Memoirs In Verse

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.  

Listen to: I am Helene Should I tell you that my name's Helene? Or how I'd love to share your closest thoughts, or even as a lover, share your bed? Oh! Have you not seen my feelings for you? With your hand, you loosen your still-damp hair, your floral-scented copper hair that gleams with red and gold by morning's growing light. You gently comb and brush it through and through. You aren't long from the warmth of your bed as you sit beside me, with your make-up balanced across your knees to sculpt and paint the image of the woman your mirror sees. Yet you're perfect as you are; how I wish that I was the image of your desire. I turn to speak but feel my courage ebb; the train doors have opened at St.Pancras.

Listen to: A Sonnet for Speedy I've blighted many anxious lives today, For we must close as Asian markets crash. A softly-spoken older man did weep In grief and anguish at my futile words, For fear and terror stalked him as a child As he fled at first from the Rising Sun, And then the fevered chaos of Mao's Red Guard. Yet he was young and had, with luck, survived, But now he's terror-struck once more. He fears Empty days amid his Mong Kok high-rise, And pleads in tears for answers I can't give, 'Where will I go each day? What will I do? My life is here among you, my friends, Will you allow me to work here without pay?'

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.

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: 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: 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.

This poem is dedicated to unwilling butterflies everywhere. Listen to: Chrysanthemum's Song The season's first typhoon brought violent winds, And drenching torrents of storm-driven rain. Most people had gone home and left the streets, The shops and traders’ stalls, the bars and clubs Deserted, save for butterflies like me. While Mama-san cursed at the angry storm, I sang romantic ballads to my friends, And brushed aside their gentle-hearted teasing. The saddest songs soothed our wasted lives, And tightly bound our bonds of friendship. I sang a sad and bitter song of grief, Of a girl in bondage craving freedom, Denied her life, the chattel chooses death, And from her owner steals a vicious knife, And awaits her time to die—that girl was me. A young man appeared alone at our door As Mama-san worried at her profit. She'd gladly see the honest seaman skinned, She fussed and grumbled at the pouring rain, And led him childlike, by the hand to me. Before I left the stage to please