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