Tag Archives: poetry

When You Worship Swans No Longer Poetry By PD Lyons 30 March 2019


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draped in white your invisible hands , poem and photography by pd lyons


 

 

 

~

went down by the house you used to live in

all the windows had the same curtains

the one where your bedroom was was open

for a moment

draped in white

your invisible hands

wave

~

 

One poem as published by – Literariedad


Amarillo

By PD Lyons 

 

like that street
wandered down street
no siesta noon
shadowed woman leans
black iron filigree not quite a balcony
lace the colour of some-place else
drawn as if a breeze
pecan smooth her face

what would the story be?
choose that place you should not go
walnut doors second floor
barefoot invitation
whisper of late grapes
hint of something strong
dull embroidered armchair
unlaced boots
dusted finger prints
smooth as kisses table
folded towels
uncertain colour
enameled basin
clear glass tumblers
lemons sliced in water
sunlight striping something velvet on the bed

Literariedad

Revista dominical que asume la literatura, la poesía, el cine y el teatro como calles, lugares de encuentro y desencuentro. ISSN: 2462-893X.

Literariedad

Revista Latinoamericana de Cultura. Año 5. Desde Bogotá, Colombia. Apuntes de Peatón. ISSN: 2462-893X (En línea)

As published by Inquietudes Literary Journal Spring 2018


Waltzing the Night

by PD Lyons

We’d hold ourselves like prayers between each other
bare feet, beating hearts
soft by each breath
full moon kisses
beyond any daylight horizon

 

it was one o’ clock this morning.
woke up no particular reason
didn’t even need to pee.
kitchen floor so cold I hurt for shoes
stood there adjusting to Frigidaire light
three bottles of beer on the second shelf
opened one by the window
chugged a salute to those long
hard rain halos

this is not the city I used to know with you

maybe I go for another
maybe it’ll help me sleep
probably not
these days once I’m up
even beer can’t touch me

deserted even by the small comfort of your ghost
still I sway as if somehow
we’re dancing

_________________________________________________________________

links to the full issue #1 and the Journal for submissions of your own work

 

https://inquietudeslitjournal.weebly.com/issue-1.html

 

issue_1_ardor_and_anguish

 

 

poetry & photography by pd lyons


 

In the Language of Flowers, It Meant We are Already Dead

 

 

Beside whatever water there was there

Over flowing bowl an undulate of green tendrils

Draped swan songs

Left morning a capture of sorrow

She reached out to nothing there

She reached out to something ridged

Pulling itself from her heart

In and out

A pornograph of pain

The table set with only bones

Memories picked clean

A criticism of cutlery

Every single question ever asked –

A useless pointlessness recycling

Long beautiful bird like creature


 

~

all American

blonde

brown

long

tribal denim

horizontal

perfections

my eyes caught.

 

 

a voice more melodic than my own

breasts smaller than I have known

 

smiles through

even me the stranger

gone

 

 

There Is No Need To Believe by pd Lyons


unknown photographer

 

What is discovered

is beyond doubt

 

what is discovered

is beyond choice

 

free from duality

is certainty

belief has nothing to do

with what is

 

the teacher shows

the steps

the student takes

the walk

the teacher shows

a way

 

the student who goes

knows

there is no need to believe

DSC_0499

the people who had cured themselves from the virus they once called language ( a dance piece) by pd lyons


the people who had cured themselves

from the virus they once called language

~

communicated eloquently

with their hands

with their arms

with their skin colour

with their eyes

a dance impossible to be misunderstood

~

they learned of the winds worship of leaves

the way the sun and 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

~

they made themselves dwellers of an island

rescuers and healers of those washed up from the deep

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

speak for themselves

.


William S. Burroughs

“Language is a virus from outer space”

William S. Burroughs

three poems from An Invitation to Poetry


http://books.wwnorton.com/books/detail.aspx?ID=5695

Maggie Dietz (Editor), Robert Pinsky (Editor, Boston University)

1200px-ElParqueJuliaDeBurgos

Willimantic, Connecticut


Ay, Ay, Ay de la Grifa Negra

by Julia De Burgos

Ay, ay, ay, that am kinky-haired and pure black
kinks in my hair, Kafir in my lips;
and my flat nose Mozambiques.Black of pure tint, I cry and laugh
the vibration of being a black statue;
a chunk of night, in which my white
teeth are lightning;
and to be a black vine
which entwines in the black
and curves the black nest
in which the raven lies.
Black chunk of black in which I sculpt myself,
ay, ay, ay, my statue is all black.

They tell me that my grandfather was the slave
for whom the master paid thirty coins.
Ay, ay, ay, that the slave was my grandfather
is my sadness, is my sadness.
If he had been the master
it would be my shame:
that in men, as in nations,
if being the slave is having no rights
being the master is having no conscience.

Ay, ay, ay wash the sins of the white King
in forgiveness black Queen.

Ay, ay, ay, the race escapes me
and buzzes and flies toward the white race,
to sink in its clear water;
or perhaps the white will be shadowed in the black.

Ay, ay, ay my black race flees
and with the white runs to become bronzed;
to be one for the future,
fraternity of America!

Julia de Burgos, “Ay, Ay, Ay, of the Kinky-Haired Negress,” tr. by Jack Agüeros from Song of the Simple Truth: The Complete Poems of Julia de Burgos. Copyright ©1996 by Jack Agüeros. Used by permission of Curbstone Press.

Dawn

by Octavio Paz

Cold rapid hands
draw back one by one
the bandages of dark
I open my eyes
still
I am living
at the center
of a wound still fresh

Translated from the Spanish by Charles Tomlinson


WITH HIS VENOM

by Sappho

 

With his venom

irrestible

and bittersweet

that loosener of limbs, Love

reptile-like

strikes me down

 

( trans from the Greek by Mary Barnard}


poet bios

two poems, ROWING & THE AUTHOR OF THE JESUS PAPERS SPEAKS by Anne Sexton


ROWING
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plasctic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn’t work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I’d say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyeball,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.

– from The Awful Rowing Towards God 1975
( Her eighth collection of poetry is entitled The Awful Rowing Toward God.The title came from her meeting with a Roman Catholic priest who, unwilling to administer last rites, told her “God is in your typewriter.” This gave the poet the desire and willpower to continue living and writing. The Awful Rowing Toward God and The Death Notebooks are among her final works, and both center on the theme of dying

1928–1974
Anne Sexton

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Sexton#Death

Within 12 years of writing her first sonnet, she was among the honored poets in the U.S.: a Pulitzer Prize winner, a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and the first female member of the Harvard chapter of Phi Beta Kappa.[10][11]

On October 4, 1974, Sexton had lunch with Kumin to revise galleys for Sexton’s manuscript of The Awful Rowing Toward God, scheduled for publication in March 1975 (Middlebrook 396). On returning home she put on her mother’s old fur coat, removed all her rings, poured herself a glass of vodka, locked herself in her garage, and started the engine of her car, ending her life by carbon monoxide poisoning.[12]

In an interview over a year before her death, she explained she had written the first drafts of The Awful Rowing Toward God in 20 days with “two days out for despair and three days out in a mental hospital.” She went on to say that she would not allow the poems to be published before her death. She is buried at Forest Hills Cemetery & Crematory in Jamaica Plain, Boston, Massachusetts.

Sexton is seen as the modern model of the confessional poet. Maxine Kumin described Sexton’s work: “She wrote openly about menstruation, abortion, masturbation, incest, adultery, and drug addiction at a time when the proprieties embraced none of these as proper topics for poetry.”[13]


THE AUTHOR OF THE JESUS PAPERS SPEAKS

In my dream
I milked a cow,
the terrible udder
like a great rubber lily
sweated in my fingers
and as I yanked,
waiting for the moon juice,
waiting for the white mother,
blood spurted from it
and covered me with shame.
Then God spoke to me and said:
People say only good things about Christmas.
If they want to say something bad,
they whisper.
So I went to the well and drew a baby
out of the hollow water.
Then God spoke to me and said:
Here. Take this gingerbread lady
and put her in your oven.
When the cow gives blood
and the Christ is born
we must all eat sacrifices.
We must all eat beautiful women.

Anne Sexton  from The Book of Folly 1972

the girls i knew in high school were all enamored with Sylvia. and i must admit i was some what smitten. but there was this teacher of English. she did not debate but rather exposed the rare woman genius the all too common crucifixion the dark stronger than the bright, the strength to take control in a time in a place where all is only waiting around food feeding on food attracted like horseflies to tenderness. the time was she said now and so the time was and so she said it was therefore it would be now and never any other time but. – pd lyons
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