Tag Archives: ireland

Title Piece from newest release


WORSHIP SWANS NO LONGER

When you worship swans no longer

Will you find your way to me?

Smoke rising in a breathless voice

Winding between shade and sun

 A dream begun on dew drops

  Daring midday like a ghost

Vowing never to fly

From your embrace

Special First Edition Limited to 150: each numbered and signed by the poet.

Price includes worldwide shipping by regular post in padded envelope.

20.00 dollars US /15 euros Ireland /20 euros rest of Europe /15 UK sterling

Items shipped upon receipt of order (purchase through Paypal)

Contact: pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk

With your shipping information and any queries.

Additional inscription on request.

(Numbered books selected randomly)

“PD Lyons work stands at the threshold so loved in Ireland. That almost magical, almost mythical, almost otherworldly parallel that the Irish dip in and out of. Where we chose to believe in luck and superstition and destiny and embrace these as tangible factors in our daily lives. – from the forward by Una O’Neill D’Arcy, Journalist/Freelance Writer

Thank you in advance for supporting this project!

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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

true


 

ever onward something goes

Bridget’s


random
ice across the road
fields brown tipped golden grasses
spread occasionally into figures
something unnameable does pass
soft light strands of sunlight green
snow dropped jewels secret circles
cast beyond mere mortals grasp
Bridget’s fair sweet token

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true for christmas is metaphor – best wishes from ireland


We have All Touched The World With Little Fingers

 

here’s the thing –
the people prayed to God;
deliver us from evil,
from oppression,
poverty,
war,
pestilence,
all this misery.

And hearing their prayers
god sent an answer.

But it wasn’t a king,
an army,
a weapon,
a political party,
not even a religion –
but rather God with all the power and glory

answered all their prayers

with  a  child

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for you all – may you remember

________________________________________________________________________________

with regards to Joseph Campbell

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Campbell

https://www.jcf.org/new/index.php?categoryid=11

Happy Anniversary 18 years – (part one) more than always, more than ever,


Bravest of the brave, treasure of my heart

and because it was always summer where we met and because its been 18 yrs married and because it was and is our wedding song and because I am not or ever will be poet enough to do you justice

http://www.popscreen.com/v/72XiI/Mark-Knopfler-Night-Summer-Long-Ago-Night-in-London-Live

 

“A Night In Summer Long Ago”
by mark knopfler

My lady may I have this dance
Forgive a knight who knows no shame
My lady may I have this dance
And lady may I have your name
You danced upon a soldier’s arm
And I felt the blade of love so keen
And when you smiled you did me harm
And I was drawn to you, my QueenNow these boots may take me where they will
Though they may never shine like his
There is no knight I would not kill
To have my lady’s hand to kiss
Yes and they did take me through the hall
To leave me not one breath from you
And they fell silent one and all
And you could see my heart was trueThen I did lead you from the hall
And we did ride upon the hill
Away beyond the city wall
And sure you are my lady still
A night in summer long ago
The stars were falling from the sky
And still, my heart, I have to know
Why do you love me, lady, why?
And because you are my heart and because I still remember that moment so long ago when i thought i’d not ever see you again and how it was that moment that i knew i had to ask and oh how so fucking cool it was that you better than any molly bloom said yes –

RED IS THE ROSE

Come over the hills my bonny Irish lass
Come over the hills to your darling
You choose the road love and I’ll make a vow
That I’ll be your true love forever

Chorus:
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows
Fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any

It’s down in Killarney’s green woods that we strayed
When the moon and the stars, they were shining
For the moon shone its rays on her locks of golden hair
And she said she’d be my love forever

Chorus

It’s not for the parting with my sister Kate
It’s not for the grief of my mother
It’s all for the loss of my bonny Irish lass
That my heart is breaking forever

Poet as someone I envy


there are not many poets that i envy – but here is an example of a piece of work that makes me wish i had been born this man. Also included a stunning reading of it by Liam Clancy

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Mary Hynes

(The most beautiful woman in the West. Padraic Fallon translation
of the Anthony Raftery poem)

That Sunday, on my oath, the rain was a heavy overcoat
on a poor poet; and when the rain began in fleeces
of water to buck-leap like a goat, I was only a walking
penence reaching Kiltartan

and there so suddenly that my cold spine broke out
on the arch of my back in a rainbow;
this woman surged out of the day with so much sunlight,
that I was nailed there like a scarecrow.

But I found my tongue and a breath to balance it,
and I said:

‘If I’d bow to you with this hump of rain, I’ll fall
On my collarbone, but luck I’ll chance it’; and after falling bow again
She laughed: Ah! she was gracious, and softly she said to me,

‘For all Your lovely talking I go marketing with an ass, I know him.
I’m no hill-queen, alas, or Ireland, that grass widow, So hurry on,
sweet Raftery, or you’ll keep me late for Mass!’

The parish priest has blamed me for missing second Mass
And the bell talking on the rope of the steeple,
But the tonsure of the poet is the bright crash
Of love that blinds the irons on his belfry.
Were I making an Aisling I’d tell the tale of her hair,
But now I’ve grown careful of my listeners
So I pass over one long day and the rainy air
Where we sheltered in whispers.

When we left the dark evening at last outside her door,
She lighted a lamp though a gaming company
Could have sighted each trump by the light of her unshawled poll,
And indeed she welcomed me
With a big quart bottle and I mooned there over glasses
Till she took that bird, the phoenix, from the spit;
And, ‘Raftery,’ says she, ‘a feast is no bad dowry, Sit down now and taste it.’

If I praised Ballylea before it was only for the mountains
Where I broke horses and ran wild,
And for its seven crooked smoky houses
Where seven crones are tied
All day to the listening-top of a half door,
And nothing to be heard or seen
But the drowsy dropping of water
And a gander on the green.

But, Boys! I was blind as a kitten till last Sunday,
This town is earth’s very navel.
Seven palaces are thatched there of a Monday,
And O the seven queens whose pale
Proud faces with their seven glimmering sisters,
The Pleiads, light the evening where they stroll,
And one can find the well by their wet footprints,
And make one’s soul!

For Mary Hynes, rising, gathers up there
Her ripening body from all the love stories;
And rinsing herself at morning, shakes her hair
And stirs the old gay books in libraries;
And what shall I do with sweet Boccaccio?
And shall I send Ovid back to school again
With a new headline for his copybook,
And a new pain?

Like a nun she will play you a sweet tune on a spinet,
And from such grasshopper music leap
Like Herod’s hussy who fancied a saint’s head
For grace after meat;
Yet she’ll peg out a line of clothes on a windy morning
And by noonday put them ironed in the chest,
And you’ll swear by her white fingers she does nothing
But take her fill of rest.

And I’ll wager now that my song is ended,
Loughrea, that old dead city where the weavers
Have pined at the mouldering looms since Helen broke the thread,
Will be piled again with silver fleeces:
O the new coats and big horses! The raving and the ribbons!
And Ballylea in hubbub and uproar!
And may Raftery be dead if he’s not there to ruffle it
On his own mare, Shank’s mare, that never needs a spur.

But ah, Sweet Light, though your face coins
My heart’s very metals, isn’t it folly without a pardon
For Raftery to sing so that men, east and west, come
Spying on your vegetable garden?
We could be so quiet in your chimney corner–
Yet how could a poet hold you any more than the sun,
Burning in the big bright hazy heart of harvest,
Could be tied in a henrun?

Bless your poet then and let him go!
He’ll never stack a haggard with his breath:
His thatch of words will not keep rain or snow
Out of the house, or keep back death.
But Raftery, rising, curses as he sees you
Stir the fire and wash delph,
That he was bred a poet whose selfish trade it is
To keep no beauty to himself.

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~

~

~

 

 

 

Dear Ireland,


Dear Ireland

until a country accepts each and every truth be it beautiful or horrible about its history – it will not truly be a country. Its people then unable to act unison will only serve a variety of disguised colonial cronies down through the centuries.

 

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he could not find you amazing, poetry & photography by pd lyons


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“feed on us before you bury us” – Anais Nin

 

he could not find you amazing
he could not touch your mystery
he could re call vast wilderness
adrift among archetypal feminine
a wash among deltas
Venus like salt mingling with new rain
blood like midnights paling   lunary

a pleasure beyond wounds
a mingling beyond physicality
a hungrier type of mouth
willing to feed and to be fed upon

 

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drawn up the spectre of a planet from the limbo of lunary souls — E. A. Poe

To — — –. Ulalume: A Ballad

By Edgar Allan Poe

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174155

riverside waterbury ct

riverside waterbury ct

 

The First Time You Saw Your Parents Smile , by pd Lyons


The First Time You Saw Your Parents Smile

in the month of strawberries

when you were born

tender lips of your mother pressed as if to savour  

something cool and soothing.

your father held you up to the night sky

compared you to stars.

 amazed

you didn’t cry but rather open mouth drooled.

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