Tag Archives: canada

my father, my mother, Yeats, golden apples & silver apples – reading by PD Lyons


read by PD Lyons poet~

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats & Somewhere Still by PD Lyons

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats from Eveeryman’s Poetry, J.M. Dent, Orien Publishing. London 1998 Somewhere Still by PD Lyons from When You Worship Swans No Longer Limited Edition, Supported by Westmeath County Arts, 2017

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I 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 someone 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.
Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

.Noun. 1. Aengus – Celtic god of love and beauty; patron deity of young men and women. Angus, Angus Og, Oengus.

SOMEWHERE STILL by PD Lyons

Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages running jumping clinging – immune bare feet impervious to sun. Skin frosted with salt, lotions, cake icing.
Somewhere children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, taking them sometimes instead to lunch…
Long-time companions, comforts of old age, afternoon naps, books, TV, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – love, marriage, a hole never in twenty-three years has time healed.
Somewhere she still takes you by the hand. Ohs your name laughs into the open window, Fifty-five Chevy, summer bright chrome. So close to flying great American V8 highways up 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 your 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; acquiescing when the waiter offers to sweeten her drink no knowing here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want because she’s your wife now and you 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 just like W.B. said –
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. Yeats, his favourite poet.)

my father, my mother, Yeats, golden apples & silver apples – reading by PD Lyons


read by PD Lyons poet~

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats & Somewhere Still by PD Lyons

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats from Eveeryman’s Poetry, J.M. Dent, Orien Publishing. London 1998 Somewhere Still by PD Lyons from When You Worship Swans No Longer Limited Edition, Supported by Westmeath County Arts, 2017

 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I 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 someone 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.
Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

.Noun. 1. Aengus – Celtic god of love and beauty; patron deity of young men and women. Angus, Angus Og, Oengus.

SOMEWHERE STILL by PD Lyons

Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages running jumping clinging – immune bare feet impervious to sun. Skin frosted with salt, lotions, cake icing.
Somewhere children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, taking them sometimes instead to lunch…
Long-time companions, comforts of old age, afternoon naps, books, TV, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – love, marriage, a hole never in twenty-three years has time healed.
Somewhere she still takes you by the hand. Ohs your name laughs into the open window, Fifty-five Chevy, summer bright chrome. So close to flying great American V8 highways up 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 your 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; acquiescing when the waiter offers to sweeten her drink no knowing here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want because she’s your wife now and you 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 just like W.B. said –
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. Yeats, his favourite poet.)

my father, my mother, Yeats, golden apples & silver apples – reading by PD Lyons


read by PD Lyons poet~

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats & Somewhere Still by PD Lyons

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats from Eveeryman’s Poetry, J.M. Dent, Orien Publishing. London 1998 Somewhere Still by PD Lyons from When You Worship Swans No Longer Limited Edition, Supported by Westmeath County Arts, 2017

 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I 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 someone 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.
Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

.Noun. 1. Aengus – Celtic god of love and beauty; patron deity of young men and women. Angus, Angus Og, Oengus.

SOMEWHERE STILL by PD Lyons

Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages running jumping clinging – immune bare feet impervious to sun. Skin frosted with salt, lotions, cake icing.
Somewhere children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, taking them sometimes instead to lunch…
Long-time companions, comforts of old age, afternoon naps, books, TV, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – love, marriage, a hole never in twenty-three years has time healed.
Somewhere she still takes you by the hand. Ohs your name laughs into the open window, Fifty-five Chevy, summer bright chrome. So close to flying great American V8 highways up 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 your 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; acquiescing when the waiter offers to sweeten her drink no knowing here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want because she’s your wife now and you 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 just like W.B. said –
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. Yeats, his favourite poet.)

Why Poetry Matters ~ Scott Griffin, TEDx Talks


 

 

 

TEDx Talks

 
Scott Griffin is a Canadian businessman and philanthropist best known for founding the Griffin Poetry Prize, one of the world’s most generous poetry awards in 2000, and Poetry In Voice, a recitation competition for Canadian high schools. He is also the Chancellor of Bishop’s University. Chancellor Griffin sits on several NGO boards, as a director of Canadian Executive Services Overseas (CESO), a volunteer advisor to CESO, and a director of African Medical and Research Foundation (AMREF) Canada. In 2006, Chancellor Griffin published a memoir entitled My Heart is Africa that recounted his two-year aviation adventure starting in 1996, working for the Flying Doctors Service in Africa. He was appointed an officer of the Order of Canada in December, 2012. His talk explores the importance of poetry in society. 
 
 

Mira Gut by pd Lyons as published by Lost Sparrow Press


 

There are no flowers here but snow.

The bay not yet free chunked with ice

the white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea.

at least the sun visits, comforting,

illusion though it is,

visions of thawing, melting down to something green.

 

In the long sleep of winter, I have dreamed

something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise

something soft covering sun drenched shoulders

silver threads   an old man’s harp

played for money by the moon

 

The Lost Sparrow

http://lostsparrowpress.com/shop/#!/The-Lost-Sparrow/p/86541732/category=0

The Extent Of His Youth, poetry by pd lyons


the extent of his youth

up the road to the next town

with a girl he knew from high school and her kid

grey clap board bungalow

breakers on the rocks below

reminding him only of working boats.

he loved that kid more then he loved anyone

took her out for sweets and ice cream at the corner shop

taught her how to skate and hold a hockey stick on black ice lakes

almost ended up in jail trying to get that Barbie House for Christmas.

eventually she left him.

bottoms of too many bottles between ‘em.

never heard from her again.

but got  letters from the kid.

eventually dwindled through the years.

now an almost annual event.

doing good .

miss you so much.

when can I see you?

how come I cant see you?

finished school .

moved away from  mom.

someday I’m gonna come see you.

just show up, you’ll see.

we’ll get together.

never forget you.

just like a real dad to me.

 

pdlyons pix

pdlyons pix

 

this was published April 2010 by Boyne Berries 7  http://boynewriters.com/index.html

Canada, by pd Lyons as published by The Corner Club Press ( 2011)


 

 

thank you very much to corner club press for publishing this little piece of my Canadian heart. They are still actively publishing – check them out for good reading &/or submitting your own work. See link below.

 

DSC_9568

 

Canada

Where I could step out into the night
Smoke with the stars
Hear an ocean just beyond the pines
And something’d draw the
Dog off barking
Into a pitch black forest where really anything could be
When all I wanted was a sparkling solitude of Orion
But you know when the s.o.b. came back
All proud of himself waging his tail –
All I could say was
Good boy – Good boy

 

publish fall 2011 by The Corner Club Press http://thecornerclubpress.weebly.com/

The dog was a Dalmatian dog named Max. Many’s the night we stood out under the most wonderfully black sparkling sky I would ever know.  Well I’d stand and being a smoker then, I’d smoke while he as you can see did not stand still at all but eventually he’d show up and sit next to me lean against my leg – no matter how cold the ground.

 

 

For the Ice to Heal, by pd lyons


wrote this while living in Cape Breton – the winters were longish there and sometimes folks could get a bit depressed about it, and steel mills were gone and the liquor was chap. but the ocean was beautiful, the pack ice on a sunny day would sing like wind chimes as sea birds and wood land birds would follow as I walked alone upon the rough shore line

DSC_6868

For the Ice to Heal

From the kitchen window

Curtain less

Stiff abandoned

On the line

Since October

Sentinel dish towel

Clumsy signal

Waves

Not yet

Not yet

Might as well

Another coffee

Something for the birds

Rare as rubies cardinal

Blue jays bright stuns my eyes

Dull small brown little things

Ok

Ok

First thing tomorrow

Auger from the garage

Break that agreement

Made with myself

To wait

snow by morgan lyons

snow by morgan lyons

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auger_%28drill%29

Augers – either gas- or hand-powered – are used by ice fishermen to drill holes to fish through.

 

DSC_7704

 

 

Balreask, by pd lyons


pdlyons photo, artist unknown - paris

pdlyons photo, artist unknown – paris

after 2 years living in Cape Breton we returned to Ireland. for a short while we stayed with Michelle’s family in Balreask, while we sorted out a house of our own. This poem was written then 2004 – I was still a bit high about being in Ireland again. Maeve is , for me the goddess of sovereignty of the land. It was a good morning.

 

Balreask

Earliest morning I been up

Since we got here

Out in the garden Qi gong cup of tea

One crow on the aerial above the chimney

Is that you ?

Is that really you Maeve?

Yes you are sleek and shiny really beautiful today.

Tilts her head towards me

As if surprised

Then clucks a few syllables in return.

Can we stay Maeve? Can we make our home here

Well not exactly here but in this country. Are we really coming home?

She leans further towards me, opens and closes her beak, leans closer

then whistles three gutsy in her throat whistles & flies.

The grass needs tending

It just might rain

Beginning is the least I can do

 

pd lyons photo artist unknown - paris

pd Lyons photo, artist unknown – Paris

Mira Gut, by pd lyons


Mira Gut

there are no flowers here but snow.
the bay not yet free chunked with ice
the white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea.
at least the sun visits, comforting,
illusion though it is,
visions of thawing, melting down to something green.

in the long sleep of winter I have dreamed
something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise
something soft covering sun drenched shoulders
silver threads an old man’s harp played for money by the moon.

 

 

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

 

Was lucky enough to live in Cape Breton for a while. The area Mira Gut was where the river Mira entered the Atlantic. We lived across the street from the ocean. Sometimes we’d walk down to the Mira bridge and fish for mackerel. Some of the most beautiful parts of being there were the winters.  this was probably written on 2003.

DSC_7951_NEF

 

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