Poems By Simon Beechinor

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: 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.

Listen to: A Soliloquy on the Anga The people of this village, bound in time And place to earth, wave and greet me smiling, And hold me warm in courtesy's embrace. Well-favoured by distance does this village lie, Amid their valley's cool, grass-scented air. The fertile valley stretches broad and long; As morning’s rain gives rise to perfumed mist, With hints of lazy smoke from village fires, The voices of the village men returned From hunting, carry laughter through the hills. Yet what strange practice I witness here Beneath the sandstone hill-top's weathered brow; For watchful dead as if in judgement sit, With skin and tissue dry, like aged parchment, And watch their living kin through sightless eyes. Their bodies have their kin preserved by smoke, As smoke preserves their memory, good and ill, To rest upon a fragile, timber seat. Loved ones recall their lives, their loves and strife, And, as if living still, are they consoled. Oh, when will people grieve, if in their eyes

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: 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. How men endure the winds of war like leaves, For some will fall before their season's due. Have you, my spring bud, emerged to leaf Yet fall 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 you

Listen to: After Surgery Like stranded Gulliver I stir, held fast By moorings, helpless on a foreign shore. Kind voices flutter by with gentle hands, That whisper words I know yet can't arrange. An unseen soul tends the ties that bind me, As the gardener tends the wayward rose. She takes her careful turns and turns about, To lift the weeds and mind this wilted bloom. The monitor's songbird sings a simple call, As pain prowls at the borders of my dreams. One pricking press of the gardener's thorn, And lovers loom to stand before my eyes! The mirror’s image returns a ghastly man, Whose ill-found features grieve my wounded pride. A kindly woman claims her God will help, My Faith?—My surgeon holds my faith complete.

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.

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.