Poems By Simon Beechinor

This free verse poem is the second in the ‘Bothnia Star’ series. Listen to: The Insured The Greek sipped at his bitter black coffee, Perhaps hoping to find cash in the dregs. He sighed, gazing past me at the window, and the dreary London rain that softly patterned the glass with melancholy. His gaze returned to the BBC news, his voice tinged with disdain. ‘I have to say,’ growled the bullish old Greek, ‘They did a first rate job saving the ship,' I allowed his fulsome praise to wash over me, for I saw the 'but' roll in like the swell, ‘but,’ he glowered, ‘don't let ‘em do it again.’ ‘She’s worth six and you insured her for nine, Next time, just let the bloody thing sink!’

This relatively long free verse poem is loosely based on my autobiographical short story ‘Mayday’. It describes the events surrounding a ship with a timber cargo on one October night in the English Channel. For artistic reasons some details have been changed or omitted from the poem. Any resemblance to any events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Listen to: The Bothnia Star Part 1 - A Warning The letter and photos lay on my desk, sent from Archangelsk in Russia, by a frightened, but courageous young seaman with no one to turn to for help. The pictures were of two of our ships loaded at Baltic Sea ports, full and deep-laden with packs of sawn timber bound for the African coast. The sunlit waters of the western Med glittered and lapped at their main decks as they anchored after ten days at sea; then, I saw why he was pleading with me. Both ships were laden too deep in the water; their captains had risked their lives and those of their crews —for a bribe. They were but two

This poem, written in contemporary free verse, is the second in the 'Kildare' series. Listen to: When Mother Read The News Armed with a mug of instant coffee and a fag, my mother opened the Daily Telegraph , and read for a while, before her eyes fell on the brief article: ‘The British bulk carrier, “Kildare”, 153,000 tonnes dwt,  is reported missing in the Indian Ocean.  The crew are reported safe,  but the ship’s owners have provided no further details.’ She scanned the pages, sucking hard on her fag, drawing smoke deep into her lungs, urgently seeking a clue searching for news of her son, reaching for her mug, for something to do. The telephone rang, she flew to the phone; it was him, the nice man from the office. His courteous, soothing voice assured her we were all safe (we weren’t), though not yet in port. The nice man oozed with confidence; all would be well, (it was the ‘70s after all). She grumbled she’d seen the article before the courtesy of a telephone call, but she

This free verse poem, written in the form of a letter to my unborn son, explores my feelings of loss and loneliness when my pregnant wife and young son returned to the UK in readiness for our new arrival. Listen to: A Poem on Departure Dear Thomas, I should be used to being alone. My life has always been one of departures, but they’ve been my leavings; I have left others behind, and not always returned. Now I’ve arrived home, after taking your mother and brother to Jackson’s Airport, where for the first time it was I who was left behind. The airport was alive with raucous travellers and their wantoks , jostling and shoving through the crowd, with bulging bilums and striped nylon bags, and piglets squealing in woven grass cages. We entered the dilapidated terminal, where the babbling voices of the nervous crowd filled the departure hall, overwhelming the tannoy calling the flights in Tok Pisin , Women in meri-blouses and men in lap-laps exuded a fug of sour body odour and sweet buai ,

This free verse poem is written in the form of a letter to my two young children who were on holiday and in the UK without me. Listen to: A Game of Golf Dear James and Thomas, There’s an upside to being here alone, I have time to learn to play golf, but there’s a twist to the local game that’s born of poverty and culture too. Tribespeople are drifting from villages in the central highlands to the coastal plains, looking for work and a place to live. For want of anywhere to stay they’re building ramshackle settlements on open land, and one such camp runs parallel to the fifth fairway. The sun is harsh. By mid-morning it’s stinking hot, there’s little shade, no services and no water, even the greens are brown. The men have made primitive firearms, and roam in vicious gangs to attack and rob other tribes—of which we are one. They do it as a means of survival, but I’m sure they’ve a good sense of fun as well. When I tee-off at the fifth, I’m joined by a pair of security guards who accompa

 Listen to: No Kiss Goodnight I sat beside my father's old arm chair, As he read Treasure Island aloud to me; Each page he turned was like a lapping wave, Each chapter read, a flood or ebbing tide. The library book smelled as old books do; I smelled Flint’s hapless shipmate, Billy Bones, Awash in Widow Hawkins' untaxed rum, And tasted gun smoke on the salt-laced air. The rain dripped on the windowpane outside, I held my breath in mortal dread with Jim, As Blind Pew tapped along the cobbled lane, Steeped in menace, searching for old Flint's map. He closed the book with a resounding thud, Like cannon shot that barely passed me by, I stood up from the floor beside his chair, And leaned toward him to kiss him goodnight. For what fault of mine did he push me away? "You're too old for kisses now, child, to bed!" The room turned as cold as a Channel fog, And grief held fast this troubled boy’s heart. My bewildered child’s mind churned with doubt, Would I know my s