the poet gets to read two of their own from the pilot issue.
thanking Ruby & Shona of the Portmanteau LDN Team
You can check out more fine writing and sending some of your own by going to portmanteauldn.com
thanks for joining me hope you find something you like.
cheers
good luck
bye
!
Putting the Tea Cup In
what can be said about the rain?
does it have a politic?
philosophy, religion?
It must have history,
for there must have been a time
when there was no rain
and then there was.
what language does the rain speak?
what alphabet does it choose?
or perhaps, prefers memory to letters,
silence over words?
And even if you understood,
would the rain decide to speak to you?
Perhaps it does and you do –
But right now, you’re not paying attention as you’re trying to be quick about the packing
as you’re trying to carefully wrap that tea cup. the one without a saucer. the saucer broken so
long ago, you can’t quite remember how or when…
but you’re in a hurry now because you know if he came in and saw you putting the tea cup in,
how he’d give out, saying there’re more important things to pack, that he can buy you a new one,
that you’re really silly to fuss over such a thing…
and for a moment you consider leaving it out,
maybe on the garden wall,
leaving it to share its history with the rain,
for there must have been a time
when there was no tea cup
and then there was.
~ for e.e. & t.s.
When I Was With the Cypress Born
On damp round stones,
our bare feet.
On night’s soft feathers,
our arms reach.
On unsettled currents,
our hands grasp.
On precisely the middle of the night,
we rise up.
Maiden Lane, New York, NY
And you spoon-fed in the dark room
curl keeping quiet across the bed
draped white with butterfly hands
angels tiptoe all around
out there
the city stirs
dark wrapped overcoat soft with age
room for only damp cigarettes
and no place to go
.
( so a little annoyed w/myself that I forgot to read this one, Maiden Lane which is also in the Pilot Issue. It does sound cool read out loud. Maybe as a favor you could read it out loud to yourself? why not? give it a go. slow and steady. Don’t forget to breathe! )
As the events of 2020 put paid to my intention to promote this book via live readings etc. I have decided to simply read the book in order on short videos. I believe the work should be heard and hope to make that happen here. Thank you if you have for listening. cheers pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk.
Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away. erbacce-press Liverpool UK c2019 video c2021 pdlyons poet.
If you’d like a copy of the book contact me via email to arrange. inscribed limited editions 20.00euros regular postage incl. anywhere in the world. 15.00Euros if you’re lucky enough to live in Ireland.
good luck. bye!
note there are some sexual references here. no violence, or graphic descriptions
you can read them below but as the youtube folks say if you want the joy of watching yours truly read ’em you gotta go ~
Something in the Night
back then when knowing the night was an obligation
I got to meet you
we had nothing to do but each other
we had no one else we wanted to bother with
I was working at a local gas station
pump the gas, check the oil, fill the radiator, fill the tire
only other things we could sell – cigarettes, maps and coca cola.
I have no idea what you did something textile?
Bobbins, threads, piece work, bonus
somehow, we had met and that was all that mattered.
we liked to drive around at night,
few beers, couple packs of smokes, FM radio.
didn’t go to bars much, drinking there cost more
besides we both had this inability to not piss people off.
last time we were in a bar?
this old Irish guy, the owner, liked you at first
gave you your third drink on the house
but when he was playing pool, money on the table
you kept grabbing the back of the cue just as he shot.
by the third time it wasn’t funny, except to you.
few of the regulars told me; Better get her out of here. Now! So, I did.
we stopped off in the middle of the intersection by St. Joseph’s cemetery
smoking, talking, kissing – more than kissing.
never a soul, not even the cops came by to bother us.
we had some incredible luck when it came to it.
I told you what my favourite breakfast was.
so, you invited me one morning, your mother’s house,
eggs Benedict you made yourself just for me.
I met your little brother then.
he was 7 maybe 10. He asked if I ever went fishing?
sure, when I was your age my dad used to always take me.
must a said I’d take him sometime
cause about a week after we stopped seeing each other I get this phone call
could we go? maybe tomorrow? you know fishing?
I don’t remember how but I told him no. It made me feel sad.
I knew what it was like to believe you were going fishing then not.
And you? Even if you were around, I don’t think there’s anything here you wouldn’t have already known and forgotten long ago.
Lessons on Foreign Languages in A Reeperbahn Café
Trees or torture…
My breasts were made for children and your hands
Choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface
How do you know that’s not a table?
We could meet in Ireland by the palm trees.
Everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, everyone drinks Paddy
Even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who
wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes?
To find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,
the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…
Who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box?
Well when I am god, I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who
turned away from paradise, instead followed the stars.
Why? Why everything? Why not something else?
Ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…
…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees
yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones
of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of
our childhood to the music of Springsteen’s: Point
Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through
some battery cassette. So, roll up another cigarette and pass
the Pandora but first let me see your eyes,
Let me lay my tongue on yours.
Let us swallow some of each other’s spit,
like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and
yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to…
When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but
sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of
ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit covered
everything with a resin crust. We were fond of bones and
murders, sacrifices, lesbians, our Spartan
swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and
Parthenons. Sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted
little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.
When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in
Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna. Slept for Beethoven at his
tomb and at his little Platz by the statue near the
Shubert ring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural
History Museum – lost among stuffed and pickled corpses of every
creature known to man.
In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a
giant smog impregnated everything and every moment. Its
embryonic motion grown heavy in a damp heat, like breath on
a still winter night of North Sea drifting downward with
hunger, for those German girls, who with the slenderness of
a homosexual fantasy covered me in the slick semen of their
love. Mouths moaning with love, cunts hungry
with love, assholes a dream of love…
In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs.
Flesh of Ronald McDonald. Catholic flesh of Christ, bloodless
white and sour. I lived with the flesh of dead dogs, aborted infants;
sucked juices from the fresh wounds of teenage girls down
in the darkness of their daddy’s garages. Dracula had nothing on me man.
I walked the ninety-degree heats of New York City streets.
Streets made of skin and muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz.
Tattoos sweating black ink and muggers.
Whenever I couldn’t buy anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street –
Meat Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to
the countryside? It was for a breath of fresh blood with a
little something still warm from its own body heat to chew on.
… But now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland
our harps hung up to dry. Pandora’s ass so dry, is
like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning
man, sucks sea. We don’t sleep any more. The only flesh we
eat is our own. You have met me here have taken the blood
of my wound into your own.
So, my dearest look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known.
Do you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years ago?
Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to
steal. So, roll up another cigarette. But first let me lay my tongue upon
yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let
us see how long we can stay still like that and yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to.
As the events of 2020 put paid to my intention to promote this book via live readings etc. I have decided to simply read the book in order on short videos. I believe the work should be heard and hope to make that happen here. Thank you if you have for listening. cheers pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk.
Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away. erbacce-press Liverpool UK c2019 video c2021 pdlyons poet.
If you’d like a copy of the book contact me via email to arrange. inscribed limited editions 20.00euros regular postage incl. anywhere in the world. 15.00Euros if you’re lucky enough to live in Ireland.
good luck. bye!
note there are some sexual references here. no violence, or graphic descriptions
you can read them below but as the youtube folks say if you want the joy of watching yours truly read ’em you gotta go ~
Something in the Night
back then when knowing the night was an obligation
I got to meet you
we had nothing to do but each other
we had no one else we wanted to bother with
I was working at a local gas station
pump the gas, check the oil, fill the radiator, fill the tire
only other things we could sell – cigarettes, maps and coca cola.
I have no idea what you did something textile?
Bobbins, threads, piece work, bonus
somehow, we had met and that was all that mattered.
we liked to drive around at night,
few beers, couple packs of smokes, FM radio.
didn’t go to bars much, drinking there cost more
besides we both had this inability to not piss people off.
last time we were in a bar?
this old Irish guy, the owner, liked you at first
gave you your third drink on the house
but when he was playing pool, money on the table
you kept grabbing the back of the cue just as he shot.
by the third time it wasn’t funny, except to you.
few of the regulars told me; Better get her out of here. Now! So, I did.
we stopped off in the middle of the intersection by St. Joseph’s cemetery
smoking, talking, kissing – more than kissing.
never a soul, not even the cops came by to bother us.
we had some incredible luck when it came to it.
I told you what my favourite breakfast was.
so, you invited me one morning, your mother’s house,
eggs Benedict you made yourself just for me.
I met your little brother then.
he was 7 maybe 10. He asked if I ever went fishing?
sure, when I was your age my dad used to always take me.
must a said I’d take him sometime
cause about a week after we stopped seeing each other I get this phone call
could we go? maybe tomorrow? you know fishing?
I don’t remember how but I told him no. It made me feel sad.
I knew what it was like to believe you were going fishing then not.
And you? Even if you were around, I don’t think there’s anything here you wouldn’t have already known and forgotten long ago.
Lessons on Foreign Languages in A Reeperbahn Café
Trees or torture…
My breasts were made for children and your hands
Choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface
How do you know that’s not a table?
We could meet in Ireland by the palm trees.
Everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, everyone drinks Paddy
Even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who
wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes?
To find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,
the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…
Who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box?
Well when I am god, I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who
turned away from paradise, instead followed the stars.
Why? Why everything? Why not something else?
Ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…
…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees
yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones
of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of
our childhood to the music of Springsteen’s: Point
Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through
some battery cassette. So, roll up another cigarette and pass
the Pandora but first let me see your eyes,
Let me lay my tongue on yours.
Let us swallow some of each other’s spit,
like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and
yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to…
When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but
sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of
ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit covered
everything with a resin crust. We were fond of bones and
murders, sacrifices, lesbians, our Spartan
swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and
Parthenons. Sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted
little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.
When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in
Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna. Slept for Beethoven at his
tomb and at his little Platz by the statue near the
Shubert ring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural
History Museum – lost among stuffed and pickled corpses of every
creature known to man.
In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a
giant smog impregnated everything and every moment. Its
embryonic motion grown heavy in a damp heat, like breath on
a still winter night of North Sea drifting downward with
hunger, for those German girls, who with the slenderness of
a homosexual fantasy covered me in the slick semen of their
love. Mouths moaning with love, cunts hungry
with love, assholes a dream of love…
In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs.
Flesh of Ronald McDonald. Catholic flesh of Christ, bloodless
white and sour. I lived with the flesh of dead dogs, aborted infants;
sucked juices from the fresh wounds of teenage girls down
in the darkness of their daddy’s garages. Dracula had nothing on me man.
I walked the ninety-degree heats of New York City streets.
Streets made of skin and muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz.
Tattoos sweating black ink and muggers.
Whenever I couldn’t buy anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street –
Meat Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to
the countryside? It was for a breath of fresh blood with a
little something still warm from its own body heat to chew on.
… But now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland
our harps hung up to dry. Pandora’s ass so dry, is
like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning
man, sucks sea. We don’t sleep any more. The only flesh we
eat is our own. You have met me here have taken the blood
of my wound into your own.
So, my dearest look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known.
Do you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years ago?
Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to
steal. So, roll up another cigarette. But first let me lay my tongue upon
yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let
us see how long we can stay still like that and yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to.
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
Thank you so much to editor Strider Marcus Jones for selecting five of my very own for Lothorien Poetry Journal. The first two I’ll include here. For more fascinating poetry from around the world and more than likely beyond click the link. Lothlorien Poetry submission guide lines are remarkably straight forward and user friendly for those of you who’d wish to have a go.
Lilacs Out the Windows of My Mother’s Room
Sometimes I’d lay across her empty bed
Tight white sheets
Bed spread folded down
Imagining things upon the ceiling
Letting sunlight play patterns behind my eyes
My arms stretch like wings
My legs as if I were a star
Seeing how deep my lungs could go
Returning but Not to Brooklyn Anymore
warm stones
cut before Norman times
silent witness now
her own alabaster hands.
friends of her parents
children of ghosts
funerals she herself was raised on.
Christmas outside midnight
tolling messages from her American children
repeated prayers of comfort and joy
mornings
sat on the edge of her mother’s bed
sometimes joined by the ginger cat
black sweet tea
steam between their matching hands
speak softly anyway
until the day brightens.
narrow village miles
crisp breath another stronger winter warning
sometimes she made the high hills
sometimes she’d imagine someone
not her children
not her husband
someone she had yet to meet.
together they could share a like
the language of these hills
harmonic sun light
pure deep water
cake black earth
cold dancing like needles across any skin
~
new year’s day
coffee not so bad
waiting for an early morning flight
by now the cat already fed
cattle already tended
damp dogs anxious for their own
heap into the jeep
around her mother’s feet
and
maybe this year
when she came back,
maybe this would be the year
returning but not to Brooklyn anymore.
to continue with The Avalon Girl, From the House of Starlings, my favourite dreams are of the sea
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
