by Byron Beynon
The door sounds
the same as it closes
behind us, and for a moment
our steps are simple and quiet,
as uprooted shadows
recede across the front.
We are leaving this place
for the last time.
It is autumn,
the radio is turned on
at this hour for the news.
Outside the bay
continues to draw the eye,
a sharing of tides
with the air carried aloft
touching the names of stars.
Showing posts with label Byron Beynon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Byron Beynon. Show all posts
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Thursday, October 30, 2014
A FAMILIAR HOUSE
by Byron Beynon
I slept late that Sunday
morning my father arrived
with news worse than the hangover.
He drove me to a familiar house
where my aunt witnessed
my silence in a world
where flowers came with cards
and neighbours with faded voices
whispered their sorrow.
It was the first time
I'd kept company with death.
A few days later
at the grave's sharp edge,
feeling the tight-lipped
earth falling from my fingers
I understood her hushed pain,
her blue eyes of grief.
I slept late that Sunday
morning my father arrived
with news worse than the hangover.
He drove me to a familiar house
where my aunt witnessed
my silence in a world
where flowers came with cards
and neighbours with faded voices
whispered their sorrow.
It was the first time
I'd kept company with death.
A few days later
at the grave's sharp edge,
feeling the tight-lipped
earth falling from my fingers
I understood her hushed pain,
her blue eyes of grief.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
ILSTON WOOD
by Byron Beynon
Returning again to the footpath
we followed it through the wood,
sounds of a nearby stream,
a fluidity of notes and fresh tones
for our breathing shadows,
alert to the surviving senses all around.
The sculpted faces of the trees,
with nature's canopy
wide-awake under which to meet
a memory of something real,
spreading towards a darkening green.
Swallow holes, summer banks,
birds we could not see,
with wild flowers rewinning the landscape;
this threatened gallery
where history blends
with the vital air,
a secret undergrowth
waiting patiently,
the way through
trodden by the ages
that brought us here.
Returning again to the footpath
we followed it through the wood,
sounds of a nearby stream,
a fluidity of notes and fresh tones
for our breathing shadows,
alert to the surviving senses all around.
The sculpted faces of the trees,
with nature's canopy
wide-awake under which to meet
a memory of something real,
spreading towards a darkening green.
Swallow holes, summer banks,
birds we could not see,
with wild flowers rewinning the landscape;
this threatened gallery
where history blends
with the vital air,
a secret undergrowth
waiting patiently,
the way through
trodden by the ages
that brought us here.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
RIVER TEIFI
by Byron Beynon
The trees lean towards the river,
a stillness in the mind's recess
during a serene summer
as high grown branches
cool themselves
by a liquid mirror.
The signature of history
dwells here,
garlanded words
echo across
this window of water,
absorbed into the day's eternity.
The trees lean towards the river,
a stillness in the mind's recess
during a serene summer
as high grown branches
cool themselves
by a liquid mirror.
The signature of history
dwells here,
garlanded words
echo across
this window of water,
absorbed into the day's eternity.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
TERRA NOVA
by Byron Beynon
Captain Scott's Antarctic expedition
enters the polluted mouth of Cardiff bay.
A gift of Welsh coal
form the mine-owners
feeds the bunkers of the Terra Nova.
Excited crowds move and explore
their day through Butetown,
a greeting of flags and sirens
the hooting of salty horns
adds to the din
in a paraphernalia of local sound.
High-geared Edgar Evans of Rhossili
sails south again,
keeps his final appointment
with the Beardmore Glacier.
Titus Oates opens his diary,
calls the mayor and corporation
a mob,
disapproves of the noise,
sees the telephone operator
as the only gentleman
to come aboard.
Fragments that slowly thaw
from the history books,
a ship, a crew,
the inescapable five
disappear from the port,
a polar wind that ruffled
the vessel from its quay.
Captain Scott's Antarctic expedition
enters the polluted mouth of Cardiff bay.
A gift of Welsh coal
form the mine-owners
feeds the bunkers of the Terra Nova.
Excited crowds move and explore
their day through Butetown,
a greeting of flags and sirens
the hooting of salty horns
adds to the din
in a paraphernalia of local sound.
High-geared Edgar Evans of Rhossili
sails south again,
keeps his final appointment
with the Beardmore Glacier.
Titus Oates opens his diary,
calls the mayor and corporation
a mob,
disapproves of the noise,
sees the telephone operator
as the only gentleman
to come aboard.
Fragments that slowly thaw
from the history books,
a ship, a crew,
the inescapable five
disappear from the port,
a polar wind that ruffled
the vessel from its quay.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
GEOLOGY
by Byron Beynon
The framework of names
connected to a pressure of rocks
dating a countryside
with soft and hard looks,
the sequence of layers
with fern imprints,
an identity brooding with age;
the tribal faces
with Ordovician and Silurian families,
their shadows caught
by the links of territory.
Blue stones sifting
through the mind’s burning frost of evening,
a source where the dark earth
threads silently from
intense foundations,
the marked origins deepening
during the passage of fugitive time.
The framework of names
connected to a pressure of rocks
dating a countryside
with soft and hard looks,
the sequence of layers
with fern imprints,
an identity brooding with age;
the tribal faces
with Ordovician and Silurian families,
their shadows caught
by the links of territory.
Blue stones sifting
through the mind’s burning frost of evening,
a source where the dark earth
threads silently from
intense foundations,
the marked origins deepening
during the passage of fugitive time.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
THE SOUND RETURN
by Byron Beynon
The tide has turned its face
from the shore, once more
the herring-gulls feed and quarrel
on the luminous mud
where lonely boats, abandoned and still,
wait, listening for the sound
return of the sea that will come
like the end of a journey.
Upright figures that stand on rocks,
the stranger who digs
for bait or for something he has detected,
the hopes and fears which are his alone.
The rose-blush of air enters
the bay on this invigorating day,
sand-ribbed and rubbed grains
peel away time, a flight of sky
seen before the rolling mist returns
again to listen for the marooned and mysterious cry.
The tide has turned its face
from the shore, once more
the herring-gulls feed and quarrel
on the luminous mud
where lonely boats, abandoned and still,
wait, listening for the sound
return of the sea that will come
like the end of a journey.
Upright figures that stand on rocks,
the stranger who digs
for bait or for something he has detected,
the hopes and fears which are his alone.
The rose-blush of air enters
the bay on this invigorating day,
sand-ribbed and rubbed grains
peel away time, a flight of sky
seen before the rolling mist returns
again to listen for the marooned and mysterious cry.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
LA CATHÉDRALE ENGLOUTIE III
After the painting by Ceri Richards
by Byron Beynon
The submerged, latent cathedral of Breton
Ys emerges ghostly from
the glassy trenches of the sea,
the rush of foam blinks
with frothy tongues of weed,
a primal force
restless and ill at ease.
Glaze of moon,
glare of vertigo sun,
the shifting, drowned elements
transform the eddying
masonry of pillars,
distorted windows and gothic
arches assimilating heights and depths
known to humankind
in globes of phosphorescent light.
The flame of Debussy's music
like a cypress tree
probes and kindles
the earthly air,
consumes the lighted vase of life
before a strident tempo is heard
as unanswered questions
drift uncomfortably
towards a quivering
territory of fragile beauty.
The submerged, latent cathedral of Breton
Ys emerges ghostly from
the glassy trenches of the sea,
the rush of foam blinks
with frothy tongues of weed,
a primal force
restless and ill at ease.
Glaze of moon,
glare of vertigo sun,
the shifting, drowned elements
transform the eddying
masonry of pillars,
distorted windows and gothic
arches assimilating heights and depths
known to humankind
in globes of phosphorescent light.
The flame of Debussy's music
like a cypress tree
probes and kindles
the earthly air,
consumes the lighted vase of life
before a strident tempo is heard
as unanswered questions
drift uncomfortably
towards a quivering
territory of fragile beauty.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
THE CEMETERY AT PERE LACHAISE, PARIS
by Byron Beynon
Here the famous guests are scattered
in funerary plots and calculated divisions,
with sculpture, some reminding me of sentry-boxes,
ready and made to accommodate whole families.
During the hour or more
I stayed among the dead
I found the black and polished grave of Proust,
his name remembered in time and letters;
I searched for Balzac, Bizet,
and the young American
Jim Morrison of the Doors.
Blind men! But who's to say?
One by one the shadows disappeared.
At 89e Div 1-2 I saw
graffiti on Epstein's monument
to Oscar Wilde,
Oscar who? Someone had scrawled
in dark paint.
A gardener pointed
to Piaf's place,
smothered in flowers and notes,
as children from a school party
sketched Chopin's marble face.
Nobody could disturb them,
they had completed their cycle
in a city touched by sunshine and dust,
where unknown visitors leave bouquets,
vulnerable petals that see in the light.
Here the famous guests are scattered
in funerary plots and calculated divisions,
with sculpture, some reminding me of sentry-boxes,
ready and made to accommodate whole families.
During the hour or more
I stayed among the dead
I found the black and polished grave of Proust,
his name remembered in time and letters;
I searched for Balzac, Bizet,
and the young American
Jim Morrison of the Doors.
Blind men! But who's to say?
One by one the shadows disappeared.
At 89e Div 1-2 I saw
graffiti on Epstein's monument
to Oscar Wilde,
Oscar who? Someone had scrawled
in dark paint.
A gardener pointed
to Piaf's place,
smothered in flowers and notes,
as children from a school party
sketched Chopin's marble face.
Nobody could disturb them,
they had completed their cycle
in a city touched by sunshine and dust,
where unknown visitors leave bouquets,
vulnerable petals that see in the light.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
MAN AND WIFE AT SEA
by Byron Beynon
A middle-aged man
conducts the air,
guiding me to other seas, other mountains,
which I inhabit like dreams and distant places.
He tries a variety of angles,
moving his arms like a windmill,
butterfly fingers stroking the air.
He has cultivated a paunch,
imitating a pregnant woman,
he looks outward and searches
the coastline,
rests both hands
on hips, his pointed elbows
the arms of a vase,
the completed work of a potter,
brought to maturity.
His wife cuts free
the green-skinned cucumber,
she sits carving a meal for two,
nudges her man to eat.
A shared refreshment
without words,
her name is already written
on the water.
A middle-aged man
conducts the air,
guiding me to other seas, other mountains,
which I inhabit like dreams and distant places.
He tries a variety of angles,
moving his arms like a windmill,
butterfly fingers stroking the air.
He has cultivated a paunch,
imitating a pregnant woman,
he looks outward and searches
the coastline,
rests both hands
on hips, his pointed elbows
the arms of a vase,
the completed work of a potter,
brought to maturity.
His wife cuts free
the green-skinned cucumber,
she sits carving a meal for two,
nudges her man to eat.
A shared refreshment
without words,
her name is already written
on the water.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
BEETHOVEN'S TUNING FORK
by Byron Beynon
A memory within music,
a ripening
with vineyards overgrown,
and your mind's ear in tune;
alert with days
you look through a small window
at strangers,
the relentless wave-pulse,
uncorked knowledge
on a journey
through a territory
where time gathers
shards of meaning.
A frustration of the heart's
burning sound,
your quiet breath of power
blurring with the grey rain.
A memory within music,
a ripening
with vineyards overgrown,
and your mind's ear in tune;
alert with days
you look through a small window
at strangers,
the relentless wave-pulse,
uncorked knowledge
on a journey
through a territory
where time gathers
shards of meaning.
A frustration of the heart's
burning sound,
your quiet breath of power
blurring with the grey rain.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
BEFORE NEUTRAL TIME
by Byron Beynon
Not an old man,
but a face worked
on by life and those
late evenings when he'd speculate
the bars with his friends
to drink a favourite share.
His voice recalled
when on one dark-
coated night,
the biting stars
pierced the skin,
I saw him
brought into the swaggering
light of a public house,
two men held him
by the arms, he paused
for breath, and sang
in Welsh a verse or two
in remembered pitch.
After the applause and dizzy
glass, he was gone,
the strong impulse to move on
before neutral time
called on him.
Not an old man,
but a face worked
on by life and those
late evenings when he'd speculate
the bars with his friends
to drink a favourite share.
His voice recalled
when on one dark-
coated night,
the biting stars
pierced the skin,
I saw him
brought into the swaggering
light of a public house,
two men held him
by the arms, he paused
for breath, and sang
in Welsh a verse or two
in remembered pitch.
After the applause and dizzy
glass, he was gone,
the strong impulse to move on
before neutral time
called on him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)