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

Listen to: Let me buy you a beer... Let me buy you a beer and I'll tell you about it, Oh, I could have happily poisoned the blasted Chief Engineer, and although I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t, it's possible I did, and I didn’t really care. In the tortuous heat of the Yemeni summer, I was glad to leave the sun-baked deck where the ship’s searing hot steelwork burned my skin at the slightest touch. I headed to the ‘tween decks and the musty stink of the lower hold to check that the cargo for Aden, from London and Bremen, was all put ashore. I climbed past the patty piles of steaming human shit, dumped at the manholes by the stevedores to stop us climbing down, so they could filch the cargo without being seen, and I gagged at the flies and maggots, swarming so close to my face. I watched the last few crates of cargo swayed aloft in nets from the deep lower hold to the dodgy-looking barges moored alongside, when I found three plastic bags, full of drugs, stashed in the shadows o

This free verse poem in sonnet form describes the events of one calm night in the Coral Sea aboard ‘Chengtu’. Listen to:  The Distress Flare I'd never seen a brighter, more flawless sky, until that cloudless night at sea revealed its host of glimmering, embroidered stars above a moonlit sea of sapphires. When a fiery red and silver flare flew skyward, and like poor Pheidippides arrived from ancient Athens’ Marathon, fulfilled its purpose, and exhausted died. Roused into action by the soaring flare, I altered course, and in our searchlight’s probing beam, I saw a fishing boat adrift, her crew near death from days without water. They had but one such flare to send aloft, and wept to know that one had saved their lives.

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 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 my fourth and final poem in the ‘Kildare’ series. The poem comes with a trigger warning for those who may be offended by some of the harsh realities of life. Listen to: A Run Ashore The smell of stale sweat and tropical damp pervaded the stairs and the grubby room, where we sat with our backs to the wall, dripping in a humid thirty degrees, with knees pressed hard against the bed, which entirely filled the dim-lit room. Mama-san appeared with two naked women, and opened us a bottle of Tiger beer each. They introduced themselves politely; I didn’t catch their bar-names or care, for they resembled Laurel and Hardy, Ollie, tall and plump; Stan, thin as a robber’s dog. The simple thought of a naked woman is often enough to prick the arousal of a roaming adolescent seaman. Yet Ollie and Stan inspired nothing in me, and I found my interest drained as complete as the beer in my bottle. I admit they presented a curious sight, for when Ollie produced a cucumber, mounte

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 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,  and 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 was pragmatic, and if I was ‘

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: 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

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: 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: 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

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 poem is a portrait of an Australian stevedore I once met as we both watched cargo being loaded onboard my ship for Papua New Guinea. New Guinea was a vicious and bloody theatre of the Second World War where ANZACs and Americans fought, often hand-to-hand, against their ferocious Japanese enemy.  Listen to: Portrait of an ANZAC The foreman stood beside the slewing crane; As he watched our cargo stowed below, Within the vessel's deep and gaping maw. His weathered face was deeply lined and tanned,  With once-bright grey eyes, now ageing and dimmed. 'You're loading for New Guinea, Mister Mate? We went up there in forty-two and three, To bloody Kokoda, Milne Bay and Lae.'  He raised his calloused hands for me to see  The cruel scars that bound his sinewed arms.  'I still succumb to vivid, hellish dreams; Sweat-soaked in fear and swallowed by the bush, I hack and hack and hack the kunai grass, That swishes, slashes and slices my skin, Then wade neck-deep through bloo

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.

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.