My Poetry

This is a selection of my poetry, I have some others but I am unsure where they are, perhaps on papers in the bottom of a box in storage in New Zealand. If and when I find them I will add them to this collection.

© Alexander Knox (Man From Down Under)
All poetry on this website is copyright to Alexander Knox (Man From Down Under). It may not be copied, reproduced or published in any medium whether written, printed, drawn, painted, photographic or electronic without written permission.

 

Southern Lord.

11 December 1998, South Atlantic off Terra Del Fuego.

Whilst along side the jacket (Hidra Central Platform) as the tide went down, a large seal was sort of wallowing around among the legs. It seems to have made the platform legs it's home and as the tide went down exposing one of the cross beams it got it's self up on one and let the tide fall away underneath it, staying there sleeping until the tide came back in, with the occasional stretch and yawn. Watching this I wrote a few words about it.

Magellan.

Friday 18 December 1998, Straits of Magellan.

Inspired while travelling through the narrows at the Atlantic entrance to the Straits of Magellan, just off Cabo San Vincient (Cape St Vincent) on the southern shore, Terra Del Fuego and Punta Gracia (Point Grace) on the northern mainland. The cliffs on Terra Del Fuego rise to 40 metres and the race of tide around Cape St Vincent creates quite a turmoil of water. It was a fine day but high winds were racing the cumulus along, and the wind against tide making the water off the cape leap and spume while two black and white dolphins were escorting us slowly past the cliffs as we stemmed the 5 knots of current on our way into Laredo.

Laredo.

Tuesday 22 December 1998, Straits of Magellan.

Laredo is a loadout and supply base for the Chilean and southern Argentinian oil fields. Our vessel the Toisa Puma had just loaded the last of the umbilical reels and departed just as the wind picked up from its usual 20 to 30 knots to 40 plus. I was looking aft at the scene with the wind whipping the waves behind us and the shore receding when the words "Leaving Laredo, in the teeth of a gale" popped into my mind.

Mistress Mine.

Friday 19 March 1999, North Sea.

Working in the Shell Merlin field on the Seaway Eagle one of the Polish girls, Anna, was on her first trip to sea and she did not like it. She was asking me what the attraction was when I would spend so long away at sea. She related to me how her father had recently taken up some work at sea and was loving it, like he had found something he should have done long ago. I tried to explain that the sea is ever changing and full of character but always constant, mostly predictable but occasionally takes you by surprise. Thinking on this later while watching the waves in near gale conditions I related to the sea as a woman, a common metaphor, and as a mistress. The last stanza's in each part are familiar and may have been expressed in similar terms by poets and songwriters through the ages.

The Losing of Liverpool.

Wednesday 26th May 1999, Liverpool.

Just joined the Seaway Falcon alongside in Liverpool on the northern side near the entrance to the Harbour. I was struck by the barren empty feel of the place and the general run down appearance. On one side of the basin we were in was a heap of crushed cars being shredded into rusty metal, on the other a rusted dirty and derelict shed. Across on the tidal basin wall along the Mersey river were heaps of scrap metal. The day was overcast and hazy and it had been raining. I later saw more of the docks and there are some very new buildings, but in general the volume of shipping there had been in the past as evident from the number of wharves and slips lining both sides of the river as far as they eye could see simply was not there.

Hebrides.

Thursday 24th June 1999, The Sea of the Hebrides.

Sailing back from an offshore project in the Irish sea I was fortunate to go through the Sea of the Hebrides, between the islands so named and the isle of Sky and mainland Scotland. It was a wonderful vista. Rugged mountains, though not high, had a misty mystery about them. The air was clear near at hand but got hazy in the distance giving the impression of the land being hidden in mist. More than a few miles off and a bypasser could miss them altogether. I was reminded of various verses in the Bible which refer to the Isles of the west, or of the sea, and contemplated if the word Hebrides derived from the Hebrew. That contemplation inspired this verse.

Wye

Sunday 4th June 2000, Near Wye in County Kent, England.

I was out walking with Kerstin when, on the last section heading back on the top a ridge through the forest towards Wye along the Acorn walk west of the River Stour, she discovered that the car keys were no longer on her key carabina clipped to her belt. We went back to where she last knew she had them and retraced our steps again but couldn't find them. This upset Kersitn quite a bit and she felt that she had confirmed to me that she was disabled and would therefore have lost my friendship. It took some gentle discussion to convince her that nothing in our friendship had changed (Kirstin was a highly functioning autistic person, absolutely brilliant but had some difficulties associated with autism and could not bear being touched by anyone). The inspiration came when I thought of the opening line "The keys lie somewhere in Kent".

His Father Coat.

Yuzhno Sakhalin, Eastern Russia. 7 July 2005

In Sakhalin Russia, just thinking about the way things are done here, the hangovers from the past, the apathy, the desire in some to return to the old ways. How some are trying to modernise, but get stumped by officialdom and outdated regulations. It's like the son of communism, now his father is dead , wants to be a world leader, to play with the big boys but is being hampered by adherence to old values and methods from his dead fathers day, a time now dead. Its like he is wearing his fathers old coat but that coat does not fit him, it is past its time.

Southern Lord 1998
	Sombulent laze on cold steel pole Furr'd fat flesh in silent repose Majestic Lord of salted sea Distains the lapping low his knee Washed around the jacket frame Wall-less pedestals his hame Tides fully exposed high and dry Left on greened beam did lie Slowly raised on flippers spread Wide the mouth uplift the head Discordant bellow in fetid breath Announces royally this his hea'th Refuting interlopers desires Reclining back on beam retires And pointedly ignoring others Returns to sleep till tide recovers
11 December 1998, South Atlantic off Terra Del Fuego. Whilst along side the jacket (Hidra Central Platform) as the tide went down, a large seal was sort of wallowing around among the legs. It seems to have made the platform legs it's home and as the tide went down exposing one of the cross beams it got it's self up on one and let the tide fall away underneath it, staying there sleeping until the tide came back in, with the occasional stretch and yawn. Watching this I wrote a few words about it.
© Loch Sloidh Publishers

Magellan 1998
	Loamed cliffs inwards face Overlooking swift green sea In narrow constraint flows apace Tidal race from sea to sea Sheer the cliffs on either case Watch the waters run below Tidal forces at their base Refuse the towering status quo High above the clouds race Mercy of the straining gale Deep shadows in relentless haste Colour cliffs from dark to pale Windswept land a barren place Parched the grass clutches hold Ne'er a tree to give it grace Riven wind allows none so bold When Magellan took a taste Fast swept the current all along Sails aback, all headway waste O'er the edge believed they gone Now is known the channels place It heralds not impending doom Sun and moon the waters chase 'Tis but the oceans weaving loom Wind gainst tide within the waist Constraining cliffs heaped the flow Turning waters to foaming lace A tapestry woven for natures show Piebald dolphins leaping pace Pilot travellers down fluid road To leave behind ne'er a trace Where the waters passing flow'd Barren cold and windy place The straits that pass from sea to sea Loamed cliffs that inwards face Watch trespassers sail between
Friday 18 December 1998, Straits of Magellan. Inspired while travelling through the narrows at the Atlantic entrance to the Straits of Magellan, just off Cabo San Vincient (Cape St Vincent) on the southern shore, Terra Del Fuego and Punta Gracia (Point Grace) on the northern mainland. The cliffs on Terra Del Fuego rise to 40 metres and the race of tide around Cape St Vincent creates quite a turmoil of water. It was a fine day but high winds were racing the cumulus along, and the wind against tide making the water off the cape leap and spume while two black and white dolphins were escorting us slowly past the cliffs as we stemmed the 5 knots of current on our way into Laredo.
© Loch Sloidh Publishers

Laredo 1998
	Leaving Laredo In the teeth of a gale Leaving Laredo Wind rain and hail Bitter she blows Like a razor she cuts Leaving Laredo Won’t miss it too much Came to Laredo A reel to load Came to Laredo At the end of the road Ninety miles from nowhere Out back of beyond Came to Laredo And wished we were gone Stayed at Laredo Patagonian sole Stayed at Laredo Chilean toe Cross the Straits of Magellan Terra Del Fuego Stayed at Laredo But wanted to go Looked over Laredo Windswept and bare Looked over Laredo Saw everything there Not a tree to be seen Nor mountain or peak Looked over Laredo And counted it bleak Walked round Laredo Loadout base Walked round Laredo And left it in haste Saw it all twice over In a tenth of a week Walked round Laredo Not much of a treat Farewell to Laredo With its desolate blow Farewell to Laredo 50 South and below Supposed to be summer But blustery cold Farewell to Laredo With the reel in our hold
Tuesday 22 December 1998, Straits of Magellan. Laredo is a loadout and supply base for the Chilean and southern Argentinian oil fields. Our vessel the Toisa Puma had just loaded the last of the umbilical reels and departed just as the wind picked up from its usual 20 to 30 knots to 40 plus. I was looking aft at the scene with the wind whipping the waves behind us and the shore receding when the words "Leaving Laredo, in the teeth of a gale" popped into my mind.
© Loch Sloidh Publishers

Mistress Mine 1999
	Softly she sleeps In that placid place And not a movement Betrays her face In absolute peace reposed Her many moods withheld from show Quiet and calm, though well I know The fire of life she can let go And even so she is, my lover and my wife Always she will be, my mistress and my life Waking stretches Lights a smile A little grin A winking eye I watch the beauty of her form Soft skin moves to arms reaching Velvet touch after her sleeping A light caress as shadows creeping And even so she is, my lover and my wife Always she will be, my mistress and my life Sullen and flighty A petulant stance This way and that As if in a dance Uncertain of her wants, her needs Though there is no anger here As her flighty mood may first appear She’s just upset, with a little care And even so she is, my lover and my wife Always she will be, my mistress and my life Bounding happy A joyful face Leaps and spins In laughing grace To a cheerful tune she skips along Her dress flies out as she dances round And occasionally petticoats are found Flashing white and green her gown And even so she is, my lover and my wife Always she will be, my mistress and my life When at last Her temper flares With shouts and shrieks And flashing stares She vents her spleen on all around If you don’t know her you may fear As she flails and shakes her hair She’ll cast you down without a care And even so she is, my lover and my wife Always she will be, my mistress and my life Calmer now No angry face She settles down To lovely grace Still breathing deep her heaving breast She waltzes past and all the while Moves about with a secret smile As if to say I’m not really wild And even so she is, my lover and my wife Always she will be, my mistress and my life Her many moods And changing pace Her wild abandonment And grace Always different yet always the same She holds my heart, commands respect In all her moods her beauty reflects And my life I give without regret Because to me she is, my lover and my wife Always she will be, my mistress and my life
Friday 19 March 1999, North Sea. Working in the Shell Merlin field on the Seaway Eagle one of the Polish girls, Anna, was on her first trip to sea and she did not like it. She was asking me what the attraction was when I would spend so long away at sea. She related to me how her father had recently taken up some work at sea and was loving it, like he had found something he should have done long ago. I tried to explain that the sea is ever changing and full of character but always constant, mostly predictable but occasionally takes you by surprise. Thinking on this later while watching the waves in near gale conditions I related to the sea as a woman, a common metaphor, and as a mistress. The last stanza's in each part are familiar and may have been expressed in similar terms by poets and songwriters through the ages.
© Loch Sloidh Publishers

The Losing of Liverpool 1999
	Liverpool Junk Liverpool scrap Metal crushed cars Heaped up on their backs Potholes and puddles A rutted wharf Tis the Liverpool dockside Old and worn Decrepit old buildings Amongst them new Rusted and dirty Grime streaked view Muddy green water An Irish stew Tideless and tidal A hazy view Tis but a shadow Of former self When steam mast and sail Crowded the shelf Derricks and gantries Mid smoke and noise Moved the world To England’s shore Now forlorn and empty Hardly a ship Rests on the wharfside None on the slip Empty the yards Silent the cranes Despairing of food Gulls cry in vain Crowds no longer throng Along her hems Whistles and hoots The shouts of men A piece of loose roofing Clangs in the wind An echo of yesterdays Steel sounding din Crushed cars and metal Adorn the pier Wide empty spaces The barren rails steer All the way back To yesteryear The shadows of the past All gone I fear Liverpool docks The steam age hope Memories whisper She just couldn’t cope Alone and discarded Her heyday past Liverpool harbour Lost at last
Wednesday 26th May 1999, Liverpool. Just joined the Seaway Falcon alongside in Liverpool on the northern side near the entrance to the Harbour. I was struck by the barren empty feel of the place and the general run down appearance. On one side of the basin we were in was a heap of crushed cars being shredded into rusty metal, on the other a rusted dirty and derelict shed. Across on the tidal basin wall along the Mersey river were heaps of scrap metal. The day was overcast and hazy and it had been raining. I later saw more of the docks and there are some very new buildings, but in general the volume of shipping there had been in the past as evident from the number of wharves and slips lining both sides of the river as far as they eye could see simply was not there.
© Loch Sloidh Publishers

His Fathers Coat 2006
	The young man rises from the floor Draped in his fathers coat It’s over large, threadbare and worn Hands lost in too long sleeves It’s hem lies untidy, heaped upon the ground He reaches out toward the door And takes a faltering step The heavy folds encumber more He trips upon the hem And down he falls, into to the dust again His father was a very big man With a booming voice Hands on hip he’d proudly stand Broad and tall and strong Wearing the great black coat, as he only can But one day when he turned his back He didn’t hear a sound Knocked down completely flat Dead by the concrete wall Built with others blood, and raised by his own hand. He broke his neck upon the ground The hard unyielding ice The man himself was not found Just his coat discarded Left to son and heir, a legacy of his rule The son he is a lean young man With the strength of youth He wants the promise of new plans Wants firm footed steps To reach for all rewards, that should be in his hand Grasping again for freedom’s door The coat’s too big too long He once more ends up upon the floor He knows it not nor cannot tell It’s his father’s coat, that from his grasp withheld How he came to have it on He does not really know Nor how upon the floor he falls His frustrated apathy grows Though he tries and tries again, he cannot reach the goal He had times thought to take it off To leave it where was found But that seemed to be such a loss It’s so familiar and warm For after all is said and done, it is his fathers coat
Yuzhno Sakhalin, Eastern Russia. 7 July 2005 In Sakhalin Russia, just thinking about the way things are done here, the hangovers from the past, the apathy, the desire in some to return to the old ways. How some are trying to modernise, but get stumped by officialdom and outdated regulations. It's like the son of communism, now his father is dead , wants to be a world leader, to play with the big boys but is being hampered by adherence to old values and methods from his dead fathers day, a time now dead. Its like he is wearing his fathers old coat but that coat does not fit him, it is past its time. ;
© Loch Sloidh Publishers

Hebrides 1999
	Oh Hebrides, oh Hebrides Whence came the men who named thee Rising gaunt out northern sea Cold mists as garments swathing Isle’s of the sea do you proclaim For all the world to ponder The origins of your name Ties to a land no longer A legacy, a standing stone Does your name reveal your history To make this place their northern home Did the sons of Heber journey Was this the place the prophet spoke Isles of the west so misty Another place, appointed hope That His people dwell in safety And south across Hebridean sea An ancient Isle does link thee Is Hibernia your testimony To the clans who claimed thee Is Ulster’s hand from distant past Is Zarah father of your Kings A wrist held in scarlet fast That still a battle brings And Olam Foddah on Emerald isle Was Jeremiah your real name Did the princess with you fly From oppressors sword and flame Was the tender twig of that royal house Grafted into Ulster’s vine Does the Lion espouse The lineage of David’s Line Stonehenge eternal legacy To Druids ancient purpose Was Levi’s ephod on their robes And three in one Celtic worship Were you true to Him alone Not pagan priests as some decry Did your ceremony show Your origins in Sinai Unhewn stone royal destiny’s throne Are you full of dreams from Bethel From you did desert waters flow To quench a thirsty people Were you overturned and overturned From Lia Fail to Scone And overturned once more Westminster your last home The Scots did they from Scythia come By Spain and the pillars of Hercules To settle in their highland home Does Arbroath declare their ancestry But whence their fathers Scythian home Was that north of Assyria To where the sons of Omri moved When Media rose in power Out of Assyria’s suzerainty The northern tribes, the Kimbri The house of Omri’s journey From captivity to liberty Across the wilds the first not last Did you travel thence from Uri Is Wales an echo from the past Are you that ancient Cymbri Saxon tribes from northern lands Are you children of the patriarch Is the name you carry as your brand Remembered sons of Isaac Did you rise through Caucus pass Where split you from your brethren Until you conquered here at last The foe forgotten cousins The Angles, Jutes and Frisians came The bull their tribal symbol Was that the one of Bashan’s fame Which in their tongue is Aegel Now as known colloquially The John Bull of old England Is that a reference to idolatry In the land of your departing Norman lords then overran To rule here laid they claim Was the wolf emblem of their clan Spoken of in Mitsrayim Were you really Viking Were you the last of our kin To rejoin your blood and type The family finally gathered in To make this nation one in might A planned and purposed destiny Was the war of roses red and white The welding in of Ephraim Spoken of in Talmud’s words Does the testament report That this Nation will be one And ruled under one accord When James the sixth on Scotland’s throne Became the first of England Did he know from whence we came When he combined the emblems St Andrews cross and Georges sign The Union Jack renown Was this the union of Jacob’s line As James to all announced This royal line from Ulsters throne This people made one nation Are you the ones the world has known Mentors of civilisation The prophet spoke the sceptre stays In Kings and Queens of David Till him to whom it is of right Shiloh comes to claim it In that ancient book prophetic Was your story there foretold That your troops be arrayed in scarlet And the sea lanes you would hold As chief among the nations That Great would be your name No foreign power would dominate But you would conquer same Did it say that north and west To the Isles you would roam The lion and unicorn your symbol To give the alien a home That you would abolish slavery And be ruled over by a King Be a mission to the whole world And a commonwealth of kin Bryith their word for covenant And ish their word for man Ain a place reserved A green and pleasant land Are these the covenant people According to His plan These Bryith-ish residing In this their Bryith-ain Oh Hebrides, oh Hebrides Do you declare our history Does our British lineage define The Anglo Saxon mystery Are we brothers sisters all From John O Groats to Lands End Are we the Hebridean legacy The people of His right hand
Thursday 24th June 1999, The Sea of the Hebrides. Sailing back from an offshore project in the Irish sea I was fortunate to go through the Sea of the Hebrides, between the islands so named and the isle of Sky and mainland Scotland. It was a wonderful vista. Rugged mountains, though not high, had a misty mystery about them. The air was clear near at hand but got hazy in the distance giving the impression of the land being hidden in mist. More than a few miles off and a bypasser could miss them altogether. I was reminded of various verses in the Bible which refer to the Isles of the west, or of the sea, and contemplated if the word Hebrides derived from the Hebrew. That contemplation inspired this verse.
© Loch Sloidh Publishers

Wye 2000
	The keys lie somewhere in Kent Near Wye they couldn’t be found On the side of a hill ‘bove the river Stour ‘mongst the fern and the beech on the ground It is a sudden and wrenching reality and the loss makes the heart beat so strong Your mind can no longer focus, any place else you would rather be found All around the world seems forlorn, you feel like your sinking as stone, despair reaches out and it lies and it shouts it’s your fault it would say but it’s wrong So through a monochrome walk without feature the foot steps out without thought Though the keys lie somewhere in Kent T’was simply by happenstance wrought Look up, are the clouds still above Does the sun still shine in the sky It’s warmth still gently caresses your skin and it’s light still brings joy to your eye The birds still sing in the trees and the deer bounds off at your passing Poppies still bloom forth in scarlet and like a river the wheat flows to Wye The Stour gurgles on down the valley in it’s pursuit of the sea and ducks still play on it’s waters with trout hiding in the deep ‘mongst the weeds The rest of the walk lies ahead and the moment of loss lies behind Though the keys lie somewhere in Kent The day is still just as kind. Though the plans of the day are awry And tomorrow must be planned again Whats lost is really an illusion for the things of true value remain His regard is in no sense diminished you are still well esteemed in his eye No matter what the rest of the day brings the delight of your company is fine The pleasure to walk in meadows and talk on whatevers in mind, to discuss the whole of creation and the how’s and the wherefore’s and why Or to sit in companionable silence and drink in your nearness like wine Though the keys lie somewhere in Kent A friend still walks by your side
Sunday 4th June 2000, Near Wye in County Kent, England. I was out walking with Kerstin when, on the last section heading back on the top a ridge through the forest towards Wye along the Acorn walk west of the River Stour, she discovered that the car keys were no longer on her key carabina clipped to her belt. We went back to where she last knew she had them and retraced our steps again but couldn't find them. This upset Kersitn quite a bit and she felt that she had confirmed to me that she was disabled and would therefore have lost my friendship. It took some gentle discussion to convince her that nothing in our friendship had changed (Kirstin was a highly functioning autistic person, absolutely brilliant but had some difficulties associated with autism and could not bear being touched by anyone). The inspiration came when I thought of the opening line "The keys lie somewhere in Kent".
© Loch Sloidh Publishers