Poems By Simon Beechinor

This poem is dedicated to my mother who, more than anyone else and for better or worse, inspired me to ‘join those wandering ships’. The Bishop Rock is a lighthouse near the Gilstone Reef off the Isles of Scilly. The ‘haunting, distant call’ refers to the fog signals emitted by lighthouses to benefit passing mariners. My mother led me among the granite tors through grass of sheep’s fescue, wavy hair, and common bent. Together, we savoured the perfumed wild thyme. We marvelled at tapestries of lichens, binding, holding fast in colonies of pale sage, deep emerald, and gold. And I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock, in a haunting, distant call of warning. We played my childish game of counting ships emerging from the morning mist. One by one, they ploughed in spectral shapes as silhouettes to fade from view, though not from my restless mind. We dreamed of whence they came, the nature of their burden, and whither they were bound. And I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock, in a haunting, distant

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Private Patrick O’Callaghan (40296) of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. He now lies, almost forgotten, in an unmarked grave near Middlesbrough. Patrick was brought home from France in November 1917, alive but a broken man. We visited his grave in 2024, he has no memorial but this poem. Stand easy, brother; my war is over. Our kin know of my soldier's forfeit, They’ve stood their solemn vigil by my side, Now, we may sleep beneath the vaulted skies. No Portland stone bears witness to my fate Amid the torn and tortured fields of France; A shattered soul, they brought me home to rest, For our futile war had crushed my mind. My bitter war was fought alone, unseen By others until I screamed in haunted fear, And would suffer the thoughtless jests of fools, As shell-shocked nerves conjured with my limbs. In time, this earth became my peaceful bed, And the freshly mown grass became my shroud, Oft draped in dew and red and golden leaves, So long I’ve

This poem is a portrait of an Australian stevedore I once met as we both watched cargo being loaded onboard my ship for Papua New Guinea. New Guinea was a vicious and bloody theatre of the Second World War where ANZACs and Americans fought, often hand-to-hand, against their ferocious Japanese enemy.  The foreman stood beside the slewing crane; As he watched our cargo stowed below, Within the vessel's deep and gaping maw. His weathered face was deeply lined and tanned,  With once-bright grey eyes, now aging and dimmed. 'You're loading for New Guinea, Mister Mate? We went up there in forty-two and three, To bloody Kokoda, Milne Bay and Lae.'  He raised his calloused hands for me to see  The cruel scars that bound his sinewed arms.  'I still succumb to vivid, hellish dreams; Sweat-soaked in fear and swallowed by the bush, I hack and hack and hack the kunai grass, That swishes, slashes and slices my skin, Then wade neck-deep through blood-sucking swamps. The crack of ri

Within these lines, a poem yearns for the affection of a reader. Could you be that reader and the one to whom this poem is dedicated? I beg you, turn to my fair printed page, That you may know of these enraptured words, And form them, one by one, upon your lips, To linger there, as an ardent lover’s kiss, And then to softly fall in cadenced whispers, That quicken the metre of my desire. My love for you is writ upon this page, That flutters at your caring fingers' touch. Oh, hold me close beside your gentle heart, That we may walk in faultless rhythm Amid the press and tumult of your day, And calm the roiling waters of your mind. Photo: Alexandra Fuller at Unsplash

This poem is dedicated to ‘Speedy’, the elderly factotum at my business in Hong Kong. We were forced to close the firm in 1999 because of the impact of the Asian financial crisis, and one hundred and fifty staff, including me, lost their jobs.       The poem is written as a sonnet in iambic pentameter, except for lines 10 and 12, which are in trochee pentameter, whereby I’ve deliberately shifted the emphasis to particular words for greater impact. I've blighted many anxious lives today, For we must close as Asian markets crash. A softly-spoken older man did weep In grief and anguish at my futile words, For fear and terror stalked him as a child As he fled at first from the Rising Sun, And then the fevered chaos of Mao's Red Guard. Yet he was young and had, with luck, survived, But now he's terror-struck once more. He fears Empty days amid his Mong Kok high-rise, And pleads in tears for answers I can't give, 'Where will I go each day? What will I do? My life is here

This poem is dedicated to unwilling butterflies, wherever you are. The season's first typhoon brought violent winds And drenching torrents of storm-driven rain. Most people had gone home and left the streets, The shops and traders’ stalls, the bars and clubs, Deserted, save for butterflies like me. While Mama-san cursed at the angry storm, I sang romantic ballads to my friends, And brushed aside their gentle-hearted teasing, The saddest songs soothed our wasted lives, And bound our bonds of friendship tight. I sang about a broken-hearted girl, Who took a sharpened blade to end her life, Yet, as the dagger pierced her naked breast, And she lay cold near death, her love returns To save her life and take her home at last. A young man appeared at our door alone, As Mama-san worried at her meagre profit, She'd gladly see the honest seaman skinned, She fussed and grumbled at the pouring rain, And led him, childlike, by the hand to me. Before I left the stage to please her guest, And

This portrait is of a ship’s captain who became a friend. We sailed on several ships together and I came to know him well, I was his chief officer. Alas, he’s dead now and was, in his own words, ‘as rough as guts’. He’d take no exception to anything I’ve written here. There’s a strong breeze blowing from the west, Bringing salt air laden with the smells of fuel oil, Pollution and cooking across Victoria Harbour. I can see the barges rolling heavily beside the anchored ships, Their loads swinging wildly beneath the slewing derricks. I’ve dragged him from the bar in the seamen’s mission, And we're waiting for a launch back to the ship, He’s greeting evening strollers like long-lost friends, And banging on about me being a 'bloody farmer', I like him, he's a good seaman, but he's hard work. Now he’s sobering up, I can stand and watch him. He runs a hand over his shaven, close-cropped head, His bleary-eyes and face mottled by years of alcohol, Make his squat features l

This poem is about a medevac operation by two pilots on an oil field west of Mumbai (Bombay). Flying conditions were appalling. The American pilots remained true to their word when they declared many weeks earlier that if we needed them, they would come. The pilots were ex-Vietnam veterans and had flown gunship and medevac operations there. The pilot’s voice crackles, ‘Papa Charlie, this is Kilo Lima,’ The ship’s hove to, plunging and heaving in the writhing swell, ‘ETA your helo-deck, zero three minutes. Are we clear? Over.’ I glance at the lacerated diver. The bastard’s going through hell, At last, the chopper beats towards us in the hot and humid air. ‘Roger, Kilo Lima, deck’s clear. We’ve got a damned heavy sea.’ Now I can hear the percussive drumming of the huey's rotors. ‘Copy that, Papa Charlie. It’s like goin’ into a hot LZ!’ My crew stand ready by the deck as the bird approaches, And the chopper beats above us in the hot and humid air. The wind, salt and rust from the deck

For a careless moment, suspend your disbelief; Put aside the grim cares of Gaza, Ukraine, Syria and Iran. Perhaps imagine changing the colour of your skin! Have courage; bend your mind to the feeble politics of man. However hard it is, imagine yourself upon a human tide, Of refugees who may yet be distant in their plight. Be not arrogant and say, ‘It wouldn’t happen here’, Suspend your disbelief and, for now, assume it might. Imagine poor Britain amid monstrous tumult and aflame, And a cold-hearted Wales has, at last, built its Trumpish wall. You learn from the BBC you’re among an English ‘swarm’, Oh, how the corrupted politicians wring their hands appalled. When you fled your home to land upon our golden shore, How hard you fell among the dreary lexicon of refugees. Criminals! Boat people! Immigrants! Send them back! Fly them to Rwanda, where none may hear your pleas! What innocence brought you to your dreadful impasse? Did you fail to love the Party, or are you merely poor, Perhaps y

Japanese haikus traditionally consist of three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable pattern, often capturing a moment in nature or a fleeting emotion. The haiku developed from the hokku, the opening three lines of a longer poem known as a tanka. The haiku became a separate form of poetry in the 17th century.  For Her Doubt, like winter brings, A chill darkness to my day, Yet fair spring emerges.

This poem, of a stevedore mourning the passing of a way of life, is written as a villanelle, comprising five tercets and one quatrain of ten syllables in each line with a formal and distinctive rhyming pattern. The Stevedore The city docks stand idle and forlorn, And aged warehouses lie decaying, The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. The long grass grows between the cobbles worn, By the tides of men and cargo passing, The city docks stand idle and forlorn. The ships, seamen and stevedores have gone, Now, few hold memories of our calling, The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. Who remains to hear the gang foreman's scorn, Saved for those who avoid fair labouring? The city docks stand idle and forlorn. Or board the meat-boat in the early morn, Holds full from her Kiwi coastal's loading? The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. For one last time, I pass those gates well-worn, My memory, like the tide, is ebbing, The city docks stand idle and forlorn, The sky we

This is the story of Alf, a cleaner whom I once knew when he worked in a factory in South Wales. Like many people who perform such work, Alf seemed invisible and most people never spoke to him. I developed a friendship with him, of sorts, and his story is one of the most remarkable I've heard. He deserves his place in history, and it's to him that I dedicate this poem. The old cleaner bent to his mop, And swabbed the washroom floor. ‘You surely must have been there, Alf, What d’you do in the war?’ He was small, silver-haired and stooped, Invisible to most. He rarely spoke; a quiet man, In his simple work engrossed. He looked long at the mirrored wall, And a younger man replied. ‘Oh, I had a busy war, boy,’ And he spoke on with pride. ‘I was a miner here, in Pontypridd,’ His lilting voice compelled me, To pause, to stand and listen well, And so he told his story. ‘Over two hundred of us left, We volunteered to fight, ’Gainst Franco and the fascists, To help freedom in her plight

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Private Thomas O’Callaghan of the Royal Irish Rifles, who was killed in action on 9th September 1916 on the Somme at Ginchy, and of his twin brother Private Patrick O’Callaghan who served with the Royal Iniskilling Fusiliers until November 1917.  Thomas has no grave and is recorded among the missing at Thiepval. Patrick was invalided out of the army, suffering a 50% disability caused by ‘neurasthenia and dementia’ directly attributable to his war service. In the 1920s, his disability allowance was increased to 100%, and he died unmarried in 1947. At Thiepval My name’s here, O’Callaghan, T., carved deep In timeless Portland stone, ‘lest you forget’. For years, I've looked across those bloodied fields,  And wished you’d come and stand with me. The guns are silent now; only mourners trudge Past the serried lines of missing men. Stand by my side and let the autumn breeze Be my voice in our storied sepulchral hall. Near Ginchy on the ninth, a fine

This poem is written by Foxy, a fox who looked after my youngest son, as he was growing up. Foxy is still on duty today. Do not lie beneath my lonely rampart, And see an ancient, worn, discarded toy, I am the guardian of his childhood dreams, And he is my child still, that ungarnished boy. Only when I hear his joyful laughter do I rest, I am he who held at bay his youthful fears, It was I who gave his dreams the wings to fly, He made me, more than once, to bathe in tears, I listen still for the beating of his heart, Close beneath his arm and beside his breast, Where we fought and cried and laughed as one, And I, like a meadow’s flower, was pressed! I know the weight and value of his love, And if you would have him love you too, Then listen for the beating of his heart, And count yourself among the precious few. He became a man as I stood by his side, I implore you, take him and hold him dear, While I stand my watch each passing day, And help protect him from all that’s drear. I ask if

I have used the relative freedom afforded by free verse to ‘paint’ a portrait of a man I suspected was an illegal immigrant from China when out walking in the wild, rural hills north of Ko Tong in the New Territories of Hong Kong. The range of jade-green peaks unfolded before me Towards a horizon shrouded by a curtain of haze. The mist caught the morning sun in a fleeting rainbow, To gild the stone village homes in the valley below. He emerged from the bush, shifting uncomfortably From one foot to another, brushing off some grass, Tugging at his cheap, unfamiliar polyester suit, Smoothing wrinkles, giving the lie to his anxiety. Beneath his straight dark hair, fear and uncertainty Clouded his pale, angular face. I greeted him, smiling; He bowed, uncomprehending and hesitant, incongruous In his dark suit, days-old white shirt and narrow black tie. He made a futile effort to clean his plastic ‘city’ shoes, Keeping his black briefcase beside him, like a child’s toy, Expectant, as if hopin

Mine is a tale of wonders untold, From Ko Tong Ha Yeung in China, Of two young knights, fearless and bold Named Batman and Robin Boy Wonder,   Long before the Penguin and Joker, Batman mauled the banded krait, Red-necked keelback and hooded cobra, Oh, how that brave knight could fight! Robin ne'er feared the stinging viper, The python, foul millipede or bullfrog, He shed no childish tears when bitten,  On the bum, by Fang, the village dog. But holy pawpaws, I must be mistaken, That was their loving mum, my wife - not them! Who cares? Not one of them was shaken,  So, all three are my superheroes, then! Photo: Author

This non-rhyming poem is based on my short memoir, ‘The Evening Watch’. It is largely written in iambic pentameter. However, I have tried to vary the metre significantly in several places to allow for a change of rhythm and musicality. As I beheld the fading light of day, The trade winds gathered from the south and east, White-crested waves broke hard against the hull, To cast cascades of spray upon the breeze. A scattered flight of calling migrant birds Bore witness to our steady progress south, And called me from my watchful solitude, Beneath the blushing pinks and gold of dusk. The unruly breeze brought sooty terns to feed And seek their prey among the dancing waves, Then soon, the albatross came soaring by, In silhouette against the twilight sky. As heaven’s amber hues gave way to night, In gusting wind, that pilgrim stayed beside The ship, to fly within my widest reach, And hold me fast with watchful gimlet eyes. With skill and stately grace, our pilgrim Discerned her path across

This poem describes the dawn as seen from the bridge of a ship in the narrow China Strait that leads to the island of Samarai in Milne Bay, Papua New Guinea.  The China Strait is about four nautical miles long, but only half a mile wide. The proximity of navigational hazards is such that it requires precise and faultless navigation. Many of our sailors came from the islands of Milne Bay in the Louisiade Archipelago, and if time allowed, we would stop and drift to allow the men to pass trade goods to their ‘wantoks’ and hear the news from home. The structure of this poem is inspired by the villanelle form of poetry, it borrows the nineteen-line structure and the concept of refrains, and uses literary devices like repetition of sounds and imagery to create a similar effect. Dawn I closely watch that labyrinthine pristine coast, For the misted shores where the bush and waters meet, Enshroud a world of secrets hidden by the night. The muddy waters of ancient mangroves glisten, In the subtl

This poem is dedicated to my wife. It is written in iambic pentameter to give the poem a contemplative tone. ‘Beyond my reach’ refers to the sun passing below the horizon. The words ‘I survey six’ refers to my choosing six stars to ‘shoot’, to obtain a position using a navigator’s sextant.  Dusk The sun descends beyond my reach to yield, And leaves the cooling ashes of the day, The most sublime of hues are now revealed, A worthy aspect for some aspiring Manet. I stand my lonely watch beneath that sky, Across that calm and tranquil sea, we plough, With none to witness our sailing by, Except for distant, cargo-laden dhows. The twilight lifts her sheer, translucent veil, And brings my constant, faithful friends to me, And from among that host, I survey six Blessed stars to guide me, west across the sea. The full moon bathes the ship in silvered light, And I reflect upon my passing day, Among those fleeting shadows of the night, My longing thoughts of Anne ne’er far away. Photo: Rafael Gar

This poem depicts a navigator at sea and aims to describe how the sun's movement creates a challenge for navigation. Lines 1-4: The time on shore (represented by the "landsman's mark" on a clock tower) is irrelevant to the sailor at this moment. The sun is on its daily journey (diurnal path) rising towards its highest point in the sky (zenith). This moment is not 12 o'clock but varies daily, subject to the ship's longitude and the local time observed on the ship. Lines 5-8: The sailor struggles against the rough seas (unruly heaving, pitch and roll) and the wind. Despite the challenges, he must use the sextant (a navigational instrument) to observe the sun's position (hold her in my sextant's eye). Lines 9-12: He follows the sun's steady movement (stately progress) towards its peak (summit of the day). He can calculate his latitude by observing the sun's altitude at its peak (crossing his meridian). This is a crucial step in celestial navigatio

This poem is deliberately written in somewhat archaic language. I wanted to see how such language might work in a relatively modern maritime environment. I served three tours on board 'Pacific Constructor' in the early 1980s. We rarely went into port and joined and left the ship by helicopter. At the time she was one of the most sophisticated ships afloat and employed several emerging technologies. This poem attempts to describe the onset of the southwest monsoon, which occurs between June and October each year, over the Bombay High oil field, situated 100 miles off the west coast of India.  We continued working on diving and heavy lift operations until one or two days before the monsoon finally broke. Thereafter, when it became too rough for helicopters to fly and even for most supply vessels to reach the field, we spent the many weeks of the monsoon on 'Rapid Intervention', providing some sort of safety cover for the entire field. They were long and arduous months. Ou

A rage of hideous screaming stirs and hastens me below, The cook babbles and pleads in a banshee’s cry of dread, He wears a hair’s breadth line of blood beneath his fleshy jaw, The heedless, hell-bent riot of sailors soon will have him dead. ‘Drop the butcher’s cleaver before you harm him more!’ The cook’s bloodied neck now caused me great alarm, ‘He steals our food, I’ll carve him into meat and bone!’ ‘Is it true, Cook? Speak man, before you come to harm!’ ‘Tonight, the crew have prawns, and all men eat the same!’ The cook now starts to argue, which the sailor’s cleaver quells, ‘He’s a damned and cursed liar! You might have the prawns, This thieving bastard cook feeds us the heads and shells!’ Photo: Chris Pagan on Unsplash

The girl in the pale blue dress stood alone, By the mountain’s crest amidst the snow, Glittering like diamonds in spring’s chill air. On that mountain, my aching heart awoke, To her bright eyes sparkling with kindness, And luminous smile that warmed my soul. As saxifrage emerged from her winter’s bed, Beside the stream that to the fjord flowed, I stood in contemplation as if entranced. I yearned to know the measure of her feelings, Would they echo mine as truly as the fjord’s Reflection of the mountain, snow, and sky? She was a glorious constellation all her own, Would my aspiring and tender heart suffice, To win her affection and warm embrace? The mountains knew but held their breath, That if she would be with me, as I hoped, I might find love as sweet as ever known. Photo: Author

The master craved our worshipful acclaim, Yet, set no course to win his men's respect. To master’s rank, he'd a rightful claim, But how his pretensions did run unchecked. He stood radiant, clad in tropic white, His skin blushed red by the Gulf’s fierce glare, And epaulettes glittering gold and bright, Did gild his image with a prideful air. The master like an aged goat, would bleat, To lead his herd, his orders to convey. Oh, he bleated loud, such was his conceit, To earn his disrespectful soubriquet. ‘Whisper’ preened like an aged Wanchai whore, Proud and smiling among his hapless crew, To satisfy himself with all he saw, Yet blind was he to fault his retinue. He ignored the butts of careless smokers, In spaces marked ‘Danger of Gas - No Smoking’! He did not see the host of cock-roaches, That foully seethed within our victualing. When old Whisper idled, oft did he call, For ‘Someone! Someone!’ to do his bidding, Like some fag in an ancient college hall, Our names expunged amid