Peter Lilly: Poems

They blur and melt. All into one organism. Their faces moving in the particularity  of  their relationship to the music. All melting into the pours of the singing skin of this organism. Bass, tenor, alto, soprano: different stretching, twitching limbs in the aural dance of beautiful echoes from walls built to magnify every element of experience. Even the soloists blur and melt becoming one, through the strings and brass, with the wider choir behind. Even the conductor blurs and melts, still protruding as the third dimension, but not haughtily aloof, in the midst and in between, visible but not above, en guard at the vanguard, he is at the fore fencing distractions, and always pointing to the essence of the music. 1 Corinthians 12:12-27

Where the known world gets smaller and exploration becomes a valid career choice. Where the surrounding islands silhouette a mysterious calling to make this feel like the mainland. Where mountains peek Monroe heights and Sahara heats merely a fathom from the shore, rocky and peppered with olive groves. Where the black sands of the southern beach of Preveli scald your soles and the pink-white shells of the deserted Chrissi Island draw breathe in stark contrast. Where the green hew of northern rocks, outlined with clean salty foam are surrounded by the depths of transparency and turquoise. Where the raki is freely given to oil the joints of the evening and ease the passing to tomorrow. Where the country lanes smell like sour goats whose bells chime a native melody to echo across scorched hills. Where gracious attitudes let time pass at its own pace, leaving rich tourists uneasily glancing at expensive watc...