Our…

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“There is something about the literary life that repels me, all this desperate building of castles on cobwebs…” Raymond Chandler

ain’t it the trut

BEGUILING HOLLYWOOD

“By the way, would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write in a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss-waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will remain split, and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of barroom vernacular, this is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed and attentive. The method may not be perfect, but it is all I have.”

These are the words of the ever crabby, completely fabulous Raymond Chandler (thank you dear readers for introducing his books to me) in a letter to one of his editors at The Atlantic magazine.

Talking with William Kuhn last week had got me going on all…

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