The poem “Oh Titanic” was written in April 2012 and dedicated to Barry Price; the world’s number one fan of all things Titanic, and a great, great grandson of a Harland and Wolff riveter and caulker.
Dad / David Price
Oh Titanic
We had taken the train from Belfast,
Its place of birth and source of life,
For many months steel plates formed and placed,
Held by rivets driven with effort so precise,
Propellers beautiful in flowing shape,
Four funnels proudly stand,
Three for use and one just for show,
She looked so great,
She looked so grand,
We had not seen her since she’d first left,
Now back complete beside our land,
In safe harbour in the Cove of Cork,
A place now so full of bustling purpose,
The majestic ship making steam and smoke,
She was an awesome sight,
Lifeboats showing sun washed in pristine white,
Hung like a necklace along a black and elegant side,
The hawsers fell and she moved away,
Stern disappearing from view,
Within a gentle cloud of hazy air,
We had laboured long and hard to make that ship,
We had shaped that hull with love and care,
What pride we felt as she sailed that day,
On April 11th in nineteen and twelve.
Would we ever see her like again?
Forty-six thousand tons of steel, wood, and glass,
But no match at all,
For that cruel, hard packed, mass of ice,
A floating rock of rigid force,
Ripping through the plates of brittle steel,
Tortured metal bending, buckling, tearing, ripping,
Rivets wrenched and tossed away,
An open and a mortal wound
And still she was full speed ahead,
Not realizing she was already dead,
With yet a few hours to live,
A manned telegraph with frantic taps,
Lights ablaze and music playing,
A splendored staircase of curving rails,
Chandeliers of sparkling light,
Tablecloths so perfect flat and so perfect white,
Places dictated by order and by class,
An evening ending in a frightened calm,
As water filled her heart and soul
And boilers hissed and spat and died,
Now bow and stern in rending split,
In an agonizing end,
On that cold April morn,
As the dark and deep Atlantic Sea,
Claimed with a compassion cold,
With a final shudder taking hope
And all that could ever be,
We lost that wonder of iron and oak.
Would we ever see her like again?
