Tag Archives: calliope nerve

23.0ct.oz9 Pre Post Script


beside those trees

beside those trees

Little Russia/ thanks again to calliope nerve. this was written for my friend jim back in the days of smoke:

Little Russia

No one knows for sure how

Maybe some ice age fluke

Some shamanistic trance gone awry

But some how it is there

Just a few acres wild weeds witnessed by an empty house an

Abandoned sheet metal shop standing where once the white wood slaughter house once stood where layer after layer of thick lead paint could not keep old blood from seeping through

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

just a few acres wedged in by a half circle ridge of glacier rock and sapling hardwoods where wolves though heard are never seen and leave no trace not even in the snow where only smooth soled sets of footprints going in disappear mid filed and like wise sometimes appear mid filed heading out and all through the month of November any remnant of growing thing be it stem or stalk or stick, each night is tipped with a single never freezing liquid drop such are the tears from all those who pass in one direction or the other through what we called Little Russia.

2. When I was a kid at school we had the books

They had all the symbols in them even satanic ones

All the symbols of the world

Old and new.

But one day this man came, he went around to all the class rooms.

He took away all our books.

Even the teachers were mad at this

But they had to give us other books.

New books without all the symbols.

Now they don’t teach you anything,

Just reading comprehension – you read something they give you,

Then you answer a question about what you read

Then you get a degree

Then you forget it.

But I remember we had the books

They had ever symbol in the world even the satanic ones

All the symbols old and new –

Now people don’t know anything.

They don’t know this is an ancient world,

They think it’s only six thousand years but its not.

Its millions and millions.

We had the symbols once but they were taken away.

And I know this, even though people don’t know them anymore,

There would be no world without the symbols.

And I know this, there’s still a place where you can find them,

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

Under the bark of old wood, drifting under pieces of bark and branches

All what people say are just worm marks the symbols of the world old and new made by such worms as those there are in Little Russia.

3. What they don’t teach anymore about photosynthesis in schools?

That each leaf of each tree makes a photograph, an image of what’s around it. This is how there are many worlds at once.

each year when the leaves fall the images are stored inside the tree and when the new leaves appear they do so with all the images taken by all those leaves that came before and then through out the growing season these fresh leaves take additional photographs. The images get stronger and stronger depending on how many photographs of them have been stored. The longer something is there the stronger it becomes – building up substance over the years.

that’s why if you parked a model A here beside this tree and left it there eventually the real car would disintegrate but then be replaced by an image of the car an image created by thirty years of constant photographing by multitudes of leaves. Thus these photos are synthesised into an image so

That long after the original had rotted away

That model A

No mechanic can make run

No grease fills its crank case

No gasoline fills its gas tank

You sat in it made it go up and down up and down

Then ran home shouting

Grandpa! Grandpa! I flew the car! I flew the car!

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery.

Didn’t we meet there once?

Weren’t you the one draped in skins?

Smile polished sepia

Black eyes stranded behind silver languages

Mindful of Ukraine choirs before the war

Dear one, dear one, my dear dear dear one

Starlings of tears each familiar voice polished crystal snow

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

( for Jim when he lived in a tent by a river in New Milford ct. – we met while I stopped for a smoke, we shared a few and had a conversation. it was winter and I only had a fiver to give him and a half a pack of Marlboros – he gave me this poem. I tried for years to do it justice. He’d a done it better himself. Anyway the important thing is Jim not the poem – so here you go Jim – this ones for you, and maybe all those who unlike yourself never had a chance with all the symbols of the world.)

DSC_4097

PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon’s LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons

23.0ct.oz9 Pre Post Script


beside those trees

beside those trees

Little Russia/ thanks again to calliope nerve. this was written for my friend jim back in the days of smoke:

Little Russia

No one knows for sure how

Maybe some ice age fluke

Some shamanistic trance gone awry

But some how it is there

Just a few acres wild weeds witnessed by an empty house an

Abandoned sheet metal shop standing where once the white wood slaughter house once stood where layer after layer of thick lead paint could not keep old blood from seeping through

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

just a few acres wedged in by a half circle ridge of glacier rock and sapling hardwoods where wolves though heard are never seen and leave no trace not even in the snow where only smooth soled sets of footprints going in disappear mid filed and like wise sometimes appear mid filed heading out and all through the month of November any remnant of growing thing be it stem or stalk or stick, each night is tipped with a single never freezing liquid drop such are the tears from all those who pass in one direction or the other through what we called Little Russia.

2. When I was a kid at school we had the books

They had all the symbols in them even satanic ones

All the symbols of the world

Old and new.

But one day this man came, he went around to all the class rooms.

He took away all our books.

Even the teachers were mad at this

But they had to give us other books.

New books without all the symbols.

Now they don’t teach you anything,

Just reading comprehension – you read something they give you,

Then you answer a question about what you read

Then you get a degree

Then you forget it.

But I remember we had the books

They had ever symbol in the world even the satanic ones

All the symbols old and new –

Now people don’t know anything.

They don’t know this is an ancient world,

They think it’s only six thousand years but its not.

Its millions and millions.

We had the symbols once but they were taken away.

And I know this, even though people don’t know them anymore,

There would be no world without the symbols.

And I know this, there’s still a place where you can find them,

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

Under the bark of old wood, drifting under pieces of bark and branches

All what people say are just worm marks the symbols of the world old and new made by such worms as those there are in Little Russia.

3. What they don’t teach anymore about photosynthesis in schools?

That each leaf of each tree makes a photograph, an image of what’s around it. This is how there are many worlds at once.

each year when the leaves fall the images are stored inside the tree and when the new leaves appear they do so with all the images taken by all those leaves that came before and then through out the growing season these fresh leaves take additional photographs. The images get stronger and stronger depending on how many photographs of them have been stored. The longer something is there the stronger it becomes – building up substance over the years.

that’s why if you parked a model A here beside this tree and left it there eventually the real car would disintegrate but then be replaced by an image of the car an image created by thirty years of constant photographing by multitudes of leaves. Thus these photos are synthesised into an image so

That long after the original had rotted away

That model A

No mechanic can make run

No grease fills its crank case

No gasoline fills its gas tank

You sat in it made it go up and down up and down

Then ran home shouting

Grandpa! Grandpa! I flew the car! I flew the car!

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery.

Didn’t we meet there once?

Weren’t you the one draped in skins?

Smile polished sepia

Black eyes stranded behind silver languages

Mindful of Ukraine choirs before the war

Dear one, dear one, my dear dear dear one

Starlings of tears each familiar voice polished crystal snow

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

( for Jim when he lived in a tent by a river in New Milford ct. – we met while I stopped for a smoke, we shared a few and had a conversation. it was winter and I only had a fiver to give him and a half a pack of Marlboros – he gave me this poem. I tried for years to do it justice. He’d a done it better himself. Anyway the important thing is Jim not the poem – so here you go Jim – this ones for you, and maybe all those who unlike yourself never had a chance with all the symbols of the world.)

DSC_4097

PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/.

The Disappeared by pd lyons; calliope nerve version


 

The Disappeared

Along the lane
Straight down as rain
Without wind
Without sound
Wrapped in briar vines
Emerging posts of bone
As if some ancient mariner
Draws me in a secret un-gloved caress.
I wanted to keep you for myself.
I wanted you to stay, because you went.
But the police,
After further questioning
Came up with ideas all their own
And in so doing, made contact with
The families of the disappeared.
Occasionally,
To men in long wrinkled coats, they speak,
A fog of voices drifting apart,
Before reaching any type of destination.
Taking turns, cast looks around,
As if this really were sea
And answers like shoals of silver fishes lurk
Just beneath the surface.
Careful. Pretending not to notice
How each movement flickers in the lights
As if this really were all some cinematic image
Screened with no one but the actors in the audience.
Their silence magnifies only certain sounds:
Elastic latex snap,
Slicing shovel slaps,
Unsteady cigarette sighs,
Plastic, almost echo, abruptly ending zip.
Believing their expectations to be accurate predictions
They came for something clear and full of meaning,
Something settling and complete,
To find, as if some great surprise,
Only the obvious inescapably revealed.
Unlike them I know you not by what you’ve lost,
But rather by what you’ve brought back.
It was that which drew me
In secret un-gloved caress
And now plays out
Along the landscapes of my every night
And haunts my every morning with regret.
I wanted to touch that forbidden you again.
To trace upon that more secret map
Etched, invisible to the naked eye,
Every line of your journey.
To put my lips to you,
Circling with the tip of my tongue,
So that I’d know, everything.
I wanted to sift your powder through my fingers,
Into that coloured jar covered with a brass cap,
Tucked into my bedside drawer,
Sprinkled, whenever I wanted,
Not just as some aphrodisiac
Or good luck charm across my bed
But so, engendered with bodily fluids
You’d take on some other life
And I’d find out,
Just exactly, what it was, that I’d be thinking
As I lay there in the dust
Of the disappeared.

 

 

 

this version originally published by Muse Thing: The Calliope Nerve http://calliopenerve.blogspot.ie/search/label/PD%20Lyons

 

 

this was published in 2010 by another cool named yet now defunct blog zine. the archives are still “live” on line. you would find a great many darker artists represented there. the editor was very kind to me and of course many others. the poem has to do with what it says which unfortunately is a rather world wide theme although it does have an Irish slant; so i think that’s enough said. it was probably written in 1998 or so when i had first moved from the USA to Ireland. we were living in an old two story farm house in county Cavan, a bit in the middle of no where – our nearest neighbours were the cattle in the fields and the crows nesting in the giant yew trees.

 

may all who journey remember

may all who journey remember

 

 

new on calliope nerve


Monday, November 8, 2010

The Woman

The Woman

I could not speak.
Maybe loved more gently
I could have.
Maybe if there was a moon
I could have.

But only sun –
a crazy glue
unswallowed
lips sealed
slays weds
impregnates
itself.

This is what I cannot say,
this is what they refuse to hear:
After death is pre- natal.
Through me, everything is world.
Without me?
Conception is by eating,
birth by excretion.

PD Lyons newest book Caribu&Sister Stones published by Lapwing Press Belfast.

Labels:

http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/

23.0ct.oz9 Pre Post Script


beside those trees

beside those trees

Little Russia/ thanks again to calliope nerve. this was written for my friend jim back in the days of smoke:

Little Russia

No one knows for sure how

Maybe some ice age fluke

Some shamanistic trance gone awry

But some how it is there

Just a few acres wild weeds witnessed by an empty house an

Abandoned sheet metal shop standing where once the white wood slaughter house once stood where layer after layer of thick lead paint could not keep old blood from seeping through

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

just a few acres wedged in by a half circle ridge of glacier rock and sapling hardwoods where wolves though heard are never seen and leave no trace not even in the snow where only smooth soled sets of footprints going in disappear mid filed and like wise sometimes appear mid filed heading out and all through the month of November any remnant of growing thing be it stem or stalk or stick, each night is tipped with a single never freezing liquid drop such are the tears from all those who pass in one direction or the other through what we called Little Russia.

2. When I was a kid at school we had the books

They had all the symbols in them even satanic ones

All the symbols of the world

Old and new.

But one day this man came, he went around to all the class rooms.

He took away all our books.

Even the teachers were mad at this

But they had to give us other books.

New books without all the symbols.

Now they don’t teach you anything,

Just reading comprehension – you read something they give you,

Then you answer a question about what you read

Then you get a degree

Then you forget it.

But I remember we had the books

They had ever symbol in the world even the satanic ones

All the symbols old and new –

Now people don’t know anything.

They don’t know this is an ancient world,

They think it’s only six thousand years but its not.

Its millions and millions.

We had the symbols once but they were taken away.

And I know this, even though people don’t know them anymore,

There would be no world without the symbols.

And I know this, there’s still a place where you can find them,

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

Under the bark of old wood, drifting under pieces of bark and branches

All what people say are just worm marks the symbols of the world old and new made by such worms as those there are in Little Russia.

3. What they don’t teach anymore about photosynthesis in schools?

That each leaf of each tree makes a photograph, an image of what’s around it. This is how there are many worlds at once.

each year when the leaves fall the images are stored inside the tree and when the new leaves appear they do so with all the images taken by all those leaves that came before and then through out the growing season these fresh leaves take additional photographs. The images get stronger and stronger depending on how many photographs of them have been stored. The longer something is there the stronger it becomes – building up substance over the years.

that’s why if you parked a model A here beside this tree and left it there eventually the real car would disintegrate but then be replaced by an image of the car an image created by thirty years of constant photographing by multitudes of leaves. Thus these photos are synthesised into an image so

That long after the original had rotted away

That model A

No mechanic can make run

No grease fills its crank case

No gasoline fills its gas tank

You sat in it made it go up and down up and down

Then ran home shouting

Grandpa! Grandpa! I flew the car! I flew the car!

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery.

Didn’t we meet there once?

Weren’t you the one draped in skins?

Smile polished sepia

Black eyes stranded behind silver languages

Mindful of Ukraine choirs before the war

Dear one, dear one, my dear dear dear one

Starlings of tears each familiar voice polished crystal snow

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

( for Jim when he lived in a tent by a river in New Milford ct. – we met while I stopped for a smoke, we shared a few and had a conversation. it was winter and I only had a fiver to give him and a half a pack of Marlboros – he gave me this poem. I tried for years to do it justice. He’d a done it better himself. Anyway the important thing is Jim not the poem – so here you go Jim – this ones for you, and maybe all those who unlike yourself never had a chance with all the symbols of the world.)

DSC_4097

PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon’s LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons

20. october oz9


winter workshop

winter workshop

So

unsettled

grey rains across the lake

even the fire duller now

as if unable to breath the airless air of your absence

not the anxiety of waiting

not the impatience of worry

something though stranger

knowing not wondering

your absence has no remedy

Moved things around for winter working this morning. a good hard stormy night into an equally rainy day. a long yoga mediation session, then down to the kitchen get a soup on for shelly, her favourite carrot (of course) this time even i liked the result. usually cant stand the stuff. move from the kitchen HQ to the front room. set up ‘puter and such. dog and cat each tucked up in their own separate armchairs. poked around on the emails, checked some new potential publishers but pretty restless un focussed for that so did some writing, a little example of something fresh is printed above. shelly got home for lunch, happy to have a hot soup and a fire. Calliope Nerve did put up two of my poems thanks for that!

http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/search/label/PD%20Lyons

Pensioners Remiss

When I wanted to see you


Young and available

Dresses out amidst a blue jean wasteland

Stoned as laughing smoky charms

Dancing at any moment unannounced

On the steps of Spanish little Harlem

 Turquoise as your eyes church doors

Sacramental wine just open

A spiral of possibilities each as believable as the past

When I wanted to see you

Roads wide open looking to ride

Strong as summer sweat

 Muscles love like horses into sunset

 Diamonds across that midnight sky lived only in your fuck me eyes.

Breathless barefoot pirouette octagon tiles

 Limitless kitchens  by dull Frigidaire ice cold India ales

 Fast as you can drink ‘em

 Back porch third floor dawn Aegean blue

Away among a city of fearlessness

When I wanted to see you

Saint Johns Christmas balsam scented crushed blood velvet

Crystal singers choir of angels

Mysterious as snow the mouth you used

For me an accent of hypnosis lead like sorrow  obsessed with green as if summer surfaced between live pines

 And the first breasts I ever saw

 You stripped for the reservoir

My hands held showing me to cup each one instead

When I wanted to see you

So much more so than

Where ever you were

So much sooner than now
---------------------------------------------------------------

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

Now.

ever onward something goes

ever onward something goes

Last night started to read Morgan a new story before bed time. we sat by the fire on the sofa for this, i had read it to her a few years back but she didnt remember until we got to the door : round painted bright shiny green with a brass door knob in the middle –

Oh yeah! says Mor, the green door I remember that! So we read the Hobbit by the fire – up til 10pm school night and all! forgot the time i did. a timeless story after all! My daddy gave me the lord of the rings – how many years ago? i was probably 13 or so. any way morg remembers the green door. weird what stays with us. looks like we just like Bilbo have an adventure coming our way. shellys interviews with employers in the states go well. one offer already being formalised and sent to her for consideration. exciting. must be good to be recognised by your professional peers as being “just what we’re looking for” opportunity beckons. America, hopefully a little different from our last go. at least it’s not Bushmerica, as much. all the ghosts that wait for me though. thank god I got a buddha nature. om

6.october.09


So tomorrow shelly has a phone interview with an american employer. also has another Connecticut group interested in her. this november she’ll (maybe we’ll all go if the cash flows unclog) be in Connecticut for some teaching engagements and hopes to set up face to face interviews for then. sent some poems out today RATTLE & some to Handful Of Stones. Calliope nerve has responded to the other days submissions  (quickest response in 40 years!) :

To:
pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk, “Calliope Nerve” <calliopenerve@gmail.com>

Your work is great!  Thank you for the submission.s  Look for them at our weblog later in the month. We’ve also sent you an invite to join our e-newsletter.  We appreciate you thinking of our website and if you can add Calliope Nerve to future bios it’s always much appreciated.

Matt “Nobius” Evelsizer
Publisher Calliope Nerve

So thats good for the ego. will post them here too once they’re up on Calliope site.

New venue! the way to go. meanwhile the weather changes grey black hard rain of a day – a blessing for those of us who work outside and have to stay home and write and yoga and sit and even tidy up the place.

Suzy Homemakers tip:

Ramones— its alive, clash combat rock and i fought the law – good kitchen cleaning stuff. who’da thought i wanna lobotomy would be just the thing for washing dishes?

Other tips for the day –

1.never ever especially when you feel like shit, give up your practise whatever it is. when you feel like shit remember its just buddha feeling like shit and so how bad can buddha shit be? or jesus shit for that matter?

2. whenever you feel like a little kid again – remember youre f n not. no one can ever be your daddy  or mommy again. this can be inspirational when you feel the old habit to squirm or kiss ass, likewise when you can be quiet and soften up and feel the tender sadness that our only mommy and daddy can evoke.

3. too much coffee – if you dont get narky from it then can it ever be a bad thing?ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

oh those days of sun and clotheses

oh those days of sun and clotheses

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