How The Woman Alone Brought Rain To The Island, by pd lyons

mix media by morgan lyons

~

What if the Rainbow Hunters

Reached down to her,

There in the crevice of fresh water.

Wouldn’t their grass wrapped hands

Protect her?

And the children,

What if they stood by her

In the crevice of clear water.

Couldn’t their songs disguise her?

What about the crazy ones?

What if they ran in mixed up circles around her

There by the crevice of fresh water.

Wouldn’t their waggling red hairs

Conceal her?

And the High Priest,

What if he were to return, fulfill the ancient legend,

Blessing her

There in the crevice of clear water.

Wouldn’t his centuries of prayers

Absolve her

From the wrath,

From the armed bow wrath.

From the arrow,

From the pinning arrow,

Of the warrior,

Of the sun.

~

from: Searches For Magic by PD Lyons, Belfast Lapwing, 2001,

ISBN 1 898472 59 9

THE WIDOW’S SON, by pd lyons

THE WIDOW’S SON

at the end of the world we came,
where what more could I do,
but leave you?
now that battles din,
finally in my head grows dim,
I walk alone by the sea,
each swirling drop of blood
reminding me to my own pain….

~

That I could do more I would,
for what would I be without you?
A man is nothing without loyalty,

~

That I could do more I would,
That I gave all I was able,
I was willing.
Know that even now,
for the sake of the Widow’s son,
I stand upon this isle shore.

~

After all is not death the common enemy?
thinking we can manipulate it,
we send it this way and that,
as if to serve our own ends,
when ultimately
that which plays us honour bound,
one against the other -
that is the final victor,
such is our glory.

 

The Terrorists Stopped My Car, by pd lyons

The Terrorists Stopped My Car, by pd lyons

this has to do very specifically with current political issues in Ireland, where if you stop a government official’s car during a protest over water it is called an act of terrorism and you can be arrested, and as of today’s verdicts jailed. The Irsish goverment has been known to compare these protester with the likes of ISIS.




The Terrorists Stopped My Car

For two hours they wouldn’t let my chauffeur drive.
Two hours they spent trying to convince me -
That it was wrong to add another tax
That it was wrong to spend millions to set up a bonus company
    designed to collect millions more from them forever
That it wrong to add this to the existent burden of;
    decrepit health care, unemployment, scot-free bankers, unprecedented evictions,
    years of non-transparent squander.

For two hours they implored me to listen.

So what did I do once we got through?
After spending days telling every news talk, state owned television, newspaper how -
  Those terrorists , scared me
  Those terrorists who had nothing better to do with themselves,
  Those terrorists who had elected me,
 Those terrorists who voted for me and my party.

Yes that was it, I was afraid of them, terrified by them.
So in daring early morning raids
I had those terrorists arrested.
and then continuing on as Party  Leader
fixed the mask of Larkin
like cloth of an emperor across my double face
so anyone with eyes could see

http://multitext.ucc.ie/d/James_Larkin
http://multitext.ucc.ie/d/James_Connolly
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzrqRkC482s

For the Ice to Heal, by pd lyons

For the Ice to Heal, by pd lyons

wrote this while living in Cape Breton – the winters were longish there and sometimes folks could get a bit depressed about it, and steel mills were gone and the liquor was cheap. but the ocean was beautiful, the pack ice on a sunny day would sing like wind chimes and sea birds and wood land birds would follow as I walked alone upon the rough shore line

For the Ice to Heal

From the kitchen window

Curtain less

Stiff abandoned

On the line

Since October

Sentinel dish towel

Clumsy signal

Waves

Not yet

Not yet

Might as well

Another coffee

Something for the birds

Rare as rubies cardinal

Blue jays bright stuns my eyes

Dull small brown little things

Ok

Ok

First thing tomorrow

Auger from the garage

Break that agreement

Made with myself

To wait

snow by morgan lyons

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auger_%28drill%29

Augers – either gas- or hand-powered – are used by ice fishermen to drill holes to fish through.

 

Photography :
1) red birds by pd lyons
2) snow by morgan lyons
3) Tara Waves by pd lyons

why we like A New Ulster poetry

http://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_issue_29

 I am very happy to have work appering in the current issue of A New Ulster. Looks like i am in very fine company indeed. Thank you very much Amos Greig. Please do yourselves and us a favour by checking things out via ISSUU link. Also available in print. cheers

 http://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_issue_29

The erbacce-prize for 2014

why we like – erbacce-press & Michael Mc Aloran & Edith Jones Rubin

The erbacce-prize for 2014

Winner; with a vote from every single member of the panel: Tim Taylor
Runner-up; with five votes out of six from the panel: PD Lyons
Two other poets were mentioned as ‘exceptional’ and we shall ask each of them to be a featured poet in a future erbacce-journal; this will mean they’ll be interviewed and one half of the journal will be dedicated to them and their work: Elio Lomas and Richard Hughes
There were 5,450 accepted entries and just over another 300 were rejected for not following submission guidelines
So that’s it for 2014. Thanks go out to all of you who sent entries and right now it’s time to get together your submission for 2015; we’ll be open for entries at the beginning of January and we’ll close the 2015 contest on May 31st
http://www.erbacce-press.com/#









Poems portray pitfalls and ecstasies of memory, as well as exquisitely wrought impressions of Here and Now.  Rewarding to read and ponder deep insights and wonderful juxtapositions in this poetry.

Edith Jones Rubin, publisher/writer

P.D Lyons’s new short collection of poetry, Myths of Multiplicity, is a body of work primarily concerned with themes of a colourful nostalgia; of memory, & its uncertainty & the unreality thereof, of love, all composed with a deceptive ease & sureity of liquid language and beautifully placed & balanced lines that carry the reader through intimate landscapes, as they are cinematically revealed. These are beautifully balanced poems, written by a poet possessed of a keen sentience, an exactitude of observation throughout these highly visual/ impressionistic & retrospective pieces. The reader will also find recognition in the existential dilemmas scattered throughout this collection…This is fine writing, & should not be ignored, & is very much recommended. –

Michael Mc Aloran—‘The Zero Eye’, ‘In Damage Seasons’.

 all proceeds from books purchased will directly benefit the Erbacce Writers Co-op. Cost is £4.95 and includes shipping worldwide.

 

Immortal Beloved, by pd lyons

Immortal Beloved, by pd lyons – This is the poem of my youth

So this would have been written early 70’s  and revised steadily through the ensuing years. This is the poem of my youth, at least my high school years 1970 – 74. Went to Crosby high school in Waterbury Ct. In those days it was located down town. Needless to say the small industrial city was an instrumental part of my education. Learned to shoot pool ( a little bit anyway) in Gentlocks – old slate tables scarred by decades of cigarettes, table legs as wide as me, and no girls allowed. Learned to panhandle from Charlie brown and Whitey ; enough for some cheap port a pack of smokes and maybe a little orange sunshine for myself – was a good afternoon.  Dazz’z was the pinball arcade – just next door to the pool hall. Dom’nNicks the by the slice pizza joint – 35 cents one large slice and a sprite. the Palace Theater an old vaudeville house with acoustics to die for and crystal chandeliers and velvet seats – eight Miles High with the Byrds…. I learned about getting ripped off at the Kingsbury hotel – gave the guy a fiver for some acid and told wait out here, by the front door – not knowing there was another main door on the other block. Cheap enough the lesson – never got ripped off again in my life. Mattatuck music – the record store – still had listening booths, turntables and head phones. Tiger Ted, Louie, Bobby Comfort , all there still somewhere in my head. Dresher’s was the oldest restaurant in the state and i could get a dark german beer on tap in the bar, underage an all. Bird was this friend of mine named Dave. And too there was this older guy looked just like Beethoven. I bummed a lucky off him once. Used to see him once a day around 2:45 crossing the street to the green – always in a hurry always black raincoat and no hat. As for Beethoven’s lover – I don’t know lets just consider it a prayer from me, for him or maybe for myself after all?



Immortal Beloved


There is no such thing as Beethoven in Waterbury.
No one sees him buying race forms or cigarettes at Bauby’s corner.
He doesn’t play pin ball at Dazz’s,
chalk a cue at Gentlocks, pan handle a concert crowd at the Palace theatre, order Blue Ribbon shorts at Backstreet’s or sit in Dresher’s after three sipping cool tall dark drafts.

He’s not protesting the war at Library Park,
selling acid from the Kingsbury hotel,
falling asleep on Christmas eve with a girl named Mary in the chapel of St. Johns church.
Strung out girls don’t get to build snowmen on the green with him,
Mattatuck music can’t hire him to move their stock
and the old man at Palace Liquors can’t argue with him any-more.

Hare Krishna’s can’t get him to do their chanting.
Doorways where he stood out of the rain for hours are empty or are gone. Strangers at the all night bus station, killers on their way to Canada… women from Louisiana… never meet him any-more.

He doesn’t share a table with down-town Shirley and her father,
foretell the death of walking- stick Louie betrayed by Tiger Teddy,
sell more orange sunshine than Bobby Comfort,
blow a joint with the New Riders of the Purple Sage,
love a reincarnated baton twirling beauty queen from North Carolina,
let catholic school girls follow him home – cry when he had to let them go.
 
He doesn’t clamour along the roof tops with a friend named Bird, who never got to California, find free warmth in the library or in the stairwells of the Brown building or for a quarter a slice get to sit behind the pizza ovens at Dom’n Nicks.
And no one sees him sitting on the fire escape drinking Roma California Port with Whitey and Charlie Brown –
 
There’s no such thing as Beethoven in Waterbury any-more.
On the corner of Lewis and West Main, Beethoven’s lover stands
Eyeing several school girls waiting for their bus across the street.
She watches and waits – nothing happens for her in this town any-more.
Yet she dyes her hair red for him, still refuses to ever ride a bus
And her pale lips still struggle with those Lucky Strikes
Just like always in his dreams

(photographer unknown)

1974 crosby

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