Peter Lilly: Poems

  For the first day of Advent, I'm posting this reading of my poem Christmas Hit, from my first collection "An Array of Vapour".  If you're in the UK and want to let your local charity know about someone rough sleeping, you can make a report through streetlink. If you want to know to support people struggling with their housing a Shelter is a good place to start. New Hope is the wonderful charity I worked for in Watford UK. If you're not in the UK, it shouldn't be too difficult to find the charities and associations who support vulnerable people in your area.  "An Array of Vapour" is available to purchase here.

Celebrate Blake Friday by exercising the Divine Arts of the Imagination:  Here's a reading of my poem "Personality" from my second collection "A Handful of prayers".

  I'm really pleased to announce to announce that one of my poems ' Edge ' Has been featured on episode 1 of the brand new Podcast, Dead Letter Radio .  Update: I’m happy to announce that another of my poems  ‘At Sea ’   has been featured on  episode 7 of Dead Letter Radio. This podcast is a passion project by someone who loves poetry and creative writing and has a desire to discover writing by new writers and help make their work available to a wider audience. It's a wonderful project as the host really understands the feelings of vulnerability in submitting work, and therefore wants to keep the podcast open to anonymous submission. When we were talking about the first episode they said to me 'For me, writing has always felt so personal, to have someone read it is as if I'm being stripped bare... The idea of this podcast came around originally for those like me... who maybe not quite ready to put their name out there... The idea began to grow. To me, it looks l...

Your hair is blonde it reflects In green flecks, the grass As the water does the sky. At the end of the damp sand And the water of dusty clouds You talk to the ripples and the bubbles Dropping shells in the lapping. You talk the same language of expression For this is the calm constancy of l'étang Not the constant change of crashing waves. Beneath a sunset that marks us With a strong desire to remain I see it reflected in the turquoise of you eyes, a minute flame. In the water, the sun's bridal dress  Drapes an enormous fiery train And proudly L'étang de l'Or  Bares its burnished name. L'étang de l'Or, probably best translated as 'The Golden Marsh', is a large marshy lake between Mauguio and the Mediterranean Sea. This week I walked there with my son and we played at the waters edge before watching the sunset.

The Spirit of The Lord was upon him To bring the good news to the poor, Humbly he took on the servants burden To lift our broken flesh from the floor. God and flesh without a contradiction Holy Spirit heal this divide, Let us live out the incarnation To be the body where Christ does reside. Transform our hearts, Transform our hands, To transform. The Spirit of The Lord was upon him To set all the captives free, He followed a life of love to its conclusion When hatred nailed him firmly to a tree. God and suffering without a contradiction Holy Spirit comfort while we hide, Help us to take on the crucifixion To be the body where Christ does reside. Transform our hearts, Transform our hands, To transform. The Spirit of the sovereign was upon him To declare the favour of The Lord, He shattered every paradigm we made for him When with utter life he over came the sword. Deathless life without a contradiction Holy Spirit rouse these dry bones, Help us to live lives of resurrection To be be the...

  In perfect poems, He honours the forgotten And shines his light on Whispered honour. His broken fingers pick out a pretty world And the pain is beauty, Within and inseparable. How painful, and how beautiful are these day. My very soul is sweetly undone Before the dispersed family  Of his songs. I wrote this poem on September 3rd 2020 While listening to the album 'Pretty World' by Sam Baker. The lines 'broken fingers', 'pretty world' and 'sweetly undone' found in the poem are all track titles, and the line 'how beautiful are these days' is written on the inside cover of the album. My brother (and guitarist of The Sewer Cats ) bought me this album for Christmas ten or eleven years ago. Since then I've listened to it, and Sam Bakers other albums, innumerable times. Sam Baker is a unique and breathtaking artist for so many reasons. His songs demonstrate a rare depth of understanding for the human condition and uncover a beauty in places or peop...

The following poem is a response to the experience of listening to this episode of the New Yorker Poetry Podcast, while Silje was 8 months pregnant. The episode features Tracy K. Smith reading a beautiful and raw poem by Kevin Young called 'Crowning', then a wonderfully enveloping poem of hers called 'Alternative Take: Levon Helm'. I love both of these poets, and both of these poems have become particularly special to me.  Levon Helm, 1976. Smith's poem is inspired by the voice and rhythms of Levon Helm, someone who has been a big inspiration to me since, as a young teenager  in my best mates conservatory,  I first watched The Last Waltz. However, it was Kevin Young's poem of a loving father and husband's experience of childbirth, that brought me to tears the morning of the 22nd of November 2018, as I walked to work.   It was one month before Gabriel's due date. Throughout the pregnancy we had already experienced so many trials, growing ...

Her fingers press the keys With skilful muscle memory Of adolescent compositions. But now, her fingers are clothed In the jewels of promise And the band of union. Her fingers press the keys With skilful memory. A would be forgotten melody Is slowly remembered, Quickly played. But her fingers have changed. They have reassembled the shards of me, They have studied my skin, They are now clothed With the jewels of our promises, And the engraved band Of our union. I wrote this poem in 2014 for my wife Silje soon after we were married as she played something she’d written years before. I was watching her, and struck by the simple image of her playing a piece she’d written with fingers that are now clothed with our wedding and engagement rings.  When it snowed in Montpellier in February 2018 she was playing Prelude in C Major by J.S Bach. I thought the image of her playing with the snow outside would go well with this poem, so I recor...

It's even more beautiful on the inside!! Hi everyone! I’m really excited to announce that my poetry has been included in a collaborative anthology ‘ Please Hear What I’m Not Saying ’ being published to support the charity ‘Mind’... and it goes on sale TODAY!   My copy arrived yesterday and it’s a beautiful book with lots of amazing poems from 116 poets around the world.  The book explores different aspects of mental health, and is designed to grow with positivity throughout its sections. My poem, which is about how recovery and redemption can beautify the scars and stains of our suffering, is therefore towards the end of the book. For me it’s really exciting to see my work published in a book (on real paper with an ISBN and everything!) but more so, to be part of such a wonderfully constructive project that will help people who struggle with their mental health. I had the privilege of working alongside ‘ Mind ’ during my years working for the Watford ho...

As the morning sun starts to bake the red earth of these hills, we set out. Clasping rock and rope, we embed our digits into this land as the mud embeds beneath our finger-nails. I am shoeless and bare chested, to let the clay paint my skin with the story of this journey. This climb is not about a summit, but an isolated depth,  an interior sea-level  inside  this peninsula's ribcage . So we re-descend the steep trachea walls, and listen to the breathing path whistle and giggle in playful respiration. If you are fascinated with the echo of this palaeolithic chamber, that vocal selfie-stick, the waters of the  lagoon  will freeze in interrupted stillness, shy of the volume of trespassing tourists. But, if you listen in silence, long enough for your feet to sink beneath the surface the heart beneath the water begins to beat, and the  lagoon  will rouse unto its pious dance,...

'Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him.' Calendar's rhythm thuds. The kick drum rattles your rib cage As collective memories and communal routines Plume like dust from that undulating skin. ..... You must wrap gifts in superfluous paper, ..... That's tradition. ..... Yet repeating acts to underline thankfulness, ..... That's superstition. Calendar's rhythm thuds And we bellow through that dust cloud, Clearing our throats and averting our eyes. THUD For the drum announces the sales THUD The rhythm is the anthem of vacation gifts. So discard the old and ugly, To find the beauty, To spend and to own.  'They came to the place that is called The Skull ' Excited skin bristles. Chill shivers the spine in want For purpose and ergonomics dim in contrast To the lights, and the efficacious movement of the crowd. ..... So much spectacle, ..... All these plate glass doors, ...