Poems Indu

POETS CORNER
a small collection of poetry by popular demand, as one person described it as "industrial poetry" This corner is dedicated to Iwona and Jeannet who are responsible for my writing in the first place. Further poetry is in the NFASSADA section.

Princes Dock

Walk out on to the quiet cold deck
Standing against the wet wooden rail
The cold mercury blue light, spills over the dockside wall
Dark unseen water, pale dockside carved granite
Beyond the warehouses one hears the muffled buzz of the city
The clock below the floodlit Liver Birds strikes ten
Suddenly without notice the deck begins to tremble
A shout, a response, the dock hand lifts the coils of rope
As it slithers into the abyss with a splash
Whining capstans quickly retrieve the wet dripping warp
With a deep thunder, white water crosses the dock
Striking the far side and turning back on itself , echoing against the granite walls
She slowly edges herself away from the quay wall, slipping slowly through the dock
Past empty ships and full warehouses, gaunt cranes stretch up out of sight
The lights of New Brighton hove into view, now clear beyond the black Mersey
A keen wind bearing the scent of salt and unknown washes over the ship
As she turns to face the night
Shuddering as the waves force their relentless way past
Its time to go down below in the warmth, think of home and have a Guinness.

Dermot, March 1996
Originally written as an essay in 1965/6

African Rock

Riches of ore from Africa
Brought to Hamilton on a trim Norwegian blue ship
Gleaming new paint, freshly greased cables
As you mount the deck two stories high
You feel the faint throb of the generators deep below

Holds open hungrily await as
Two yellow cranes, roaring as they haul high
The grab buckets dancing over the quay
Plunge ready to bite into the bowels of the ship
One uplifting black sparkling chromite ore
Black silver glittering in the floodlights
The other a heavy dusty manganese

Swinging over the dock, buckets belly opens
Falling in symmetrical cones
Like pebbles rushing down the beach
In a surf of dense brown smoke and noise
Winds blowing past sweep the dock
Fed by the buckets, the two piles grow high

Then silence reigns on the quay
Peering over the edge you watch
Deep down tiny men shovel loose rock aside
Stripped the welded steel to reveal more manganese
Filleted neatly into the curved sides of the ship

From the Bushveld in tropical Africa
To Hamilton’s cold shore
Through South and North Atlantic oceans
St Lawrence and Lake Ontario
To make the specialist steels
That support the steel cities commerce

Dermot, October 1998

Industrial Poems

Off Cowes

As the bow rises to meet the Solents buff waves

of wind against tide streaming down channel from Spithead
Gurnard, Keel and Kemp strain at the chains below
Oh! for such a day, may the winds steadily blow

Dermot, April 98

City By The Lake

The scream of metal on metal
As she rocks around the curve
Bound for Midway along the elevated track
The roar echoes down the canyon

Yellow and green darting between each other
Rumble rumble as one goes across the river
It’s icy, brake if you dare
I tried once and nearly broke the car

Under Whacker they turn in for the night
Hancock and Sears guardians of the clouds
Majestic in size and stature
Others just stand silent hoping to be noticed

At Clinton street crossing the Metra snakes by
Thousands of bodies are hustled in and out
Dark cavern of Union is as welcome as night
The great hall brings a cathederal peace to it all

Down by the lake the yacht club tugs at her mooring
Looking through a porthole, watching the city at night
The smell of polished wood, ship and childhood dreams
The ice pack only fifty yards away

Trees outlined by light
Reflected in the virgin snow
Empty streets now silent to
Only the buildings are awake, steaming and aware

Dermot, Chicago, March 1997

Four Points of the Compass

To the South, mountain brow frowning
Divides the city
Overlooking the canopy of trees
Chris crossed with continuous escalators
Carrying people and cars
Up to the bedroom and outlying areas
Away from the bright city lights

To the east, lines of little houses
Streets no longer straight, follow the routes of old
Parks and the expresswayless ravine
Relieve the flat landscape
Factories like boxes gobbel up the vinyards

In the centre, streets with their one way flows
The best in North America
King and Main feeding the centre
With its markets, squares and urban parks
Five lanes of obedient cars
Controlled by computer friendly traffic lights
Servicing the hungry core

To the North, harbour of water or ice
Dominated by steelworks never sleeping
The assertive roar of the furnace
Pillars of blue flame at night
By day red dust hangs in the air
Mountains of hot sinter like dragons gold lie
Here the city pride and poison smoulders

To the West, the geese rise swonking
As the sun sets behind the high level bridge
The yachts bob, clanking rigging
Awaiting their next race
The students laughter on a hot summer night
The clink of glasses, serious flirtation
And posing on the patios of Hess village

Dermot, Hamilton, September 1996

Annapolis Nights

Four thousand marching in white
Men tall, men short, men big
Women tall, woman small, woman big
Panti lines clearly show through

Four thousand off to the game
Serried ranks of twelve by twelve
Bands interspersed to help them on their way
March on up the street as we all watch in respect

Annapolis nights screaming sirens
of an overactive police force
Occasional boom of the naval cannon
The games going well 32-6
As we sit with cicadas beyond the screen
Breaking crabs the Maryland way

Dermot, September 1997

Maryland town

Apologies to Williamsport

The cold night air silent
like a shroud across the throat
Quiet empty houses
Broken down pickup truck
Clapboard peeling paint

West Virginia border winks
Across the river
Come across it beckons
The silence hurts
The light of the bar offers relief
Dare you push on the door
Rednecks you have heard of
Now you are about to become one

Dermot, February 1997

The Offshore Race

Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump
the hull smacks the waves
each smack reverberating through you,
thump, crash, splash
the water streaks down from the submerged bow
towards you, you brace yourself,
water runs off your hood into your eyes, mouth
inside your hood, down your neck meeting the sodden clothes below

Thump, Thump,
Its a black night, black is the sea, black is the sky, only the grey sail towering above you, and the occasional phosphorescent breaking waves, pools of illuminous green
the pale lights of the instruments and compass
The creamy phosphorescent wake reminds you that you are moving forward

Thump, Thump,
salt stings your eyes, crusts up your face, you want to sleep,
clutching the guard rail bracing yourself against the motion of the boat
the backs of the knees now a dull ache,
shoulders sore from the constant snatch as the boat crashes through and over the waves

Thump, Thump,
you concentrate on the compass, 065,050,075
endless numbers, the main sail, bow, sky, compass, bow, sky
try to stay awake, the rudder snatches at your hand
correct, push, pull, not to much, bow slips off the unseen wave
pull, push, pull, get the flow back, you can't
now you shout DUMP, DUMP, DUMP THE MAIN!
The main sheet is released, relief the bow comes back up,
your arm no longer torn out of its socket,
concentrate, stinging eyes, tiredness, 30 minutes to go.

Thump, Thump,
The hour of the wolf, cold grey sky lights up the horizon
to weather a lighter shadow 5 miles? 8 miles away?
we are not alone, nor are we in the lead
The waves are now distinct, moving mountains, but not in ranges
big ones, small ones, and even bigger ones
like dark grey moguls marching on, silent ever changing
a petrel darts between them, lost behind one, appearing again.

Thump, Thump,
a restless crew search the horizon for EC2, one mile away according to GPS
eyes strain to see, there, no, yes,
gradually it becomes obvious, dancing and moaning
tall yet small, waves surging around its base,
as it wallows, flashing and emitting its mournful wail
ARE WE READY, EN Y VA

Shock, Splash, Creak, Groan
the sheets are eased, the speed increases, the buoy rushes towards us at a seemingly fast pace
All aboard are tensed for the coming rush of activity, bodies that have been inert for seven hours ready to act
POLE UP, SPI GO, SHEET, SHEET, GUY
Crack, bang, roar, winches spin, runners go, blocks snatch, sheets strain
Red spinnaker fills the sky, snatching at the wind, straining to pull the boat along

Surge, Gurgle, Surge, Roar
The wave pattern changes, we are now surging down the valleys,
no longer punching into the waves, rolling over a crest of continuous boiling surf
the wake is now fast and furious
Twin furrows leave the transom, deep green with bubbles of cream effervescence to the side
spiralling up from the dark green depths
30 miles to waypoint 6, then 5 miles to Gilkicker, the finish.

Dermot , Racing Citroen in English channel, February 1996.

Amtrak’s Lament

The mournful wail of the horn
The train is coming to town
In anticipation the clanging bells start
As barriers come down
Artfull dodgers wave to miss the descending lances
16 cylinders of thunder blast by
Swinging behind a stainless silver courtage

Bouncing along the track at 2.3 million a piece
They want to promote exclusive comfort
Feeling every corrugation in the track
Relentlessly into the night she blows
Trying as hard as she can to get there on time
Time has gone when passenger was king
Now we wait as a train load of Toyota parts crash by

Dermot, enroute to Minneapolis and St Paul on the Northern Chief
July 1997

The Train

Crisp clean air at nine thousand feet
silence across the pass,
apart from the breeze in the ponderosa pine
the watertower stands alone.
A ribbon of track crosses the valley floor
to pass beneath its upturned spout.

The lonesome wail of a chime whistle cuts through
echoing off the mountain sides
the bark of the exhaust becomes audible
as the locomotive works up the grade.

A frieze of black smoke drifts across the valley
searching for a place to fall,
as wheels grind the rail
tortured screams rent the air
rail joints click
as the wheels bump from rail to rail

The bark becomes louder, sharper
pant of the westinghouse brake cylinder
the creaking and groaning of coupling rods and frames
as she ponderously sways.

The train passes the tower, now hidden behind the smoke
the coaches following behind
will we make it, will we make it, will we make it
they sing as the train works on up the grade
now getting quieter and quieter.

Smoke and steam are gone
the odor of tar and soot lingers in the air
as peace returns
silence descends across the valley again
just the wind in the ponderosa pine.

Dermot, Cumbres and Toltec RR Colorado, New Mexico border 1997

Dedicated to Professor Micheal J Weaver 1947-2002
who's first railway expedition with me was an evening works train special hauled by Blanche to tank curve above Tan Y Bwlch on Festiniog Railway in North Wales in 1967, our last was the above visit to C&T and D&SRR.