Zone

Today sees the launch of The View from Olympia, an anthology of poems on the theme of sport scheduled to coincide with the start of the Olympics in Tokyo. My poem, Full Circle is included so I'm not publishing that one on the blog. You'll have to buy the anthology - £10 from Half Moon Books. Instead, here's one that didn't make it.

I don't usually publish drafts, but here are three drafts of the one I thought was the best of the 3 I sent in. Shows what I know. Would version 1 or version 2 have worked better? Feel free to comment.

Zone

Set!

Nerves are my track, impulses wait
in the starting blocks of my brain.

Muscles, primed with blood;
oil on compressed springs.

Everything slows and the crowd
dulls to background hum.

Time becomes my domain
and I step outside of it.

See the raised pistol, the zeroed clock,
the camera caught in mid flash.

Reach into my chest and massage
my pounding heart, relax the life muscle.

In this elevated trance, this unearthly state,
I wait.

The gun fires, nerves light up and my muscles explode
and burn in the cacophony.




Version 2

Set!

Nerves are my track, impulses wait
in the starting blocks of my brain.

Muscles, primed with blood;
oil on compressed springs.

Everything slows and the crowd
dulls to background hum.

Time becomes my domain
and I step outside of it.

See the raised pistol, the zeroed clock,
the camera caught in mid flash.

Reach into my chest and massage
my pounding heart, relax the life muscle.

In this elevated trance, this unearthly
state, I wait.

The gun fires, nerves light up and my muscles explode
and burn in the cacophony.



Version 1

Sprinter

SET!

Nerves are my track, impulses wait
in the starting blocks
of my brain.

Muscles, primed with blood -
the oil on compressed springs -
are their finish line.

Everything slows and the crowd
dulls to background hum.
Time has become my domain
and I step outside of it, see
the raised pistol, the stopped clock,
the camera caught in mid flash.
Reach into my chest and massage
my pounding heart, relax the life muscle.
In this elevated trance, this unearthly
state, I wait.

The gun fires, nerves light up
and my muscles explode

and burn in an inferno of noise.

Tim Fellows 2020

Blackbird

Two poems inspired by Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience. And by a pair of blackbirds that have been constant companions in the garden during the COVID-19 lockdown.

Blackbird (Innocence)

Oh, little friend, as dark as night

that brings the sunlight to my day.

Do you see me as I see you?

A beacon in a sky of grey.

Your mark your path with hops and skips

and sing with joy at dawn's slow rise;

your feet are bathed in glist'ning dew,

bright circles frame your pitch black eyes.

Your constant presence stretches time

as though God sent you as my guide;

where is the fear, when you are here?

there is but calm and peace inside.

Blackbird (Experience)

He's here again, as dark as night,

perched, sentry-like, upon my fence.

I see him, bringing clouds of rain

and opiates to dull my sense.

He now takes flight, an angel black,

and lands on grass that withers brown.

He pulls a worm, rips it apart,

opens his throat and gulps it down.

In empty circled eyes I see

no pity for a creature's life.

Yet creeps behind the sly striped cat

with claws as sharp as any knife.

Tim Fellows July 2020

Image by Uschi Dugulin from Pixabay

The Umpire

Celebrating the return of cricket, as the rain lashes down on the empty seats at the Test in Southampton. Today the sun is out and lower level cricket returns.

The Umpire

This was going to be his last season.
Eyes dimming, brain not so sharp,
the slight stumbling and shaking hand;
the harbinger.

And soon his battered old white coat
will hang in his wardrobe;
the six beads in the pocket
uncounted.

He had loved playing
but his skills were short of the mark.
He laughed and signalled "short run"
to himself.

Unexpectedly he found his place; standing
behind the stumps or at square leg.
Hearing the thumping spikes
behind him; watching the batsman
prepare, the red projectile launched,
the fizzing as he followed

its arc.

He closes his eyes; smells the leather,
the oil, the fresh mown grass.
Recalls the slight youth, mocked
by the old lags on his tremulous walk
to the middle.

Inwardly smiling as the boy
caressed that first delivery;
smooth as a cat on its owner's leg.
Dismissed it across the dry turf. Followed
it with many more. 

That boy was old now too.
Both waiting for stumps
to be called. Or the cry of Howzat!
followed by that dreadful pause
to see if God would raise
his finger.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by sitnfidget from Pixabay

Nursing

Part two of my two-poem sequence. Today is the 72nd anniversary of the NHS but this is not about the fabulous individuals who have risked their lives for the last three months. I will however, dedicate it to them and all the other key workers. Let's not forget them as and when this virus fades into the background.

Nursing

It's an old school pub,

cramped, dark wood, no food.

In the corner a man sits,

moulded as one with the wooden

bench. Flat cap welded to his head,

eyes fixed forward. One hand wrapped

around a pint, its head evaporated.

I wonder what wheels are turning

in his ancient mind. What puzzles solved,

what wrongs righted.

He lifts the glass slowly to his mouth,

which moves to meet it. The sip

is slow and shallow and its return journey

to the table breaks no record.

In the opposite corner, another man,

smaller, same cap, same beer. The same

long distance stare. Options run

through my mind but, being English,

all but one are discarded.

I will take my pint to another corner,

nursing it while I wait for the rain

to stop.

Tim Fellows 2020

Bloody Weather

There is a follow-on poem to this - published here.....

Bloody Weather

It's that fine rain,

the kind that soaks you through

says Peter, in my head.

I'm unprepared. Unwilling to run

on cobbles preserved

as quaint relief from modernity.

As the rain quickens

they glisten with a mischievous twinkle

that conflicts with a sky

obscured by grey wrapping.

Lights from an empty shop

illuminate bored assistants.

The doorways offer limited cover

and my mood spirals as I

remember the spare raincoat

I keep in the boot of the car

for these occasions.

Distracted, I step

in a puddle, the dirty water

gleefully finding the gap

between shoe and sock.

No market today, which

is for the best perhaps.

The stalls look sad,

quiet and unloved.

Water cascades from their

coloured roofs and

I can feel it running down my neck.

There's a pub - bugger it,

I'm going in. Bloody weather.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by djedj from Pixabay