Jimmy Milliken grew up in Northern Ireland but spent much of his adult life in the Shetland Islands. He currently lives near Ballycastle on the north coast of Ireland.

He has twice been shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Poetry Award; in 2018 for his poem “Mercy Killing” and in 2020 for “Lichen”. His poem “Colloquy” was shortlisted for the 2020 Bangor Literary Journal 40 Words Competition and appears on YouTube. His poem “The Butt” was longlisted for the 2019 Bangor Literary Journal Poetry Competition.

He has performed his poetry at various showcase events and readings including at The Seamus Heaney Homeplace Bellaghy, Portstewart, Ballymoney, Ballycastle, Limavady and most notably on a mountain top in Connemara.

His first poetry collection Cracking the Air was published by Impspired in 2022. His poems have appeared in three anthologies published by Impspired, a chapbook Autumn Fragments  published by Seamus Heaney Homeplace and the Community Arts Partnership Anthologies 2015-16, 2016-17, 2017-18, 2018-19, 2019-20, 2020-21 2021-22 and 2022-23.

walking the strand

walking the strand,

the strand, the strand,

walking the strand,



there were…



heaps of storm weed,

bladder wrack, thong weed, dabberlocks, a

ping pong bat,

and lots of plastic ornaments,

a mummified guillemot, a puffin and a cormorant,



once upon a time there were lots of Spanish corpses,

but that was long gone before our time,

when war was rife 

and doctrinal dogma seemed to matter more than life,

don’t worry darling, we’re at peace with our neighbours now,

well, some of them anyhow,



and other bits of plastic,



a plastic freezer bag, a plastic Jesus,

plastic prayers on a plastic cross,

plastic bottles, plastic straws,

plastic soldiers for plastic wars,

plastic cups, plastic cars,

plastic flowers in a plastic vase,

plastic mugs, knives and forks,

plastic reindeer and a plastic Santa Claus,



and plastic with words I cannot understand

and plastic with big red Xs and a skull and crossbones,



and a dead porpoise,

I don’t want to be morbid 

but she was still smiling looking simply gorgeous,



and flint and stones and an old-fashioned telephone

and plastic combs and a garden gnome,

various fins, tails and tentacles, bits of skeletons

and a honking lump of a blubbery whale,

inspected by a flock of hungry herring gulls

and sludge and slime and things undefined,

from deep, deep down in Davy Jones’ locker,



and a perfume bottle stopper

and a man in nothing but Bermuda shorts,

in November, dancing in the rain,

definitely off his rocker,



and a tree trunk that came all the way from America

and a ball of sticky black oil

and a message in a plastic bottle

said something lost and blurred,

and after a while another dead bird,

common gull or kittiwake,



and a letter from France,

the message inside said,

we’re not taking a chance,

a million times at least, with love,

and a half-used lipstick and a powder puff

and a photograph, yes a photograph,

unblemished, someone cherished,

how did that survive,

and a razorbill and a rock dove



and disposable cups, disposable plates,

disposable nappies, disposable vapes,

a disposable barbeque

complete with charcoal and lighter fuel,

and a baby wipe and a baby wipe and a baby wipe,

and a waste pipe,

and a measuring tape,



and from a plane a vomit bag,

and an empty wallet, and sharks’ eggs,

and a mermaid’s purse, and a sheep’s leg,



walking the strand

the strand

the strand

walking the strand



a rubber glove like a waving hand

sticking out of the sand, crying HELP,

and a branch of barnacles, quivering

like elementary particles, subatomic deals,

each one dreaming its fading dream, an elegy to entropy,

WHAT?



and a sock and a trainer,

and a pair of fishnet tights,

and a bag of brown rice and yards and yards of nets,

and fishing boat floats,

and just about enough nylon rope

for all of us,



and a barrel of oil, barrels of sand,

an enamel bath,

a barrel of laughs,



and a man in lycra, skin tight,

not unlike a lightning strike,

running the strand,

the strand

the strand

running the strand,



and a runaway dog barking, barking,

lost and barking,

and two lovers hand in hand,

ignoring the strand,



and a bottle of yellow liquid DON’T TOUCH THAT

and the number plate from a car,

and a tyre and a blue plastic hard hat,

and a black plastic bag,



and a cotton bud and a cotton bud and a cotton bud and a cotton bud and a cotton bud

and a rabbit paw,

and a monkey nut,



and another dead bird

with its breast eaten out,

and a sign from a park,

and a sign from roadworks,

and a sign from somewhere far away,

a sign of the times,



and a woman from Germany

who smiled and said, it is on the edge of things 

that we find meaning,



and the roar of the surf, the spindrift in the air,

distant mountains through a purple haze,

a blaze of sunlight breaking the clouds,

and the blue horizon so far out there,



the edge of the world,



on the strand,

the strand, the strand,

on the strand.