Category Archives: poetry project

Rededicated to Texas.


 

as read by the author ~

In My Country

Women walk on eggshells

The way they dress is a rapist’s defence strategy

Their silence confers consent

Their bodies always up for grabs

In every way

There is no privacy especially of the womb

They may be legally and religiously sacrificed on the altar of boys-will-be-boys

They may be murdered at will

But have dubious right to self defence

They are not heard

They are not believed

They are not counted

Their labour not valued

That they are                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Our mothers

Our sisters

Our daughters

Our beloved

May be conveniently ignored

Easier then to believe,

They are property

of the god

of the party

the state

 

 

The work of pd Lyons has appeared in print and online publications throughout the world. Poetry collections have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast, erbacce-Press, Liverpool & Westmeath Arts Council Ireland. pd was selected to participate in Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London publication titled ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.

He won the 2019 erbacce-press International Poetry Prize.

pd was and raised in the USA, and currently resides in Ireland.

pd recommends Battered Women’s Support Services.

as appearing in Unlikely Stories  unlikelystories.org 

 

Re: Poets


“He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.”
                                                              ― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez

spring

spring

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

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2. February 2000 No. 228

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3. March 2000 No. 229

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4. November 2000 No. 235

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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 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

ruffs from pd lyons


IMG_20160413_000458

scorpion night 10 pdlyons

 

ruff poems

it was me with nothing left

to spire about

a complete enemy of words

a point of hot winter sun

hard glass walled heart un-bending

damp handed pen

not a thing left

at this point remembering the perfect portrait of the artist

touched not a myalgic fibre of my un-known self

so to hallowed hands

Ulysses trust all my open wound n proud flesh

one last a miracle

heal

bruised leg muse

heal

every curse of every failure

heal

father

heal

myself

purged

lazy soul

quick silver quenched

go on

do on

no do

more

a new

 

*

when last seas

iodizing sharif

hoarse whispers long meandering

scented by late November birth

salted scented tinctured gloves

slipping sticking sable sweat

soundly sighing satin and sighing

mother held by other hands I was

 

*

some un provoked violence

I’d bring up

sightless wordless

rage

shake n smash

slap n wake n pull

from a constricting bag of skin

a weep a wake

to leave breath n bone behind again

 

*

what waits

outside the darking dogs

secret traffics

pre day dawn

natural as breathed

sooner than not

seeped stopped

eased no more wondering

all that other time at last

briefer miracle

no more so I know

falsely I am

every changing shape shifting

so called life

a moment thing

 

which my am I?

 

*

My old cities

rose up out

from above

 ruins bright n shining

goliath shrines

silver unlike any bird

shadowing resurrected bays

long veined polished rivers

symphonically far as any ancient woodland lore

 

*

propped up

best I can

most uncomfortable ever bed

 

crow sounds

 silver sun shadows the page

all it takes to ease the ache

not even knowing

what I read

unconcerned

the largeness an open window

dissolves all imposed restrictions

of my self

and what would comfort done?

a sleep til noon then what?

*

Old shirt

smells

days

walking laying

sleeping eating

over-steamed radiators

warm spells February spring

But

the colour is good

fit is right and when I catch myself

passing mirrors in hallways

bathrooms

shop windows

turned off televisions

Stop

and/or

glance

at

who I am

breath caught a moment

Old shirt smell

still me

still who I was

and am now

years later

in need of a shower

 

*

my daughter asks me

why did people invent war…

don’t hey know it’s the devil no god that likes war?

do children have to fight

do they kill children too

boys?

and girls?

how old?

why don’t the soldiers just quit

 

and then the sound of helicopter passing

she thinks it wondrous dashes off to look

unlike those for whom that sound is terror

 

because of them

we must love the world

even more.

 

*

today

walking with trees

steps to my breath

thinking

the joy of being alive

is free

 

*

colours

all on a merry day

each steps a moment

pass the dancer

un seen dance

 

if you can see it

you’re not it.

 

*

 

all the same wonderings

ages of ifs

lifetimes of whys

each life

 history of wonderings

where it leads

where it goes

how it begins

and whatever is the selling point?

good business

machinery of welcome

voices of an independent language

 

give way silenter than plastic tombs

small electric dances springs

a whirl only god could hear

if the ear of god had no hair no wax no smell

 

but god

has pious milk bone men

absolution in the dark

disciplined n cleansed

children

in this dark & the ear of god

blind as onan eyes

silent voices raw language

silent screams despaired on crosses born

all those wondrous children hearts

their darkness

a long test of utter failure.

 

*

and quite back

all winter skirts n scarves

chapel of candle smoke

shadow shifts

all some

warm whispered

deep into pools

of clear n dark n blue

 

*

stone

silent selfish

walls

no weather

no violence

no movement freely done

blind witness

observe

all that’s done

all un done

 

*

not knowing what is

birds no longer pass

instead

songs in my heart

 

*

women shapes

dapple grey

helix trees

any shadow moon

pools deeper that any sun

 

*

slow

moon

miles ran

rain bent

poplar pine

remembered snow

flickering yellowing

butterly lite

echoes of breath

along washing windows

as if washed

might sense

a meaning other than tomorrow

april comes

and here I am

un gone

un knowning

 

Poem for All Seasons by pd lyons


The shade

of

old

trees

Tiananmen Square, Two Poems by Davyne Verstandig read by PD Lyons


 

So the other day sorting out book shelves and come across a 1990 Magazine called Hobo Jungle ~ a Quarterly Journal of New Writing. It was published by Ruth Boeger/ Marc Erdich in Roxbury Ct. The reason I still have it? Well they were one of the first to publish my work and the very first to send me a check for my poetry. In fact I’m sure I still have a xerox copy of that check in some box some where in then house. Any way the point is flipping through I cam across a striking piece of work which led me to look up the poet and write asking if I could reprint their work here and so with permission of this very fine artist I will blog the 2 poems and give some links to their bio and website. The first one is in my opinion a perfection of the micro~dot poem. Ruthlessly elegant and mercilessly immersed in reality. The short poem is almost impossible to be read out loud and remain effective although I’ll give it a go along with the other piece further on but first read it silently out loud to yourself. Thank you for your time.

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IMG-1488 (1)

Tianasquare

Davyne Verstandig

 

http://davyneverstandig.com/index.html

Davyne Verstandig was a lecturer in English and Creative Writing at the University of Connecticut. (retired June 2020 after 25 years.)

Her books include two books of poetry, Pieces of the Whole and Provisions and her work appears in Sex and Sexuality in a Feminist World, Songs of the Marrow BoneWhere Beach Meets OceanThis One Has No Name, The Monday Poets, and the forth coming anthology with an introduction by Margaret Gibson, CT Poet Laureate, Waking Up to the Earth, Connecticut Poets in a Time of Global Climate Crisis.

She has also performed improvisational work “composing on the tongue” painting and poetry at The Knitting Factory and Housing Works Café in New York City and given readings throughout New England.

She gives writing workshops at Wisdom House Retreat Center in Litchfield, CT. and at Camp Washington Episcopal Retreat Center in Morris, Ct.

She is Poet Laureate Emerita of Washington and is a Justice of the Peace. She can be found at mymindisintheink@gmail.com. She is a writing consultant.


Books available on Amazon, some at The Hickory Stick Bookshop, Washington, Ct.
Pieces of the Whole – poetry
Provisions- poetry
Anthologies
Sex and Sexuality if a Feminist World
This One Has No Name 
The Monday Poets
Laureates of Connecticut, An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry
Waking Up to the Earth, Connecticut Poets in a Time of Global Climate Crisis

 

 

sometime when i cry, words by pd lyons, photograph by morgan lyons, music by Raveonettes


 

 

Sometime  I will surrender all the hard heart life

Sometime I will understand courage has nothing to do with anger

I will remember your face and smile

I will remember your touch and smile

Allowing just the experience of happiness

Allowing just that experience

Surrendering the need to go further

Staying just for the brief soft moment of love

Not needing the hard heat strength to go beyond

 

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