Season's Greetings

It's that time of year; when I publish my cheery Christmas poem. 

Season's Greetings

Hark, the postman's at the door!
Cards fall on the hallway floor
Sent by people we don't see
from January to January.

Wise old Magi, magic star,
red breasted birds - sent from far
and wide - and now the date
has passed to send one back! Too late.

We forgot our Joan and Bill, but still
we were never going in their will.

Tim Fellows December 2020

Image by Jenny Nguyen from Pixabay

Saturday Afternoon, 1971

I wrote this at a Poetry Business workshop in March 2019. I've been revisiting old drafts and decided to tidy this up and give it an airing.

This photograph (from 1970) was published in the Derby Telegraph courtesy of local photographer Terry Fletcher. It's not the Stonebroom team of 1971 but it could be. The haircuts and kit have exactly the style I remember.   

Saturday Afternoon, 1971

I head towards the slanting field

through the village

past the pub.

The players burst out of the changing room,

propelled by smoke,

tangerine shirts pristine.

Laughing and swearing, fake fighting.

I hang back and follow,

             captivated by camaraderie

             beguiled by bravado.

Number 7 is small and bald,

leader of the pack through wit and guile.

5 is huge, the one who never smiles.

8 throws a heavy leather ball at 6,

it hits him on the head.

6 is unamused, and a chase ensues.

He unleashes a volley with the ball

and a volley of new and interesting words

for my memory bank.

Later they defend the honour of the village

against the Miners Welfare

from over the border.

Blood is spilled on an orange shirt

and the ref is called a wanker.

After the whistle 7 is hoisted

on 5's shoulders to unhook the nets.

I go home, they go to the pub.

I know that I will never wear the Three Lions

but I think that, one day,

the tangerine shirt could be mine.

Tim Fellows 2020

Power

Inspired by the theme of the illusion of human power, a topic covered brilliantly by Shelley in "Ozymandias" and by Imtiaz Dharker in "Tissue". They cleverly mocked the vanity of the powerful, but those in power now are still leading privileged lives while they exploit those without it.

Power

Tantalising, it slides and slips
just beyond our reach. Elusive,
it squirms and wriggles
in and out of slick, shining towers,
feeding as it goes, absorbing,
gorging on the secrecy,
the handshakes, the manipulation.

It winds around the limbs
of the friends of friends,
their husbands and wives,
the people who are "like us"
and whispers money into their ears.
It opens its jaws and drips venom
on the poor. 

Some pause their labour,
look up to the sky
and chase the meagre coins
that shower down on them. They
scramble and weep in gratitude,
only glimpsing the Serpent as it

shows them their reflection.

 

Tim Fellows 2020

Unknown Soldier

 

Written at a Poetry Business workshop in 2019. Re-worked several times. With thanks to John Foggin for some excellent advice to tighten it up.

 
Unknown Soldier

He lies in the sun, a map
in his outstretched hand.
Music, a song in unfamiliar tongue
drifts from a nearby house
and flows through a haze of heat.
It washes over him, entering
deafened ears. The sun-baked
sand shows no noon shadow.
Static from his radio scatters
the languid flies that buzz
around the blood-black pools
around and beneath him.
The crosses on his map
mean nothing now.
He is blind and cannot feel the insect
crawling on his reddening face.
Even in this blazing heat,
he is cooling.
The music stops, the radio cuts out
and the insect is still.
Everything is dead.
Everything.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Dariusz Sankowski from Pixabay

Long Rows

Written after a workshop on Imtiaz Dharker examining the subject of childhood and poverty.

The Long Rows in Clay Cross were where my mum grew up.

Click here to hear about the Long Rows

 

 

Long Rows

Here they come, ragged pullovers
smeared with dirt, snotty-sleeved,
pushing and fighting. 

Basin haircuts, running from the rain,
scrapping for playthings. Old boxes,
a burst casey, metal rods.

Always hungry, wanting to play
but wanting mam's tea more. Gulping
it down like dogs. 

Waiting for their dads to come home
from the pit. Some with joy,
some with fear.

And it'll be them too, after the grubby days
on the crumbling roads, doors open,
in and out.

Here they'll come, booted and black,
smeared with dust, throats on fire,
shattered.

Tim Fellows 2020

That Other Child - in memory of the Aberfan disaster

Aberfan, Cymru, 21 October 1966. 144 people, including 116 children died when the spoil heap colapsed and slid onto the village, engulfing the school. The cause was the collapse of a spoil heap from the colliery that was undermined by spring water. Despite the subsequent enquiry putting the blame squarely on the NCB, nobody lost their jobs or was even fined, let alone imprisoned for clear negligence. Lord Alfred Robens, chairman of the NCB and clearly part of the institutional problems that led to the disaster, went on to become the chair of a Health and Safety committee. Originally a Labour politician and union leader, by 1979 he was living a luxurious lifestyle and had aligned with Thatcher's Conservatives. 

 

 
That Other Child

Derbyshire, 1966
mum dropped me at the school gates
wrapped against October's chill
She made sure I wasn't late

Another Friday for that boy,
in the shadow of the mine
closed down just the year before;
the pit head stayed, a kind of shrine

or monument to colliers past
the slag heap hill was out of bounds;
too dangerous to climb back then
but meanwhile, as the clock unwound,

other children laugh and play,
sitting in their tiny chairs
never saw their mums again;
just an accident of birth

that they, not I, died on that day
in that pit village, far away.

Tim Fellows 2020

 

Images from Wikipedia

Leaving

 Written on a flight back from Spain in August 2020

Leaving

He is leaving.

The wheels rise, still spinning, 

from the brown, infertile

land. Clouds break and reveal

the sea, calmness hiding

turmoil beneath.

He closes his eyes and waits

until the mountains have passed

and the view is a patchwork

of brown and green. 

His mind drifts and imagines

the time after the landing.

 

Tim Fellows 2020

 

Image by AMBRA FALCONI from Pixabay

Equinox

 A sonnet on the changing of seasons. Thanks to Mick Jenkinson for some suggestions that improved it. 

Equinox

The earth has tilted and we’ve reached the time
where day and night are weighed; and weigh the same.
With nature balanced, summer’s lilting rhyme's
replaced by autumn’s slow and brown decline.

As day meets night the planets mark their course
across the cooling, cloud strewn moonlit sky.
We stand and watch as time goes calmly by,
helpless to fight the mighty unseen force

that drives us all, we want to stop the flow
and hold a universe within our hand.
To keep this one strand of our life’s fine yarn
poised; cherish it before we let it go.

But day by day we lose a little light
and welcome in the coming of the night. 

Tim Fellows September 2020

Image by Gisela Merkuur from Pixabay

Sleep

 A rarity these days - a mining poem.

My first poem in this burst of writing, back in 2016, was "10 Minutes", about my mum's Uncle Jim. I had written very much in a traditional form (ballad), and I stand by that poem. Since then, I've learnt a lot and found different styles. This represents a second take on the sad story. Is one better than the other? I don't know, I'll leave that up to you. 

 

 

 

Sleep

Sleep comes quickly to the mining man,

muscles hardened in the choking dark

repaired by blood that knows it may be spilled,

primed by a heart that's borne its share of work.  

He dreams of sunlight, air not thick

with particles that float and gently 

stain the earth from which they came. 

He breathes with a faint wheeze,

gentle as a child as in his dream 

he grows to giant size, picks up some slag

in one great hand and with the other tears

the pit head from its roots. He fills

the hole fist by fist, dust and rocks

seeping through long fingers, callouses

as big as the wheel that still spins,

ignores the flailing, half-mile rope

that lashes at his blue-stained cuts. 

 

The hole is filled, he pounds and pounds 

at the blackened earth, shakes foundations,

roars to the sun and drinks the northern rain. 

His eyes are open now, just enough; he feels

the dreadful weight upon his chest. The roof 

is gone, he squeezes out a rasping breath
and sleep comes quickly to the mining man.

Tim Fellows September 2020

Image by Willi Heidelbach from Pixabay

September

A poem for a transition month. How small things and big things interact.

September

Stepping out from August isolation

the September sun is warm enough

to mask the coming storm. 

The damp grass is ready to be mown,

a new blade slices clean and green

shards gather in the basket,

carrying the final scent of summer. 

The engine throbs as, row by row,

the lawn is shaved. 

A spider has built a web that stretches

from the barbecue to the wall. An insect

thrashes in the sticky cage as its captor

edges towards it. 

The mower's noise causes the spider

to scurry, dancing along the threads

until hidden from view. Its meal

can wait. 

The broken fence has held out 

for another year. Battered, faded

brown, its strange dignity resists

the inevitable final fall. 

Nettles grow beneath it, gloves

ripping to protect from their pinprick bite.

I feel the gathering wind, time

is running out and I too retreat, 

sitting by the window to watch

the clouds fattening in the darkened sky. 

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Thomas Wolter from Pixabay

Ruth

In memory of Ruth Bader Ginsburg (15 Mar 1933 - 18 Sep 2020) 

The first two lines of the poem are from Renascence by Edna St Vincent Millay.

Ruth 

And all at once, and over all 

the pitying rain began to fall;

it fell on high, and drenched the low

and reached the wall with Mexico.

New England leaves began to turn

but Western fires still wildly burned;

the city streets were slick and dark

and lights went out across the park.

Sagely they nod and shed a tear

but they've waited many a year;

their brutal fists will beat once more

to smash down her protecting door

and Justice wept throughout the night
for she had lost her shining light. 

Tim Fellows September 2020

Whitwell Woods

Written as a tribute to Charles Causley's Eden Rock. Hopefully it works without the last line, which is rightfully his.

Whitwell Woods

We entered through a narrow gate

and burst into an open glade;

cool, still, half-lit air

invited us to tread on trails

thick with the bones of trees

and green, wind-scattered leaves.

Trunks, rough-skinned guardians,

told of ancient times. Above,

song filled the canopy as if angels

lay beyond. Roots heaved

through the dirt like Pacific

humpbacks breaking the surf.

The path narrowed and forked.

Each direction held new

journeys. Underfoot the leaves

turned brown. The spots of sun

no longer guide our way

and the ground grows soft.

In the meandering brook a frog

flicks the reflected leaves,

breaking cover. The stones,

cloaked in moss, are worn.

We hold hands and step across;

out of the woods into illumination.

I had not thought that it would be like this. 

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Valiphotos from Pixabay

The Children of Iraq

I was listening to the radio on the way home from work last year and there was a piece about the effect of the war on children in Iraq. The poem has been difficult to finish, but this generation of children in that country, and all countries devastated by war, is scarred and anyone with children or grandchildren can only imagine the trauma if they were ours.  

The Children of Iraq

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq

I heard on the radio.

Growing, forming thoughts

and feelings,

hit with trauma

like a mortar landing in your garden

when you are playing

and blowing off your leg.

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq.

A father spoke in monotone of

how is son was paralysed;

shot by person or persons unknown

for no reason.

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq.

They watch, their dark eyes

burning darker images,

as their homes are destroyed,

their parents killed. Blood,

so much blood.

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq.

In their offices far away,

leaders sign the dotted line

for billions to be spent

on contracts

for the rebuilding of Iraq.

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq

 

Tim Fellows 2019 

Image by Welcome to all and thank you for your visit ! ツ from Pixabay

Garden Olympics

Garden Olympics

It was a good job that our garden
was big enough to be
the site of the Olympics
organized by me.

We all picked a country each;
Tom wanted Italy.
Barry wanted to be Britain,
and USA for me.

We sprinted up the browning lawn
and hurdled our way back
over some upturned garden chairs
then rested for a snack.

We held a cycling time trial,
down the street, round the bin.
Barry cried when he fell off;
we had to let him win.

We tried to do the pole vault
with a clothesline prop
but then our mum came out the door
and told us all to stop.

Plastic plates made us a discus.
it put us in a spin.
Pampas grass was very handy
as a safer javelin.

We had some gold coin chocolates
saved from Christmas Day
that we used for the gold medals
the prize after the fray.

When mum shouted tea was ready
we went to watch TV
the Garden Olympics heroes
Barry, Tom and me.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Агзам Гайсин from Pixabay