Nothing kept us in not even really bad weather and hardly dinnertime and not without an argument.
TV was too new. The only a night time thing was Mickey Mouse but Saturdays were mornings of cartoons and Wonderama, Sandy Becker, Little Rascals, Chuck McCann.
Most days were almost always outside in the street. Kick the can, stickball, kick ball, Wiffle-Ball, handball even football in the street. Hide and seek and playing’ army through back yards and up-the-bank. Getting my first kiss from an army nurse who was wearing a WW2 helmet borrowed from my best friend who got it from his army captain father and lent it to the girl he liked the best, the one who kissed me instead and I didn’t even know what for.
In those days Saturdays were a real luxury and summer really meant something – spent fully spreely as if we knew there was an endless supply.
Days like a never dropping pinball all flash & bang buzz & ring -yellow jacket eat a melon no school holler out the screen door slam summers.
Snow up to your face steel runner sleds stand up backwards down the steepest golf course hill.
Autumn crunch warm sweet smell leaves up to our knees dreaming of Halloween the minute school started in September.
I was a cowboy; got six shooters and a Rifleman riffle from my aunt who never knew how much I loved that gun because it broke on the first time out as if I wasn’t careful.
My father hosed the snow fort so it was hard as a stone the next day and we could slide down it as well as sit in it and it didn’t melt ‘til May.
There was a patch of woods down the street if you walked far enough you’d come to a sand pit where three kids got buried to death once, if you went the other way you’d come to green waters like some soup my mother tried to get us to eat once. But the great thing about the woods was the rock fort, a maze of glacier heaved black rocks left in retreat I guess, we didn’t know. You could squeeze between the crevices, follow the snaky cracks a perfect place to learn how to smoke cigarettes stole from someone else’s parents.
But always the best was the street even football touch football using telephone poles for goal posts of course we couldn’t do field goals and cars would beep and some would be assholes but these were days before we even used such words so we’d just do raspberries, make faces, or act as if we could reach that passing car with a well-placed kick.
Last night I had a dream about you. Nothing major. We just met face to face. You were telling me about my grandmother. We were outside in the sand. I was surprised you knew her. I never knew she went to Mexico. It was hot. We sat down at a rough grey whiskery table.
Yes, you said and she rode very well. A bright grey horse among the caballeros. “And tequila ?” I leaned towards you tete-a-tete ” What about the tequila…?” But the scraping sound of speeding traffic brought me into this morning. And I wondered Why Mexico?
I was always a bit afraid of Mexico –
Suddenly Last Summer, We don’t need no stinking badges, Maryse Holder Give Sorrow words, Comancheros, Decapitations decorating the highways…
But when I was a kid –
Zorro. Bands of silver trumpeters. Hat dancing. Cielito Lindo. Raw silver jewellery, grumpy looking straw cowboys, hand bags made of alligator. Souvenirs sent to my mother from her favorite uncle, United States Army Air Forces navigator.
And why you? I had called you Jan. You had written to me about my own work. I had admired yours, especially the Creation Myths, Hoped someday you’d do an audio version. How like dreams now, the days too fade.
Re: Ethel Pollard Lyons Thanks to Donna J Snyder for telling me
there are no flowers here but snow. the bay not yet free chunked with ice the white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea. at least the sun visits, comforting, illusion though it is, visions of thawing, melting down to something green.
in the long sleep of winter I have dreamed something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise something soft covering sun drenched shoulders silver threads an old man’s harp played for money by the moon.
Was lucky enough to live in Cape Breton for a while. The area Mira Gut was where the river Mira entered the Atlantic. We lived across the street from the ocean. Sometimes we’d walk down to the Mira bridge and fish for mackerel. Some of the most beautiful parts of being there were the winters. this was probably written on 2003.
she has been sacredness to me and in serving her i make an art, of that which words have been forbidden i express on my tight white canvas a tale everyone wants to interpret i cling to it like a charm ~ she has been sacredness to me with secret dark eyes closed behind a sea of objects so safe she does not move me but rather causes me to linger tip toe from eternity
she has been sacredness to me endowed this ornamental flesh a power always yearned for and i would cut myself open for her but this she does not ask for ~
Back in the eighties I worked in a residential treatment centre in Litchfield Ct. called The Country Place. it was the first time I met people dealing with anorexia. Renee Nell, the woman who established and ran the centre was particularly interested in anorexia. She was respectfully mystified and intrigued with its manifestations and how difficult it was to treat.
the king in question was adversarial towards Patrick and the christian ways. he was steadfast to the old religion. many years later there was a drive to get a new statute of st. patrick built up on the hill of tara, the original seat of the high kings of ireland. there was a request for poetry which would be included in a publication to be sold as generating revenue. not being overly christian and wondering why the hill of tara should have a statue of partick – i wrote an submitted this poem, which was accepted by the organization. the book was never published because there was some benefactor(s) who donated all the cash needed. later i sent it over to the Ides Of March people and the chose to publish it.
As the events of 2020 put paid to my intention to promote this book via live readings etc. I have decided to simply read the book in order on short videos. I believe the work should be heard and hope to make that happen here. Thank you if you have for listening. cheers pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk.
Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away. erbacce-press Liverpool UK c2019 video c2021 pdlyons poet.
If you’d like a copy of the book contact me via email to arrange. inscribed limited editions 20.00euros regular postage incl. anywhere in the world. 15.00Euros if you’re lucky enough to live in Ireland.
good luck. bye!
note there are some sexual references here. no violence, or graphic descriptions
you can read them below but as the youtube folks say if you want the joy of watching yours truly read ’em you gotta go ~
Something in the Night
back then when knowing the night was an obligation
I got to meet you
we had nothing to do but each other
we had no one else we wanted to bother with
I was working at a local gas station
pump the gas, check the oil, fill the radiator, fill the tire
only other things we could sell – cigarettes, maps and coca cola.
I have no idea what you did something textile?
Bobbins, threads, piece work, bonus
somehow, we had met and that was all that mattered.
we liked to drive around at night,
few beers, couple packs of smokes, FM radio.
didn’t go to bars much, drinking there cost more
besides we both had this inability to not piss people off.
last time we were in a bar?
this old Irish guy, the owner, liked you at first
gave you your third drink on the house
but when he was playing pool, money on the table
you kept grabbing the back of the cue just as he shot.
by the third time it wasn’t funny, except to you.
few of the regulars told me; Better get her out of here. Now! So, I did.
we stopped off in the middle of the intersection by St. Joseph’s cemetery
smoking, talking, kissing – more than kissing.
never a soul, not even the cops came by to bother us.
we had some incredible luck when it came to it.
I told you what my favourite breakfast was.
so, you invited me one morning, your mother’s house,
eggs Benedict you made yourself just for me.
I met your little brother then.
he was 7 maybe 10. He asked if I ever went fishing?
sure, when I was your age my dad used to always take me.
must a said I’d take him sometime
cause about a week after we stopped seeing each other I get this phone call
could we go? maybe tomorrow? you know fishing?
I don’t remember how but I told him no. It made me feel sad.
I knew what it was like to believe you were going fishing then not.
And you? Even if you were around, I don’t think there’s anything here you wouldn’t have already known and forgotten long ago.
Lessons on Foreign Languages in A Reeperbahn Café
Trees or torture…
My breasts were made for children and your hands
Choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface
How do you know that’s not a table?
We could meet in Ireland by the palm trees.
Everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, everyone drinks Paddy
Even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who
wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes?
To find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,
the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…
Who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box?
Well when I am god, I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who
turned away from paradise, instead followed the stars.
Why? Why everything? Why not something else?
Ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…
…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees
yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones
of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of
our childhood to the music of Springsteen’s: Point
Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through
some battery cassette. So, roll up another cigarette and pass
the Pandora but first let me see your eyes,
Let me lay my tongue on yours.
Let us swallow some of each other’s spit,
like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and
yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to…
When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but
sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of
ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit covered
everything with a resin crust. We were fond of bones and
murders, sacrifices, lesbians, our Spartan
swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and
Parthenons. Sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted
little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.
When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in
Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna. Slept for Beethoven at his
tomb and at his little Platz by the statue near the
Shubert ring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural
History Museum – lost among stuffed and pickled corpses of every
creature known to man.
In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a
giant smog impregnated everything and every moment. Its
embryonic motion grown heavy in a damp heat, like breath on
a still winter night of North Sea drifting downward with
hunger, for those German girls, who with the slenderness of
a homosexual fantasy covered me in the slick semen of their
love. Mouths moaning with love, cunts hungry
with love, assholes a dream of love…
In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs.
Flesh of Ronald McDonald. Catholic flesh of Christ, bloodless
white and sour. I lived with the flesh of dead dogs, aborted infants;
sucked juices from the fresh wounds of teenage girls down
in the darkness of their daddy’s garages. Dracula had nothing on me man.
I walked the ninety-degree heats of New York City streets.
Streets made of skin and muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz.
Tattoos sweating black ink and muggers.
Whenever I couldn’t buy anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street –
Meat Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to
the countryside? It was for a breath of fresh blood with a
little something still warm from its own body heat to chew on.
… But now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland
our harps hung up to dry. Pandora’s ass so dry, is
like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning
man, sucks sea. We don’t sleep any more. The only flesh we
eat is our own. You have met me here have taken the blood
of my wound into your own.
So, my dearest look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known.
Do you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years ago?
Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to
steal. So, roll up another cigarette. But first let me lay my tongue upon
yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let
us see how long we can stay still like that and yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to.
Another sample from the 2019 erbacce press international poetry prize winning collection by P D Lyons.
This one does what it says on the tin so to speak. I did live on West Main Street in Waterbury Ct. for a while. There really was a great Dane, a parrot, a park, a toy shop and sugar in the gas tank.
When I lived on West Main
When I lived on west main street
Third floor Victorian
Short walk for the liquor store past a little unnamed park
Not too far from downtown
Landlords’ cousins on the first floor
Stole my unemployment checks
Put sugar in the gas tank
And I don’t know why
We had a Great Dane, brindle dog
Got a cut on the end of his tail
And no matter what we did
He’d wag the bandage off.
Going up and down the stairs, hit the railings
Drops of blood splatter
As if his name was Jackson.
We bought a parrot
Called him Caesar
Filled the living room with plants
And let him fly around.
Got oil lamps to save on electricity.
Tall hurricane lamps,
Scented oil glowed in every room.
Tall well screened windows let the sky in.
Wood floors creaked waltzed all night by ghosts.
I went to work in a toy shop.
I was happy about the baby.
Still painted. Still wrote every day.
Still knew who we were.
It was the place where I’d smoke
As much as I wanted up into the middle of the night,
In that rocking chair your grandmother used to own.
Weight of endless summers in the dark.
Out over the roof tops, streaming lights, distant highways
I do have a few of these limited to 50 editions numbered and signed. email for availability and further details. Basically 20.00 euros gets it posted world wide.
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 outright winner! Below is the book we produced for him… it is sheer quality poetry, the whole book encompasses a simplicity coupled with deep insight; a truly beautiful collection which reveals more each time it is re-opened… (perfect-bound: 112 pages)
