The Fallen

I wrote this after walking along the side of the Thames in November 2018, 100 years after the end of World War I.

The Fallen

On a crisp November day
under a listless pale blue sky
I saw, beneath my feet,
Autumn's fallen.
A multitude of shades and hues,
all shapes and sizes,
scattered on the earth.

The dirty earth
where some, among the first to fall,
were merged with the mud.
Trodden down by those
whose only goal along the path
was the next half mile.

Some still looked alive,
blown away in their prime.
Too young
to lie like this
among the dead.

Some remain above this realm of death
Hopeful as they face the sun
As Time's swift river passes by
Until at last their race is run.

Tim Fellows 2018

Protest Poem

I wrote this a few weeks ago in support of the 3 protesters jailed for stopping lorries entering the fracking site in Lancashire. Thankfully they were freed on appeal.

Protest Poem

Democracy is fragile,
it's like a game that's played
with secret deals and handshakes
hidden in the shade.
Democracy is flexible
when there's money to be made.

Taking back control
is just a front page splash
when you've one hand on the levers
and the other grabbing cash.
If anyone dares to protest
it's they who feel the lash.

You point your grubby finger
at the Brussels bureaucrats
You lie about their power,
claim that you're the democrat.
But your abuse of authority
shows that you're the cat who's fat.

From Peterloo to Kinder
the trespass in the peaks
to Orgreave and the Poll Tax
it's justice that we seek.
But you clamp mouths with heavy hands
when the people try to speak.

Now you misuse the system
to crush any dissenting voice
when the frackers come to town
the locals get no choice.
As the protests end in prison
you silently rejoice,
rejoice,
rejoice....

Tim Fellows 2018

Memorial

In memory of the millions killed in World War I

Memorial

We remember them in black and red
Millions slain in muddied ground
The dead were piled upon the dead
In blood and tears their hopes were drowned

We see them now in black and white
In uniforms so crisp and clean
Young faces scrubbed and shining bright
Before the nightmare stole their dreams

So when we stand in solemn row
Honouring names all carved in stone
Do any of us really know
why souls like poppy seeds were sown?

Tim Fellows November 11th 2018

White Feather

This one was written at the first of Ian Parks' Peace Workshops in Doncaster earlier this year. It was read out at The Cast in Doncaster as part of Doncaster Choral Society's "Lest We Forget" concert.

White feathers were handed out by women during World War One to any young man who was walking the streets not in uniform, to shame and humiliate them into joining up. They were also posted to known conscientious objectors.

White Feather

Why did you feel the need to share
those perfect pure white feathers?
Plucked bitter from the wings of birds
whose peace was cruelly shattered.

Your face is torn and twisted
as you caw your words of hatred
for those who see no reason
to kill a fellow human.

I take your gift, soft smiling,
I am proud of my heart's calling.
However you despise me
I'll stand my ground with honour.

No blood will stain that feather
This bird will sing forever

Tim Fellows 2018

4.30 am, France, Summer 1918

"Stand to, me bonny lads,

Stand to and make you ready.

Stand to, me bonny lads,

Hold the line right steady.

Let bright bands rule the flame;

This day shall bear your name.

Stand to, me bonny lads,

Hold the line right steady." - John Tams

4.30 am, France, Summer 1918

I wait for the explosions
that come when dawn is breaking,
when darkness fades like phantoms
of my mutilated comrades.

Death is my companion
and fear is our lieutenant
who stalks the stinking trenches
barking his commandments.

The rats are getting ready
for they will feast by sunset.
The guns will be their waiters
who serve a varied menu
from many different nations.

I think about my mother
as the shells are dropping.
My love of King and Country
crumbles like the breadcrumbs
that she used to put in puddings.

I recall she always told me
that nothing should be wasted
I recall
she told me
nothing.....

Tim Fellows November 2018

Dedicated to Wilfred Owen

On 4th November 1918 the poet Wilfred Owen was killed during the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal, exactly one week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice which ended the First World War, and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the day after his death.We studied his poetry and that of other war poets at school and his work, and tragic story, had a profound impact on my poetry and my view of war. This is my tribute to him, reflecting his time recuperating from PTSD.

Wilfred

One day, whilst musing on the cost of war
my mind fell back a full one hundred years
and saw, behind a dark, oak panelled door
a man with shattered mind still burning clear.

Can he not see, in some strange haunted dream
this future ghost with sad, lamenting eyes
that pleads for him to stay, a silent scream,
but knows that he will never earn his prize?

Yet he refused to yield, he ventured back
where hell fire rained and broken bodies sprawled.
This man, with fortitude that I would lack
stood up when King and blessèd Country called.

And though his poems plead, his words implore
Like blinkered sheep we still march on to war 


Tim Fellows November 2018