Peter Lilly: Poems

Surrounded by the displaced I will work tirelessly To renounce my citizenship. My silhouette in this system Is cast by the shadow of my ego, The me that belongs was made for death And I will no longer conform to its will.  With everything that happened in 2016, the question of national identity and citizenship is a hot topic. This poem is named after the book by Stanley Hauerwas and William H. Willimon which discusses the nature of the church and its relationships to the cultures it exists within.  Christians are not supposed to be citizens belonging to the cultures of this world, but Resident Aliens, living  uncomfortably  within yet with our identity firmly planted in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. At a time when the world has more displaced people than ever on record, most of us in our comfortable western lives, will be encountering 'aliens' on a regular basis. Let this new year be an opportunity to extend grace to those who do not f...

Spacial awareness   let us down again, and shattered  another urn, spilling that morbid sand. In the irritation  of  vacuuming respectfully    we give a moment of meaning  back to sooty remains.  Referendums pass the time.  They draw out experts who,  with shouts and keystrokes,  fling the spittle of their opinion.  Elections pass the buck.  With their signs and slogans  they draw out the masses  to choose between arsenic and anthrax.  The French call their ballot box an urn.  It is where we cast  the ashes of our expired ideals,  to be scattered amongst  the winning or loosing percentage,  as the fate of the nation  teeters on the whims   of  fickle voters and loyal tabloid readers.  All the projected outcomes  are varied shades of ash,  and a different decor  of the receptacl...

peterlillypoetry · Displaced redemption There was a world, displaced from its axis by repeated tragedies of its own making, as the inhabitants attempt to grasp the credit for it's own creating. An entire macrocosm misaligned by embezzling clutches and throning lusts. Who's history is marked by a needless taking, and just in case, a pious faking to appease a possible divinity as either a patsy or a machine. There was a world, decomposing in it's own folly. Spinning itself dizzy flailing after impervious redemption. And inside that world there was a people displaced from its milk and honey by a ruling superpower. As the globalising tar of Rome spread to paint the Empire one culture, this people had been waiting. Listening in silence for the reason of their plight, Waiting for the sword of a rallying leader to severe their shackles, and the throats of the chain-bearers, alike. Waiting with the same attitude ...

When another's border is opaque, windows blocked with the coagulated death of hopeful escapees, reinforcing our borders  is a reinforcement of that death. When political concern  prioritises  the comfort of British holiday-makers over the survival and humanity of an other, we commit atrocities. But we want, need our distractions, excuses to turn our heads so Cameron, please don't mention refugees.  When he speaks of  'illegal migrants' to refer to people who  face death at home  and are cleaved from their soil, face death on their own borders  and burrow beneath detection, face death on the M editerranean  praying to stay buoyant through squalls  and over sharks, face imprisonment in Europe and attempt to assimilate as they climb north, face death in the dysentery of the glass-ceiling-camp of Calais and wait and wait not allowed to move forward or turn back, he knows he speaks of refugees and he lies. ...