Liverpool poem

If I were to write a Liverpool poem
It would have to contain the compulsory
word play
flipping syllables
juggling syntax
being wittily ironic.
It would probably pay homage to the city fathers:
Drummond, McCulloch, Cope
And the city mothers:
Kitty, Casey, Simey.
It might reference a famous saying by John Lennon:
“Fowler’s a concept
by which we measure our pain”
or do something involving Batman appearing on Canning Place
dressed like Adrian Henri.

If I were to write a Liverpool poem
It would affirm the equal value
of our two great football teams
Everton and Marine.
It would stand on Crosby beach with those metal men staring out to Wales;
It would stand on Upper Park Street watching the slow death of the lovely Welsh streets;
It would repent of something
Then do it again.

If I were to write a Liverpool poem
I wouldn’t do it now.
I’d have to do it in the sixties
when I could take it to a Happening
and let it happen,
Or in the eighties
whilst seated at a table at the Armadillo
like a pained Erics punk
on my lunch hour.

If I were to write a Liverpool poem
I wouldn’t publish it, of course:
I’d have to perform it
whilst standing on a node of esoteric power
(Not the manhole on Mathew Street, that’s been overdone)
Or seated on Superlambanana
Wherever that is now.

If I were to write a Liverpool poem
It wouldn’t be over sentimental
And it wouldn’t have many regrets.

By John Davies