That's Politics And This Is Us

In October 2017 the BBC aired a documentary series where Simon Reeve travelled through Russia. One of the interviews that stuck with me was a woman called Tatiana who lived in a rural village north of Moscow that was slowly dying. This is not unusual, of course, having happened here as cities become wealthier and more attractive to young people. When questioned about the increasing tension with the west and whether we should be fighting, she made the comment "There's politics and there's us". How true that is.

That's Politics And This Is Us

In the heartlands of Russia
where state farms once held sway
cottages collapse
when the kids move away.
They leave behind old folk
and the villages die -
the only things left
are mosquitos and flies.

In Rio's favelas,
in South Central LA
where the roaches come calling
as night follows day.
In the war zones of Syria
where the dead children sigh
there's always a welcome
when hope goes to die. 

In the capital cities
where oligarchs rule
they always remember
who they have to fool.
When they feel threatened
by the forces within
they find a new enemy
and it all starts again. 

The elected dictator
of Moscow's new dawn
still curses the day
that Glasnost was born.
He ramps up the rhetoric
for a second Cold War,
the chess pieces move
and the walls rise once more.

We're told by our leaders
who we have to hate -
they press the buttons
that determine our fate.
Americans and Russians
in helmets and boots
have all the same problems
caused by leaders in suits.

In the sad Russian village
the woman just sighs
when asked of her feelings
and the arguments why
Westerners are enemies
and then become friends
then enemies once more -
a song without end

"It is as it will be
and it was ever thus
I just say - that's Politics,
and this is us.”

 Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Дмитрий Осипенко from Pixabay

Outback

Outback

Day was born again to clear, dark skies;
red-orange, cold winter falls on holy ground
that tourists climb to soil and desecrate
while sullen, ancient, drink-wrecked locals
haunt the streets of Alice.

Northwards, under a billion unfamiliar stars,
towards the warmth on miles of black tar track.
We paused at dusk as trucks ploughed on,
pouched animals gaping, splattered
by road-trains that roll like behemoths
through lonely towns.

Under canvas in the outback,
wary of each and every
scratching, shrieking night-noise.

This is no land for soft-skinned Poms,
this burnt land, desiccated, exhausted.
As the sun rises and falls all grows less dry,
reds turn to yellows. Green winter shoots
caught our eye as we trod the place
where the Devil played marbles as a boy.

This scorched land, parched and screaming
for the rain that flows like Heaven's cleansing.
When rivers fill and reptilian danger
lurks silently in creek and bush.
At last we reach the wave-smashed rocky shore,
the swirling sea in which no man can swim alive.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by pen_ash from Pixabay

Whale

Whale

You are the symbol of our time,
belly filled with all our waste.
I observe you, mouth agape,
filtering your food
in the blue-black deep.
Your loneliness is fed
and grows with time,
a dark and brooding cancer
in our seas.
Your bulk glides through
the salt and weed
past fish that flicker
fast and free.
Your eye, a tiny pinprick on your
glorious head
sees only what it needs to see
and I see you, emerging proud
above the foaming waves,
with a twist come crashing down
with farewell flick of giant tail. 


Tim Fellows 2019

Image by skeeze from Pixabay