Biography of Andrew Shiston
I am an Englishman now living in Lincolnshire, England; I am a retired Merchant Navy officer, retired after twenty five years at sea. I write poetry of the sea, and of Dorset, (Thomas Hardy country) I also write novels, one of which has been published. My goal in life now is to publish a book of poetry.
Poetry has always been my passion and I used to write on long trips away at sea.
I have been active and have had some of my poetry published, but not as yet in book form.
Andrew Shiston's Works:
'A Bay of Skeletons'
Andrew Shiston Poems
Come With Me To This Island In The Sea (...
Come with me to this Island in the sea Tears of stone shed by ancient mountains bones The curving shore for all good men to see
Ode To A Sunken Ship
Seagulls soaring over white water Wings stiff in the black sky Storm clouds race the raging wind As breaking seas crash by
The sky grows dark, seagulls scream The wind begins to howl The storm is close, we cringe with fear The sea grows larger still
This Island, this out-thrust spit of land At the end of miles of stone Where on the farthest cliff-top A lighthouse stands alone
Quiet Of The Morning
As the mist swirls in the valleys And drifts across the fields The ghostly shadows harden And the ancient trees appear
From many fathoms deep In the dark and dismal depths Where day and sunlight disappear Lays a rusting rotten wreck
The Emperor's Men
Through the Suez Canal, on to the Red Sea And towards the east Where lives the nomad tribes Across the dry and arid deserts
Sea lies in the harbour Stone piers straddle the ebbing tide Ferryboats still bob and turn Bows on, moorings still tied
Forlorn and standing tall In an empty dockyard basin Bent and rusted rails By broken fallen walls
A Symphony Of A Storm
The lightning and crashing of thunder And squalls of gale force wind Leave the sea a striped peppermint humbug To a horizon the eye cannot see
In the darkness of the night Lit by a three quarter moon The swirling mist hovers Over rough and ready cobbles
Christmas Eve At Sea
The sheets were frozen solid And snow lay on the decks The day was as cold as charity As we tacked from east to west
Those At Sea
Cloth cap, coat thin with tears Congregation of this grey coastline Fishermen's wives and fears Shuffling, eyes downcast to their pew
A Day In Late Spring
The fog is lifting and the foghorn silent On the point of Portland Bill The lighthouse light extinguished Only seagulls now are shrill
A Time Before
The Island appeared from the parting mist
The cliffs rise from rocky broken bones
Surging tides of Eocene, laid waste
And cleansed this marbled artery of stone
On the cliff above, a gallery of cradled nests of lamps
White light for the wreckers moth,
Beneath the baleful eye
Rests the fishermen's windswept homes
Windows glow with warmth