Tag Archives: irish poetry

The People Who Cured Themselves by P D Lyons from As If the Rain Fell In Ordinary Time


Taken from the 2019 erbacce poetry prize winning entry by PD Lyons. It was one of the original entry of four poems. “This one, I am proud to say was influenced by the work of Laurie Anderson & William S. Burroughs.”

The People Who Cured Themselves

 

the people who had cured themselves

from the virus once called language

communicated eloquently

with their hands

with their arms

 with their eyes

with the colour of their skin.

 

impossible to be misunderstood

they learned of the winds worship of leaves

the way the sun with every shadow enjoyed each day by day

and the height of midnight stars all sparkling –

happy with the moon, longing for its return.

 

eventually they forgot –

the coarseness of verbal abuse

the trickery of its seduction

the con of its half-truths.

 

made themselves dwellers on an island

rescuers, healers for those washed up from the deep

unafraid of reinfection they let the long-term healing of their lives

speak for them.

 

 

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The annual erbacce-prize for poetry is open from January 1st to May 1st every year. It is entirely FREE to enter thus it attracts top quality poets world-wide… in 2019 we had close to eight thousand entries and all were judged ‘blind’. P D Lyons was the outright winner! Below is the book we produced for him… it is sheer quality poetry, the whole book encompasses a simplicity coupled with deep insight; a truly beautiful collection which reveals more each time it is re-opened… (perfect-bound: 112pages)

http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/p-d-lyons/4586525519

 

Through the generous support of  Westmeath County Council a limited edition of 50 numbered and signed copies are available to purchase direct from the poet at €20.00 to include standard postage world wide.  Please click on the link above to order via PayPal

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 P D Lyons Winner of the 2019 erbacce-prize for poetry


Thank you to the judges and to Erbacce Crew. I am humbled and honored by this. Cheers Alan!

 P D Lyons Winner of the 2019 erbacce-prize for poetry

The annual erbacce-prize for poetry is open from January 1st to May 1st every year. It is entirely FREE to enter thus it attracts top quality poets world-wide… in 2019 we had close to eight thousand entries and all were judged ‘blind’. P D Lyons was the outright winner! Below is the book we produced for him… it is sheer quality poetry, the whole book encompasses a simplicity coupled with deep insight; a truly beautiful collection which reveals more each time it is re-opened… (perfect-bound: 112pages)

http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/p-d-lyons/4586525519

 

Through the generous support of  Westmeath County Council a limited edition of 50 numbered and signed copies are available to purchase direct from the poet at €20.00 to include standard postage world wide.  Please click on the cover below to order via PayPal

LyonsCover

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!

memorial by pd lyons


ever onward let me go
ever onward let me go home

this world of lamentation
these buds of easy bloom

you don’t know where
but i’ll find my way

so let me go

i’ll leave a little light for you – if i can

 

Queens 1985, by pd lyons


 

 

she dreams her grandfather tries to kill her with a knife

her grandfather killing a girl very bloody with a knife

hitting the walls until her hands bleed

it doesn’t matter

let them bleed

let me die

bacon I believe

bacon I believe

First Day of Spring, by pd Lyons. As published by Shift Lit – Derry


 

First Day of Spring

my daughter asks me
why did people invent war?
don’t they know it’s the devil not god that likes war?
do children have to fight?
do they kill children too?
boys, and girls?
how old are the children?
why don’t the soldiers just quit?

and then the sound of helicopter passing
she thinks it wondrous dashes off to look

and for all those for whom that sound is terror?

because of them
we must love the world
all the more

 

Published in Shift #4 Revoution Issue:

http://www.facebook.com/SHIFT-Lit-Derry

photo by shift lit derry

photo by shift lit derry

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

DSC_0046

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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The Way The Night Moves, poetry by pd Lyons. Photography by Ron Scubadiver’s Wild Life


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Man and Bike in Pieces by Ron Scubadiver’s Wild Life.  Image used with prior permission.

 

 

the way the night moves
parts
crooked
spaces
leather bits
angled pipes
rust in sprockets
whisker thin
draping
knocking
knees

where does the night go?
dark strong hands
an almost complete mechanism of escape
roiling waves of somewhere else
warmed by soft skin
hard nipples
mouths full
ah
shh
ooh

forever

I am the place for your strong hands
forever
I am the place for your strong love
forever
I am the place you will never be away from

the way the night moves now
the way the night moved then
despite any realization
still
smiles

 

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Once again I find my self inspired by the photography of Ron Scubadiver’s Wild Life. Do yourself a kindness and spend a minute exploring the world on Ron’s blog – bet you anything you become a follower. Thanks Ron for your kind permissions.

https://ronscubadiver.wordpress.com/

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aimless hours of glass, by pd lyons


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on their hands and knees
men with small hammers
fix stones for you to walk on
sharp silver sounds
out of the sun places
your own aimless hours of glass

we’d leave our dead at the sea
turned to silver fishes
our people nourished
by such treasure
grew strong

†††††††††††††
谀䈀
then others came
their huge ships hauled the sea
back with them for those we would never meet
now our people dwindle
souls of our ancestors
stolen.
†††††††††††††††††瑳汯湥മ
†††††††††††††††††⁳瑯汥渮ഀÒRഏ
nothing comes so softly as this day of leaving
even stones, once cursed
now picked up at random
savoured by mouth
a kiss let fall gently as if they’d remember only that

as far as the eye can see small diamond stars tattoo unspeakable skin
ancient linens     a memory of water         a beautiful woman has come
pure infant dreams deep on my strong shoulder
swaying songs the rain peers into

I can see you twice
once in reflection
walking into yourself
disappearing

 

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alone along the border line, by pd Lyons


alone along the border line
cigarette struggles with her finger tips
her pale lips
her naked throat
and
moving through fields between snow
and
holes where there is still water
a heavy heat awakens
deep within
she mouths her lover’s name.
now when all the west is orange
clouds race black across it
ask in voices lent by the winds of winter:
do you
do you
do you
through the taste of midnight
into the wound of sunrise
until the evening sparkles into dawn
even when the day light spreads out broad
do you
do you
do you
still believe
and on the double edge of sacred steel,
her voice met by the winds of winter,
she almost always answers –

Yes.

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