The Man from Middlesbrough

 

                                                                            

The North Sea

Dear Reader,

I hope you will like the poem: The Man from Middlesbrough, which I am putting on the blog this week.  I wrote it in a rage when I heard that the shipyard there was being closed.

Once upon a time shipbuilding thrived on the Tees.  For over two centuries the river Tees was among the most productive shipbuilding regions in the United Kingdom.  The company, William Gray and Furness built ships of many types sailing under a multitude of flags and owners.  Smith's Dock, another ship yard on the Tees, launched more than 900 vessels from South Bank, ranging from tugs and trawlers to warships, tankers and bulk carriers, between 1908 and its closure in 1987.

I think some shipyards were closed as being associated with the risk of asbestos exposure.  Well whatever the reason for shutting down the ship yard in Middlesbrough, hundreds of men were made redundant when it closed.

I heard the man in the poem speaking on the radio with such despair in his voice, I sat down and wrote this poem straight away.

                                                                          *
                                                                      

The Man from Middlesbrough

ordered another cup of tea
lit another cigarette

He held his head
in his history-stained hands,
nicotine fingers clutching
tufts of dirty grey hair.
He stared, not-seeing, at
the plastic tablecloth,
his mind numb.

His father, his grandfather,
worked in this shipyard,
watched ships lovingly grow
from steel plates to proud traders,
built to sail from the Tees estuary,
into the North Sea
and the world's great oceans.

In his head the man heard the noise,
music to him, of drag chains,
when a ship pushed along
the greasy slipway, slid into the sea.
The the man thought of his mates,
of shared experiences from school days,
first girlfriends, first kisses,
walks in the Cleveland hills.
And he thought of the old canteen,
warm with steam from the tea urn,
from brotherhood.

The man wiped his eyes
with the back of his hand,
ordered another cup of tea,
lit another cigarette.

                                                                                *


From DH Lawrence, 1916,  in Cornwall

'The country is simply wonderful, blue, graceful little companies of bluebells everywhere on the moors, the gorse in flame, and on the cliffs and by the sea, a host of primroses, like settling butterflies, and seapinks like a hover of pink bees, near the water.  There is a Spanish ship run on the rocks just below - great excitement everywhere.'


With very best wishes, Patricia



Top photograph of the North Sea by Kaye Leggett