Category Archives: irish american poetry

The People Who Cured Themselves by P D Lyons from As If the Rain Fell In Ordinary Time


Taken from the 2019 erbacce poetry prize winning entry by PD Lyons. It was one of the original entry of four poems. “This one, I am proud to say was influenced by the work of Laurie Anderson & William S. Burroughs.”

The People Who Cured Themselves

 

the people who had cured themselves

from the virus once called language

communicated eloquently

with their hands

with their arms

 with their eyes

with the colour of their skin.

 

impossible to be misunderstood

they learned of the winds worship of leaves

the way the sun with 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.

 

made themselves dwellers on an island

rescuers, healers for those washed up from the deep

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

speak for them.

 

 

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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: 112pages)

http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/p-d-lyons/4586525519

 

Through the generous support of  Westmeath County Council a limited edition of 50 numbered and signed copies are available to purchase direct from the poet at €20.00 to include standard postage world wide.  Please click on the link above to order via PayPal

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boomerz by pd lyons


Boomerz

I live only in memory
The day to day does not inspire me
I only want to sit here think about what used to be.

Here only in my own home.
Locked doors, paid taxes, insurance policies, protect me.
TV,  petrol chemicals, nourish me.

People not like me outrage me.

WANTING TO BE IN THE OLD TONGUE by PD LYONS as read by the poet ~



from the book When You Worship Swans no Longer by PD Lyons.

Poetry inspired by the village of Fore, County Westmeath and surrounding areas of Ireland, by an Irish American poet.

“PD Lyons work stands at the threshold so loved in Ireland. That almost magical, almost mythical, almost otherworldly parallel that the Irish dip in and out of. Where we chose to believe in luck and superstition and destiny and embrace these as tangible factors in our daily lives.” – from the forward by Una O’Neill D’Arcy, ~Journalist/Freelance Writer

Thank you in advance for supporting this project!

Special First Edition Limited to 150: each numbered and signed by the poet. Price includes worldwide shipping by regular post in padded envelope. 20.00 dollars US/15 euros Ireland/20 euros rest of Europe/15. sterling Items shipped upon receipt of order (purchase through Paypal) Contact: pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk With your shipping information and any queries. Additional inscription on request. (Numbered books selected randomly)

Generously  by the Westmeath County Council Arts.

 

 

 

WANTING TO BE IN THE OLD TONGUE

 

Words

Someday

Someone

Might say to you.

Unimportant memories

Aroused to beauty non-the-less

Like cobwebs beaded up with dew,

Brass fittings on a cedar door,

Day’s debris randomly swept into a banked-up fire

Before to your own black iron bed you’d slowly go.

 

 

With all our coming and our going

Will we ever meet again?

Fragile as the moth is the flame

One slight breath

And darkness has us all.

W/that in mind, I mind no dancer

Let us join whatever way we can

Before the waiting darkness

Makes us all fall down.

 

Clumsy fingers

Holds her own heavy breast skyward

As if the moon, areole hungry

Wouldn’t have found communion

Without guidance.

 

Gentle at the end of the world

Even rocks all soft

And buds of lilac silver slanting sun.

And when gems of green roll down

Meet the slate blue sea

Gently rippled by disappearing pearls?

 

Somewhere we still know women who paint the things we see in dreams

 

Wanting to be in the old tongue

January crows gather.

From the eviction house

Another row of slate slips.

Sun orange fingers

Poke dark shy pillows,

Disturbing bread crumb dreams,

Little red breast birds.

 

Shouldn’t you be left alone?

Cradled in the earth for another thousand years or so?

Discovered as some tantalising source

Of artefactual speculation:

Those marks –

True cause of death,

Or left by some post mortem carnivore?

Perhaps sacrificial ritual,

Signs still legible,

Though fading as if

Some water colour in reverse

Until only bare bleached paper

Slightly stained.

 

Ghost steps.

My warm eastern mouth nourishes,

My amniotic fingers curl,

Personal history noted,

As if by some distant observer

Swirled into tight sips

Almost impossible to savour.

 

Between the posts at midnight

A long wire of electricity

Calls little bits of rusting iron

To lantern the siesta heart away.

 

Wishing You the Constant Joy of Your Own Song ~ by PD Lyons


 

 

Wishing You the Constant Joy of Your Own Song

The artist whose voice

still goes right through me

most exquisite of them all

I know exact and precise

As if I really knew you ~

to be forever in that moment

to be forever that creation

Where always was your joy

That is exactly where

you should always be.

 

First time  you  were 21 years old

Toads Bar in New Haven

Flew straight through

First album

One gig

No banter

No break

Your voice went right through me.

Person I was with, rest of the place,  all  disappeared.

And I knew the only joy you’d ever know

Would be the art of your own creation.

Now decades come and go

Albums now CD’s

Politics a torture

religion and Family

curses and blessings

And me someone you’ll never know

What would I wish for you if I knew that wish would come true?

 

Fuckin Bukowski, by pd lyons – with regards to the day that’s in it.


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i never knew  Bukowski. i hadn’t even heard of him for most of my life. i think i was 52 when i first read anything by him – despite work of mine appearing in print with his back in the early 80’s . i knew little about his real life but what came from the poetry (never read a novel by him) – i don’t remember his words but i still remember the rush of honest poetry i discovered there – how beauty cannot be subdued by drink drugs abuse of any kind. how the humanity of the human spirit will not be denied – even if the only place it can manifest is in the fact of not killing the cat who pisses all over you while you’re sleeping one off in bed.

the following poem was published by Caliope Nerve in October 2009, http://calliopenerve.blogspot.ie/search/label/PD%20Lyons  it was probably written in 06-07 :

 

Fuckin Bukowski

Idiot me picks now

6000 miles away at 52

To discover him

Still glad I didn’t stay in Waterbury

Find him sooner

Probably still be pukeing

Out in the after last call

Parking lot of now what am I gonna do

Or else back in jail

Or else still with one of the xes

Or else not even alive

~

Tonight just had a chicken and ham sandwich on rye

And its sometime after midnight

And I’ll probably still be up @ 6 maybe half 6

Do some yoga make coffee for the wife

Bring it to her in bed

Get some pancakes going for the kid

And be happy to do so

~

No not envious

Not regretful

Rather peaceful

Glad to be out of it

That’s the kind of poet I’m happy to live with

Now.

 

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why we like – Human Rights Consortium and the Institute of English Studies (both School of Advanced Study, University of London), and London-based poetry collective the Keats House Poets.


 

The Orphan As Adult

my eyes were not green for you
I did not rebel or lead
never even learned to read.
children dropped from me
in a pain no one cared about.
my years marked by long days and short lives.

as if expecting greeting, you return.
as if your photographs meant something
other than a young girl momentarily annoyed
her world same now as it was then
a place where things just are the way they are.

my eyes were not green for you
only an accident of birth
same as your own.
                                                       For Afghanistan

The Orphan As Adult by PD Lyons, was written upon seeing the famous National Geographic cover photo of the grown up Afghan girl who was herself originally on the cover as a child during the Russian involvement in Afghanistan. Twenty years later and not much has changed.

 

In Protest: New Human Rights Poetry

 

A Country Dance by PD Lyons


 

 

A Country Dance by PD Lyons

 

I am a feeder of crows

My distant neighbour, a farmer

None too pleased

 

I feed them

He shoots them

A thing we do out here

 

Sometimes when I drive by his gates

I see the carcases

black birds hung on a barbed wire

 

Often, I wonder if he’d like my heart to hang

But then I’m sure like me he knows

Takes two to tango

.

mix media by morgan lyons

mix media by Morgan Lyons

mix media by morgan lyons

Crows by Morgan Lyons

Joyce Day


Capture

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Two poems and three songs for my Father Donald R Lyons Nov 21. 1925 – Jan 26, 2003.


DAD

The swans out in the field

Their secrets not revealed

Passing into silent flight are they

Perhaps their subtle sigh

Stifles some deeper cry

As they know you’ll be leaving much too soon

 

Walking down the lane

The filly foals refrain

Their running is the sound of falling rain

Are they restless from the summer?

Or somehow do they know

You’ll not stay to seen them fully grown

 

By the fairy mounds of old

The pock marked GPO

Cross the Boyne to bang your head on spiral stone

See the wonders down at Fore

And the ancient seat of kings on Tara hill

 

Now sitting by the fire, music’s playing’ low

Guess I’ll raise a glass or two before I go

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

     ////

How the Green Witch Loved the Winter Man as read by the author


One for the winter days. Hope you all like it. Special thanks to Morgan for the video. From the collection of PD Lyons poetry, When You Worship Swans No Longer.

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When You Worship Swans No Longer: Poetry by

by P D Lyons

Poetry inspired by the village of Fore County Westmeath and surrounding areas of Ireland, by an Irish American poet.

Special First Edition Limited to 150: each numbered and signed by the poet.

Price includes worldwide shipping by regular post in padded envelope.

20.00 dollars US/15 euros Ireland/20 euros rest of Europe/15. sterling

Items shipped upon receipt of order (purchase through Paypal)

Contact: pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk

With your shipping information and any queries.

Additional inscription on request.

(Numbered books selected randomly)

,

Thank you in advance for supporting this project!

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