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