From the Porch: Nova Lumina, by John Doyle

Nova Lumina

poems by John Doyle

August 2019


John Doyle writes prickly poems, nostalgic poems, poems that butt against the reader’s face, and poems that snuggle under the chin of everyone in the pub. Which does not mean Nova Lumina  contains something for everyone, but it does contain plenty for anyone with a shred of aesthetic awareness.

In his own words, author John Doyle is ‘half a decent person’. In my words, he’s a full-blown poet of extraordinary talent. If the best art is created by mixing together both high and low brow references, then Doyle is truly a great artist. Classical references clash up against cultural ones, making for a relentless, dizzying torrent of imagery that leaves the reader gasping for breath and wanting more. He wields his words like a vigilante wields a baseball bat – with savage intent, hellbent on destruction. These are poems that can break limbs. A white-knuckle ride you’ll be thankful you queued for, on your knees and begging for more. There are not many great poets left, but Doyle is a true contender for the throne. No more half measures; these are poems you need in your life

–Steven Storrie


You and Roger Moore

Ford Anglia, flat ballet pumps,
jungle-skinned scarf, San Tropez –
the ticklish cool-blue gusts of early June;

for my money’s worth
you’ll be sitting in some seaside cafe somewhere, some photograph,
some Sunday, when the yachts come back for lunch,

you, Roger Moore, a few late teens –
almost meatless in Breton tops,
albino slacks;

and that Ford awaits – cherished sparkling carriage,
a saintly shine of face,
almost ascending

in a gush
of milky sun,
kitten heels soon clicked on, heavens parting;

Roger Moore


From County Kildare in Ireland, geography and politics matter not to John Doyle; rather, it is how long his hair will remain this color and how long it will stick around before saying sayonara.
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