Category Archives: irish american poetry

Those Long Always Summer Huge Silver Moon Nights the Colour of Your Soul Because They Are.


And you could reach out for my hand and I would take it

And you could whisper me questions and I would answer

And you could open my mouth bringing breath to me

And I the same with you –

A gift of moon

 of soul

of all those long always summer nights between us.

october summer writing session music w/ Miles, Thelonious & P D


today 

october and all sun

so cool the air seems extra with oxygen

how simpatico 

the discovery of Miles meets Thelonious

the music for todays writing session

the music for easy deep breathing

~

 

On Today’s Menu #NK Jemisin #ravens #patience


three ruffs written and read by pd lyons poet 

On Today’s Menu

N K Jemisin

ravens

patience

With regards to N. K. Jemisin ~ if you have any love left for the genre do yourself an exquisite favour and indulge immediately in these three fine beauties! intricate, dense without reverting into obtuse and not a cliché in site. I loved every minuet of them. Not since my father gave me Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings have I ever read a trilogy more than once. But now…

N.-K.-Jemisin-Broken-Earth-Trilogy-Featured-Image

img-4766

alone along the border line, by pd Lyons


alone along the border line
cigarette struggles with her finger tips
her pale lips
her naked throat
and
moving through fields between snow
and
holes where there is still water
a heavy heat awakens
deep within
she mouths her lover’s name.
now when all the west is orange
clouds race black across it
ask in voices lent by the winds of winter:
do you
do you
do you
through the taste of midnight
into the wound of sunrise
until the evening sparkles into dawn
even when the day light spreads out broad
do you
do you
do you
still believe
and on the double edge of sacred steel,
her voice met by the winds of winter,
she almost always answers –

Yes.

Reading from As If The Rain /themes ~ German short hair pointer, Victorian, Great Dane, Parrot, Manhattan Monochrome Cool.


the poet pd lyons reading from the erbacce – poetry prize winner 2019 As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time.

on todays menu

~

For Molly

When I Lived on West Main

Jenny

themes ~ German short hair pointer, Victorian, Great Dane, Parrot, Manhattan Monochrome cool.

thanks for joining in.

cheers

GLB

!

from Books Ireland Magazine, New Writing section back in the day. Thank you Kevin Kiely!


So continuing to sort through boxes packed so long ago came across Books Ireland Magazines from over 20 years ago(!).  Kevin Kiely, the editor for the New Writing section was so very kind to so many writers including a certain American blow – in.  (yours truly.)  Unfortunately the magazine did away with the feature some time ago but hey here they are. They seem to hold up well enough over the years much like my self. Cheers. Thank you for joining me here. Good luck. Bye!

PS ~ my favorite? Maybe Michelle ~ for sure.

December 1999 No.227

IMG-1510

2. February 2000 No. 228

IMG-1511

3. March 2000 No. 229

IMG-1508

4. November 2000 No. 235

IMG-1509

the poet PD Lyons reading


the poet PD Lyons reading from the book. Winner of the erbacce-prize for poetry 2019.

today’s menu

Grandview Ave.

Morning Piece

Jack, Who No One Reads

~ Themes: cities, love, coffee, crushing, Waterbury ct. New haven ct. NYC.NY.

the poet PD Lyons Reading from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time ~ part 3, w/text


~todays menu~
Pensioners Remiss
Knowing Now the Healing Ways
Atlantic Luncheonette 
~
themes: growing old, 1970’s, love, city
 

PD Lyons Reading from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time erbacce~prize for poetry 2019 erbacce~press Liverpool UK

Pensioners Remiss – incorporates a variety of scenes from my home town Waterbury Ct. St Johns Church for example is still there on the green.

Knowing Now the healing Ways – again influenced by my hometown and my first apartment back in the 70’s. 

Atlantic Luncheonette – one of those classic coffee shops in America long before Starbucks or cappuccinos. On the corner opposite the exquisite white marble Waterbury Post Office. Many a skipped school day involved the Atlantic – strategically placed half a block from the library. How ironic, skipped school to hang out in the library. They even let you smoke in there back then but that’s another poem or two…

 

Thanks for spending time . Why not consider subscribing on YouTube?

cheers.

good luck

bye

!

 

 

  • Pensioners Remiss

When I wanted to see you,

Young and available

Dresses out amidst a blue jean wasteland

Stoned as laughter smoky charms

Dancing any moment unannounced

 

On the steps of Spanish little Harlem

Turquoise as your eyes church doors

Sacramental wine just opened

A spiral of possibilities each as believable as the past.

 

When I wanted to see you,

Roads wide open looking to ride

Strong summer muscles

 Love like horses into sunset.

 

 Diamonds across that midnight sky

 Alive only in your love me eyes.

Breathless barefoot pirouette

 Limitless kitchens, dull Frigidaire light.

 Icy India Pale Ale fast as you can drink.

 Third floor back porch dawn

Aegean blue amongst a city of fearlessness.

 

When I wanted to see you,

Saint John’s Chapel Christmas

 Balsam crushed blood velvet

Crystal choir angel

Mysterious as snow.

The mouth you used an accent of hypnosis

Lead like sorrow obsessed with green

 As if summer returned between live pines

 My hands held by your own to cup each one instead.

 

When I wanted to see you,

So much more so than wherever you were

Sharper than anything ever dreamed

So much sooner than now.

 

  • Knowing Now the Healing Ways

I could touch you then. I knew you, just around the corner you. Halfway Up the stairs, you. A single rose growing between back yard rubble, you. Travelled by Grey Hound, cross the country, park bench dreamer, double dancer Zelda, you –

A tide of whirlpools. An antebellum majorette beauty queen. You were the most beautiful woman in the world. You were me as a woman. Wanting to be the first one to make love in a whole summer of dry attics never believing for one minute we could end up on the street by Christmas in Connecticut.

I was gonna. I was destined. I was the one. I was the chosen.  Could have been Jesus, preferred to be Krishna, hoped only to be Watermelon Sugar. A thing delectable to your lips, a thing you might someday remember without lying or regret.

You were anything possible,

Meeting again someday.

Around the corner, halfway up the stairs,

Eyes still same as my own,

Knowing now the healing ways,

Strong enough for love.

 

  • Atlantic Luncheonette

     I walked out into a morning

 too bright against my shadows.

Three steps down I’m on the pavement

wondering just how able I am to get along –

Stable as loose change,

  balanced as a junkie on the prowl.

   Still can’t stop thinking about moving

 where it is, I’ll finally get to.

My boots are holes turning into blisters.

Cigarettes keep tempting me with immortality.

Girls across the street dare me to smile.

 

 I make up excuses to call what I’m eating food.

The waitress sings to the radio

 with commercial interruption asks how I am.

  My eggs keep running into hiding,

The coffee strives vainly to hiccup,

 I leave a quarter for the singer,

 a dollar for the poor.

 Ask the women on the corner, how much for conversation?

They say they don’t cater to perversions – try my luck next door.

  I bump into an old friend who asks about my wife,

I say I didn’t know I had one.

Then he’s handing me a ten spot

 says here go catch a cab.

I hand the driver a social security card

he says this ain’t worth noting unless your old.

I tell him my hearts just gone arthritic

He says here pal try a gun.

the next 3 from As If The Rain… read by the poet PD Lyons~ Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away


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.

 

for Cordula

 

Once While I Was Away

You might have come

Expecting awkward greeting won by

Philosophic well-planned answers to

What you thought my unasked questions were –

Accidental touch

Silent linger hands

Knowing prelude to a kiss

   All it would take to unclench my heart

   Inviting you in

   So, you’d have something to do for the afternoon

PD Lyons reading the first three from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time


 

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. These first tree are based on my urban youth. Waltzing the Night, Promised Land, Today You Want to See Priscilla ~ c2019 pd lyons

 

  • Waltzing the Night

 

holding ourselves like prayers between each other
all summer sway cool tall screened windows
bright sound crickets fireflies glimmer
bare feet, beating hearts
soft by each other’s breath
accented full moon kisses
beyond any daytime horizon…

~

it was one o’clock this morning.
woke up no reason
kitchen floor so cold I hurt for shoes
stood there adjusting to Frigidaire light
three bottles of beer on the second shelf
opened one by the window
chugged away to those long
hard rain halos

 

it’s not the city I used to know with you

 

maybe I go for another
maybe it’ll help me sleep
probably not
these days once I’m up
even beer can’t touch me
deserted by even the small comfort of your ghost
still I sway as if somehow
we’re dancing

 

  • Promised Land                                                                                       

 

14 stories up

Sometime after all the twilight zones had ended

Crane my head twin tower view.

 Count all the windows I could see that held a light

 

Another smoke

Watch across the west side highway for freighters

Illumination not of a land locked sort proving an Island after all.

 

I could not help the way we burned through our time together

 How hungry I was

How urgent that you be hungrier.

We left it spinning, the world we knew

Our ragged selves

Cities of our hearts

Wilderness of our bodies

Ghosts of unborn children

Smoke cross the promised land –

What could we give that had not passed?

 

There was that old Pontiac

 Yellow primer Firebird.

 Day into the drink already.

Gonna drive to the city.

You said you had to pee first.

  1. Parked at the mall.

You kicked open the door, got out

Instead of going in squatted right there.

Deluge beats over the black top.

 

 Got in a row over that.

For some reason it really pissed me off.

Then in ever escalation you said something.

Whatever it was it made me so sorry for yelling.

I hugged you, cried all over you.

 

We got better after that.

Dried off, had a smoke.

Then I drove.

 

  • Today You Want to See Priscilla

                                                                                                                             

She lives two blocks up

from where you have to live with your father

because Priscilla is crazy, and you couldn’t

stay with her.

 

Priscilla makes her money from the cards. But

whenever you ask her to read yours, she always says

she knows you too well and that knowledge

clouds her wisdom.

 

You want to go up to her today, watching from

her cool back room through a crack in the door –

Priscilla, her rich fingers fat with bands of gold and sparkling stones

spreading cards by candlelight

speaking to some stranger in that different kind of voice even you would hardly know.

  

You’re on your way but then Carey has himself a dollar

So, the afternoon gets spent at Daz’s where pin ball’s still a dime

and sometimes you play good enough to pop for extra games

 

Featured Image -- 7630

Featured Image -- 7149

%d bloggers like this: