Memoirs In Verse

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Private Thomas O’Callaghan of the Royal Irish Rifles, who was killed in action on 9th September 1916 on the Somme at Ginchy, and of his twin brother Private Patrick O’Callaghan who served with the Royal Iniskilling Fusiliers until November 1917.  Thomas has no grave and is recorded among the missing at Thiepval. Patrick was invalided out of the army, suffering a 50% disability caused by ‘neurasthenia and dementia’ directly attributable to his war service. In the 1920s, his disability allowance was increased to 100%, and he died unmarried in 1947. Listen to: At Thiepval My name’s here, O’Callaghan, T., carved deep In timeless Portland stone, ‘lest you forget’. For years, I've looked across those bloodied fields,  And wished you’d come and stand with me. The guns are silent now; only mourners trudge Past the serried lines of missing men. Stand by my side and let the autumn breeze Be my voice in our storied sepulchral hall. Near Ginchy on the ni

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Peter Irving Listen to: Portrait of a Chief Engineer He resembled an orchestra's conductor, Our beloved, double-headed* chief engineer. A grafter, trained in shipyards; decent and fair, He was the heart of all that we held dear. When the engine room roared with raucous sound, And his machinery beat its loud tattoo, It held a rhythmic melody he loved, The harmony, and rhythm of the screw. He was Cammell Laird’s man, both born and bred, A quiet one, that none dared muck about; The Chief's dismay would linger on a man, Like the morning after a night on the stout. Down in the pit beside our beating heart, He'd stand as a maestro would practice his score, Amid the woodwind section, strings and brass, Damning the fuel pump that played out of tune. He’d prowl among the engines day and night, And tap and flick at a fluttering gauge, To harmonise the sections to play as one, Like the maestro, the master of the stage. In fan-blasted heat and fu

Listen to: Buluma in the Morning As day begins, the Artist renders dawn, Bringing daylight to shade as twilight yields. With swift hand, he captures the spectral light, To paint a misted veil upon the morn. How still he paints that pearled morning air, That drapes his dawn of apricot and pink. By deft brushwork he portrays the mangroves, With warm and fragrant breaths of air respiring. His art evokes the scent of village fires, Curling wood smoke I taste upon my lips, The ship's steel, cool and damp beneath my hands, The rust-flecked decks made wet by morning's dew. His labour brings the clearer hues of day, To paint a looming sky that threatens rain. A boat wreathed in smoke putters from the shore, Towing mahogany, that glistens bronze. Naked sailors swim about the giant trees, To bind their girth with cargo slings for loading. The hatchmen make ready the derricks’ hooks, And hoist the logs, cascading from the sea. But gilded bronze in the ageing timber's marks, Makes me a

Listen to: A Sonnet for Halley's Comet The passing of a distant ship is brief, A moment's glint of light upon the sea, Perhaps all I learn of her plodding course, Yet you keep lofty station close by me. Your growing splendour heralds your return, With rich displays of pure astronomy. As landsmen slumber idle in their beds, What wealth and beauty you reveal to me. While I behold your passage bright and clear, For weeks upon this ocean's starlit way, And though past perihelion you will fade, Pray, keep me company until that day. For blessed is this mariner and poet, To sail with the vagrant Halley's Comet—the Harbinger of Change.

This is a poem of a letter that my grandmother, who was a nurse in World War 1, may have written to Robert Whiteside. Lt. R.P. Whiteside is known to have been killed at Arras in April 1917 four months after the photograph below was taken…my grandmother was 21 years old. In 2023, we paid our respects to Robert at the memorial to the missing at Arras. Listen to: A Sonnet to Robert Whiteside My Dearest Robert, I have few words for such is my despair, At the news that you are posted missing. The words are like a bayonet to my breast, That deeply wounds but does not let me die. Men must endure the winds of war like leaves, And some will fall before their season's due, Have you, my spring bud, emerged to leaf, Yet fallen as the golden leaves of autumn lie? I shall keep faith with every passing day, And each beat of this loving woman's heart. By this hearth shall I keep a soldier's watch, And tend the fires of love for your return. Oh, I shall wait for you and shall not tire, For

Listen to: Batman and Robin Mine is a tale of wonders untold, From Ko Tong Ha Yeung in China, Of two young knights, fearless and bold Named Batman and Robin Boy Wonder,   Long before the Penguin and Joker, Batman mauled the banded krait, Red-necked keelback and hooded cobra, Oh, how that brave knight could fight! Robin ne'er feared the stinging viper, The python, foul millipede or bullfrog, He shed no childish tears when bitten,  On the bum, by Fang, the village dog. But holy pawpaws, I must be mistaken, That was their loving mum, my wife - not them! Who cares? Not one of them was shaken,  So, all three are my superheroes, then!

Listen to: Portrait of a strangely-dressed man The range of jade-green peaks unfolded before me Towards a horizon shrouded by a curtain of haze. The mist caught the morning sun in a fleeting rainbow, To gild the stone village homes in the valley below. He emerged from the bush, shifting uncomfortably From one foot to another, brushing off some grass, Tugging at his cheap, unfamiliar polyester suit, Smoothing wrinkles, giving the lie to his anxiety. Beneath his straight dark hair, fear and uncertainty Clouded his pale, angular face. I greeted him, smiling; He bowed, uncomprehending and hesitant, incongruous In his dark suit, days-old white shirt and narrow black tie. He made a futile effort to clean his plastic ‘city’ shoes, Keeping his black briefcase beside him, like a child’s toy, Expectant, as if hoping to bag a seat on a crowded train. We stood staring at one another, neither posing a threat. I pointed to the sea and the mainland’s far distant hills, He smiled in guilt and waved a

Listen to: A Sonnet for Thomas As surely as your compass holds true North, My love for you is constant as the stars Are present, even by the light of day; Heed well Polaris, mind my faithful friends. Fear not the rough and rising seas ahead, Brought by the winter season's winds that rage, For as the scudding clouds that hide the stars, The skies will clear and heavy seas abate. Take care of all you need and learned from me, When like the outbound ship your course is set; For when I leave you at the fairway buoy, No longer shall you have this pilot's hand. My steadfast friends shall keep my love for you, They know you are this loving pilot's son.

Listen to: A Sonnet for James Oh you are life to me, as spring's flood tide Does bring to feeding birds; where rising airs Of salt and seaweed greet their hearts with joy, For feeding then they are, like me, content. As sure as the flooding tides bring plenty, And help our laden ships homeward bound, My constant love for you does so endure; But how the daily brimming tides bring change. For at the reach of flood, the ebb must come, And life and love like mine be swept away. Grieve not, your wife and child have bounty brought; They shall sustain you as the tide does turn. Let each coming tide remind you of my love, And how I loved and lived, and lived complete.

Listen to: An Elegy for an Old Friend Once loved, yet faded like a well-read book, Its woven linen cover marked by use, With pages stained by passing years and loose, You became my cherished and trusted friend. How you with grace and gentle manner’s key, Unlocked the cloistered halls of civil power, And thus fulfilled my pressing need to know, If there the seeds of honest purpose flowered. As lively prose springs from the favoured book, Your cheering words brought light to gloomy days, With keen wit you unlocked my cool reserve, And as does well-wrought prose, enriched my life. Death doubtless claims your lifeless body's soul, But he'll not dare your Yorkshire wit control!