Poems By Simon Beechinor

Listen to: Clydeside Steel It's better my faith rests with Clydeside steel, Than heaven's careless, unworthy deity, For fickle and uncertain, He remains. I shall upon my faith rely, to pass Through endless winter's furious winds, that blast And seek to wrest my faith from feeble grasp, As monstrous seas reach out in frenzied rage, To drag faith deep, faith’s grim resolve to test. Yet at winter's end does spring emerge, When clouds as grim and black as granite tors, Do fade and clothe the sky in grey and white, And boisterous spring her veiled rain does bring, And fury then gives way to safer seas; Until then—keep faith with Clydeside steel.

This is the first poem in the 'Kildare' series. Listen to: Joining 'Kildare' The dawn led day still deeper into winter, as biting northerly winds drove rain hard across the port in chill, translucent shrouds, that veiled the dormant hulks beside the piers, laden with cheerless cargoes of iron ore. Crane grabs dipped within their open holds to pluck the piles of red metallic ore. Like hungry, raucous crows, they seemed to feed, preying on some drawn and rotting carcass, leaving nought but steel and ribs exposed. My new world of conveyors, cranes, and ships was painted dull, in red-black monochrome, with a sodden slurry of fines of ore, that fouled my skin, the ground, and rusting steel, its tireless industry jarred my senses. I shrank, shivering from cold and nerves, deeper in my coat as grime-covered men lowered the gangway to the muddy pier. I climbed on deck, unknowing and unknown, to join ‘Kildare’, bound for God-knows-where.

Listen to: Siren of the Celebes Perhaps I knew more of the captain's death than the troubled mate's report revealed. I'd seen his tired eyes some days before, and though not last to see the man alive, had I borne witness to his suicide? I looked across the bay beyond the port, and shaded my eyes as the setting sun dipped beyond the dry and distant hills, and I grew chilled, unsettled, as I read, for doubt with guilt conspired in my mind. All captains bear a burden in command;  in time, their lonely duty wears them down. Yet, how could I have better helped the man? Had he conveyed such grim intentions then? What might I learn by hindsight's perfect lens? I turned the page of that report and read on… ‘...1900 hrs: the captain dined with the officers as usual. He chatted with the chief about the spares needed for the engine room, all the usual maintenance and routine things. …2000 hrs: The third mate took over the watch. The captain joined him on the bridge, checked all

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: Portrait of a Ship's Captain 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 look pig-ugly and brutish, His nose is as red as a ship's port side-light. He’s an old Asia hand, and once-vibrant coloured Blue and red dragon tattoos curl around his thick arms, With fading Chinese characters on his fore

For Annabel Listen to: Ode to a Pilgrim 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 the boundless ocean, While I employed mean time and precious sextant, To grope my way amidst the sun and stars. My feeble feats of ordinary pilotage, Were naught to such profound and subtle sense

Listen to: Dawn at Sea 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 subtle dawn with the faintest hint of light, I closely watch that labyrinthine pristine coast. A rain-laden sky emerges from the morning mists, In painted hues of grey, apricot and pink, Unveiling a world of secrets hidden by the night. The air hangs humid, heavy with the tang of salt, And fragrant with the morning smoke of village fires, I closely watch that labyrinthine pristine coast. The darkness vanquished by the cloudy light of day, They paddle canoes from the shore to greet us,  To reveal a world of secrets hidden by the night. The day brightens to their wantoks' murmured greetings, As our sailors gather to hear the news from home, I closely watch that labyrinthine pristine coast, And see a world of secrets hidden by the night.

Listen to: Dusk at Sea 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 her ne’er far away.

Listen to: Noon at Sea The sun spurns the landsman’s mark, Of the clock tower’s hourly chime, To follow her diurnal path, And to her glorious zenith climb. I, braced against the deck’s,  Unruly heaving, pitch and roll, Stand bullied by the biting wind, To hold her in my sextant’s eye.  I thrill at her stately progress, Towards the summit of the day,  And bear witness to her crossing, My meridian on her way.

Listen to: Medevac 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 whip about our faces, Beneath the rotors’ rhythmic beating, we calm the diver’s fears. We check his weeping wounds for the blood is seeping through, He’s in shock; we’ve stitched him badly. We wipe away his tears. Thank God, the chopper beats beside us in the hot and humid air. Thumbs up! We have seconds. By Christ, it’s

Listen to:  The Monsoon Break On An Oil Field Our ship’s alone; for endless days, we’ve toiled, Nurturing those mighty flowers of industry, Their roots searching within the Earth for oil, That hellish ichor of nature’s ancient husbandry. We watched Zephyrs herald the summer’s tumult, And fair cumulus obey the season’s call to fly, Among the warm monsoon’s embrace, exulting, Joyful beneath the blue-mantled ocean’s sky. Throughout sweet May, the monsoon gathered, And compelled Fair Weather to abdicate her throne, She leaves us among the lonely platforms, clustered, As a flock around their shepherd, watchful but alone. Helicopters drone on their final flights like bees, To dip among the blooms, shimmering in the heat, The rhythm of their wings beating in the breeze, And carry home their drowsy weight replete. A host of Nimbus crowds the darkening skies, Rain, at last, spills from that brooding refuge, In silvered cascades; for millions, a joyful reprise, Of the summer’s gift, a life-susta

Listen to: Killing the Cook A rage of hideous screaming stirs and hastens me below, The cook babbles, pleading in a banshee’s cry of dread, A hair’s breadth line of blood beneath his fleshy jaw does show, 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!’

Listen to: 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 weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn.