The Poet As Noun, by PD lyons

Poet as Noun

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

he did not think of it

he did not believe it to be divine

he was afraid of everything else

so he did this one thing

not that he didn’t do other things

but they were all varying responses to fear

attempts to over come

deny

hide from

himself and others

like the first one to do acid

like the first one to not cut his hair

like the first one to get married have a kid get divorced

get arrested go to jail

leave town leave the country

all the while knowing the falseness of bravado

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

no matter how high

how angry

how lonely enough to believe that god did in fact exist and had abandoned him

no matter how much sex

how many lovers

how many miles

how many broken torn up hearts including his own

he did this one thing

and because of this he never needed anyone to tell him who was

yeah they could call him whatever

bastard

mother fucker heartless bastard

just a kid

a kid in love

a bleeding heart

ignorant liberal

beautiful lover

hackney painter

failed husband

a traveler of foreign lands

a lover a husband a loving husband a loving father

an outlaw of love a dealer of drugs a rider of fast horses across broken unknown terrain

selfish, grifter,

all these were changeable all these mere adjectives

temporary partial descriptions,

the noun he had always been

because he did this one thing

and then one day he stopped

1974 crosby

Francesca Woodman 1958–1981/ women we should have known

 

salamander yellow pad

 from: Tate UK

 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artists/francesca-woodman-10512

from tate uk

http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/woodman-eel-series-roma-may-1977-august-1978-ar00348

 

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

>

Space², Providence, Rhode Island, 1975-1978 1975‑8

AR00349

Space², Providence, Rhode Island, 1975-1978 1975‑8

AR00350

Untitled 1975‑80

AR00347

FOR MORE INFO    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francesca_Woodman

 

Aengus Gets It Right, by pd lyons; as published by the legendary

Aengus Gets It Right

breathe in the fever
perfect wood wind violin
single note shape sigh release
weightless tongues
sweet water curls up
fine black pearls clung
each finger brought to your rowan mouth
until unable to bear it any more
laugh and plunge
this time even deeper

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

where are you singing?
where are you dancing?
tonight in open spaces of my heart
memories keeping us together or apart
when life is only looking back
trading places with the dark
wisdom drawn with silver sticks
without books without roots
unspeakable night this time
I will not medicate fear
I will not dogma soul
I will wide open in the dark

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

as published by the legendary (May 20, 2010. Issue 17).

In Irish mythology, Óengus (Old Irish), Áengus (Middle Irish), or Aengus or Aonghus (Modern Irish), is a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann and probably a god of love, youth and poetic inspiration. He is also called Aengus Óg (“Aengus the young”), Mac ind Óg (“son of the young”), Mac Óg (“young son”) or Maccan. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aengus.

The Song of Wandering Aengus by W.B. Yeats (1865–1939) is one of my favourite poems, and of which this piece does refer to.  you can find the full text of Yeats work, along with another of my own relating to Yeats at this link https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/2014/06/15/somewhere-still-by-pd-lyons-for-donald-lyons-with-regards-to-wb-yeats/

poems and photos by pd lyons published by clockwise cat issue 36 “Skullwise Cat”

https://www.yumpu.com/en/document/view/56836339/skullwise-cat

 

scorpion night

THE NIGHT MARES

Restless

In a still night

No moon softening

Sharp stars

No cloud drapery.

Against this midnight

The night mares move

Sharing colour with the darkness.

What cannot find them is found by them,

There are no ways secret:

Spiraling stars leave every sky familiar,

Foraging herds by trails of green weeds

Breach every underwater sanctuary.

The night mares

Sleep standing up;

Contain any stallion,

Give birth in the middle of any weather,

Can knock bones, eyes, or internal organs out of any creature.

Simply by their passing

Men have been sucked breathless.

The night mares

Know where dragons come from,

And who, mothered by seas and singing desert sands,

The twin birthed are.

In languages that the thunder knows,

They answer one another.

Navigating easily unbridled,

No boundary deludes them.

Yielding, the only response they know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

this first appeared in print in Searches For Magic Lapwing Press Belfast

 

 

 

How Long My Unfitting Skin, The Night

 

she had come down from Gunnison

it had been a hard ride

thin air refusing to support her

old shoes needing to be thrown away as soon as possible

~

met for drinks at The Last Chance

she told me brief stories 

life in the wilderness

ways of ghosts and proud flesh

we booked a room from the man who wore a star

~

make believe log cabin

steel spring mattress

Jim Beam on the bed side

we smoked silent shapes up at an invisible ceiling in the dark

I was happy to be there 

thought she was too

~

but somewhere after moon light

she had gotten up

kneeling by the drifty window

to whatever she prayed

all i could make out was –

 

How long my own unfitting skin the night?

 

 

thank you clockwise cat!

Just a Cat, by pd lyons

Just a Cat

 

No longer

Will morning find you  pondering the flight of birds

 

You won’t

Trip me in the kitchen, a bandit circling – like I’d forget the milk

 

Up on the bed

Attack everything  beneath the duvet

 

Purr with my daughter and the Barbies

Watch  some favorite TV show.

 

No more my little one

Trust me to carry you like a slip of black velvet still sleeping in my hands

 

No. No more because

Some ignorant bastard drove like a maniac and thought, oh just a cat

 

collage by pdl

 

ah leave me alone, sometimes in this writing life # who knows

FUCK THIS POETRY SHIT

we the afflicted

compelled

by your numbery

to more and more outrages

until nothing even of ourselves

remains

that which we call our blood

thin clouted liquid cleverlies

that which we call our flesh

never wore a heartbeat in its life

that which you fed on nurseries

a pasteurized knee-less skin

that which you feed on

call it what you will

it is shit

we are all what we eat

 

Where Her Breasts Used To Be, a love peom by pd lyons

Where Her Breasts Used To Be

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

 

acrylic on paper pdlyons

 

The Poet As Noun, by PD lyons

Poet as Noun

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

he did not think of it

he did not believe it to be divine

he was afraid of everything else

so he did this one thing

not that he didn’t do other things

but they were all varying responses to fear

attempts to over come

deny

hide from

himself and others

like the first one to do acid

like the first one to not cut his hair

like the first one to get married have a kid get divorced

get arrested go to jail

leave town leave the country

all the while knowing the falseness of bravado

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

no matter how high

how angry

how lonely enough to believe that god did in fact exist and had abandoned him

no matter how much sex

how many lovers

how many miles

how many broken torn up hearts including his own

he did this one thing

and because of this he never needed anyone to tell him who was

yeah they could call him whatever

bastard

mother fucker heartless bastard

just a kid

a kid in love

a bleeding heart

ignorant liberal

beautiful lover

hackney painter

failed husband

a traveler of foreign lands

a lover a husband a loving husband a loving father

an outlaw of love a dealer of drugs a rider of fast horses across broken unknown terrain

selfish, grifter,

all these were changeable all these mere adjectives

temporary partial descriptions,

the noun he had always been

because he did this one thing

and then one day he stopped

1974 crosby

thinking kiss collage by m & p lyons mix media with carpet

 

 

 

 

ash myliu KAREN, street art photograph

that’s all for today