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