Biography of Robert Wylie
My father was a working man who wrote poems for many years. The context of these, though often introspective, are concerned with his take on life and the activities of people, and his view of his home country as an exile. He died last year and I thought it fitting, as a mark of respect, and also because I enjoy his poems, that others should have the chance to share them.
Robert Wylie Poems
If The Memory
If the memory I have of you Were small enough to fill a thimble I would fill a thimble, And keep it in my sight.
Don't let them kid you, The slow, cardiganed men On the bowling green.
Camden Lock Market
Waterside stewpot Filled brim-full With tarnished star-spangle, And honest craft.
I Will Spit
A dying sun will Finally succumb To a night's whittling blade, And I, blunt-faced
A struggle! From the first Attempt at the nipple, Until the final gasp,
A Reading Of Minus Five
A reading of minus five, The first cold of Winter Hammers the fishermen Into their stools,
The same thin, parsimonious wind Which, now, and then blows against me, Blew against the small, wet-sailed boat Bobbing on the choppy water.
Magnificent Parasite (The Thames Through...
This river, a blade Which would steal the life From my body, Prostitutes itself to the scabbard banks.
The Turner Prize
They have not, they cannot, Will not, dare not Invite me to the 'Turner Prize'.
Small Scottish Seaside Towns
Small Scottish seaside towns, Turning inwards to face the hills; As if embarrassed by the unholy Juxtaposition of church, and pub,
With Jean, by coach to Sudbury By way of Finchingfield, where Village on village (strung on a thread of lanes) , leads to
He told me that He thought he was a letter, That he was being written, Though being allowed to
Making The Best Of Things
The train will pass above these gardens In the mid-spring evenings For many years to come, And the downlookers
Down beyond where the scarce sand Apologises for dark mud, The estuary boats rest keel-fast.
He told me that
He thought he was a letter,
That he was being written,
Though being allowed to
Write something of himself.
He told me that he
Had been, at last,
Given a value, a purpose,