The Pentrich Rising

Pentrich is a small village on the edge of the Peak District in Derbyshire. These events took place in 1817 when England was in a state of turmoil following the French Wars. Civil disobedience and potential revolution were in the air...

This poem was inspired by the lecture (with music) by John Young detailing the story behind the Rising and its tragic (at least for some) ending.

You can read a full account here

The Pentrich Rising

In eighteen hundred and seventeen
three hundred men and true
marched on the city of Nottingham
to fight to get their due

The Corn Laws raised their prices
They could buy no bread
Cheap labour taking all their jobs
They were hanging by a thread

The government in London
cared nothing for the poor
The bastard Henry Addington
was master of the law

He suspended habeus corpus
he crushed rebellious thoughts
He used his secret agents
and his lackeys in the courts

The men had surely had enough
when they gathered at the inn
They were part of a national movement
that would free their kith and kin

But as they marched together
their problems became clear
No food, no guns or muskets
Not even any beer

They never reached their target
At Eastwood they fell short
The army quickly crumbled
and the ringleaders were caught

There were no other armies
There were no other troops
They fell for Addington's dirty tricks
They were sacrificial dupes

They took them off to Derby
and held them in the jail
They silenced all the protests
no one could tell the tale

They were drawn upon a carriage
to their hanging place
Six thousand saw them struggle
into death's cold embrace

Others were transported
Their sentences reduced
But Brandreth, Turner and Ludlam
faced the hangman's noose

The elite had won the battle
but there was more to do
Fifteen more were slaughtered
in the shame of Peterloo

So remember not to trust the rich -
raise a glass of English Beer
in memory of two hundred years
since the Pentrich mutineers

Tim Fellows 2018

Frying Ham

In memory of my grandma Rita Fellows (1913-1978) 

I have clear memories of one particular morning, but I'm sure it happened many times. She would look after us when my Mum and Dad were at work. 

Frying Ham

The thick pan, blackened by its constant use,
spits with fat; hot from the blistering flame
I stand, expectant, watching while it
hisses, crackling as the sallow winter
sun peers in to see the gravid slice of
frying ham dropped; carefully, quickly
leaving my grandma's work-worn tender hands.

She asks me to stand guard but not to touch
as, attending to other household tasks,
she bustles to another room and I,
with salivating mouth, observe pink flesh
turn slowly darker as the shrinking meat
releases scents that on my brain imprint
the loving memory of my days with her.

The ham is turned and soon it will be mine,
resting in sliced brown bread that magically
appears, absorbing salty, pungent juice.
From the plate expectant hands lift slowly
to the open mouth, closed eyes, the easy bite
through sodden bread, teeth tear the supple ham.

I lift my eyelids and I sadly know
that fifty years have passed me by since then
and I will never eat such tender meat
or feel my grandma's special love again. 

Tim Fellows 2018

This work started as a piece of prose written at Ian Duhig's workshop at Stones Barn in April 2018. I then changed it to a blank verse format as part of a Read to Write exercise based on Wordsworth's "spots of time". 
 

Comments

The internet is both a wonderful and horrific invention that has lifted a stone and revealed the dark heart of many people in our so-called civilised society. This poem is dedicated to the people who contribute to the comments section under Mail Online articles about immigrants.

Comments

The world wide web is aptly named
for spider-like it traps our thoughts;
ideas roam free along its threads
then catch upon its sticky knots

Enraged, inspired, considered, rash
all kinds of words come flooding out
unedited - no second chance
whether carelessly or skillfully wrought
democratising ignorance
straight from your brain to vast disk farm
where they lie exposed like a helpless child
in an uncaged zoo of savage harm

Your arguments, so neatly drawn
typed into words, precisely laid
are presented for the world to see
as you bask in lazy righteousness
sure of your ideology.

But then the web it snares your words
and the spider sniffs and finds them out
its poisoned fangs exposed to bite
and paralyse your pumping heart.

For below your carefully drafted piece
you smugly wait 'til come along
the comments that are like a drip
of decaying corpse fluid on your tongue.

Smart or dumb, it matters not
the world is free to judge your text
in anonymity they click and tut
and smear and hate
pressing keys they make
a thumbs-up like, a love heart,
sad or angry face
as they upvote, downvote,
tap their slashing were-wolf words
hurting, hating, pointing, shaming
until your only way to tackle
the tide of spitting, baiting, blaming
is blocking, blocking, stop the blight;
de-friend, delete, end the cackle
of abuse and threats and hurtful slights.

But it's far too late
we all now know
that out there in the real world
are people who may look like us
may act like us
but underneath
they have their running commentary
their stifled fears, their own true selves
the arachnid fangs of bitter bile
waiting to bite
behind a grim-faced smile.

Tim Fellows 2018

Forbidden

The history of rugby league is littered with dirty tricks to stunt its growth and keep it penned in its heartlands. However in some cases, the establishment attempted to destroy it and the worst example was in France during the Second World War. Find and read the excellent book "The Forbidden Game" by Mike Rylance to get the full story.

This year the Catalans Dragons won Rugby League's oldest and perhaps most prestigious trophy, the Challenge Cup. Bien joué, mes amis, bien joué.


Forbidden

In the backrooms
and the corridors of Vichy
whispering in traitorous ears,
the sly smiles,
the sleazy handshakes
seal your fate.

As tanks rolled
towards the Channel
crushing resistance
cowards collaborated
in the game's heartlands.

In the ruins of war
the corrupt hold sway
they steal
your land, your homes
and your name.
They threaten
and they ban.
They imprison
and they kill.
You are forbidden.

When the occupiers
are repelled
and the liberation complete
there is no compensation.
Your land, name and homes
remain stolen.

They can take all these things
but they can never take your pride.
They will never steal your heart
or your soul.

Seventy eight years have passed
and history is made.
Fiers d'être Catalan
Fiers d'être treiziste.

Tim Fellows 2018