Long Tank ship Poems
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a whore and a boy
It was a big whore camp where the tank ship crew
went to have paid for sex
I was sixteen years old, and the crew on our ship
thought it was time for me to have sex
The woman who had chosen was dusky and slim
I stood in her room and didn't know what to do
She told me to take my pants off, and she went
to work, placing me inside her open legs, steering
me into the proper opening
It didn't last long, but she hugged me and said
I was a sweet boy, but I didn't kiss. I had been
Never kiss a whore
Later in the evening, she came back and dragged me
into her room, where she began kissing me, no, I did
not resist, and we had incredible sex
She showed me how to satisfy a woman in ways
I didn't know. I remember she purred like a cat
We were tightly embraced, she called me sweet
names, and I was deeply in love
It didn't last, a crew member said we had to go
Back on board, they asked if I had kissed her.
No, we had only "ed," I bravely said
When the ship came back to Curacao, we went
to the same place, but my girl was not there
A ship’s last voyage
The tank ship that looked like a schooner finally
made it from the black sea to Reykjavik in Iceland
The ship dry as the dust of the Sahara surrounded
by undrinkable water, the crew was eager to go
ashore and find a watering- hole selling beer.
Back then, Reykjavik was a dark town with few
streetlights and in the throes of temperance
There was no booze or wine, only watery beer that
was awful but in our situation better than nil.
The first café we came to was full of individuals
reading books in silence; we didn’t know Iceland
is a literate place everyone reads or write
books when not talking about literature but for
us it was a boring café we wanted fun and light.
We found a café selling beer, and the crew got
hold a bottle of homemade booze; in a country
where alcohol intake is restricted, people make
their own wine or liquor.
The voyage had been long and arduous; the ship
and her captain had survived the war and hoped
their voyage would last forever; it didn’t last
Of all ironies, the ship returned to Odessa and sold
as scrap iron.
The end of everything
The master of the old tank ship that resembled a schooner
sat fretting in his cabin; for twenty years he had been
the master of the ship, a friendship between the animate
and the inanimate had developed.
During the war years, the ship delivered high-octane plane
fuel from the USA to Britain, with him on the bridge in storms
and calm; they had seen ships blown up by torpedoes both
on the starboard side and the portside, it was as the ship and
he breathed in unison.
For five years, they had traversed across the Atlantic except for
a few times when she was in dry dock for maintenance and
when everyone had gone ashore, he stayed onboard, keeping
her company.
So many faces, too many to remember, had crossed her decks
no one stayed long, she had no comfort to offer, narrow cabins
the shower units were connected to the cold sea; didn’t they
see she had kept them alive?
It was over now she had been sold as scrap, he, homeless.
Once the king had given him medals, he and the ship had
been extolled in the papers that said she was a lucky ship
and him they called a great seaman.
Soon enough, he would go to the mystic island were sailors
and Nirvana’s Ocean cleanses the memories of the departed.
A boy and shore leave
The 15 years old boy was standing on the poop deck of an old
tank ship late at night looking up to the millions of stars over The Red Sea.
His job was to clean pots and pans in the galley ruled over by a cook
who hated the world and everybody in it.
The boy had tried to sit in the mess hall where older seamen
sat, drinking coffee and playing cards, but they had made fun of him
saying he looked like a girl the way he folded his arms.
His left nibble was swollen when he pressed on the nipple white
stuff came out and he wondered if he was turning into a girl.
In his cabin he had found pornographic pictures looking at them
he decided he was very much a boy.
In a rough society like this, there was no one to talk to about his
feelings, a forbidden word, like constructing a house of cards and
pulling the bottom card away.
A burst dam of feelings, by those who had kept their loneliness
hidden, not being able to tell anyone about a rotten childhood and
a miserable life, punctuated by shore leave, with drink and whores
of Rotterdam.
The boy giggled at the thought of seeing bearded men wailing
about their misery; nevertheless, the next time the ship docked in
Rotterdam he would go ashore to see what it was all about.
Russia, my lovely
Why do I remember this now on a Christmas day
galley boy on a tank ship that was old in 1956
as the youngest of the crew of mostly middle-aged men
it is safe to assume I'm the only one left alive.
The ship arrived late at the port I have long forgotten its name, we had been stuck by drifting ice and only the Russians could come to free us.
A large icebreaker came and got us out of the mess
it appears the winter that year had been hard,
the elderly
said it was because a long war had upset the weather pattern, the cook, who was Swedish and had the face of
a Roman senator, or a hawk, told me not to listen to the fools, weather patterns change over time, whatever humans do.
The town was only a short walk from the oil terminal
and we walked without being harassed by beggars and
people who pretended to be friendly, anyway they skulked away when the cook looked imperiously, made
a remark in Russian.
The avenue in the town was wide but strangely empty of cars there was also a nice looking park but the town was saving in lightening, and there were speakers
at corners playing music to gladden the heart.
But things were going on that I was not aware of
buying Russian caviar to be sold in Europe and bottles of vodka, the cook got very drunk and the chief steward came to help in the galley.
I was later told, although I had no way of knowing
there were many prostitutes in park the who wanted
women's underwear, and nylon stockings, which some
enterprising sailors had bought in Rotterdam
later that evening, the Swedish cook and I went to a restaurant where men in old-fashioned suits sat and a lady
violinist played.
We were served food, and the cook drank white wine he said came from Crimea, wherever that was, I was not familiar with maps back then.
My impression was it was a poor place suffering from
a long war, basic freedom, and the great difference between the haves (nomenclature)
and people.
The end of everything
The master of the old tank ship that resembled a schooner
sat fretting in his cabin; for twenty years, he had been
the master of the vessel, a friendship between the animate
and the inanimate had developed.
During the war years, the ship delivered high-octane plane
fuel from the USA to Britain, with him on the bridge in storms
and calm; they had seen ships blown up by torpedoes, both
on the starboard side and the portside, it was as the ship and
he breathed in unison.
For five years, they had traversed across the Atlantic except for
a few times when she was in dry dock for maintenance and
when everyone had gone ashore, he stayed onboard, keeping
her company.
So many faces, too many to remember, had crossed her decks
no one stayed long,« she had no comfort in offering narrow cabins
shower units connected to the cold sea; didn’t they
see she had kept them alive?
It is over now, sold as scrap, he, homeless.
Once the king had given him medals, he and the ship had
been extolled in the papers, saying she was a lucky ship
and that they called him a great seaman.
Soon enough, he would go to the mystic island where sailors
and Nirvana’s Ocean cleanses the memories of the departed.
Egon Hedin the cook
When I joined the ship as a second cook I had trained as a baker, on a tank ship with forty crews, one, who could bake a passable loaf was needed
The cook’s name was Egon Hedin, he had an ascetic face with an aristocratic nose, one felt like bowing to his lord until you saw his arms they looked enormous which would in a boxer
the vessel left Antwerp for Russia the journey took us through the Mediterranean Sea and since the weather was fine the deckhands wore shorts that excited him greatly, he tried to sneak up to one of them to stroke the boy’s back, this caused friction the crew didn’t want a *****onboard, the captain came told a tale that the cook had lost his son he longed for
When we birthed in Russia in a town, I had forgotten the name of, the cook and I went ashore few seamen went ashore in Russia as it was seen as a boring place with few bars and no whores the town lacked a festive atmosphere
Walking down a beautiful avenue we heard music from an open window, the cook marched in it was a local party’s functionary's birthday they were all men in badly cut suits and glad to see us for some strange Russian reason
They gave the cook vodka and me beer since I was so young, Hedin was at his most dramatic he sang a Russian song about love for the land till everybody cried, later we were driven onboard in a big black car
The tankship headed for Iceland with the oil cargo, Raysahavik the spelling is wrong a boring place with watery beer
back in Antwerp, the cook paid off, seeing him
in his splendid suit, I knew he was an aristocrat
love on the high seas
He was a happy man, had passed the catering exam, and got employment as second cook on a tank ship
To make happiness perfect his girlfriend had a job on the same ship, keeping the crew's mess hall clean.
How long was Adam in Paradise?
The fall came in the form of a mellifluous-voiced sailor
that had a call of love she could not resist and after work
she listened to his vocalization until one evening she stayed all night before going back to the cabin she shared with the second cook.
Pale and devastated he came in the galley to make breakfast, but the cook sent him to the store-room to fetch prunes needed to stuff pork loins.
When he came back he held in his right palm a finger
lacking from the left hand; an accident he said, we knew
he had done this for love.
At the entrance of the Suez Canal, he was sent ashore but there were some delays and he came back onboard in Port Said, because the ship was bound for Antwerp it was cheaper to send the boy home from there
His girlfriend starry-eyed and in love thought she could move in with a sailor who had a beautiful voice, but he
looked morally upset and refused her advances which
of course, that was not true, he had had his fun and goodbye
The shock of the rejection made him see sense, the second cook and she became lovers again, and she had forgiven him
(he didn't ask for what) and he forgave her.
Happy again, they left the ship in Antwerp, to take the train home, and their adventure ended.
The shipping accident
It was late evening when the captain of a Russian owner cargo came down from the bridge where he and the first mate had mapped the route from Humberside to Amsterdam. North Sea is always a busy seaway
In his cabin, lit a cigarette, sat down and opened his personal computer to send an email to his wife; he had a two-month vacation coming soon and said he missed her and loved her, if she came to Amsterdam, they could travel to Swiss
Then, an almighty shudder, he was thrown off his chair, hastily got up, ran up to the bridge, to his horror, his vessel had collided with an American reg tank ship; both ships were on fire, but since it was a calm night, the crew survived.
Back ashore, he gave his version of the accident to the relevant authority, as he left the building, he was arrested for manslaughter by the police; he knew the Russians were hated in England except for the wealthy types
The unreasonable hatred goes back to the time of the Tzar when the Bolsheviks killed the Tzar clan his wife had been one of the Queen Victoria’s relatives; the old queen had relatives in most of European royal households.
Politics entered the fray; the captain of the Russian ship was thrown into jail to await a trial that was not properly investigated since the US ship had carried jet fuel for an American base in a mediterranean country
There was a rumor of sabotage since NATO provoked war in Ukraine, the notorious newspaper, the Guardian, which is known for its anti-Russian stance, didn’t hesitate to accuse Putin for bringing the war to British shores
Baku and the Swedish cook
It sounds impossible, but 72 years ago, I was
a galley-boy on an old tank ship loading
oil for Iceland, a country with watery beer
Baku, I remember the long avenue, empty
of people and poorly lit.
The cook and I had gone ashore, and we were
the only one who dared me, because I had
not been brainwashed, and the cook who
was Swedish, Stige Hellander, his name, and
a communist
There was a party somewhere near the men
Who wore a double-breasted suit to grow in
and padded shoulder, making them look odd
Oh, yes, they were party functionaries
Stige, the cook, enjoyed himself with free vodka.
They put it in a corner with a bottle of milk
and bars of chocolate, until it was time to go
back onboard, Stige, the cook, sang rude songs
Now, seventy-two years later, I learn that Baku
is not in Russia