Memoirs In Verse

This free verse poem remembers the occasion when, as an eighteen year old apprentice, my mother drove me to join 'Strathnairn', my fourth ship, in London's Royal Albert dock. Listen to: Farewell To My Mother I sat nervous and wary of the unknown as she drove me to London and the docks. I was still young, a youth, and immature enough to suffer a boy’s irrational dread of being seen in public with his mother. And I was ashamed of her ancient car, and felt that we trespassed as we clattered through the City, along those famous streets, past grand weathered buildings, still soot-blackened by years of coal fires, industry—and war. At the dock gates the IRA's bombs had failed to stir the police into vigilance. They stayed dry out of the summer drizzle, waving us through with barely a glance to where, like her car, everything was worn-out. The once-thriving dock seemed abandoned then, but for two or three ships idle alongside. The warehouses were silent and empty, or ruined,

This relatively long free verse poem is 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 of thr

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!’

Listen to: Portrait of a Shipowner The old Greek added sugar to his cup and stirred, and tapped his spoon against the rim; his keen mind turning like the Cuban coffee that purled, fragrant, dark and rich before him. He'd lunched with English merchants who despised 'the Pleb from Chios', yet winced as he carved fine slices from the rump of their fleets, and devoured their post-war prosperity. He mused the English must be deluded, and sipped, in contemplation, from his cup. He pulled his last Karelia from the pack, thumbed his lighter, drew deeply and sighed. Their folly was their reliance on cargo to haul from port to port and ballast back; But the Greek used cargo to pay down loans, buy ships cheaply and sell them on the rise. They knew little of nothing, thought the Greek. He drained his cup and pushed his filter hard into the ashtray. He pitied the English, adrift like flotsam on an ebbing tide.

Listen to: Last Train from St.Pancras You sit chattering brightly beside me, In the damp and warmth of the empty train, While rhythm and rhyme of the railway track Pass in rubato with the tumbling rain. Familiar stations passing stop-start by; You rummage a half-bottle from your bag, And with a smile offer some pinot noir, But pause, like raindrops on a window pane. You speak a hidden truth we seldom hear, “I only drink to feel like I belong, To be the girl my friends expect,” Gently, I decline and quietly listen. I watch your tears run and gild your skin, And hope you'll find the strength you need within.

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 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. Listen to: The Stevedore The city docks stand idle and forlorn,  Old wharves and 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 dock foremen call,  For gangs of men for that day’s labouring? The city docks stand idle and forlorn.  Or board the Kiwi meat-boat in the morn,  Her holds packed full, ready for unloading?  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 f