Peter Lilly: Poems

Photograph of a vineyard in Les Cévennes, by Silje Lilly. Taken in July 2017. John 15:1-8 Gleaning grapes before October storms, the vines are ancient fingers, deathly-dry and knotted digits. bark-scarred with the wisdom of growing. They are crowned with a branchy vibrancy, of greenery, naivety and fertility. The miracle of the vine and the branches is the fruit. The credulous branches, are trusted to bear the weight of the yield, their green luminescence is continually fed by the vine that looks like deadwood.  A Lamb looking as though it had been slain. I wrote this poem in the Autumn of 2016 while I was in a vineyard on the outskirts of Montpellier, where Silje and I live, in the south of France. We were picking grapes after the harvest and enjoying time reading and writing in the autumn sun.  Silje took the photo in July 2017 while in another vineyard in Les Cévennes, a short drive north. Time and a...

I find myself where the wind in the leaves is heard but traffic is not, where hills without houses roll to the horizon, where the creaky chair and  desk of tired varnish furnish the coming days with ideal, and I must write. The air is fresh and the sun blistering, et je vais parler français  avec les amis, en buvant le vin de la région,  et la sensation de la conversation dans une belle langue  ajoute une émotion pure, when I come to write verse in my native tongue. And the boisterous laughter of children, and the giggling of an infant energise this siesta atmosphere to fill the time with melody, and the fill the melody with words, and to fill the words with meaning, to fill the coming months avec le repos de maintenant. Written in July 2017 while Silje and I were on retreat with some friends in a tiny village in the south of 'Le Parc National des Cévennes.'  As I learn to speak more French I have ex...

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...