Tag Archives: american

what i wrote today : The Quiet of Your Love, a thank you poem for Shelly

I like the quiet of your love

when I wake up for no reason in the middle of the night

and you’re laying warm beside me

so everything’s alright


I like the quiet of your love

as we walk along the beach

and you’re pointing out the wild things

between the horizon and the sea


its those certain situations

no matter where we are

the whole world just goes quiet

like the love you have for me


Listening to your laughter

like I listen to your breath

Listening to your voice

like I’m mesmerized


and I don’t know how to say it

I always start to cry

so I’ll just hold you closer

and I won’t say a word

I’ll just keep it real quiet

like the love you have for me


The Yearning / El Anhelo , a snippet by pd lyons

pd lyons photography

so back in bed with the morning coffee. needed to make some poetical notes, rummage for a piece of paper . found a hardly used note book from 2012 in the dresser drawer as one does. anyway scribbled what i needed to and then found this little bit of a poem. thought; should blog it. later in the kitchen doing some clean up popped on a CD hadn’t played in years Carrie Rodriguez, the last song on the cd done in Spanish. “La Punalada Trapere”. Had no idea what it meant but thought it might be cool with the poem. in looking for a you tube to post here, found one with her doing the song live on a radio show, she tells the interview where it comes from, her great aunt Eva Graza.

so here is the poem, which i would title “The Yearning / El Anhelo “, which is not about the song and the two versions of the song which is not about the poem but somehow of course they go together with my morning coffee, my kitchen chores and my long illustrious life. from here in Ireland. adiosa. mind how you go & watch your back.


all night


nothing but moon light and stars

where is the one who loves me

where is the the one I love



all night


nothing but moonlight and stars

only the night

only the night

only the night

hears me whisper

over and over

his name





She lived with Her on Linden Street, by pd lyons (from salamander notes)

25. Nov. 83

She lived with Her on Linden Street in a three room Scovill house which over looked the industrialized Mad River. They had painted the walls and floors and ceilings white and at mid night they either made love or Her wrote poetry about making love, usually with She. Both were proud of the number of lovers they had had and would spend much time detailing their exploits, various wounds and conquests. Inevitably this would lead to their own great love making sometimes by way of argument, jealousy, or down right lust, but always ending up in great love making. They were also very proud of the fact that despite their notorious histories they had indeed been conservatively faithful to each other. One could say they were a pair of retired heart breaker veterans enjoying their golden years in the pleasure of one another.
She slept more than Her did, but She got up earlier than Her could. She thought Her American accent was funny, Her thought She’s German accent was alluring. She had studied at the University in Hamburg, Art and Psychology. Therefore it was easily understood why Her paintings infuriated She – All Her did was play – not paint. Her studio was confined to the basement, the dungeon as it was mutually referred to. While She had aspired to the attic. She disliked to step foot into the dungeon and Her was forbidden to enter the Attic – ever since that time Her had done rude things to the walls with a can of black spray paint and 16 jars of Shop-Rite cherry red nail polish.
At first there was much tears and drama concerning this artistic rift and its symbolism as referred to the rest of the relationship was explored at length. However great love making has a way of making even such ominous signs as this fall into a minor perspective. There was not much money but the necessities were supplied – red wine, cigarette tobacco, bus tickets to new York city, paint stuff, pure un-sanforized cotton bed sheets spread out on a Japanese mattress by an ever open window just steps away from the never ending hot water of a black and white octagon tiled bathroom where in between –
I’d kneel worshiping your steaming winter body exploring joyous mysteries familiar to our spiritual flesh…

So the point is that I can write it with he/him and her/ she – “He lived with her on Linden street….” But the very nature of English makes it totally awkward if I want to do the same with anonymous people of the same sex as you can see. He and Him wouldn’t work any better either would it? So just a little example of sexual preference bias ingrained in the language – submitted for your disapproval…

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


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






Except in John Prine by PD Lyons from “Old Songs”


navan co. meath

Except in John Prine

And if I had whiskey then I’d have a drink
And if I had money I’d get me some sleep
And if I still couldn’t sleep then at least I‘d be sittin’
In a place with some heat

And there’s nothing like a city to make you know you’re alone
Nothing like darkness for seein’ all the things you ain’t done

Guess I’m just a man who never growed up
Should’a known mama weren’t lyin’
But somehow I thought it’d work out just right
I was destined for fortune and fame

But now people go by with that look in their eye
And I find that I have to agree
Cause there’s nothing more mysterious
Than just how I turned out to be me

But maybe you been down yourself
Or maybe you heard a John Prine
There’s some song he does
Not sure anymore how it goes
But it’d make you not mind maybe smile some time
When you come across someone like me

And when all someone’s got is lonely
And for sure ain’t no ship comin’ in
It might be a stranger’s smile,
A kindness with out any strings
Means more than my own silly words
Or the comfort that some small change brings

And sure I thought it’d be different
But at my age there’s no way to hide
So whether you stare or smile,
your words are gentle or snide
I’m grateful for whatever you’ll spare


mullingar, co westmeath



As it says this was inspired by one of my favourite artists John Prine – no sure which song or tune but definitely his.  Written in 2005 or there abouts.  his tune my memories.

Anorexia Nervosa – by pd lyons

Anorexia Nervosa

she has been
to me
and in serving
i make an art,
of that which
have been forbidden
i express
on my tight
a tale
everyone wants
to interpret
i cling to it
like a charm
she has been
to me
with secret dark
eyes closed
a sea
of objects
so safe
she does not
move me
but rather
causes me
to linger
tip toe
from eternity
she has been
to me
this ornamental flesh
a power
always yearned for
and i would
cut myself
for her
but this she
does not
ask for

this version originally published by Bone Orchard Poetry 11/2012 http://boneorchardpoetry.blogspot.ie/2012/11/pd-lyons.html

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.




Somewhere Still – for Donald Lyons by pd lyons/ fathers day 2

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 run, jump, cling, – immune bare foot impervious to sun, skin frosted with salt, lotions, and cake icing.

Somewhere grand children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, take them sometimes instead to lunch.

Long time companions, comforts old age, afternoon naps, books, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – a love, a marriage, a death, a wound never in twenty-three years of healing cured…

Somewhere still she takes you by the hand, Ohs your name, laughs into the open window, ’55 Chevy, summer bright chrome, so close to flying great American V8 highways 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 you 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; saying yes when the barman offers to sweeten her drink , not knowing that here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want ‘cause she’s your wife now and you’ve 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?  That 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., his favourite poet)

~from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – poems of an Irish Descent, by PD Lyons, 2011, ISBN 1466272996




by: W.B. Yeats

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 some one 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.

‘The Song of Wandering Aengus’ is reprinted from An Anthology of Modern Verse. Ed. A. Methuen. London: Methuen & Co., 1921.

Francesca Woodman 1958–1981/ women we should have known


Francesca Woodman 1958–1981/ women we should have known

from tate uk


Artist Rooms artist essay

American photographer Francesca Woodman has eighteen rare vintage black and white photographs in the Artist Rooms display, from a collection once owned by the artist’s boyfriend. Woodman’s photographs exhibit many influences, from symbolism and surrealism to fashion photography and Baroque painting. They have a timeless quality that is ethereal and unique. The artist began taking photographs at the age of thirteen and though she was only twenty two when she took her own life, she left behind a substantial body of work.
Francesca Woodman’s photographs explore issues of gender and self, looking at the representation of the body in relation to its surroundings. She puts herself in the frame most often, although these are not conventional self-portraits as she is either partially hidden, or concealed by slow exposures that blur her moving figure into a ghostly presence. This underlying vulnerability is further emphasised by the small and intimate format of the photographs.
We often see her in otherwise deserted interior spaces, where her body seems to merge with its surroundings, covered by sections of peeling wallpaper, half hidden behind the flat plane of a door, or crouching over a mirror. Found objects and suggestive props are carefully placed to create unsettling, surreal or claustrophobic scenarios. Her photographs are produced in thematic series’, relating to specific props, places or situations.
Woodman was exposed to the symbolic work of Max Klinger whilst studying in Rome from 1977-78 and his influence can clearly be seen in many photographic series’, such as Eel Series, Roma (1977-78) and Angel Series, Roma (1977). In combining performance, play and self-exposure, Woodman’s photographs create extreme and often disturbing psychological states. In concealing or encrypting her subjects she reminds the viewer that photographs flatten and distort, never offering the whole truth about a subject.

18 artworks

Untitled 1975‑80


final edit


newest manuscript final. 186 pages of poetry, retrospective of work from 70’s to last month.  still not sure of title. now to choose a publisher. who will the lucky one be?

three more from ravens


The Black


Cool ol’gypsy cob

Takes the wall


Like something unknown

Strangely familiar


Out on the headlands

We don’t look back


American Outlaw


Always somebody just like you

Somewhere else


In photos

They even look the same


In their past your lovers

Have met and fucked them


In the dark they dreamt

Of things you used to pray for











I Really Want To Know Where You Gonna Be Forever


Who do you remind me of

Someone else supposed to save

Sunlight shadows

Cross the grave

On the wings of something strange

You or someone just the same

Playing tennis at the park

Summer evenings after dark

Could I ever see you then?



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