Bedtime Stories (for David)

This was written for my grandson David, born 31-Dec-2014 and published to celebrate his 3rd birthday.

Bedtime Stories

He really likes his post-bath bedtime stories
before he shuts his eyes
My grandson and I, in the big soft bed
His face bright with wonder
as we rediscover the delights
of the tale of the three little pigs
and the Big Bad Wolf
of whom he, at least, does not appear to be afraid.

He really likes the Big Bad Wolf;
He mimes the hurricane destruction
of the inferior domiciles
of the pathetic younger pigs;
the straw and the wood no match
for David's lupine huffing.

He laughs at the wolf's scorched arse
as the eldest pig turns the tables
His brain is alive with words
that dance around the illustrations.

On we move to the three skeletons
whose voices I must mimic, and so does he
Their adventures in the night
(scaring the town)
like an endless loop
but this does not concern David.

He really likes the skeletons;
he appreciates the certainties of their routine
and he predicts the next page
with unerring accuracy;
How weird would it be if, one night,
the skeletons stayed at home?

Finally the fairy who's hard of hearing.
There's a moral to this one
that is presently lost on the boy
but he really likes the rhymes;
carrot,parrot;
mouse,louse;
cat,bat;
Keep with those rhymes son,
keep with the rhythm of words;
Let them seep into your senses
and chant them to Morpheus;
the skeletons, the wolf, the pigs
and the fairy's misheard rhymes.

He really likes this, and so do I.

(c) Tim Fellows 2017


 

Ambleside

This short story was read out on Sheffield Live's Write Radio on 22nd December 2017. 

Ambleside - A ghost story for Christmas

The old man leaned on the wall and looked at the house. It was, he had to admit, not the prettiest house. It was grey in colour and looked like it should live in a black and white photograph, leaking monochromatically into the sky and trees surrounding it. There were splashes of colour and he took consolation in them - the pale green curtains, the plants in the hanging basket by the door and the yellow daffodil on the painted house name sign - "Ambleside".

The woman who now occupied the house was visible briefly through the window. She was a widow, who, despite her loneliness, seemed generally happy but today there was more of a bustle about her movement. Her activity indicated that this was the day when her grandchildren would visit her - she always put the tiny tent out in the back garden in summertime and had washed the bedding from the guest rooms. The children's arrival was bittersweet for him - it reminded him of when he had lived there as a boy. He loved that house, its strange staircase, the odd nooks and crannies to hide in, and the loft that he could climb into and listen to the creaking of its wooden floors when the wind was high. His mother, also a widow, would call him down for tea and he would climb down from the loft and scamper down the staircase following the rising scent of a stew or fresh baked bread.

He was happy with his mum and his house. He loved them both. Then he came. With his superficial charm, his flowers and chocolates, and, later, his drunken rages. Sadness rose in the man's body as his mind drifted, as it always did, to that night. To the child whose toothache was so bad he couldn't stop crying despite the shouting from the room next door. "Shut him up, Mary, before I do!" - he knew his mother would be sobbing and that made him cry more.

Shut him up. 

Suddenly there were footsteps and the door burst open - the man came in and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him from his narrow bed onto the floor. He could smell the whisky on his breath and feel the hands on his throat, tightening; he could hear the man shouting "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!", his mother screaming, the pain from the rotten tooth drifting away.

He had followed the man to the prison and to the hanging - before they put the hood on he knew that his killer had seen him. The terror in his eyes was more than could be explained by his imminent death. His black soul didn't linger - the trap opened and he was gone. Shut him up.

He was always sad that his mother couldn't see him - couldn't watch him growing up to be a man. She had moved away and he tried to follow but the house always drew him back. He barely left the house now, except to potter around the garden, as he was doing now. He loved this house and, as he entered what would be his ninetieth year, he wondered how much longer he would be here. He never wanted to leave - he wanted to be together with the house, forever.

Doorway

Thousands of people sleep rough in the UK and many more are dependent on hostels, shelters and temporary accommodation; most through no fault of their own. 

We are suffering from a serious shortage of social housing and a serious shortage of social responsibility. 

Doorway

The doorway is my home
wrapped against nature's bitter bite
I lie here freezing and alone
In swaddling clothes I rage against the night

I see the world pass by 
in varied states of mind they walk
briskly past, they avoid my eye
and disappear into the closing dark

They do not think that I
once had what they had, home and hearth
that has now gone, so easily 
and blamelessly I lost my own self worth

How not to feel downcast?
the ruthless wind cuts like a knife
an empty plastic cup blows past 
It is a cruel mirror of my life 

I too was thrown away
discarded like that empty cup
left to the winds of fate as they
wait for the dawn machine to sweep me up

I think - Where is the hope?
At Christmas time where is the cheer?
There is no helping hand or rope
To drag me from the slough of pain and fear

So spare a tiny thought
For those less fortunate than you
Who by the Grace of God are brought
to a shuttered door they may not walk through


(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Rising Renga

These were verses written by Fiona and me at the Renga Rising workshop at Horbury on Sunday, October 1st as part of Wakefield Literary Festival. Thanks to Dave Alton for organizing.

A renga  is a form of collaberative poetry from Japan - in our case we also structured it using pairs of verses in the form

5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables
7 syllables,7 syllables
5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables
7 syllables,7 syllables
....

There was a theme for each section, in groups starting with a season.

SUMMER
DAYS OUT
THINGS LEFT
RIPENING

AUTUMN
CLOCKS
DRIFT
HERITAGE

WINTER
TEXTILE
LAMP
PINE

SPRING
PASSION
BLOSSOM
FUTURE

Fiona's Renga

A bright summer's day
Hover flies over water
Nothing much happens

Canal boats glide past quickly
Children run and jump and play

Troubles left at home
At home but not forgotten
Waiting to return

Flowers bursting with colour
Berries swelling with fresh juice

Berries on the trees
Waiting to ripen and fall
Food for the winter

Time passes so quickly now
Racing onward towards death

Where does it all go
Health, hope, happiness, future
All merge into one

What has passed still has meaning

To make our future better

The sun is setting
Nights are long and days are short
Waiting for the dawn

Warm covers to keep me snug
Soft on my skin and cosy

The light is so dim
I light another candle
It gives light and heat

The pine stands in the corner

Decorated with panache

Days lengthen slowly
new life appears all around
lambs gambol with joy

New life, new hopes, new future!
Will tomorrow bring more joy?

The blossom appears
Growing daily on the boughs
Promises to come

What will happen tomorrow?
Who can tell? I wait in hope.

Fiona also wrote an accidental haiku for "Pine"

The tree smells divine
The heat from the small candles
Enhance its presence

Tim's Renga

On the sandy beach
Windy, cold, cheerless skies
Wish we were in Spain

Stately homes, gardens so trim
Moors, beaches, our National Trust

Brollies, sticks, hats and
teeth, even false legs are left
on the Underground

Banana, what is your choice?
Green, yellow or spotted brown?

Leaves, golden soft browns
Blown like the sad, lost spirits
of fallen soldiers

Time, ticking like an endless
sad cricket, above the fire;

They blocked it up, in
nineteen eighty five - our escape;
the long shallow drift.

Engine house at Pleasley Pit
Glassy walls of Hardwick Hall

Morning frost, scraping
Icy winds blown from the North
Where's the sun hiding?

From the backs of laden sheep
to our warm winter jumpers

Carol singers carry
festive illuminations
hanging from a stick

Lonely, the winter tree can
never shed its bitter spikes

New, fresh, bursting life
Hope, unchallenged in our heart
Youth will have its day

Running headlong with no fear
Love or hate, all consuming

Drooping from the branch
Its colour indescribable
It steals my vision

I am unknown, I am feared
I am inevitable.

The Miner (for my grandad Ted)

This poem is written in memory of my grandad William Edward "Ted" Fellows (1913-1978). I had the honour of reading it for the first time at the National Coal Mining Museum's commemoration event on 2nd December 2017.

Commemorative disc

"Lives lived, lives lost"

Reading of the poem

Reading the disc inscriptions

The Miner

He used to take the boy for walks
along rutted lanes;
aside thick-grassed fields.
On baked mud tracks
dappled with life and colour
yet close to the grey
man-made towers
and black hills where,
in his daily work,
he would ride the cage
into the darkest hell.
Birds identified
by their song and shape;
He knew the ground
on which we walked
and below which he toiled.
He smiles, in his head the
words and music of Handel.
His hands, holding the boy,
skilled on the trombone,
tending his greenhouse plants,
conducting the choir,
working the coal.

In giving lives and bodies

to the cause - the nation's energy

was safe in the miners' hands

yet they were so much more.

Fathers, brothers, sons, granddads -

Poets, singers, artists, craftsmen;

Hands and hearts

held in perfect time.

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Gilbert Daykin - the miner artist

This blog entry contains my poem "A Special Light" about Gilbert Daykin, a miner who created very striking paintings of mines and colliers, perhaps the most striking being “Symbolic: the Miner Enslaved” (1938) reminiscent of images of Christ and of the chained Prometheus.

Symbolic: A Miner Enslaved (1938)

Perhaps the most poignant one for me is "The Tub: At the end of the coalface" (1934) which was painted the year before my Great Uncle Jim Hooper was killed doing exactly what this miner is doing:

The Tub: At the end of the coalface (1934)

These are in the permanent collection at the Science Museum along with several others donated by a relative in 1978.

Daykin was born in Barnsley but later moved to Derbyshire and worked in pits around the Notts/Derby border. His other work included paintings of the Welbeck Estate which brought him to the attention of the family there and helped raise his profile. He was never able to leave the mines and was in constant fear of the danger it brought - in the end this proved justified and he was killed at Warsop Colliery in December 1939.

You can read more about Gilbert Daykin here.


A Special Light

Home from the mine -
back-breaking, hard and dirty shift;
fireside tub to rinse the dust
while in your memory
the images remain
imprinted, burnt,
as the blackness is washed away.
Impatient for your paints and brushes,
memories transferred
from brain to canvas.

Yellow-white glow of lamp
shines on blackened muscle,
straining in its labour,
heavy boot on stony floor.

You, a miner, and miner's son,
spat out of school at just thirteen
imagine with both eyes and soul.
Dignitaries laud you
and a duchess receives but
you are never allowed to fly the
fearful pull of the grim black hole.

A miner enslaved but
with a burning desire for art;
bending to his work
with shovel and brush;
breathing in dust then
breathing life into
inanimate oil and colour.

As war clouds gathered and
the skies thundered above
a roof was falling below
and you, Gilbert Daykin,
would daub no more.
A special light, illuminating the
pitch-black of mining history,
dimmed that night
but the shining talent
will never be extinguished.

Gilbert Daykin 1886-1939

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

All images are owned by the Science Museum and are published under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 Licence

"Symbolic: A Miner Enslaved" at the Science Museum 

 "The Tub - at the end of the coalface" at the Science Museum

 

Big Man

Recently President Donald J Trump decided to rescind a ban on importing animal parts into the USA from Africa - opening the way for "big game hunters" like his sons to bring back the heads of elephants, lions and cheetahs. He has since suspended the decision after an outcry.

This is what I think about it.

Big Man

I'm a big man, see me preen
on a photo that was taken
with a lion that I shot
when I was on vacation
All the way to Africa
in my Safari suit
There's lots of sexy animals there
that I so yearned to shoot

And now our fine new President
says that it's OK
to take my guns to the Savannah
so I can blast away

But only from a distance
in the comfort of my Jeep
Ideally I'd blast that cheetah
when it was fast asleep
then wrap my arms around its neck
holding it so tight
it's blood soaked spots so carefully
hidden out of sight

If I really were a big man
I'd take that creature down
with just my own bare hands
and take his furry crown

I'd wrestle with that rhino,
punch it til it's dead
I'd need no guide to help me
sever its glistening head

To put over my mantelpiece
and boast to all my friends
that I was the one, the big man
who put it to its end

But I hide behind my massive gun
like the coward that I am
For the future of the species
I don't give a damn

Well, big man, are you happy now?
that no elephants might remain
in their natural habitat
oblivious to their pain -
what is it, in your perverted head
when you meet their glassy eyes
over your roaring, crackling fire
admiring your bloody prize?

Your pride is a sick cancer
on the human race
that you feel the need to kill and maim
is a horrible disgrace
the creatures that you slaughter
have beauty, they have grace
I'd love to see them wipe that smile
from your smug, fat, decadent face

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay

Hotel Chelsea Project - The Four Seasons Room

The short story below is the back story for a tiny piece of art I contributed as part of a community art project in Mexborough. Each person would contribute one window. Here is mine:

This is the full hotel

The Four Seasons Room

The old man had been in the hotel room longer than most of the staff could remember. He always told them it helped him make new friends among the staff and guests. People wondered how he paid for it all but no bill was ever missed; some said he had been famous at one time but few seemed to know what for.

Recently he had been increasingly confined and had a series of nurses and carers permanently installed in an adjoining room. Rather than wandering the corridors and lounges he mainly stayed in the room, in bed or in his wheelchair reading or observing the world through his window.

One day in early spring he requested soft pastels of all colours and a pad of artists paper. He would spend time at the window, mainly thinking, but occasionally working. As the year went on his health deteriorated but he continued with his drawing. As New Year followed Christmas he called his nurse over and said “I've finished – get my lawyer”.

The meeting was set up and completed. A week later the old man was gone. A few weeks later the lawyer came to the hotel and asked to speak to the owner – the owner was called and, after the conclusion of the meeting, emerged looking pale and shocked, unable to speak. Eventually the Maitre D, who had known the owner longest, got the story.

The artist was indeed famous and had produced no new work since an abrupt retirement in 1985. The four expensive, much sought after, pastels he had produced had been bequeathed to the hotel on condition that the window in his room was altered to be a stained glass representation of his works – one for each season of the final year of his life. Thus was born The Four Seasons Room, named for the now celebrated Four Seasons pastels that spent most of their life on loan to collections around the world - but whose sisters could always be seen by everyone who walked past the hotel - second to top floor, second window from the right.

Sunday School Anniversary

2017 sees the 150th anniversary of the Methodist chapel in Stonebroom. This poem is the most auto-biographical one I've written. There is a sound recording of me performing in the 1975 Sunday School Anniversary that may appear on YouTube at some point!


Sunday School Anniversary

The old chapel is overflowing,
Ladies in hats and gents a suit
Low murmurs of conversation
Quickly become mute

As the preacher starts proceedings
Introducing the first song
The people of the chapel
Entertain the throng

Up on the tiered platform
The kids are ready too
Four times they have the service
A sense of deja vu

There, on that platform, sits a boy
Who's learned his moral verse
He found learning it so easy
But reciting so much worse

In front of such a massive crowd
It seemed like thousands there
In reality much fewer but
a very real nightmare

On one shoulder the good angel
Says "You know this inside out"
On the other lurks a darker voice
sowing seeds of doubt

"You'll forget it" said the serpent
as it slithered in his ear
"You'll make yourself look stupid"
His stomach knots with fear

His throat goes dry, he doesn't know
Just when the call will come
They change it every single time
His lips have just gone numb

Then suddenly the time arrives
He stumbles to his feet
Two hundred faces watching
Are they hearing his heart beat?

Then the words come flooding out
The confidence is there
The doubting voice just fades away
With a whimper of despair

And then it ends, relief at last
Shaking as he sits
He doesn't have to worry
He's won the war of wits

Between his brain which knows the words
And his soul which just prefers
that he didn't have to do this
and could just crawl down the stairs

But afterwards everybody says
just how well he spoke
"What a lovely poem"
said the genteel chapel folk

He knows that means a longer verse
is on its way next year
He curses his fine memory
but later it is clear

When exams come round that recall
Is a blessing for the boy
Maths, History, Science, English
Are all a learning joy

Even if occasionally
the man who has to stand
before a crowd of strangers
his subject to command

Has the serpent in his ear
Trying to sneak in
He knows that he can do it
He knows that he will win

For his fading memory
Of that Anniversary day
Tells him he can do it
"Be thankful, let us pray"

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

In memory of Jim and Wilfred

These poems are dedicated to Wilfred Owen, the poet who most influenced me in my teenage years, and my great-uncle Jim Whittaker, who served in the First World War after enlisting in 1915.

Owen was killed on 4th November 1918, one week before the end of the war. Jim survived and lived out his life in Derbyshire.

The Old Man In The Bed

(for Jim Whittaker 1889-1973)

There's an old man in a bed
in the front room
at my grandparents' house
He is my grandfather's uncle 

who complains a lot
when he does speak
which isn't so often

I hear him as
he bangs on the wall
with his walking stick
that he can no longer use
for he is confined.
"Rita!" he shouts and
she feeds and cleans him
It seems like he is waiting to die.
It is odd and uncomfortable
for an eleven year old

What I didn't see
is an ex-miner
who volunteered in 1915
to fight in the war
to end all wars

What I didn't see
is what he saw
in the Balkans and in France
Unimaginable sights

What I didn't hear
is what he heard
the explosions, the screams
the orders to advance into
possible death

What I see now
are the medals
he so bravely won

What I see now
is the hero
who never spoke about
what he saw
or what he heard

The Sherwood Forester
didn't die in Ypres
or in Turkey
he died in the village of his birth
a half century later and
his memories died with him

When you see an old man
or an old woman
struggling to rise or to
remember where they put their glasses
when you say
"they didn't take their pill today!"
remember that they had lives, had stories;
If they wish to speak
we should listen.


Escape from Hell

In World War I enlisting was seen as an escape from the danger and grinding hard labour of the collieries. At one stage 25% of Welsh miners had enlisted, forcing the Government to stop it happening to make sure coal production was maintained. Talk about out of the frying pan, into the fire.

We'd step into that cage, boys
down to the bowels of Hell
No matter what your age, boys
you couldn't do so well

in any other job, boys
until the Army called;
You'll earn a good few bob, boys
In uniform you'll stand tall

We marched off to the War, boys
no grinding daily graft
We'll give the Hun what for, boys
you really must be daft

To stay down in that pit, boys
Come with me to France
No gas, no dust, no heat, boys
Just do the Victory dance

We dug down in the earth, boys
I was a military mole
Dig for all you're worth, boys
For the King, and not King Coal

But do it really still, boys
For the Germans are so sly;
Ready for the kill, boys
We heard them scraping nearby

One day when it was late, boys
Soon time to rest my bones
A shell sealed five men's fate, boys
And I was left alone

I signed up for the front, boys
I'd almost lost my wits
To go back down; I couldn't, boys
to where pals were blown to bits

As we sat in the trench, boys
I wished that I weren't there
Oh God, the mud and stench, boys
There's nothing to compare

I'm in the bowels of Hell, boys
There's no escape from here
Bullet, gas or shell, boys
That's what I now so fear

When your shift is done, boys
You walk out of the night
We'll walk towards the guns, boys
In morning's shining light

I'll walk towards the guns, boys
In morning's shining light


Our Time Has Come

I wrote this on the day of the centenary of the Battle of the Somme, July 1st 2016

The guns are silent
We wait...
I am shaking
A sound in the sky
Cloudless and blue
It is birdsong
We listen....
"One minute boys!"
Bert is praying
We wait
The whistle blows
We go...
                Our time has come

The End of Summer 

This was written at a workshop - the title was "The End of Summer". I suppose they were expecting some summery imagery, and so was I to be fair. What no-one expected was this - nearly unchanged from what I first wrote in the 4 minute exercise.

It was the end of summer
Nineteen seventeen
We'd been through hell
I was still there
No flowers, just mud, no green

Where were my old companions,
Billy, George and Ted?
Gone away in a single day
What more have I to dread

It was the end of summer
But not the end of war
Live or die, with all my parts
I care not any more

Jack and Bill (after Siegfried Sassoon)

Jack and Bill took on the hill
in the face of fearsome slaughter
Bill went first as a great shell burst
and Jack went not long after

Up Jack got but he'd been shot
and no longer would he caper
In a flood of red he soon was dead;
his name was listed in the paper.

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Visions of Horses

It's a commonly held belief that animals perceive the supernatural more readily than humans.

Maybe pit ponies are no different.

Visions of Horses

Trudging up with heavy load
I walk my daily route - blinkered
in the dark I work and graft
with little love or reward.

It seems like this is eternity;
I remember so little else -
the memories seem like
imagined dreams - of my mother
nuzzling me gently as I drink
and of sunlight and rain;
of children laughing and patting.

My driver is neither kind
nor fierce - his melancholy drips
from him like water from the roof.
I sense his feelings
and those of the others who
cut the dark rock and fill my tubs.
Some say we sense more than
living emotions.

As I think this I catch, coming
towards me, a pale pony.
As we converge he stops
and stares straight in my eye.
His driver grunts - "hup lad"
but he will not move. I move
towards him, slowly - my
silent driver gives no orders.

I connect with the pony
whose baleful gaze is
now mere yards away.
I hear his thoughts -
he shimmers a little,
not quite solid.

"Hello friend"
I feel his words but cannot
respond. His master is
berating him, urging him on.
My grief is so deep my legs
buckle and my head bows.

"We will meet again"
he says and begins to move.
As he passes though me
we become one.

In that instant I know
which of us no longer lives. 

Dancing Lights

There are many stories of miners experiencing supernatural phenomena underground - this is one I made up.

Alone at the edge of the working day
Deep down below with just my lamp
I caught, in the corner of my eye,
Something that almost made me gasp
Along the swallowing darkened track
where the only colour should be black -
far flickering, dancing, lights

I turned my head so I could not see
the vision that icily clamped my heart
the thing that really should not be
where no man's hand could play a part;
I dare not move, my eyes were closed
I steeled myself to be composed
and look towards the dancing lights

My throat was dry as I turned my head
and took another nervous look
could my mind have been misled?
What possible things had I mistook?
But no, they were still there - closer now
than before; I swear, I vow
I saw those fearful dancing lights

My leaden feet were bolted down
as the lights drew ever near
then I faintly heard some muffled sounds
through the pounding in my ears
Scraping, hacking, scraps of chat;
a single laugh then more to add
echoing round the dancing lights

A crashing sound deep from the murk
and one by one out popped the lights
then my lamp too, the blackest dark
smothered me and held me tight 
as a rush of biting ice-air blew
deep through my soul and I truly knew
the essence of the dancing lights

At work, in pubs, they mocked, they laughed
"Spooky's coming", they might say, or
"Here's our Ghostbuster" as they passed;
But until the day I breathe no more
I'll tell my tale, at whatever cost,
of the souls of brother pitmen lost
and their beautiful, awesome dancing lights


(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Saint John

Written for the jazz poetry night at Mexborough on October 1st 2017 - a poem about the veneration of saxophonist John Coltrane and some haikus about my experiences with Jazz.

This is absolutely true - Google it if you don't believe me.

John Coltrane in 1963

Saint John

In San Francisco there's a place
where you can pray, raise up your face
and the music runs at a jazzy pace
- the St. John Coltrane Church

To paint the globe with a message of love
from the legend, the saint, who plays above
with the resonant sound of the mourning dove
at the St. John Coltrane Church

For the saint who so very sweetly blew;
Davis, Armstrong, Ella too,
Billie, Charlie, they'll connect with you
at the  St. John Coltrane Church

Meditate and calm your mind
you will your own true freedom find
in his Spiritual notes you'll be entwined
at the  St. John Coltrane Church


Jazz Haiku

Smoky cellar bar
Cologne, Nineteen eighty nine
My very first live jazz

City of Angels
Warm evening, cold beer, hot jazz
Fast playing trio

Prague, city of jazz
Students, playing for some cash
All different styles

Vltava river
Jazz boat, stranded by the fog
Can't stop the music

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Symbiosis

Inspired by "Giants Refreshed: Pacifics in the Doncaster Locomotive Works" by Terence Tenison Cuneo (1907–1996) in Doncaster Museum and Art Gallery

You can see the painting here

Symbiosis

"Interaction between two different organisms living in close physical association, typically to the mutually beneficial relationship between different people or groups."





The beast is sleeping;
Awesome even in its silence.
Gleaming in the light
while tiny creatures prink and clean
its accumulated detritus.
Venturing where none may dare
when the beast is awake
to prepare it for its circadian prowl.
They are symbiotic, co-dependent;
Cleaners and oilers,greasers and painters;
obligated and phoretic.

Refreshed, it eases into the open,
fire blazing, pressure building,
slowly rising from its slumber.
Hissing as it glides so smoothly,
lazy pistons like muscles stretching
unaware of their impending fury.
The beast makes its payment,
hosts carried in its wake
as it gorges greedily on the dark fodder
shoveled in its gaping maw;
Speed building, air rushing,
vapour trailing, rails screaming.
Small creatures stand aside as the beast,
pacific blue shining,
roars past; in awe and wonder as it
disappears
into
the
distance

Glossary:

Clarity & Dad's Ode to Autumn

As my dad wrote, Keats pretty much said it all in his poem "To Autumn" - here's verse 1.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

      For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.   

Autumn was his favourite season and this is his homage to Keats written in the 1970s

Autumn (by J.E. Fellows)

I recently wrote my own Autumn-themed poem. It's a follow-on from my earlier poem "Cumulonimbus" and ties in with World Mental Health awareness day which was last Tuesday.

Clarity

The blackness has lifted
and with fresh untainted eyes
I see, with utter clarity,
the dust beneath my feet,
the scudding clouds,
a falling leaf, all carried
by the Autumn gale;
just as we are propelled by
forces beyond our control
to our unknown destination.

Our esteemed leaders

I thought I'd better publish version 1 of this before it became obsolete. I suppose some of the mentioned reprobates will be candidates for the pending vacancy. Fill in your own swearing - children may be reading this.

I expect I will rework future versions as more candidates come into the frame.

Our esteemed leaders

Theresa May
the papers say
that very soon
you'll go away

Davis, Dave
I really crave
the day you're in
your political grave

Spreadsheet Phil
pays the bills
by taking money
from the ill

Boris Johnson
plays the long con -
A rude buffoon
You should be gone son

Oh Liam Fox
Back in your box!
You're one of life's
annoying....

Jeremy Hunt
You really shunt
Have a name
That rhymes with....

Michael Gove
A funny sort of cove
An insidious web
of poison wove

Old Rees-Mogg
Dense as fog
All the charm of
a rotten log

Amber Rudd

You awful dud
You washed your hands
of Orgreave's blood

Sly old Rupert
in the wings
He's still trying
to pull the strings

Are these the ones
to hear your voice?
Or do we have
another choice?

(c) Tim Fellows 2017, 2018, 2019...

Woody Guthrie

Today marks the 50th anniversary of the death of Woodrow Wilson "Woody" Guthrie.

Guthrie was a songwriter, singer, political activist and a massive influence on modern folk music in the USA and over here. When musicians aren't covering his songs, you can hear (possibly second or third hand in the case of younger ones) echoes of Guthrie musically and lyrically.

Growing up he and his family were the victim of a boom and bust in the local oil industry and later he became a "dust bowl refugee", escaping the failed crops of Kansas to head west to California. He served in the Second World War, seeing it as a "just war" against fascism.

After the war he began to grow in popularity and collaberated with some of the biggest names in folk music, moving to New York. He began to show symptoms of erratic behaviour and mood swings - the first signs of what was eventually diagnosed as Huntingdon's Disease. He spent nearly 15 years slowly deteriorating mentally and physically and eventually passed away on October 3rd, 1967.

For a full biography and loads more information and songs, go to http://woodyguthrie.org/

He was an absolutely prodigious writer - leaving hundreds of songs in his catalogue as a magnificent legacy. His most famous song is probably "This Land Is Our Land" but my favourite is probably "Los Gatos Plane Wreck" also known as "Deportee" which was written in 1948 after a plane crashed in California killing many migrant workers who were either illegal or whose work permits had been terminated. When the radio reported the accident, it didn't name the dead, except for the 3 crew - calling the rest "deportees".

The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning,
The oranges piled in their creosote dumps;
They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border
To pay all their money to wade back again

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees"

My father's own father, he waded that river,
They took all the money he made in his life;
My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees,
And they rode the truck till they took down and died.

Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted,
Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to that Mexican border,
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.

We died in your hills, we died in your deserts,
We died in your valleys and died on your plains.
We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes,
Both sides of the river, we died just the same.

The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills,
Who are all these friends, all scattered like dry leaves?
The radio says, "They are just deportees"

Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except "deportees"?

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees"

Click here for a lovely version by KT Tunstall

Catalonia Rising

This may be the most contentious thing I've written and if you are a supporter of the Spanish government you should look away now. You may also tell me I should bugger off and mind my own business, which is fair enough. But if you're happy with masked thugs beating up elderly men and women for exercising what is, in effect, peaceful protest then good luck.

Catalonia Rising

(1)Franco's ghost laughs
                          as it observes
unfolding acts on bitter streets;
the pulsing heart of Catalonia,
under (2)Gaudi's coloured curves,
mourns in rhythmic beats
with the batons of the (3)Guardia.

Where once he cracked skulls
and shattered countless lives
the old track is stuck on repeat;
where democracy is culled
and jackboot fascism thrives
and freedom is in retreat.

The Catalan blood will surely rise
as it did in thirty six
push back the force of the elite
in the spirit of (4)Companys
resist the government's dirty tricks 
win back their rights on (5)Barça's streets.

(c) Tim Fellows

Notes:

(1) Francisco Franco - Spanish general who ruled over Spain as a military dictator from 1939 until his death in 1975
(2) Antoni Gaudí i Cornet - Catalan architect whose works define the modern architecture of Catalonia 

(3) Guardia Civil - the National Guard of Spain, who have a somewhat chequered history dating back beyond the Civil War in 1936-1939
(4) Lluís Companys i Jover - former president of Catalonia, executed by Franco in October 1940
(5) Barça is the shorthand for FC Barcelona who are the de facto national football team of Catalonia - they were forced to play a game despite the unrest in the streets and, unusually, took a political stance as a result

Slavery

This poem was inspired by the following, brilliant poem "The Negro Speaks of Rivers" by Langston Hughes:

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

You can hear it read by Hughes, along with an explanation of how it came to be written here.

He wrote this when he was 16 - I am not in his league nor do I have his direct experience of being an African-American, but here's something I wrote for National Poetry Day and Black History month 2017.

Slavery

There's something visceral about
seeing a human in chains;
hunger in their belly,
desolation in their eyes;
watching as coins are passed
from hand to hand
and their ownership from one
to another;

That smashes through
the basic revulsion that the
concept of slavery
should engender within.
Where any shred of
human decency would
demand a call to arms
to banish it forever.

To raise the sharpest axe
and bring it crashing
onto and through the manacles
and scream "Enough!"
No-one should stand by and watch
as a human being
is sold down the River.

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

In Memory of the Real Football Fan

This is for all you football fans out there - especially those in blue and white who are not having the best of weeks. It was written by my dad in the 1970s and is accompanied by his drawings. It's an early start for tomorrow's National Poetry Day with its theme of freedom - which is what I felt after 25 years of being chained to Chesterfield FC and finally realising it wasn't worth it.

Where Have They Gone?

The original version of this poem was free verse - it was rewritten after studying Thomas Hardy at Read To Write Mexborough. Thanks to Ian Parks and Thomas Hardy for the inspiration to change it to a more structured form. It echoes the theme of Hardy's poems that he wrote after his wife died, where he visualises the past and present simultaneously from the same physical location.  

Where Have They Gone?

From the upper window the man looks out
Across the valley, horses graze
In the field that Time has quietly scorned
Untouched by all the passing days

In that same place those years before
in reflection stood a boy serene

He sees goalposts on the slanting field 

The village team in tangerine

Where once he played with leather ball
the man sees only trees full-grown
The laughter and the childhood games
could be but memories of his own

He turns his head to see the hill
the mine's old spoil heap cloaked in green
No natural feature could be so fair
where man had lately intervened

The boy sees the headstock; motionless then;
There only in spirit for the man
No coal below, ripped out and burnt
the miners and their work moved on

The stream flowed ochre in those times
stained liquid from the empty depths

To the brook that now runs clear
not tumbling from the man-made steps

Faded images play

of memories which

like a dream

make him feel

that Time just robs

with unseen stealth

all that he's done;

Those long gone days
the football pitch
the orange stream
the winding wheel
the colliers' jobs
and Time itself
have now all gone

and Time itself
will soon be gone

 (c) Tim Fellows 2017

 

Rother Valley - late summer

2nd September 2017 at Rother Valley before the parkrun. I was volunteering and perhaps had more chance to appreciate what a beautiful place it is.

Rother Valley - late summer

Mist hanging low like cotton wool
burnt off by slowly rising sun;
Birds succumb to south's winter pull -
like us they'll soon be come and gone.

Thin shadows point towards the west
of trees lined up in military file.
White two, on blue, the pigeon's rest;
the playful dog, a small child's smile

Arrow-point geese glide in to land -
doubled as mirrored in the lake -
synchronised their wings are fanned
then fold as they apply their brake.

Awakened insects dart and dance
around the grasses and the reeds.
Their ritualistic final chance
as nights grow long and days recede.

Life-paired swans can gently bob,
white quilled towards the wooded isle;
elegant pen and graceful cob
know none compare in regal style.

Warmth grows in stealth as climbs the sun;
a picture perfect Summer's end.
But Autumn knows its day will come
and waits in patience round the bend.

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

At The Cottage

This poem was written as a prequel to Robert Browning's Porphyria's Lover as part of a workshop at Mexborough Read To Write in August 2017. 

The original is here: Porphyria's Lover - Poetry Foundation

At The Cottage

I spiral with indecision;
The rain falls in the distance
as the Banshee howl of the wind
rattles the trees and whips the reeds;
I must hasten my step
though it will reach me soon enough.

This thing I carry within  -
I wonder if he knows?
He has been so distant; now he is so close.
Can he tell, for I do not dare,
that something we share
relentlessly, incessantly grows?

I saw him out riding, urging onward his grey;
they vanished before I saw who he chased.
If I can't be his, and his alone,
Why must I desire him so?

At the cottage:
Lilies on the dark, rank pond;
bees swarm on the woodland sage.
God has not answered my fevered prayers
so this, this, is a destiny of my choosing
for I could turn at any time.
I observe a bird on the path, wing broken.
I try to help it but grab only dirt
as it flaps to the dark undergrowth
to accept its fate, as now must I.

The time is nearly come
when we might be as one

Tim Fellows 2017

Owd Nick 'n' Yung Tom

The absolutely 100% true story of how we got our crooked spire.



Owd Nick 'n' Yung Tom

Owd Nick com darn ter Darbiesher
In sum owden time
'E thowt 'e'd start sum mischiff
An' 'e kicked off wi' this rhyme

"'Im upsteers 's med this land
its grand as owt an' fair
Well ar've com 'ere to mek it woss
Ah'll ruin it, ah swair!"

'E flew abaht them peaks an' crags
'E tonned the rivers red
'E stared raight at an 'undred shaip
'An killed 'em all ston ded

A peasant, name 'o Thomas Dunn
'E wor raight big'n'strong
'd bin plowin' near ter Chesterfield
'E'd bin wokkin' 'ard'n'long

'E'd just sat darn to 'ay 'is snap
When Owd Nick com flyin' past
'E slew Tom's ox wi' a flay orriz tail
'It 'appened laightnin' fast

Off went Owd Nick darn ter t'tarn
Tom stood and shook 'is 'ed
'is fizzog war laik thunder
'it 'ad gone ten shades o' red

'E ripped a tree raight art o't grarnd
'An set off runnin' after Nick
'E ran to keep 'im in 'is sight
'E wor battin' - a raight owd lick

When Nick reached t'tarn 'e 'ad sum fun
'E wor causin' lots o' bother
'E drank all't beer in't Market Place
'An peed it art in't Rother

By t'time yung Tom caught up wi' 'im
'E'd sat on top o't church
'E wor laughin' fit ter bost
Up theer on 'is perch

"Oi Lucy! Get thissen darn 'ere,
Ah'v 'ad me fill o' thee;
"Tha'll get what's comin' raight enough
Wen tha picks a faight wi' me"

Nick couldn't believe 'is 'airy lugs
This barmpot must be cracked;
E' wor climbin' up outside 'o t'church
Wi' a tree strapped ter 'is back

He wrapped 'is tail ararnd the spire
'An stared raight in Tom's eyes
"Tha darst com 'ere and faight wi' me?"
"Ah duz", yung Tom replies

Nick took a swipe wi' 'is deadly claw
But Tom swayed art o't road
then whacked 'im w't tree in 'is ugly chops
until 'is grain blood flowed

'E wor raight shakken wor'oary Nick
Tom dealt him blow on blow
'E flicked 'is tail raight off o't spire
An' scurried back below





"Ar, womit thee, ah'll gi' thi' more
If tha wants me to!!"
Tom louked darn ter see that t'spire
wor twisted laik a screw

Folk wor cheerin' young Tom Dunn
As 'e slid down from up t'top
Rarnd and rarnd that twisted spire
Til 'e com turra stop.

"That lonned 'im, Sorrey!", blarts art Tom
to that cheerin' crard
They all et souse'n'tonnips
an' drank beer darn't Falcon Yard.






Nar, lowk ovver theer, si fer thissen
'Ow t'devil med it twist'n'buck;
Tom'd tell yer't tale 'imsen
if yer bort 'im beer in't Mucky Duck

(c) Tim Fellows 2017 with help from the spirit of Tom Dunn

Passive Aggression in an English Office Kitchen

This is absolutely not a true story. Honestly. 


Passive Aggression in an English Office Kitchen

Day 1:
All the bloody milk's gone again, says A
We had 6 pints this morning, says B
It's people having their breakfast, (A again)
They should have it at home

Day 2:
It's 8.30am and I'm making a coffee
C comes in - mutual Hi's but I notice
she's carrying a packet of Weetabix;
my eyes narrow in suspicion

Day 3:
All the bloody milk's gone again, says A
It's only 3 o'clock
B shrugs - Shall I put a note up
Best not, says A, not worth the hassle

Day 4:
A has a point, for there has been a note
reminding people to put their dirty dishes
in the dishwasher, not the sink. It is in large red letters,
capitals. SHOUTING, but impersonal and ignored.
It is torn

Day 5:
8.42am A catches C eating Weetabix in the communal room
Milk dribbling down their chin and spilt on the table.
He says nothing - his mouth is tight shut. No Hi! today.
She puts it in the sink and leaves it.
3pm - All the bloody milk's gone again, says A

Tim Fellows 2017

Killing Machine

My poem, followed by one written by my dad 40 years ago


Killing Machine

The pavement is wet -
puddles lie in its uneven surface.
Head bent against the
northerly wind
I catch the reflection of a
streetlamp in one of them.

Its not too bad a thing
to be your last image -
although a nice sunset or
apple blossom on a spring tree
would be better.

I didn't see it, behind me
on the pavement,
traction lost on slick
road by worn rubber -
a moment's misfortune.

It is a strange thing,
I thought at the end,
to end up as another
statistic; one more victim
of the killing machine.

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Motorway waterway

JE Fellows

The Decoy Bird

This was created in basic narrative form at a storytelling workshop at Towersey Festival led by the brilliant Debs Newbold and refined into a poem later. I've recently been reading Charles Causley and there are some nods to him in here too.

The Decoy Bird

Soldiers were coming - from the West
Nowhere had we to hide
except an oak tree or a ditch
there was no time to decide.
The leafy tree grew high and broad
so we began to climb
when a bird appeared, so very strange,
with plumage so sublime.

It shimmered blue, its crest was green;
night black its pointed beak;
it opened up its golden wings
and then began to speak:
"This tree not safe, come not in here,
your steps you must retrace!"
and so the dank foul smelling trench
became our hiding place.

The soldiers came, their crunching boots
stopped by the old oak tree;
We thought that they must surely find
my cousin Jack and me.
When suddenly a shout rang out
and then a gunshot too;
I saw when glancing at the sky
a flash of glistening blue.

The bird was dead, the soldiers laughed
and carried it away
But what they saw was not so strange
on that enchanted day;
They just saw a plain game bird
not sparkling in the sun
They left our land, we left the dyke
and to our home did run.

Years passed by but I ne'er forgot
the exquisite Decoy Bird
who saved our lives and died for us
yet we never said a word.
And now I'm old, my time is up
I wait to breathe my last
My mind is filled with memories
of my forgotten past...

An image flashed across my sight
from when I was a child
A fallen bird on the garden path -
my tired old face just smiled
I'd put that bird back in its nest
though I could not have seen
Its blackened beak, its aurate wings;
its crest of radiant green

I closed my eyes one final time
one crowning shallow breath
The long hid mystery was now solved
so thus I met with death.
But as my soul rose to the sky
I saw my golden wings
I opened up my jet-dark beak
and I began to sing.

"At last my story can be heard
for I'm the angelic Decoy Bird."

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

The Ghost Of Emily Wilding Davison.....

The Ghost Of Emily Wilding Davison Goes to Chesterfield Bowling Club on Hearing That They Have Voted to Not Admit Women

 BBC report
 
The outraged, resolute phantom
descended on the town.
Made a beeline for the Bowls Club
and flattened down their crown

She glided round the trim green lawn
diverting all the bowls.
She took a trip to the countryside
and brought back fourteen moles

She flew into the clubhouse
and put laxative in the beer.
She listened to the members chat;
wondering what they could fear.

About a missing chromosome
and the ability to give birth?
She'd died a hundred years before
to allow women to prove their worth.

As she sat there eavesdropping
she stopped being quite so mad.
And just felt pity there instead
because they were merely.. sad.

She allowed herself a giggle
at the panic it would bring
if a transgender bowler
applied to join their gang.

They'd all join her soon enough,
those cantankerous old men.
And their grandsons would vote for
not just old cocks, but hens

So she gathered up the fourteen moles
and restored their grassy crown.
But before she left she made sure
she put the loo seats down.

Emily Davison, suffragette

Winter's Journey

This poem started as an exercise from a poetry workshop in Rossington on 12th July 2017. It is based on words taken from the poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost

I woke up from my darkest sleep
My skin by downy quilt caressed
A frozen landscape from my window sweeps
to the snow-covered woods so dark and deep

The stony lane banks round the bend
The house retreats as I move on
Fear and uncertainty I must forfend
As on my thoughtful, passive way I wend

Far distant bells toll on the wind
The grey, damp church cold comfort now
Where once my hopes and dreams were pinned
A melodious hint for those who've sinned

What is the course that I intend?
No stopping now, no going back
After the village lonely miles extend
The journey starts, or does it end?


First undrafted version

I woke up from my darkest sleep
My face caressed by downy pillow
A lovely frozen landscape from my window sweeps
to the snow-covered woods so dark and deep
The journey starts, or does it end?

Charles Causley - a Cornish poet

Charles Causley CBE, FRSL was born in Launceston, Cornwall 100 years ago on August 24th 1917 and died on November 4th 2003. He was a writer, poet and teacher.

Although popular as a children's writer, the accessible nature of a lot of his poetry means that it is hard to distinguish between his children's poems and those for adults. His guiding principle can best be summed up by; "while there are some good poems which are only for adults, because they pre-suppose adult experience in their readers, there are no good poems which are only for children." This shows a great respect for, and lack of condescension towards, children that in my opinion would have made him a very good teacher. 

He is perhaps best known for his poem "Timothy Winters", a sharply observed piece with some startling imagery that must resonate strongly with anyone who has taught at primary schools. Whether every class has a Timothy Winters in it or not, every school that is within striking distance of a working class neighbourhood almost certainly will.

He was very well loved and respected in the poetry community - his closest friend in that world, maybe surprisingly, was Ted Hughes - and he was considered by all who met him to be a gentle, kind man who, although private, would happily discuss poetry, life, books and teaching with friends. His work was not really received as well academically as perhaps it deserved but in recent years this is changing and he is starting to become the subject of an increasing number of academic papers, publications and dissertations either as the sole subject or alongside contemporaries such as Philip Larkin and RS Thomas. Hughes and Larkin suggested his appointment as Poet Laureate which could have happened after John Betjeman died in 1994 - maybe he was considered too old or not heavyweight enough and in fact Hughes was given the honour. 

He served in the Navy in World War 2 and wrote poems of his experiences there that would also have been influenced by the fact that his father was killed as a result of ill health caused during the first war. The poem "Convoy" is a stunning short piece about a fellow sailor who was killed in battle. "Angel Hill", one of my personal favourites, is a very strange and unsettling piece about a return from war of two sailors.

Much of his work is influenced by his native county, where he lived all his life, and by the local folk music tradition. His house in Launceston, Cyprus Well, is owned by the Charles Causley Trust, a registered charity, that exists to celebrate his life and work and promote new literature activity in the community and region in which he lived. It is open to the public on request at limited times and is used as a venue for poetry readings and celebrations, not least of which is an annual festival celebrating his life and work.

His work has been picked up by a distant relative, folk singer and Devonian Jim Causley. His 2013 CD "Cyprus Well", sets some of his poems to music and he followed this up in 2016 with a CD of his children's poems "I Am The Song".

One of his final works, Eden Rock, has clear echoes of some of Thomas Hardy's work. It deals with life, nostalgia and death in 20 beautifully crafted lines and ends with a single line of such brilliance and simplicity that you almost want to give up writing yourself.

References:

The Charles Causley Trust and Cyprus Well

Obituary by his friend Susan Hill, November 2003

Charles Causley reads Eden Rock

Jim Causley's website

The Long-Leggedy Man

The Long-Leggedy Man

There is a man who stands so tall
I don't know how he walks at all

He wears blue clothes and a smart red hat
I don't know how he walks like that

He says hello and lifts his trilby
And says "good day" to the folks of Balby

He has long legs but tiny feet
How he gets around has got me beat!

It would be great to be that high
Up there with the birds that fly

Around your head and your waving flags
As tiny kids run between your legs

Long-leggedy man,  this poem's for you
the one who walks like we can't do

(c) Tim Fellows 2017