Tag Archives: irish poetry

1985 ruff by PD Lyons w/photos by Morganx


photo by Morgan Lyons

 

nobody knows the songs you want to hear

everyone thinks its funny when your eyes are full of tears

everybody says they do

but they don’t know.

 

the music you’re not supposed

to dance to.

the people you’re not supposed

to talk to.

 

everybody says things

but what they mean –

you’re just too old to be here.

 

 

1985

 

– ruff – by PD Lyons w/photo


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i knew a girl afraid of the wind

it would cause her to hide in the basement

eventually after she moved

to an apartment of her own in the west end

there was no basement

she could only hide in the only place without windows

with the minimum amount of intruding sounds

the bath room.

she had the position of bank manager in a local branch

one of those modern type open plan offices large panes of window walls.

sometimes when on occasion I’d have business at that particular branch

we would talk then smoke a cigarette 

in the complete silence of tobacco smoke we’d forget where we were together.

an old guy walking #pdlyons #photography #horses & red bird


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grass is always greener – even if its a driveway

an old guy

walking on the side of the road

rain soft across my face

bird songs my smile

the wind sings through my bones

ancient instruments loving the moon

born in the month of strawberries.

Soft like snow

Every movement

A steady meticulous tenderness

muddy corner

by the gate

one horse waits

walking by

Thank You, by PD Lyons, as published by A New Ulster #29


 

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I was very happy that Amos Greig chose this a one of my pieces appearing in the #29 issue of A New Ulster!

Not sure when I first discovered Gabriel. I had known of his existence superficially. I was lent copies  by English majors back in the 80’s I think. Sat on my self til i gave them way. Any way years later – not quite a 100, I discovered/experienced one of the most wonderful artists I would ever know. The lush mystical worlds – the most wonderful novels I have ever read. And I would say that,  English literature was being saved by a man who wrote in Spanish. This is a poem I wrote on occasion of his death and my sitting out the back at my home in rural Ireland in the company of a fine Cuban and an exquisite bourbon…

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Thank You

My first cigar of the season
and I think of you Gabriel

I too have my river
like yours but different
although how different can rivers of men really be?

each travels the same
easiest option
easily taken
to the same sea
never stopping

each deals with whatever
is thrown into it
no matter what
only disappearing into the same saline never ending sea

does that sea greet you now
women you have loved and been loved by
comrades of good and not so good words food drink
fine smoke from properly rolled cigars
angels through an unlimited jungle of stainless sky

18 April 2014

for Gabriel García Márquez

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https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/issue-twenty-nine

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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.

ruff : The Desire for Magical


 

 

 

to go beyond belief

into certainty

to not settle

but relentlessly push

beyond imagined comforts

 

spending youth as if there was no end

because there wasn’t

 

street corners

cigarettes

never minding the rain

preferring snow to sunlight

wrapped up in that old army field 

comforted by the heat of my own body

needing nothing

wanting everything

 

 – a series of corners to go around

1998

Diary by PD Lyons ~ for Anne & all the children of the world!


wrote this in 2014 with Anne Frank in mind. Today I wish to rededicate to all the children of this world. this world of war. this world of poverty & hunger. this world where the smartest safest people on the planet keep hiring psychopaths to run their countries.

Diary

Dust in the corner

Pale light through loose boards

Soft paper pages partially filled

So small

The world with all its bigness

Could have so easily passed by.

~

Will we, all of us leave the same absence?

Know the same impossible loneliness,

As if somehow shared, we could know one another ,

~

We have all touched this world with little fingers,

As have I;

Not as some imagining or speculation

But as a human being.

Certain of my own sense of purpose.

So many things bigger than me.

So many things I could not wait to do.

How long it takes to be a grown up.

~

Unlike you I do know the story’s end.

Unlike you I could not, not know.

Remember me this way:

Small as I was, it all fit into my life.

(for Anne)

wrote this in 2014 with Anne Frank in mind. Today I wish to rededicate to all the children of this world. this world of war. this world of poverty & hunger. this world where the smartest safest people on the planet keep hiring psychopaths to run their countries.

sometimes autumn is all there is

sometimes autumn is all there is

the next 3 from As If The Rain… read by the poet PD Lyons~ Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away


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.

 

for Cordula

 

Once While I Was Away

You might have come

Expecting awkward greeting won by

Philosophic well-planned answers to

What you thought my unasked questions were –

Accidental touch

Silent linger hands

Knowing prelude to a kiss

   All it would take to unclench my heart

   Inviting you in

   So, you’d have something to do for the afternoon

No Matter How Hard I Wait by PD Lyons


c Mogan Lyons 2016

No matter how hard I wait,

Rain won’t stop any sooner.

 I can focus on streaming bay window panes.

Or distance, green as it is rolling up to a still bare tree line.

Or even something unrelated like a little pile of shit left by the neighbour dog.

Could I stand here all day?

Instead get dressed,

Yoga later or maybe not at all.

There is a softness an absence of anxiety allows.

A nonchalant free from worry over what to do,

When after all there is nothing –

Things will remind me no matter what I choose.

 Tears a lot like rain,

Seem to never stop until they do and

Then they don’t

Again

.

ruffs from pd lyons


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scorpion night 10 pdlyons

 

ruff poems

it was me with nothing left

to spire about

a complete enemy of words

a point of hot winter sun

hard glass walled heart un-bending

damp handed pen

not a thing left

at this point remembering the perfect portrait of the artist

touched not a myalgic fibre of my un-known self

so to hallowed hands

Ulysses trust all my open wound n proud flesh

one last a miracle

heal

bruised leg muse

heal

every curse of every failure

heal

father

heal

myself

purged

lazy soul

quick silver quenched

go on

do on

no do

more

a new

 

*

when last seas

iodizing sharif

hoarse whispers long meandering

scented by late November birth

salted scented tinctured gloves

slipping sticking sable sweat

soundly sighing satin and sighing

mother held by other hands I was

 

*

some un provoked violence

I’d bring up

sightless wordless

rage

shake n smash

slap n wake n pull

from a constricting bag of skin

a weep a wake

to leave breath n bone behind again

 

*

what waits

outside the darking dogs

secret traffics

pre day dawn

natural as breathed

sooner than not

seeped stopped

eased no more wondering

all that other time at last

briefer miracle

no more so I know

falsely I am

every changing shape shifting

so called life

a moment thing

 

which my am I?

 

*

My old cities

rose up out

from above

 ruins bright n shining

goliath shrines

silver unlike any bird

shadowing resurrected bays

long veined polished rivers

symphonically far as any ancient woodland lore

 

*

propped up

best I can

most uncomfortable ever bed

 

crow sounds

 silver sun shadows the page

all it takes to ease the ache

not even knowing

what I read

unconcerned

the largeness an open window

dissolves all imposed restrictions

of my self

and what would comfort done?

a sleep til noon then what?

*

Old shirt

smells

days

walking laying

sleeping eating

over-steamed radiators

warm spells February spring

But

the colour is good

fit is right and when I catch myself

passing mirrors in hallways

bathrooms

shop windows

turned off televisions

Stop

and/or

glance

at

who I am

breath caught a moment

Old shirt smell

still me

still who I was

and am now

years later

in need of a shower

 

*

my daughter asks me

why did people invent war…

don’t hey know it’s the devil no god that likes war?

do children have to fight

do they kill children too

boys?

and girls?

how old?

why don’t the soldiers just quit

 

and then the sound of helicopter passing

she thinks it wondrous dashes off to look

unlike those for whom that sound is terror

 

because of them

we must love the world

even more.

 

*

today

walking with trees

steps to my breath

thinking

the joy of being alive

is free

 

*

colours

all on a merry day

each steps a moment

pass the dancer

un seen dance

 

if you can see it

you’re not it.

 

*

 

all the same wonderings

ages of ifs

lifetimes of whys

each life

 history of wonderings

where it leads

where it goes

how it begins

and whatever is the selling point?

good business

machinery of welcome

voices of an independent language

 

give way silenter than plastic tombs

small electric dances springs

a whirl only god could hear

if the ear of god had no hair no wax no smell

 

but god

has pious milk bone men

absolution in the dark

disciplined n cleansed

children

in this dark & the ear of god

blind as onan eyes

silent voices raw language

silent screams despaired on crosses born

all those wondrous children hearts

their darkness

a long test of utter failure.

 

*

and quite back

all winter skirts n scarves

chapel of candle smoke

shadow shifts

all some

warm whispered

deep into pools

of clear n dark n blue

 

*

stone

silent selfish

walls

no weather

no violence

no movement freely done

blind witness

observe

all that’s done

all un done

 

*

not knowing what is

birds no longer pass

instead

songs in my heart

 

*

women shapes

dapple grey

helix trees

any shadow moon

pools deeper that any sun

 

*

slow

moon

miles ran

rain bent

poplar pine

remembered snow

flickering yellowing

butterly lite

echoes of breath

along washing windows

as if washed

might sense

a meaning other than tomorrow

april comes

and here I am

un gone

un knowning

 

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