The Leather Pouch

Written at one of Ian Parks' Peace workshops

The Leather Pouch

Six weeks had passed
since that knock,
the half-expected shock
that fades to cold compliance.
Then
              she found it

His leather pouch, with some money in.
Coins, tiny pebbles of silver and bronze,
that took her to the place
where his blood soaked into the ground.
Reaching into its depths
she feels its velvet touch.
She closes her eyes and wonders,
in elongated moments,
what he saw.
The chaos and death,
the wheeling birds
cutting through emotionless clouds
laden with snow for winter's dawn.

The skies opened
the rays of maternal, eternal love
shine through the tears
and she feels the first soft touch of peace.

Tim Fellows 2018


Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

Birth

In February I visited the Pima County Air Museum in Tucson, Arizona. One of many splendidly preserved aircraft was a B-29 bomber, Sentimental Journey, like the one in the image below.

The atomic bomb known as Fat Man exploded over Nagasaki on the 9th August 1945 at 11:02 a.m. at an approximate altitude of 1,800 feet. Less than a second after the detonation, the north of the city was destroyed and 35,000 people were killed. It was delivered by the B-29 bomber Bockscar.

Birth

In the cavernous hangar
the silver beast is silent.
Its belly gapes
and I imagine
Fat Man hanging inside,
primed and bloated
with a deadly load.

The belly is opened and
the beast gives birth,
a bastard child falling,
screaming its first breath
with the light of a thousand suns.
Blistering meagre cloud.
Nagasaki opens her arms
and takes it into her soul.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by guralski from Pixabay

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

Flame

Peace in Nothern Ireland, as in many places, is fragile. It reminds us too that the rise in far right parties and ideas equally challenges the hard-earned freedoms that have taken years to achieve. It could all be lost so quickly and easily.

Flame

In memory of Lyra McKee

The van reverses in the street
where children play
and forgotten teens gather;
its front flooded with fire

as angry, covered faces
emerge from the shadows.
A shot rings out,
a trigger from a past
where bloody hands
were commonplace.

When we hoped the fires of hate
were quenched by peace
we are reminded that, in the old way,
the flame still flickers.

Tim Fellows 19-April-2019


Image by Rob Schwartz from Pixabay

The River

I wrote the first draft of this at one of Ian Parks' Peace Workshops in 2018. This is for him in honour of his upcoming 60th birthday with thanks for all the help and advice.

The River

In future times when struggles past
have faded into history
the silence of the rusted guns
lifts us to the mountain top
where, trickling down through purple rocks,
the melting snow
forms rivulets both clear and pure
that merge and grow -
a delicate, determined stream
cascading to the land below
where the river roars and foams
and flows with currents deep and fast.

(c) Tim Fellows 2019

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