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'Ode to HMS Plymouth..' (A Warrior Maid)

sullivanthepoet — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 19:38:00 +0000

Half cent'ry gone in Devonport, they forged and laid her keel,
a spine befit a warrior maid in hissing, flame spat steel;
All ribbed about and armoured through to test the shipwright's art,
therein to beat, loud, strong and true, her mighty iron heart;
Each plate and rivet, weld and seam to deadly purpose sworn,
and thus in fire and blood and iron was frigate ‘Plymouth' born.

Four hundred long and forty wide, drawn sixteen in her draught,
three thousand tons of vengeful steel to laud the warsmith's craft;
Set cannon fore and mortar aft to give that vengeance tongue,
that shrill her fearsome battle hymn in smoke and flame be sung;
For shipped she crew near thirteen score, stout hearted tars and true,
to fill her throat with fire and brass to pound her dread tattoo.

They decked her in her battle dress; In frocks of storm sky grey,
and with her smoke black locks atrail, they loosed her seek her prey;
Swift grey assassin sleek and bold, her heart as black as sin,
each iron sinew strained and taut beneath that steel strung skin;
To prowl each ocean, sea and bay for two decades and more,
a restless wraith ‘mongst salt sea mists; Asteer some foreign shore.

Til dark upon, and far away, did fall a loutish heel,
an alien foe with dark intent; Our sovereign soil to steal;
At night ashore a Falkland isle beneath a foreign flag,
to call their own within all sight of that foul limpen rag;
All bold they hoist it high and proud on Stanley's civic mast,
to dare Britannia raise her shield and south her trident cast.

And thus did Plymouth bare her teeth and southward turn her face,
her iron heart ahammer as she forced its pulse to race;
Her turbines' wail a wolven howl upon the coal black night,
as cruel as any grey maned beast apace a prey in flight;
All flare her jet black nostrils as they set her breath aflame,
a snarling, slav'ring hound of war; On vengeance bent she came.

To touch with death South Georgia's Isle she sou' sou' eastward skewed,
there to ashore, with fierce intent, Britannia's lethal brood;
Proud hen aguard her deadly chicks she brought them all abeach,
til safe into the gath'ring gloom she saw them vanish each;
Then homaged she the martial gods and tarried each to bless,
‘fore turning from their deadly work; Her own dread suit to press.

Swift to San Carlos Water then as vanguard brave she came,
Britannia's warrior daughter come; Her birthright to reclaim;
Brave sentinel, full square she stood, to flout the birds of war,
and ‘llow her sisters' deadly broods be safely put ashore;
Though hawk on hawk, their talons keen, tore at her beak and claw,
no quarter gave nor quarter sought although they raked her raw.

Though grave her wounds, and dire their needs, her oaken hearted crew,
stood each their station, steadfast all, good yeoman stock and true;
And to the beat of shot and shell; Each bomb that set her reel,
sang loud each throat her battle hymn in notes of fire and steel;
Til bloodied red in tooth and claw; And rent and torn and spent,
her duty done and task complete she ‘llowed herself relent.

Twas then she saw her finest hour: In Stanley harbour's lea,
first warship in, proud ensign high, for all her foes to see;
Til last in Plymouth's ward room did the vanquished stoop to sign,
as the garrison surrender in South Georgia was resign;
‘Fore battered, bruised and sorely scarred she northward rode the foam,
the lochs to tend her grievous wounds: Then Devonport... And home.

And now her turn, so boldly served, has brought her to her rest,
to take her place in history ‘mongst bravest and the best;
But not for her the cutter's torch, nor yet the gunner's mark,
not while there breathes a naval salt or Janner worth the hark;
To bring her home to Guzz again; To ‘gainst its foreshore lie,
and rest her keel a final time beneath a Plymouth sky...

© Sullivan the Poet 2009

At the time of writing this; HMS Plymouth is moored on the river Mersey at Birkenhead - a mooring she will lose in the next six to nine months as the municipal authorities want to ‘develop' the quay on which she is moored. As a result there was a deal of talk by the authorities of cutting her up... HMS Plymouth Association continue to protest that action and are working with the WWC to rescue her.

In the hope of not only preventing that, but returning her to her home port of Plymouth a company - http://www.warshipmanagement.co.uk - was set up to raise the money to buy her for the nation and take her to Devon. They have raised enough so far to buy her, tow her to Devon and have her surveyed. What they do not have as of yet, despite their best attempts to rent one from Plymouth City Council, the MOD and Devonport Dockyard, is a berth for her.

In the face of total disinterest on the part of the City's council and leaders; not to mention downright hostility on the part of the maritime authorities, the only answer is to attempt to raise enough money to buy her a berth outright, open her to the general public as part of our naval heritage and let her live out her retirement in peace and dignity as a training ship for the Sea Cadets and a naval museum in her home port...

I am sure there are many naval men and Falklanders out there who have a soft spot for both the City whose name she bears and this ‘Warrior Maid' and feel she should be saved for the nation and returned to rest in her home port of Plymouth in Devon.

If you want to help then you can do so by copying this poem, with this letter, and pasting it on any and all forums/blogs and/or web sites you have access to. Publicity is everything and ONLY with YOUR help can the 'Save HMS Plymouth' campaign succeed...

If you wish to make a donation however then that is outside my jurisdiction and you should therefore contact HMS Plymouth Association direct for further details on the following... http://www.sponsorformsonline.co.uk/HMSPlymouth.asp

'Albion..'

sullivanthepoet — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 14:35:00 +0100

Oh, Albion! Proud Albion,
how is Britannia fell;
Where heaven’s stairway once ascend,
stands now the gate to hell!
You! Parliament! Where first was born,
come forth; Behold her womb;
All sterile now and festered through,
as foul as any tomb!

Fair land where borne Iceni loins,
birthed wet on English soil;
A bronze cast maid with blood of fire,
to Nero’s hordes despoil.
Oh Boudica! Wild warrior queen,
could you but see her now;
Would you have spilled your blood so free,
to save this grunting sow?

This earth Pendragon set aflame,
to scourge the Saxon tide;
And vengeance write in fire and steel,
his knights cleaved to his side.
Would you proud king forsake your rest,
or stir your blade its sheath;
To champion once more this land,
this realm of cheat and thief?

Would Richard call his Templars wake,
from death exhume his steed;
For take again an English soil,
steeped rank with lust and greed.
To save a realm where ancient foes,
dictate our English laws;
Where Scots and lackeys ply her crown,
and cowards stretch their craws.

Might Drake command his tars awake,
forsake their briny grave;
To beat again his blood tuned drum,
this sorry sphere to save?
His Hoe where foreign colours fly,
sweet Devon at their feet;
Where Spanish flags lay ‘gainst his dock,
and Frenchmen berth their fleet.

Or Churchill yet; His grave aspin,
desert his rest to rise;
To see this land ‘For heroes’ fit,
spread squalid ‘fore his eyes?
Each English ‘beach and field and street’,
for which those valiants fought;
To every nation’s wanton tide,
give cheap away; For nought!

Where once was forged of ice and flame,
afire in star struck steel;
All etched on that eternal blade,
was ‘Albion’ reveal.
Quick nemesis against that time,
we turn its edge to war;
Lies rusting now, deep notched and dull,
upon her crypt’s dank floor.

Should empires all be doomed this fate,
made peasant nations all;
Must England yet, stripped of her jewels,
to this same languor fall?
Held ransom foreign leeches too,
by alien tics bled dry;
While ministers with spines of clay,
stand cowed and fearful by.

This ‘Land of hope and glory’ once,
sunk broken to her knees;
Infest with knave and zealot both,
as thick as rats bear fleas.
And not a leader worth the name,
to raise her to her feet;
Or alderman worth half his salt,
defend an English street.

Now comes the hour; Where comes the man,
to free the blade its sheath;
And raise again quick ‘Albion’,
lay bare its razor teeth?
To set Britannia’s heart arace,
and gorge those veins with flame;
Cleave free her ill forged foreign chains,
this sceptred Isle reclaim.

Lay hard again our ancient lien,
upon this hallowed soil;
Full tall those giants’ shoulders stand,
and honour them their toil.
Raise high St. George’s blood red cross,
and keep you proud his day;
That those who gave their English hearts,
shall never pass away.

Then bid once more this bulldog breed,
wake snarling from its rest;
And hear the gods of thunder roll,
within its mighty chest.
To seize dominion o’er our lives,
our land, our sea, our sky;
Or twenty million Englishmen,
will know the reason why!

© Sullivan the Poet 2008

http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Article 18..'

sullivanthepoet — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 10:21:00 +0100

Did Britons legion spend their lives,
upon those foreign soils;
To watch their children cast away,
their rightful victors’ spoils.
A land for heroes rightly won,
they cowards all abuse;
‘Til freedom’s just another word,
for nothing left to lose!

Those freedoms all for others held,
and pledged with Britain’s dead;
Denied you each in tol’rance name,
and you so easy led.

To read the rest of this poem and others: go to 'NEW WORKS' @ http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'For Those In Peril..'

sullivanthepoet — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 23:03:00 +0100

Comes shrill the sound, the siren’s call,
and bright the flare against the squall;
“Come quick” the cry, “fleet to your berth,
come man come boy, come show your worth.”
No paid men here, none pressed nor given;
Own all their lives when slip pin’s driven.

Cast off your rest, your work, your wife,
run swift to me, come chance your life;
“The boat’s aslip, the door’s agape,
all straining now her chains escape.”
Heeds she the claxon; Red flares soaring;
Her ropes astrain now, diesels roaring.

Atop the slip one backward glance,
a last fond gaze against the chance;
Knows each the risk, the fear, the fact,
yet willing each they sealed their pact.
A clang, a shout, with hearts fast beating;
The boathouse lights now swift retreating.

To read the rest of this poem and others: go to 'NEW WORKS' @ http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

My First Collection...

sullivanthepoet — Tue, 27 May 2008 12:54:00 +0100

Well - I did it at last - actually published a collection of my work... 'In A Mirror Darkly..'

"An eclectic collection of poetry to appeal to all tastes - with styles and formats as various as its subject matter.." "A very particular brand of poetry - from a very particular brand of poet.."

Available @ www.lulu.com/sullivanthepoet

'Stonehenge..'

sullivanthepoet — Thu, 08 May 2008 15:36:00 +0100

Grey granite priests; Megaliths born of time,
cold shoulders massive, stern and resolute;
Turned ever and always to the eternal solstice
borne whims of a thoughtless and reluctant god
Cold as charity; Unrelenting and hard as iron,
the body of the pitiless earth made in man’s image;
And in its turn, strike stone to the flint;
The spirit of Adam made unforgiving stone.
Bitter, cruel; Unrelenting in his savagery.
Yet sounding board each to the beat, beat, beat,
the thundering pulse of the living earth;
Each stone shaman, one by one and in the round,
erect, aloof; Unwilling, and resentful...

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Bring Me Your Tired..'

sullivanthepoet — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 17:47:00 +0100

I lit a single flame to guide them in the blackness, and stood open my doors,
crying out into the night… “Bring me your tired…
Bring them to me; Your worn and your spent and your weary;
Give them to me and I will give them rest.”
And they came,
in their thousands and in their tens of thousands they came.
And with them;
They brought their idle and their indolent, their work shy and their feckless,
lie-abeds and layabouts of every hue and race.
To hang, sink stone, about the throat of my people,
deadweight, limp and languorous; Drawing their spirit down.
Thus have you punished me for my charity...

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Suffer The Children..'

sullivanthepoet — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 19:12:00 +0000

What shade, what mind, to harm a child; first turns its thoughts to such a course,
where breeds the seed that forms the sense that sexual holds an infant so;
What demons seethe within that brain to deed from fragile form divorce,
or find they welcome fertile ground that ‘llows that evil spirit grow?
How black the soul that gives its’ leave to turn so young to foul abuse,
to take a brittle blossom so and force it to such brutal use?

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Bigot..'

sullivanthepoet — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 12:23:00 +0000

Call vilest worm that creature he,
who by his words proves bigot be,
and wears the spot of racist stain,
though dares pretend as other;
Whose foetid heart sets ‘gainst his kin,
by dint of creed, of race, of skin,
that titles fellow man as beast,
yet holds his own kind ‘brother’.

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Seasons' (Haiku)

sullivanthepoet — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 15:24:00 +0000

A seedling awakes
Presses its back to the soil
Pale skies lift its head.

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'And Made They Man..'

sullivanthepoet — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 11:22:00 +0000

'And Made They Man?'

As travellers they fell by chance,
upon this fertile turquoised sphere,
when drawn, by destined circumstance,
enticed, they came and lighted here.
To share half waking, half dreamt dreams,
to salve pale limbs in crystal streams.

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Obsession..'

sullivanthepoet — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 11:20:00 +0000

She comes unbid in troubled dreams,
To steal my mind from turbid sleep,
A scented, liquid, living breeze,
To soft, her passioned harvest reap;
To sing to me her siren song,
Each whispered note a scything blade,
Each silken shard a blissful thrust,
Each wound a cut so gladly flayed.

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Dancers..'

sullivanthepoet — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 16:46:00 +0000

"O gentle place; too sweet the breeze,
That languid sings and stirs each branch'ed aisle,
Of low, regretful sighs its song,
Laments your legions' unsung dreams a while.

Humming, sadly, the long forgotten lyrics of life's tragic opera to the gentle insistent rhythm of some silent orchestra,
Whilst an unseen Maestro softly marks time to the scarce remembered tempo of a multitude of long stilled hearts.

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Out There..'

sullivanthepoet — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 13:54:00 +0000

What gross deceit to dream life's well should favour but one cup,
or 'magine for a heart beat's width thence only man might sup!
What pomp decrees that chalice sole should from its bounty slake,
one thirst for form, for thought, for life, whilst other lips
forsake?

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk

'Aria..'

sullivanthepoet — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 14:31:00 +0000

I sang my life's song,
Sang it astride the high places and tolled it loud for all to hear,
Sang it in the black bellies of the deepest valleys; for the joy of its applauding echo,
Sang it proud to the eternal, watchful sky with all the breath in my being,
Sang it free to my own tempo and pleased the fates their whim in its lyrics,

A short extract from 'In A Mirror Darkly..' A new collection of poetry from 'Sullivan the Poet' available @ 'Collections' - http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk