This was written in 2011. We were back for a few years in my hometown area of Waterbury Ct. We’d drive back and forth on Grandview Ave. Same time five days a week. Many times we’d see the same people walking same time everyday.
The annual erbacce-prize for poetry is open from January 1st to May 1st every year. It is entirely FREE to enter thus it attracts top quality poets world-wide… in 2019 we had close to eight thousand entries and all were judged ‘blind’. P D Lyons was the…
This is one I have had for ages. Snagged from my dads bookshelf when he was selling out of print items. It was published by Yale University Press. This copy is fifth edition C1967. As you can see it came from the library of Calvin Hosmer JR. In my opinion Calvin lived, and indeed may still be living, in a town with one of the coolest place names ever – Brave Boat Harbor! I think it is one of the main reasons I have not been able to part with it for over thirty years.
It is inscribed by C.HJ. with the note:
“This Vinland map
was found to be
a fake but the
book is still
good reading
CHJ”
Personally I would disagree. Once I read the inscription I was disinclined to enjoy the fore mentioned good read. Can’t help but wonder how the recipient felt getting a gift of a used book the subject of which was proved fake? Perhaps there is a clue in that my Dad picked it up at a rummage sale for .50 ? Anyway for some reason I still keep it. Well, it was from Brave Boat Harbor, that’s just irresistible isn’t it?
from the tiredness of my bones not syllables of warm water mouths rather emanate rich with marrow silent sensations hot cold soft foetal crescents of your ears depth deeper than you know of your eyes the vast rift of tears your endless heart
alone sometimes in the dark I have been a labour for you silently aloud likewise you should read these words so unlike other words each window through which invisible creatures of what cannot be said climb
So the other day I picked this little gem off the shelf and discovered Robert Louis Stevenson – the poet. I have had this book for a while now maybe 10 – 15 years bought it some where in America for .25 cents. It has only two poems by RLS; Requiem and The Vagabond. I think they both show just how ballsy a poet he was. Today as I was putting this blog together Shelly posted on my face Book page about Tom Crean the Irish Sailor & Antarctic explorer. The inscription on Toms grave – Home is the sailor, home from sea. You can still drink at Toms Crean’s Pub ( he opened a pub once he retired from the sea) The last time I was there they pulled a very fine pint.
Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river – There’s the life for a man like me, There’s the life for ever.Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o’er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me.
Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field – Warm the fireside haven – Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even
Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o’er me; Give the face of earth around, And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me.
10 daysmaybe a few weeks after my capture? housed with the other prisoners from various units. not many of us 12? 15? my luck had held. our captors did not know I was not the young boy they thought me.
it was not pleasant but nothing torturous. we were fed crap food, slept on hard earth floor, not many blankets n such. we might have been shoved on occasion, but mostly they mocked us, jeered us in broken language
So now observers have you enjoyed your trip?
Did you see what you wanted?
Don’t worry we still have sights for you don’t we …
and they would laugh.
eventually the tempo seemed to increase, the shoves turned to occasional slaps or spitting or tripping or a kick. I was lucky enough to be nimble but was more uncomfortable with the rough seduction attention paid to me –
So here’s something I have been meaning to do for some time now. not a big deal except for me to follow through sometimes takes a while. Any way I come from a book-aholic family. My parents both avid readers. My Mom and dad also collected and sold out of print books back in the days before personal computers. He would be sent lists from books shops dealers and at times universities and libraries – searching for particular items. He wold send a post card quote and maybe make a sale. We spent many a weekends going to estate sales, tag sales, second-hand shops etc. Finding things for resale and curious pieces i would sometimes argue with him over – like Henry miller first editions or Gertrude Stein, etc. (and whatever happened to that Jerusalem Bible illustrated by Dali?) Some of those books are still on my shelves some alas are not. Anyway Shelly and I have continued the reading and collecting but alas not the re-sale. Morgan too is an avid reader and hoarder of books. So every once in a while there is no choice but to part with somethings … So the thing I meant to say is that starting today I’m doing an off the book shelf blog post. Because so many things come through and because we haunt second-hand shops there are many books we acquire with inscriptions and I’m thinking i would like to document and save them and share them regardless of keeping the books or not.
The first is from the book; Endurance, an epic of polar adventure by F.A.Worsley Captain of HMS Endurance. published by WW Norton & Company, NY. 2000.The inscription is to Capt. Beckley and signed by Summer. I particularly find “Stay Safe Brave Soul…” rather touching. We would have picked this up in the states, probably in Litchfield Ct. area. Maybe the church on the green basement book shop? Maybe you know Captain Beckley? Maybe you know Summer? Maybe there is a story – Stay Safe Brave Soul.
like that street
wandered down street
no siesta noon
shadowed woman leans
black iron filigree not quite a balcony
lace the colour of some-place else
drawn as if a breeze
pecan smooth her face
what would the story be?
choose that place you should not go
walnut doors second floor
barefoot invitation
whisper of late grapes
hint of something strong
dull embroidered armchair
unlaced boots
dusted finger prints
smooth as kisses table
folded towels
uncertain colour
enameled basin
clear glass tumblers
lemons sliced in water
sunlight striping something velvet on the bed
Literariedad es una revista electrónica nacida en Pereira, Colombia, en mayo de 2013. Asume la literatura, la poesía, el cine y el teatro como calles, lugares de encuentro y desencuentro. Inspirada en la idea que suscitó Jaime Sabines: “No soy un poeta, soy un peatón”, y en la obsesión que llevó a Robert Walser a morir en la nieve, busca difundir la crítica, la ficción, la poesía (y el pensamiento en torno a la misma) sin ninguna razón más que la de existir como todas las cosas: por un impulso ciego y desbocado.
Literariedad is an electronic magazine born in Pereira, Colombia in May of 2013. Literariedad presumes that literature, poetry, film, and theatre are like streets, places to be found and lost once again. Inspired by a quote by Jaime Sabines, “I’m not a poet, I’m a pedestrian,” and the obsession that carried Robert Walser to die in the snow, this magazine seeks to spread criticism, fiction, poetry (and thoughts on poetry) without any other motive than that which drives all art: a blind and uncontrollable impulse.
Puede enviar sus textos para ser evaluados por nuestro Comité Editorial a la siguiente dirección de correo electrónico: editorial@literariedad.co.
No matter how hard I wait the rain doesn’t stop any sooner no matter if I focus on streaming glass or distant green as it meets the still bare tree line no not even if I stare at the little pile of shit the neighbour’s dog left slowly steadily dissolving in the gravel
Couldn’t I just stand here all day? Instead, get dressed yoga later or not at all
There is a softness allowed by the absence of anxiety a nonchalant free from worry over what to do when after all there’s nothing – Things will remind me, no matter what I choose
and tears a lot like rain seem never to stop until they do and then they don’t again
~~~~~~~~~~
I go out, with the basket for wood feed the fire started in the dark morning hours ash and blackthorn limbs
and like the rain and like the tears that fire keeps my eyes busy for a while
until some distraction like my bladder like my stomach or the postman with some useless package unable to fit the inadequate mail slot of my front door
Though it’s to an empty chair not your smiling face I stare
(Yet) whenever that door slams I still hope to see you there.
And sitting here I wonder
All those stories finally told
Revealed how in our youth
We were so very much the same
Was it drink that made us bold?
Or did we speak so true
Because somehow, we knew
You’d not be coming back this way again?
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 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.)
Donald Raymond Lyons
Donald Raymond Lyons, 77, of North Shore Blvd., East Sandwich, MA, formerly of Rockledge Dr., Waterbury, passed away peacefully on Sunday, (January 26, 2003) with his family by his side at the Mary F. McCarthy House in Sandwich. He was the husband of the late Flora (Rosano) Lyons. Mr. Lyons was born Nov. 21, 1925 in the Waterville section of Waterbury, son of the late Raymond and Ethel (Pollard) Lyons of Waterville. He graduated from Crosby High School in 1947 and served in the U.S. Marine Corps from 1943 to 1945 during World War II. Mr. Lyons joined the Waterbury Police force in 1953. He was promoted to police sergeant in 1965 and to lieutenant in 1973, retiring in 1984. He loved family gatherings, his books, wine, dancing, lunch dates and his grandchildren. He was a member of B.P.O. Elks Lodge No. 265 and the VFW Mattatuck Post No. 8075. He leaves his devoted family of three sons, Peter D. Lyons of County Cavan, Ireland, Mark J. Lyons of Waterbury, and David M. Lyons of Sagamore, MA; two daughters, Pamela A. Beane of Sandwich, MA and Judy M. Donovan of Plymouth; a loving brother, Raymond “Buddy” Lyons of Waterbury; and 11 grandchildren that adored him. He was predeceased by a sister, Shirley Aparo. The funeral will be held Friday at 8:45 a.m. from the Mulville Funeral Home, 270 West Main St., to St. Francis Xavier Church for a Mass at 9:30 a.m. Burial will be in All Saints Cemetery. Friends may call at the funeral home Thursday from 4-8 p.m. Memorial contributions may be made to the Mary E. McCarthy House, 73 Service Rd., East Sandwich, MA 02537, or to a charity of the donor’s choice. The family wishes to express their sincere appreciation for the love and support given to their father by his longtime companion, Eleanore Bryan of Sandwich, MA.
Published in The Hartford Courant on Jan. 28, 2003
