Memoirs In Verse

I often visit the Merchant Navy memorial at Tower Hill and have written this free verse poem to commemorate all the merchant seamen who lost their lives in the service of this country. Listen to: At Tower Hill If you need to ask who or what we were, stand here at Tower Hill and read the names, of merchant seamen with no grave but the sea, and walk with me—I’ll show you how we died. So come and take this heavy woollen duffle that's worn and patched and draggled with damp, and tie my old frayed scarf about your neck, pull low your cap, and mind the bitter cold. Stand beside me at the main deck coamings, and see our general cargo stowed below; this is why we’re hunted by the wolf-packs, and must endure the fear that haunts the prey. Bales of cotton and wool are stowed in the wings, crates of bullion, gold for the Bank, tinned food, vehicles, spares and engine parts, And tons of munitions fill the hatch squares. When we're at sea and day is turned to night, and the dark's compl

This poem is dedicated to my belovèd. Written in  sonnet form, the poem invites the reader to consider ageing by the extended metaphor of nature's tidal rhythms, to arrive at a place of acceptance and even anticipation for what each new ‘tide’ of life might bring. Listen to:  A Sonnet on Ageing No longer will I heed my years advancing, But measure life by what I’ve done instead, For deeds, like tides, usher in my future, To leave my past exposed upon their ebb. For the flooding tides that shape this life lived, Will turn heedless of my hopes or damage wrought, And by their rhyming touch, the tides demand  No celebration but relentless change.  Such tides convey my fortunes, and scour  My shore, until by subtle shift each ebb   Reveals new gifts, of soft grained golden sands, The sea-worn shingle, and perhaps a pearl.  So walk with me along the high tide mark, We'll see what gifts this morning's tide has brought.

 Listen to: A Sonnet On Reunion This free verse poem in sonnet form was written following my reunion with three of the seven other cadets with whom I first went to sea in 1975. I left life's fuss outside, like muddied shoes, And stoked the embers of my memory To spark with laughter at our meeting, How bittersweet it was to greet old friends. Barely familiar were those life-lived faces, And yet, by smile or turn of phrase or look, I swiftly sped through fifty fleeting years, To find those men the decent friends they were. We lived hard lives and lived so brightly then, Yet though I've lived more full and vibrant since, Those friends gave meaning to my restless youth, Far more than anyone or place I’d known. We went to sea as boys and they remain As men, the friends I knew and know once more.

Listen to:  The Horse Chestnut Tree Oh, horse chestnut tree, friend of my tender years, By autumn's sunlight how sublime you seem. Unspoiled by time or bleeding canker’s lesions, You stand in perfect mellow beauty poised, Amid this season’s early falling leaves. Do you remember me—the guiltless child, Who played each endless-seeming summer's day, Beneath your broad, full-leafed and rounded crown, Awaiting autumn's amber-turning leaves, To gather your gift to life—your spiny husks? In waking, stirring breezes, I tossed sticks At your low boughs that bent toward the earth, To cause your pricking, bright green fruit to fall For birds and creatures small to feed, and me  To peel, and hoard the shining seeds within. Now, as I stand beneath your boughs, once more Among your rustling leaves, I hear your voice: I remember your lonely childhood games; I’d smile at each affronted pigeon’s call, And the wise, plump brown tawny owl stayed hid; I welcomed you and your gambolling dog, An

Listen to: A Sonnet to Sleep I yearn to lie with longed-for Sleep at dawn, Her gentle hands to shade my eyes from light, And hear her sing her sweet enchanting song, To soothe and calm the turmoil of my mind. Oh, weary night, allow me rest by day, To lie in perfect, peaceful ease with Sleep, Let her pillowed breast hide my secret tears, Her arms to hold my looming conscious cares. For when my mind does spin like autumn leaves, My wakeful conscience with fatigue conspires, To deny my hearing Sleep’s lulling call, And she ignores my aching soul’s desires. Shush—What siren's lullaby is this I hear? Oh, blessed Sleep, come close, and close my eyes.

Listen to: The Beauty of the Sea Your flawless beauty wears a timeless gift, Of grace unchanged by fair or sullen mood, As nature's whims do veer or back the winds That soothe or rage upon your naked breast. Though splendour lies upon your face unspoiled, More perfect beauty lies within your depths, For there the source of life on Earth does dwell, No beauty found in nature betters yours. How sad so many men your trove ignore, For as women bear tender life to live, This life, all beauty here on Earth is yours And you give life to every living thing. How corrupt are they whom we must compel To understand and mind your beauty well.

This sonnet is for Beverley and Peter and all those giving shelter to  refugees. Listen to:  A Sonnet on Kindness What shadowed fate or terrors hide, unseen By gentle people driven from their homes? What storming waves break hard upon the hulls, Of those amid the sea's uncharted shoals? The unknown shore may be a hostile shore, Scoured by wild, unreasoned winds of fate That back or veer with careless favour, And absent the loom of Compassion's light. Your kindness offers a welcome landfall For those whose course remains uncertain yet. Your care is the salvor of their dignity, Your shelter, the safe harbour of their hope. What greater gift than life may kindness give? For by your lesson so will others live.

Listen to:  Autumn Takes My Hand Autumn takes my hand to meet grim winter, Northward, far from where the sultry tropics lie; Winds stir and wake the grey, slumbering sea, For now, their foul temper holds sweet and fair. At sea no turning leaves or autumn fruits Gild my way to a looming twilight hearth; No playful seeming nuthatch hides a hoard, But sunset draws her sullen shadows in. Like summer now, my life at sea is done, Though loath to leave I shall not linger long As winter’s night is loath to leave the day, And shall leave this ship before winter bites. With luck to watch migrating birds fly south, And to sleep without danger’s gnawing doubt.

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. Listen to: 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 ni

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 fu

Listen to: A Sonnet for Thomas As surely as your compass holds true North, My love for you is constant as the stars Are present, even by the light of day; Heed well Polaris, mind my faithful friends. Fear not the rough and rising seas ahead, Brought by the winter season's winds that rage, For as the scudding clouds that hide the stars, The skies will clear and heavy seas abate. Take care of all you need and learned from me, When like the outbound ship your course is set; For when I leave you at the fairway buoy, No longer shall you have this pilot's hand. My steadfast friends shall keep my love for you, They know you are this loving pilot's son.

Listen to: A Sonnet for James Oh you are life to me, as spring's flood tide Does bring to feeding birds; where rising airs Of salt and seaweed greet their hearts with joy, For feeding then they are, like me, content. As sure as the flooding tides bring plenty, And help our laden ships homeward bound, My constant love for you does so endure; But how the daily brimming tides bring change. For at the reach of flood, the ebb must come, And life and love like mine be swept away. Grieve not, your wife and child have bounty brought; They shall sustain you as the tide does turn. Let each coming tide remind you of my love, And how I loved and lived, and lived complete.

Listen to: An Elegy for an Old Friend Once loved, yet faded like a well-read book, Its woven linen cover marked by use, With pages stained by passing years and loose, You became my cherished and trusted friend. How you with grace and gentle manner’s key, Unlocked the cloistered halls of civil power, And thus fulfilled my pressing need to know, If there the seeds of honest purpose flowered. As lively prose springs from the favoured book, Your cheering words brought light to gloomy days, With keen wit you unlocked my cool reserve, And as does well-wrought prose, enriched my life. Death doubtless claims your lifeless body's soul, But he'll not dare your Yorkshire wit control!

This poem is dedicated to the people of Ukraine.  Listen to: Nadya Goes to War Argyll Street glitters in the warm, soft rain, where Nadya's hawking her papers to the crowd, selling the news of people and places, from her pitch by the Palladium’s doors. She grins and waves away my offered coins; she's sad—we won't meet again, she sighs. They need her at home, though her home's destroyed; a tear belies the sadness in her eyes. Nadya brims with life, with hope and plans; perhaps her future's bleak, but who can tell? In sorrow I grasp her soft, extended hand, with all my heart, I wish her safe and well.      That smiling girl insists she must return,      Nadya the anaesthetist is going to war.  

This sonnet is intended as a tongue-in-cheek reflection on my transition through puberty. It is written (with exceptions) in iambic pentameter with an abab cdcd efef gg rhyme. I’ve used classical references to compare myself to Michelangelo’s ‘David’. ‘Bianco ordinario’ is a second-grade marble that Michelangelo used for David. ‘Contrapposto’ is a pose whereby the hips and shoulders lie at opposing angles with the body’s weight bearing on one leg. ‘Abbozzo’ is a rough-hewn draft or model, and a ‘blocco di marmo’ is a raw, unshaped block. Listen to: Portrait of the poet as a young man I, a preening youth before my window, glimpsed a likeness of David, well-favoured, with flesh sublime in bianco ordinario , my face, an image of resolve unfettered. My limbs, like David's graceful contours, framed my ripened fruit beneath budding flowers, and puberty’s change to manhood proclaimed my nascent ardour for impassioned lovers. And like a muse in studied contrapposto , opposing my sculpted h

Listen to: The Cry of the Bishop Rock 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. When 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 call of warning. I loved to look upon those unbounded seas and their palette of blues and greens. The mornings draped in muted, dream-like pewter greys and shades of blue that touched the shallows’ green as shrouded sunlight played upon the tranquil sea. How I longed to join thos

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. Listen to: At Eston Cemetery 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

Listen to: A Poems Love 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.

Listen to: The English Refugee 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

Listen to: Sallie Doubt, like winter brings, A chill darkness to my day, Yet fair spring emerges.