Creation myth from The Tongue Has Its Secrets by Donna Snyder admired & read by PD Lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

An attempt by myself to do justice to one of Donna’s fine pieces of poetry. Hope its ok. Donna!

Creation myth from The Tongue Has Its Secrets by Donna Snyder

from a series of reviews of selected poetry admired & read by PD Lyons

The Tongue Has Its Secrets by Donna Snyder 2016 NeoPoiesis Press, Seattle ISBN 978-0-9003565-5-4 (pbk) ~ most excellent cover design by Milo Duffin & Stephen Rosborough

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My poem “When the bodhisattva wept” published in Return to Mago

one of the strongest poems i have ever read. heart touching. thank you Donna!

poetry from the frontera

Paubha painting showing Vishnu Mandala (15th century). Jayateja, Public domain

O Lotus that blooms from a tear of compassion fill the air with your intoxicating scent Remind us that anywhere there is concern or sympathy for others clear water blooms When the bodhisattva saw the suffering of humanity a tear formed a lake of pure water From the clear fresh water grew a single Lotus From that Lotus stepped the compassion goddess O dear one, enlightened one accompany me on this last journey of mine for I am scared Outside my window the desert lies beneath a sun killing those who suffer the weight of all civilization on their back The air here is poisoned with toxins The water is itself a miracle each time it appears falling over my fingers yet is refuse recycled from the filth made by people just for the fact that they are human I…

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1st draft Sunday Morning in the City of Pandemica ~ by P D Lyons

written on first time back in Dublin since Feb (pandemic protocols initiated in March) on a early Sunday morning in September as i stood out from the hotel. now as of this last week of September the city is once again on restrictions.

PS for those who might not know – the Luas mentioned in the piece is a public transport akin to an above ground subway.

 

 

Here is the print ~

Sunday Morning early in the City of Pandemica

   First of all

It was a Sunday morning

In the city early

   Sunday morning early

In the city of Pandemica

   Grey Sunday early on the sidewalks of the city of Pandemica

Cool collage

Damp cool collage breezes empty streets

Unmasked sounds

Cellophane, gull,s fop fop fop

 soft shoe vague woman eyes on her own toes walks by

   What’s the time? hey buddy? hey ya got the time?

A voice of an old fella didn’t even notice at first

Too busy in my own head in my own notebook

Hey ya got any cigarette papers?

All I could say to the only one who noticed me was, No

   They took my phone and all the photos of my kids

Cost me 15 euros to get them printed

Sorry but I need a shower, so I won’t get too close

But they keep sending me down to the quays and all they want to do down there is fight

I’m 47 and I don’t want to fight any more  you know?

Any way got to go.  Good luck. God bless.by

And he got onto the Luas

 

You might love the blue sky

And I the shapes clouds make

So maybe we remember

Without clouds the sky would be alone

Without sky the clouds have no home

Sometimes it takes a mask to reveal ourselves

 

Dublin 2020

Someplace a cowboy lyric by pd lyons

Lyric

Someplace

Down on the avenue
Work ’til the day is through
I just want to get away
But you know I never do.
And when the sun goes down
I’ll be sitting all alone
Watch them old cowboy shows
On some second hand video.

Wishing I was someplace
Where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run and black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big n the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

But I’m city bound by plastic chains
Robbed to death by men with ball point pens.
My hopes gone up in Marlboro smoke
N ghosts of what used to be my dreams
Haunt me with wondering if I’ll live long enough to ever be

Someplace where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run n black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big and the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

Someplace where I can ride for days
N never see another human being

ruff from 2011 in eight bits, by pd Lyons

So because the day is bright and dancing outside my window I am most lazy regarding today’s blog so forewarned be best armed – what follows? 2 photos and a newishly  found ruff unpolished as if in amber piece.

’til next time

pd Lyons has left the building

edinborough scotland

 

 

25.3.11

today out on the veranda of all gone away youth whiskered timber dreams woke another coffee

1
you wouldn’t have to wait for anything to boot up
turn on or upload you could just sit down
bang away royal keys upon a cotton rag of water marked paper

you wouldn’t have to settle for crap wine, Bordeaux châteaux
would be easily accessible even to a low level pot dealer

you could get a soft pack of Marlboro that tasted good –

better than the hard pack in the days before anyone even thought of lights

the rent was 180 for five big rooms a laundry room full bath including heat and utilities

you could sit on the second floor back porch blow a joint in broad daylight watch some old ginger tom prowl around some inner city orange rose bush while the most beautiful girl you thought you’d ever know sat on your lap your hands finding ways to make her melt underneath her long gypsy soul skirt.

2.

starbuck girls go by to boys that somehow remind you to your own self except instead of love they sell schemes and plans and how to maximize income and output and the most beautiful girl in the place gives her precious attention to someone who won’t even make her come, too busy trying to sell her something that she won’t ever need on her death bed.

3.

don’t know what the reasons for the way we are is
don’t know how we got to be so far away from where we were
but there’s a time a place for everything
there’s a never ending ever changing way of everything
so they say and who are they for us to disbelieve when we can see it in our selves
we cross the street together out of step

we walk up stairs without noticing our own eyes
we can’t get on because all we want is something we remember way back there

4.

so much can happen when we live long enough
so many thing s we thought were no possible could have come to pass
but not believing in the future
did we not live grandly in the past?

my mother wanted things for me I did not believe in
my father wanted me to somehow not be a worry
my regret is only that being so inarticulate I could not explain
how I could love them but not want to ever become them

5.
cannot manage this consistency too well
I know your chimes of freedom flashing
I am the outlaw child of all these blue collar working class heroes
I am not them but am eternally grateful to them
all they gave of their own unrequited youth so that I could be the rebel born
and I will not forget you and I will not neglect you
and I will raise your soft n hidden heart to my own pure unbridled lips
my kisses unconcerned with the blood of my mother and my father
I will cherish your suffering transformation into peace.

6.
whatever went winkingly down the stairs clinkily
open and wondering wounded and proud
never more thinkingly would she be drinkingly
out on the balcony summers no more

hearts could be full of love cause the most damaging cuttingly cursingly no matter how true could never be you

7.
how many times have I thought to see you there?
after all these years – damn near 40
don’t I still imagine I come round the wooded path way bend
and by that pond somehow you’re there

ghosts haunt the places that the living know
it has nothing g to do with where they died
ghosts haunt this place where I grew up
where I first saw you naked
and you broke my heart open before I even knew I’d love you

I know I won’t ever see you now
but if promises can be made to ghosts
then someday soon I’ll meet you here again
golden apples silver apples
pine needles on a summer day patch of grass back by the old turtle pond

8.

today I do not want backward

I know there is no such thing as then or later
and now’s so fleeting it hardly exists

I know the moon
calls me on the road of no stone no sand no steps

Paris France

 

from Poems Found in Boxes by pd lyons

Lyrics

I’m a back street rambler

Got no place to go

My lovers are crazy

My money is low

And it’s a slow death

I’m waiting for

A slow death I’m praying for

Got no gifts to offer

No money no dope

All I gots my love

And they say it aint right

Its long night I’m going into

A long night I’m going through

My mirrors are many

My insights are few

no tears left to cleanse me

Got nothing for you

So, I’m two feet for the highway

Two feet for the road

Don’t know what’ll happen but I hope it goes slow.

I would abandon all other cities for this… The reading by pd lyons

 

 

I would abandon all other cities for this… poetry & photography by pd lyons

nyc pdlyons

 

I would abandon all other cities for this…

To wake from sleep with little angels

Cross weeping waters 

Opiate lilies

Rolled tobacco porcelain skin

We would talk

 I would give out money, paper money for free

 Answer, because you are sitting on the streets I was born into this world on.

 

I would pass from them like loose wrappers

cobbled stone behind lost mythologies, strangers foreign even to my self

But I could if I want sift sea salt stolen dreams

camera fantastic songs

 long meandering trails to and from the stars siren spiralling

 a better life only in theory because I would give up all other cities for this.

 

To wake from sleep with nameless angels

Cross weeping water smugglers

Beggar a hazy sun dry enough for a nod nod noddy nod.

Soft we would talk knowing no remedy for tomorrow only respite from the past.

rest your head on my shoulder,

safe from all  clatter drift,

from the hard shelters the rough searchers the mingling watery blood sucked ones.

 

I’d tell you stories of cities abandoned long ago

Where warmth was free

Where angels had names

Where heroes would rescue even you.

I would sleep without being asleep,

  your head on my shoulder

I would not move when disentangled from my arms

you pooch my pockets for something worth taking, cash

  let you have it going,

never to call you anything but by your long-ago name

 the one your mother whispered once all sea spray

 hidden away from anyone else but me.

 

sometimes I will find quiet even in the day light

sometimes I will find a way warm into the night

by myself again

there in only gentle ghosts I blend

 my new skin, my confident sway

a sweetness beyond graves

among stars.

 

nyc pdlyons

 

nyc

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS – The Galway Review 11 (Printed Edition), April 2023

The Galway Review

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS – The Galway Review 11 (Printed Edition), April 2023

Submission guidelines:

• Submissions, poetry, short fiction, plays, and non-fiction or extracts, reviews, and criticism (up to 2500 words) are now being sought for the next issue of The Galway Review 11, printed Edition, (April 2023). We are also interested in receiving black and white images/line drawings for inclusion.
• Please Note: Submissions must be sent by email only.
• Send a maximum of 3 poems or one short prose piece, (up to 2500 words)
• No handwritten texts.
• Submissions should be typed and sent in Word DOC, with the author’s name on the first page, and his/her photo.
• Submissions should include an up-to-date short (60-70 words) biography.
• Submissions submitted by email should be in the body of the email and as a Word Doc attachment. Please send one attachment with the entire submission in one document. If these guidelines are not followed…

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the people who had cured themselves from the virus they once called language ( a dance piece) by pd lyons

the people who had cured themselves

from the virus they once called language

~

communicated eloquently

with their hands

with their arms

with their skin colour

with their eyes

a dance impossible to be misunderstood

~

they learned of the winds worship of leaves

the way the sun and every shadow enjoyed each day by day

and the height of midnight stars all sparkling –

happy with the moon

longing for its return

~

eventually they forgot –

the coarseness of verbal abuse

the trickery of its seduction

the con of its half truths

~

they made themselves dwellers of an island

rescuers and healers of those washed up from the deep

unafraid of reinfection they let the long term healing of their lives

speak for themselves

.

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“Language is a virus from outer space”

― William S. Burroughs