Portrait of a Chief Engineer
This poem is dedicated to the memory of Peter Irving
Listen to: Portrait of a Chief Engineer
He resembled an orchestra's conductor,
Our beloved, double-headed* chief engineer.
A grafter, trained in shipyards; decent and fair,
He was the heart of all that we held dear.
When the engine room roared with raucous sound,
And his machinery beat its loud tattoo,
It held a rhythmic melody he loved,
The harmony, and rhythm of the screw.
He was Cammell Laird’s man, both born and bred,
A quiet one, that none dared muck about;
The Chief's dismay would linger on a man,
Like the morning after a night on the stout.
Down in the pit beside our beating heart,
He'd stand as a maestro would practice his score,
Amid the woodwind section, strings and brass,
Damning the fuel pump that played out of tune.
He’d prowl among the engines day and night,
And tap and flick at a fluttering gauge,
To harmonise the sections to play as one,
Like the maestro, the master of the stage.
In fan-blasted heat and fuel-tainted air,
He played loud the music he loved to play,
The clamouring, deafening and drumbeat din,
Of a Houlder Brothers cargo ship making way.
Ours is a hard, lonely way of life,
A constant cycle of leaving and return,
His wife and children missed and needed him,
And he missed the pleasures of home in turn.
For years he’d tramped and traipsed around the globe,
Playing the music he’d played all his life,
But the call of home is a siren's call,
And aye, in time, a man heeds his wife.
(*) The expression ‘double-headed’ refers to a senior officer
and highly experienced engineer who is qualified
in both steam and motor vessels.
He resembled an orchestra's conductor,
Our beloved, double-headed* chief engineer.
A grafter, trained in shipyards; decent and fair,
He was the heart of all that we held dear.
When the engine room roared with raucous sound,
And his machinery beat its loud tattoo,
It held a rhythmic melody he loved,
The harmony, and rhythm of the screw.
He was Cammell Laird’s man, both born and bred,
A quiet one, that none dared muck about;
The Chief's dismay would linger on a man,
Like the morning after a night on the stout.
Down in the pit beside our beating heart,
He'd stand as a maestro would practice his score,
Amid the woodwind section, strings and brass,
Damning the fuel pump that played out of tune.
He’d prowl among the engines day and night,
And tap and flick at a fluttering gauge,
To harmonise the sections to play as one,
Like the maestro, the master of the stage.
In fan-blasted heat and fuel-tainted air,
He played loud the music he loved to play,
The clamouring, deafening and drumbeat din,
Of a Houlder Brothers cargo ship making way.
Ours is a hard, lonely way of life,
A constant cycle of leaving and return,
His wife and children missed and needed him,
And he missed the pleasures of home in turn.
For years he’d tramped and traipsed around the globe,
Playing the music he’d played all his life,
But the call of home is a siren's call,
And aye, in time, a man heeds his wife.
(*) The expression ‘double-headed’ refers to a senior officer
and highly experienced engineer who is qualified
in both steam and motor vessels.
Comments
Would tentatively suggest you replace 'muck about' with something else though - that phrase seems as elegant as the rest of the verse