Lawrence Durrell (1912–1990) was a very versatile writer. He is probably most famous today for his Alexandria Quartet novels. He was also a renowned travel writer, specialising in the Mediterranean area that he knew and loved so well.
I particularly like Bitter Lemons, his memoir of his time in Cyprus during the political upheavals of the 1950s. Another of my favourites of his is White Eagles Over Serbia, an excellent Cold War era spy story in the outdoor adventure style of John Buchan.
His striking, painterly prose style tells you immediately that whatever genre he was working in he was primarily a poet. It’s quite odd, then, that when I have read his poetry, I have tended to find it somewhat lacking in comparison to his prose works.
The short poem below is a welcome exception. I came across it by chance the other day and I really like it. It has to be heard to be fully appreciated, as the beautiful internal rhymes act out the theme of the poem.
Echo by Lawrence Durrell
Nothing is lost, sweet self,
Nothing is ever lost.
The unspoken word
Is not exhausted but can be heard.
Music that stains
The silence remains
O echo is everywhere, the unbeckonable bird!
The Good Reader 