Tag Archives: waterbury ct

Promised Land from As If The rain Fell In Ordinary Time ~ read by the Poet


MORE REMINISCENCE FROM THE CITIES. a LITTLE BIT OF NYC 1980’S WITH A DASH OF WATERBURY CT AND SOME POLITICALLY  INCORRECT DRIVING REFERENCES.

THANK YOU FOR SPENDING TIME WITH ME.

GOOD LUCK! Bye.

CHEERS.

 

Grandview Ave. from As If the Rain Fell In Ordinary Time by ~ P.D. Lyons


This was written in 2011. We were back for a few years in my hometown area of Waterbury Ct.  We’d drive back and forth  on Grandview Ave. Same time five days a week. Many times we’d see the same people walking same time everyday.

 

 

Grandview Avenue

 

We were walking

Hand in hand

Up the hill

In the rain

You had your bright red scarf

Wrapped around your head

Traffic swished

Lights on

Wipers squelching

We didn’t know what the day would bring

But I turned my face up to the sky

Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me

______________________________________________________

 

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: 112 pages)

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

When I Lived on West Main from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time by PD Lyons


Another sample from the 2019 erbacce press international poetry prize winning collection by P D Lyons.

This one does what it says on the tin so to speak. I did live on West Main Street in Waterbury Ct. for a while. There really was a great Dane, a parrot, a park, a toy shop and sugar in the gas tank.

 

 

When I lived on West Main

When I lived on west main street
Third floor Victorian
Short walk for the liquor store past a little unnamed park
Not too far from downtown

Landlords’ cousins on the first floor
Stole my unemployment checks
Put sugar in the gas tank
And I don’t know why

We had a Great Dane, brindle dog
Got a cut on the end of his tail
And no matter what we did
He’d wag the bandage off.
Going up and down the stairs, hit the railings
Drops of blood splatter
As if his name was Jackson.

We bought a parrot
Called him Caesar
Filled the living room with plants
And let him fly around.

Got oil lamps to save on electricity.
Tall hurricane lamps,
Scented oil glowed in every room.
Tall well screened widows let the sky in.
Wood floors creaked waltzed all night by ghosts.

I went to work in a toy shop.
I was happy about the baby.
Still painted. Still wrote every day.
Still knew who we were.

It was the place where I’d smoke
As much as I wanted up into the middle of the night,
In that rocking chair your grandmother used to own.
Weight of endless summers in the dark.
Out over the roof tops, streaming lights, distant highways

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________-

 

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: 112 pages)

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

 

Grandview Ave. from As If the Rain Fell In Ordinary Time by ~ P.D. Lyons


This was written in 2011. We were back for a few years in my hometown area of Waterbury Ct.  We’d drive back and forth  on Grandview Ave. Same time five days a week. Many times we’d see the same people walking same time everyday.

 

 

Grandview Avenue

 

We were walking

Hand in hand

Up the hill

In the rain

You had your bright red scarf

Wrapped around your head

Traffic swished

Lights on

Wipers squelching

We didn’t know what the day would bring

But I turned my face up to the sky

Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me

______________________________________________________

 

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: 112 pages)

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

1978. Excerpt from Sal Manders by P D Lyons


1974 crosby

  1978    I’m sitting in this crowded theatre, I’m not watching the show, I don’t know what I’m doing here – just waiting for intermission or the end what ever comes first? The place is packed, everyone dressed real fancy, even me! I’m sitting on the audience side right, an aisle end seat with friends who’s faces I cannot see and names I do not remember with occasional flash backs of my mother giving me directions to a beach I don’t want to go to. One of the theatre girls comes over and is bending down over me to say something to someone in our row. I remember looking at her and thinking how handsome she is, not frilly pretty but attractively handsome. As she leaves this other woman comes into the theatre behind me, she’s dressed in black and maroon and wears a black shiny stone pendant. She is young she is attractive she is asking me to introduce her to the theatre girl, says she is her cousin or something. I tell her I don’t really even know that girl and why doesn’t she just introduce herself? She is afraid to, pleads with me until I say “yes – when she comes back this way I will “. I turn back towards the stage but everything is over, guess the end came first, and people are streaming out. There is no trace of the theatre girl but there is a woman kneeling in front of the stage writing something into a clip board. I go down to her; I know she works here, something to do with productions or something like that. I kneel there with her and somehow without words ask her how to find this girl and she answers me with out words. I don’t remember any words being spoke between us but she proceeds to give me all sorts of charts, numbers and diagrams concerning this theatre girl and I get this feeling that they belong to a group of nuns or priestesses and to find this girl one would have to go deep under the ground. We get up and walk to the main doors. I don’t know if she has decided to bring me to this girl or what but I don’t care because I find myself very happy to be walking with this woman. By the time we get to the door I’m sure I know her well and feel known by her and I remember no words and I remember not once did we look each other in the eye. As we left we went out different doors, parallel doors.  Once outside I say to her in distinct words “I like you very much. It’s been years since I met a woman smart enough to do more than put on her make-up.” She just smiles and we walk through the down town and in front of the old Grants department store reflected in the cloudy plate glass she puts out her tongue and I take it into my mouth.

(photographer unknown)

Good Friday, Europe’72, Grateful Dead Yoga, by pd lyons


so i was 18 years old,  living in my first apartment – a vast five rooms with appliances 180.00 including heat hot water and electricity! my friend John  comes over. its sometime in daylight. we must a blown a joint or two cause that’ s what we did then. anyway he has this grateful dead album, in those vinyl  days it was on three LPs. Europe ’72. of course i knew about the dead, heard bits n pieces on the radio and randomly a house parties, but never really followed. But this was great grateful dead stuff. some of my most favorite pieces of music – the china cat/know you rider, sugar magnolia. Course as we did in those days we played things over and over and sang along. we particularly got stuck on Tennessee Jed – mostly because it had an easy enough chorus. I still remember though John telling me how much he didn’t like that part of the song where the dog gets kicked. We must have played it or bits of it anyway for hours. I don’t know what happened after that. i don’t remember anything else of the day. Just me n john and Europe 72 on a second hand turntable-radio-8track tape player- combo my mother had found at a tag sale. Eventually the stereo got stolen and I had to move out due to certain legalities interrupting my outlaw ways. About a year or so afterwords John got to be best man at my first wedding. Then he got married too. And then divorces and now I have no idea wherever he is but if i could I’d say thanks. Thanks for being my friend, thanks for the Grateful Dead, thanks for Europe’72 . I’d tell him how its become a tradition of mine on Good Friday to play nothing but The Dead and how because of that I’m sitting here in another bright and sunny kitchen thousands of miles away from that one where we sat and smoked the day away; thinking of him as I write.

 

IMG_0002

Grateful Dead Yoga

IMG_0004

Grandview Avenue *, by pd Lyons


DSC_5274

Grandview Avenue

We were walking
Hand in hand
Up the hill
In the rain

I had your bright red scarf
Wrapped around my head

Traffic swished by
Lights on
Wipers squelching

We didn’t know what the day would bring
But I turned my face up to the sky
Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me

(Waterbury Ct 2011)*

DSC_5280

* this is a slightly revised version as compared to that published in 2011 by Railroad Poetry Project.

Somewhere Still by pd lyons for donald lyons with regards to WB Yeats


This year I notice that Father’s day and WB Yeats birthday ( June 13, 1865 ) are close. So with that in mind I’m re posting the following poem that i wrote for my father and mother along with my fathers favourite WB Yeats poem,  Song of the Wandering Aengus. It was the poem I tried to read at his funeral but was unable to do it any justice. My father was the book man of the family his collection of books was a constant inspiration and resource for me growing up. He read me Longfellow, Kipling, Shakespeare  before i could read. He gave me Tolkien when i was 11, he gave me Henry miller when i was older, he gave me WB Yeats and Aubrey Beardsley, Tanith Lee and Djuna Barns, Brautigan and Shakespeare….

He was a Marine in the South Pacific, he was a policeman ( https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/2014/06/12/cop-by-pd-lyons/  ) in an old mill town, he was a seller of out of print books, he was the guy who loved my mother very much and no matter what when the chips were down he was always there for us.


Somewhere Still

Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages run, jump, cling, – immune bare foot impervious to sun, skin frosted with salt, lotions, and cake icing.

Somewhere grand children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, take them sometimes instead to lunch.

Long time companions, comforts old age, afternoon naps, books, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – a love, a marriage, a death, a wound never in twenty-three years of healing cured…

Somewhere still she takes you by the hand, Ohs your name, laughs into the open window, ’55 Chevy, summer bright chrome, so close to flying great American V8 highways through the Canadian border dwindling into heavy Nova Scotia sands.

There has never been an ocean too cold for her to swim in, long after you retreat to safety – flamingo towels, Knickerbocker beer, USMC Zippo, Old Gold cigarette spiral prayers, gratitude at last, unable to fathom any reason to feel bad about surviving.  Deep breath wonderful (not a god damn palm tree in sight), watch that woman of the sea. Only wish there would never have to be a time to leave.

Later she gets tipsy; saying yes when the barman offers to sweeten her drink , not knowing that here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want ‘cause she’s your wife now and you’ve always liked the Mills Brothers.

Sometime after midnight, small cedar room, Stuart tartan blankets, crisp white sheets, strange night sounds traipsing gingham curtains, as if tiny fingers she ohs your name, answer back with words you never knew before.

This spring by the sea your little house will not find you. Gone now. Perhaps to wander?  That glimmering girl once more beside you…

“And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun”

(For: D.R.L. – with regards to W.B., his favourite poet)

~from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – poems of an Irish Descent, by PD Lyons, 2011, ISBN 1466272996

 

http://www.poetry-archive.com/y/the_song_of_wandering_aengus.html

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

by: W.B. Yeats

WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
 
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
 
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
 
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

‘The Song of Wandering Aengus’ is reprinted from An Anthology of Modern Verse. Ed. A. Methuen. London: Methuen & Co., 1921.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Picture 108

 

 

 

 

When We Lived on Nelson Ave by pd lyons


cbk

When We Lived on Nelson Ave

days when my father took milk and sugar
leaving the spoon in his coffee

my mother whistled among lilacs and roses

mahogany furniture kept well polished
special knives and forks only used on holidays

I knew the name of Lilly of the valley
not to ever put them in your mouth

there were kittens in the sun porch
we watched born from a tabby cat named Felix

there were cherries from our backyard tree
so red I thought they were black,
tasting like no cherries
ever would again

original published June 2010 by Blue Lotus Review

http://www.bluelotusreview.com/index.html

http://www.bluelotusreview.com/archives/su2010/index.html

 

we lived in a small white house at the Meridan road side of nelson avenue Waterbury ct until i was four years old. i can still taste those cherries.

DSC_8438

DAD – a poem by pd lyons from: Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue


CSC_2219

DAD

~

The swans out in the field

Their secrets not revealed

Passing into silent flight are they

Perhaps their subtle sigh

Stifles some deeper cry

As they know you’ll be leaving much too soon

~

Walking down the lane

The filly foals refrain

Their running is the sound of falling rain

Are they restless from the summer?

Or somehow do they know

You’ll not stay to seen them fully grown

~

By the fairy mounds of old

The pock marked GPO

Cross the Boyne to bang your head on spiral stone

See the wonders down at Fore

And the ancient seat of kings on Tara hill

~

Now sitting by the fire the music’s playin’ low

(Guess) I’ll raise a glass or two before I go

Though it’s to an empty chair not your smiling face I stare

(Yet) whenever that door slams  expect to see you there.

~

And sitting here I wonder

All those stories finally told

Revealed how in our youth

We were so very much the same.

Was it drink that made us bold?

Or did we speak so true

Because somehow we knew

You’d not be coming back this way again?

.

 

 

may all who journey remember

may all who journey remember

 

%d bloggers like this: