
on todays menu ~
Morgana
People Who Cured Themselves
In the language Of Flowers it Meant, We Are Already Dead
Themes ~
Languages,
communications,
Love,
Whales,
Pain PD Lyons reads from the 2019 erbacce-press International Prize for Poetry winner. 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. good luck. bye!
pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk.
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.
would i see you there
with your big face smiles
your sense of wonder
your denim styles
you were shy to me
yet you followed me
when I turned around,
until you betrayed by your own laughter
I had no idea
What you would dare.
Oh
But where ever you are now
I cannot say
Whatever you went through I have no clue
Those streets those hometown streets
Once mine
Once yours
I have not returned
I have not ever left
And you not really you
but still the you I used to know
Wouldn’t you be there
If I went back
Your big face smiles
Your denim styles
Your ever wondrous self.
Where else could you really be
Who else could you ever be, to me
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
used to walk by trees like these
a country where winter meant deep snow
wind sometimes cut wounds like a smile across my face
a great breathless
no-doubt-about-being alive-rush deep New England winter
Made my way to some place I knew existed then,
slight shelter from the gale
flick and fumble
eventually light
sacramental cigarette
to the east, to the south, to the west, to the north, as above so below,
as within, so with out, on the smoke that is my prayer…
and somehow all I could do was say thank you –
for this snow,
this wind,
this gunmetal sky,
this bit of shelter crook of a stone wall
this cold, cold, cold against the small heat of my beating heart
the old religion of your eyes
an accent of long strings made from the heart of my wild days
contrary backwards ridden horses
painted nights of our own solitude
mystical marvelous
fingerprints phosphorescent
our mouths still meet like that
all blue tattoo
all willingly open offerings of sky
fearless
cities of our violence ebbing rhythmically
a shore line languid with our peace