Premier Writing: PD Lyons

Premier Writing showcases poetry, essays and short fiction by new and emerging Irish writers. This week’s featured poet is PD Lyons from Westmeath.

Poetry

The Lover of Wisdom

He helped in the kitchen While she was away.
One night he was worrying about the wine
Her father noticed, told him
Not to worry, They said it was the best place they’d been to.
That they were glad to be here. Besides it was the
second bottle they’d ordered.
It was then he grabbed her father’s hand, said
Are you my friend? Are you!
The towering man with black moustache
In a well-worn greasy apron said,
Always. I am your friend always!

It was evening when she came back.
He was sorting pots from the green house
Packing them into the jeep, parked at the top of the
driveway
When they pulled in
BMW convertible dark blue with tan leather.

He did not want to meet her friends.
Afraid they’d hear the beating of his heart
He stayed on the other side of the jeep
Pretending to be too busy.
Waited for her to come to him.
But after their long good-byes, she didn’t.
He walked around saw her walking
Down the hill with her bags
He thought – she has not come back at all then.

Shortly later she came to him,
Sat with him on the grass
Her black hair veiling them
As hunched together head to head
He opened what she gave him.
Wrapped in white tissues,
A ball of crystal inside a ball of alabaster.
I missed you so much he said. Are you brave enough to let me shave you? She said.
Come on. Let me. I want to.
He had not shaved since she left
And her creamy skin could not abide a whiskered face

Riding the Highlands in Winter

She spoke in an accent lost like heat from living things
broken snowy things that long winters become around here.

The absence of people in her world meant
things would not get bogged down; such was her preference.

She admired stainless things like steel, well-honed blades of knives
sound of a good axe square struck into a block; pieces split clean hard solid.

She’d find a smile in the sound of steel spurs as her heels struck the floor. While
copper had a value too. On the bit she blew warm to keep from sticking to her horse’s mouth making her own water.

Horses understood her language. Cold winter thrived upon it.
Well-crafted metals bantered lightly with her.

On the trail, sipping Bourbon accepted every word without argument.
Snow dust from tall pines, crows like midnights splinter a wide-open
Ingenious blue from which every question ever asked returned every answer she’d ever needed.

About the author:

PD Lyons has worked as a dishwasher, textile mill labourer, fire safety inspector, substance abuse counsellor, and has raised horses both in Ireland and the USA. His writing has appeared in many formats throughout the world, and his poetry collections have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast, and Embrace Press, Liverpool. He was born and raised in Connecticut, and lived for a time in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, where winters are great for writing. He now lives in a small medieval village in Co. Westmeath.

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