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Best Famous Liam Wilkinson Poems

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by Liam Wilkinson | |


 The Esplanade is just as I left it.
Here is the Red Lea Hotel, the Royal, the house we said we’d buy with the writer’s turret, the memorial benches, parked in remembrance.
Here is the line of wide eyed cars, their colours hushed by Dawn and here, the sunken café deals its breakfast plates across the bay.
But instead of bright windows, in place of loose-haired holiday makers in green dresses and blue smoke, there hangs a mosaic of yellow reminders, licked to stick across the coast, these epileptic tongues trading rumours in the wind.
Here are those familiar cliffs, now the fridge doors of my busy agenda.
Listen to the quick notes of my once great symphony!

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 Hear of the hate I have for these poems
as they arrive, out of the night
wanting the small bowls of my appreciation
as I put out a sheet of paper
and let them piss all over the place.
Let me tell you about the nausea I feel as I spend the rest of the evening on my knees, scrubbing the floor of their filth, finding pieces of their metaphors and similes jammed between the margins.
Observe my utter contempt for these intruders as they pick up everything in the house and leave their resounding rhythms like fingerprints and their humorous wordplay like a bad smell in the bathroom of this page.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 Finally alone, I pick up the tennis racquet
and dazzle the walls of our house
with my Django Reinhardt impression.
I move between the rooms with my racquet and the small stool we use for buffing our shoes, introducing each tune in a Belgian accent.
In the dining room, the table is astonished to find that I’m doing all this with just two fingers! Even the improvised solo in ‘Oh Lady Be Good’! And before you arrive home, I launch into the big finale, with the chair, the desk and the rest of the Hot Club of France.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 Hearth rugs are
beaten in the yard.
Each sink is made to swallow bleach.
Shirts are hung.
Crockery drowned.
Curtains and towels stuffed into a machine.
Shoes and books line up and wait.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 One child takes cover beneath our bay window, he waits on grazed knees for his breath to come back and checks the ammo in his Fairy Liquid bottle.
I suddenly realise I’m a war poet.
The schools are polling stations, the streets scorched by sun and wet with water bombs.
I stick out my head in an effort to experience the conflict of odds against evens.
An army springs from number seven and I’m hit - an orange balloon at my shoulder - the crouching soldier comes to my aid with a towel and, with failing breath, I tell him where I keep the hose.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 I’m in a strange mood tonight.
I aim for the moon and laugh as the elastic snaps behind me, collapsing the whole contraption until I look like the lunatic, tangled in the chaos of the death of a mechanical butterfly.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 This is not a recording, circa 1998
of the Cologne Chamber Orchestra
conducted by Helmut Muller-Bruhl
but the orchestra themselves,
huddled in the back bedroom
for a private performance of Bach’s
Orchestral Suite No.
2 in B Minor.
The Flautist can hardly raise his elbow above the Harpsichordist’s shoulders, crammed as they are between several Violinists and an antique dresser.
And Heir Muller-Bruhl, perched on the unpacked box of saucepans, knows that the risk of falling into the clumsy cluster of musicians is what lends this piece it’s unique blend of fury and exhilaration.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 When I step off that doorstep,
still in need of the paint
with which I intend to lick it,
and on to that short walk
to the gateposts
that used to hold up
two wrought-iron gates
but whose spines
have become too buckled
to hold anything more
than the occasional blackbird,
when I diagonal, across
that familiar space
where so many roads
have laid and so many
been buried, to
the corner which saved me
once or twice
from the water pistols,
onto the next street
where they hardly know me,
past the library
in which I discovered
those first poems
and left the broken eggs
of my own, when I lean
against that road sign
and watch so little happen
to so few people,
in such a small space
on this minute planet,
the silence made
on the end of this needle,
the centuries of years
that let go like molecules
inside the beads of water
that slip unseen
from the duck’s feathers,
then will I rejoice,
then will I squeeze out
a kind of smile
beneath my nose
and sniff –
this is all I need.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 It took all day to get going.
I spent the morning off like an antiquated fax machine.
You prodded me occasionally, kicked me, checked I was still breathing.
But all you got back was a flashing yellow light.
The manual says I need calibrating.
You think I need replacing with a newer, quicker model.
One without the flashing yellow light.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again,
but if I do, I want you to notice
and nod your head, or even turn away –

if you can, run over to the florist
or the fruit shop, make me believe
you have more important things to do

than to be here in my poem,
turning up again after all these years,
noticing me in the street

before making for the nearest distraction.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 Then there’s the man
who comes in every Saturday
to loiter in Romance.
His face may be milk-white but in those hot aisles his cheeks glow to the pink of the spines.
In a panic-climax he seizes six or seven and fiddles impatiently as I stamp them with a date, before he makes his exit, sniffing like a beast at the jackets.
When does a man find the dregs of his fantasies in the scent of hand-cream still lingering on thin volumes? Is it the erotica inside or out? Where the book might have ended up in those sunlit suburban semis? Now I’ve taken to washing the covers before Saturday comes to preserve the last of those ladies’ most private passions.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 She holds the whalebone up to the light
until it silhouettes - a black chunk
of skeleton, hugged by our bright electricity.
It’s fifteen million years old.
It dwarfs the nineteenth century mantel with its age, casts a shadow of colossal time over the antique clock.
And we stare into the possibility of its life before us, at a vague shape of what it might have carried, the great brain it once sat beside.
She turns to me, her eyes glazed by the wonder of what she holds in her hand and asks if we can find the rest.

by Liam Wilkinson | |


 Now that my hair has grown long
like in those last photographs of John Lennon,

sitting on that couch in those jeans, suddenly
assuming the role of middle aged man,

bereft of his famous round spectacles,
possibly the coolest forty year old in the world,

I will sit and drink tea, perhaps dunk
chocolate biscuits into the warm arena of my cup,

content that the tops of my ears
make me feel like a Beatle.