Last Waltz

Here's another new poem from John Lyons

Last Waltz

What will be the first of the last things

The first word of the last words

The first day of the last days

The first kiss of the last kisses;

What will be the first breath

Of the last breaths, the first sigh

And the first of the long goodbyes?

Here in Buenos Aires the streets

Are haunted by those who have

Gone before, by those who have walked

These noble streets that fell in recent years

Upon such hard times, a sad dreary elegance

Now clinging to so many crumbling façades.

This clear blue sky and crisp ocean air

Known to Borges, known to Cortázar,

Which weathers the skin in the daily bounty

Of those who survive. This may be the first

Of the last memories, the first taste

Of the last tastes to tantalize my palate

The first of the last loves to be made

In the first of the last beds. And as I wake

And dress in the first of the last clothes

Put on the shoes that may be blessed

To take the first of the last steps,

I recall Emily’s supercilious valley-licking train,

A vector of sound in the long speechless distance

A vector of thought, a rugged nugget of words

Condensed around an ecstasy of emotion:

From distance, the sensation of intimacy,

From a silence broken, the tactile meaning of words

Of love, the first of the last words of love,

The first of the last brushes of skin against skin,

Of lip against lip. This is, and always was a merry

macabre dance,  whether upon a lush city stage,

A retarded Calvary  or in the empty heart of the pampas:

Our steps are numbered, even as the band is poised

To strike up the very first chords of our very last waltz.

John Lyons

Buenos Aires 31 October 2011

Beauty comes at us

Here's a new poem from John Lyons. In John's words "it's a meditation based on photos of Patti Smith taken by Robert Mapplethorpe and used in the Legacy Edition of her CD “Horses”.  It was written to celebrate the 40th birthday of Alessandra Siedschlag".

Beauty comes at us

Beauty comes at us

At a tangent

Is slow in its revelation

An unfolding flower of light

In the eye of the beholder

There is no ugliness

Only shades of beauty

A well-appointed face

A rose aglow in the sunlight

Or a moon silhouette

Even a gesture or a word

Whispered within the soul

Beauty is a promise rather

Than an abnegation

The motive for peace

Rather than war

For rejoicing rather

Than the shedding of tears

The permanence of beauty

Is fleeting except in the memory

It is a singular victory

An emulsion of love

Coming from nowhere

And heading nowhere

At a tangent

In the shadow of the pyramids

Geometry schooled to perfection

It is what breaks the silence

To rescue us from the pointlessness

Of death. Caught in its infancy

Beauty will mature into the fine lines

Of experience etched

Upon ancient parchment

A tale to tell that uplifts the heart

And a shrine to our deepest dreams.

John Lyons

3 June 2011

Timeless beauty

Here's a poem that John Lyons let me read and that I asked him if I could post because it reminds me a lot of my own little girl.


Chiara on her grandfather's birthday


Beauty has its own melody
speaks with honesty
and spontaneity
has a clear eye
for what is good,
for what is better
for what is best
in human nature;
beauty loves the truth,
always,
and swears
by the power of love;
beauty
glows under the skin
and sets the lips
alight with a smile;
beauty is that child
on the road
to adolescent innocence,
never bored with
clumsy perfections,
never eager
to find fault but
content to stretch
the moment shared
into infinity;
beauty is the authentic
kiss of life, number
personified, intuitive
peace lived beyond
the wildest stretch
of the imagination.

7-10-2008

John Lyons

Radiation

Here's a piece from a very good friend of mine, the Irish poet John Lyons, inspired by Louis Zukofsky.


Louis Zukofsky

Radiation he said
We are consumers of radiation
Of varying wavelengths
But radiation nonetheless
Energy that vibrates
That travels
through space and time
as we too
are bound by those coordinates
for all eternity
unless the mass of the universe
is to disappear:
nitrogen and carbon
omega 3,
and the simplicity
of the title he gave
to his life’s work
A
A poem
A vitamin
An assault
On the first letter
On the mathematics
of meaning
So much depends
We are told
Upon the creation
Of Henry Adams
And Adam Smith
Upon random specifics
Upon a throw
Of nature’s dice
An emphatically
Musical note
Sounding throughout
The pages
Literate
In every sense
Truth enfabled
The tortoise
And the hare
No sop to the cultured
Borges pre-imagined
In the myriad infinities
Of the alphabet
Though it takes objects
To people oblivion
Workers in the vineyard
That most literary
Of parables.
Radiation
He said
As though he were
Composing pages
Of uranium,
Poetry
To blow the mind.


John Lyons