Category Archives: irish american poetry

only august, by pd lyons


ONLY AUGUST

crows

almost quiet

only feather sounds

rising

almost still

only slow

steady beating

as if horses

finally

taught themselves

to march in order

across the field

almost green

only smoky

spiral dust

descending

mirage

as if insects

finally

taught themselves

to sing

like falling rain

across the mid day

almost yawning

only August

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This Writing Tongue by pd lyons


nebulous shapes

so no random design

altering this world

parchment tattooed

often at pain

rightfully feared by those righteous  

   like twin fishes 

   one dark one fair

   sucker mouths

   big eyes blue brown bulging

   almost touching glistening lashes

   gladly met a sea of humanity

   gladly back joining in their bed

   drown in their ocean

 

Atlantic Seascape by pd lyons


the overwhelming wave

leaves me like a cork bobbing

on a sunny sea

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my father, my mother, Yeats, golden apples & silver apples – reading by PD Lyons


read by PD Lyons poet~

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats & Somewhere Still by PD Lyons

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats from Eveeryman’s Poetry, J.M. Dent, Orien Publishing. London 1998 Somewhere Still by PD Lyons from When You Worship Swans No Longer Limited Edition, Supported by Westmeath County Arts, 2017

 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

.Noun. 1. Aengus – Celtic god of love and beauty; patron deity of young men and women. Angus, Angus Og, Oengus.

SOMEWHERE STILL by PD Lyons

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.)

he stood with wailing tempest, pd lyons


he stood with wailing tempest

against the unjust world
as if a howling protest
could bring insanity to sense

he thought the problem
was they couldn’t
he saw how clearly
that they could
his heart broke by their simple truth
not couldn’t but wouldn’t

Bagdad Dove

Like My Breath by pd lyons


we lean elbows on the table

they take my face in-between their hands

all endless eyes intense

not even needing to be kissed

swoon like

fall

crash

only by their hands saved

my elbows long since

given

way

 

easily cherished by pd lyons


 

an armature chess crossin

fine tattooed ass

indigo satin

fine breathless

golden brown caffeinate

unable to lullaby

sircular

sircular

rosebud plum tippin

clearly dew dippin

wishes

true unanswerable laughter

easily cherished

cherished

and so easily

cherished

.

The Man Who Ate Mahogany from Myths of Multiplicity by pd lyons


Right about ducks was his sort of thing,
the man who devoured mahogany
with his own yellow bill plates.

Knowing right about ducks :
the colour of water
compared to the state of fault
with the ass in the road
who shot bb’s and 22’s
into ducks
from the corner
under the street light bright as day
interrupting him in his middle
of mahogany meal –

Reading the righteousness
out of his mealy yellow mouth,
they shot out his windows.

from Erbacce Press http://www.erbacce-press.com/

all proceeds from books purchased will directly benefit the Erbacce Writers Co-op. Cost is £4.95 and includes shipping worldwide.

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Poetry deals with primal and conventional things — the hunger for bread, the love of woman, the love of children, the desire for immortal life. If men really had new sentiments, poetry could not deal with them. If, let us say, a man did not feel a bitter craving to eat bread; but did, by way of substitute, feel a fresh, original craving to eat brass fenders or mahogany tables, poetry could not express him. If a man, instead of falling in love with a woman, fell in love with a fossil or a sea anemone, poetry could not express him. Poetry can only express what is original in one sense — the sense in which we speak of original sin. It is original, not in the paltry sense of being new, but in the deeper sense of being old; it is original in the sense that it deals with origins.

Robert Browning (1903).

birthday note on turning 60 by pd lyons


1974 crosby

1974

 

the old fellow near the sea

the old fellow near the sea

 

today ends my fifth decade. to morrow i will be 60.

the sixth decade begins at 5:54 am

bringer of the new dawn

 ever aging scorpion.

 

sometimes i think it has not happened

sometimes when i think of that certain little boy

i still get tears.

sometimes when i think back,

teenage, marriages, children, lovers, others –

reminding myself  of the good and of the not so very good –

reminding myself that I really  did the best I could.

 

but you know i am the luckiest man i know.

i have ended up in a country foreign to my birth

with a family of my own…

i  think i am in the best health ever.

no smoking for over 15 years

steady yoga meditation

and always did and still do love to walk –

there are miles of my life upon

mountains, shores, countries, continents

and  along those meandering pathways between the worlds.

 

and while i know all things come to an end –

as of right now i have not!

how cool is that?

cheers

.

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cover photo

photographer unknown

photographer unknown

Where Her Breasts Used to Be, as published by A Quiet Courage. 2016


Was very pleased to have thise poem appear on A Quiet Courage! Thank you  Clara Klein!

I have also included a link to their submission page : https://aquietcourage.wordpress.com/submissions/

https://aquietcourage.wordpress.com/2016/08/19/where-her-breasts-used-to-be/

Home

He kissed her courage,

he kissed her fear,

he kissed her sadness,

her deep unknowability.

Because she was his dearest,

because she was all he loved

and ever wished to.

P.D. Lyons: Born and raised in the USA. Travelling and living abroad since 1998. Currently resides in Ireland. Received Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry. Received Bachelor of Science with honors from Teikyo Post University Connecticut. Books of poetry: Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. A third book, Myths Of Multiplicity, published by Erbacce press Liverpool as part of the 2014 Erbacce International Annual Prize. pdlyons.wordpress.comamazon.com/PD-Lyons/e/B00B6PEFSQ.

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