Is this good, or is this good?


There is a poet in Plymouth and he seems to just do it for the love of it.
Here is one he has just done and I think he is gifted.

An Ode to Plymouth

Dark sentinel in living rock, aguard her brine cut bay,
abreast the Plym, in verdant cape, does Plymouth's foreshore lay,
cold bedrock shoulders bunched and grey, set 'bove a foaming maw,
hide razor teeth, beneath the swell, that wets her granite jaw;
With arms spread wide, about her sound, she silent vigil keeps,
while wordless wraiths, of salt sea dogs, patrol her ancient deeps.

And high above green foam flecked seas; atop the city walls,
her citadel, whose shadow deep, across this foreshore falls,
on sightless watch, proud barrels high, bronzed ever wakeful guns,
all tended yet, and powdered still, by shades of warrior sons;
Surround and fortressed at her back in unforgiving moor,
in slumber yet against the time we turn her heart to war.

War scars, her berths and crevices, bear they a thousand score,
her shores and steeps ten thousand rends; her cliffs a thousand more,
yet still she stands, proud head held high, not bloodied broke nor bowed,
no foul invader, what their might, has yet this mistress cowed;
Apprenticed she the martial gods; she knows their bugle well,
and roused, her sons, and daughters too, might storm the gates of hell!

No Roman Spear or Norseman axe has served to break her will,
and deep beneath her heaving sound she tends their bleach bones still,
no Spaniard Man O' War has held, nor Frenchman's silk sailed whore,
one stone, one inch, one single grain, of Plymouth's sacred shore;
Not cannon shot, nor grape, nor ball, can such a spirit bend,
when tossed aground as living coin; her last brave soul she'd spend.

Nor yet has bomb and bullet served; to bring her to her knee,
though blitzed and bombed and thundered at, from land and sky and sea,
when torn and broken, heap on heap, with rubbled streets attack,
her heart, raw bruised, beat brave and strong, and roared and thundered back;
No quarter gave, nor none demand, that iron will held fast,
another battle's honours yet, to laud her noble past.

So know you foe, 'neath night shade sails, what mistress' skirts you tread,
that beat might be her pounding heart; or Drake's black drum instead,
to bid her spectral brood arise, and call their ghosts to war,
from heaven's gate, to hell's foul pit, to bar her ancient shore;
For jealous we, her kith and kin, though natured each to roam,
will ever hear this warrior maid - this Plymouth - call us home...

© Sullivan The Poet

Sullivan the poet


War Hero
It is very good indeed, beautiful in fact, a perfect description of the famous old port where I spent many pleasant years in the mob. Thanks for putting it on line

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