At The Cottage

This poem was written as a prequel to Robert Browning's Porphyria's Lover as part of a workshop at Mexborough Read To Write in August 2017. 

The original is here: Porphyria's Lover - Poetry Foundation

At The Cottage

I spiral with indecision;
The rain falls in the distance
as the Banshee howl of the wind
rattles the trees and whips the reeds;
I must hasten my step
though it will reach me soon enough.

This thing I carry within  -
I wonder if he knows?
He has been so distant; now he is so close.
Can he tell, for I do not dare,
that something we share
relentlessly, incessantly grows?

I saw him out riding, urging onward his grey;
they vanished before I saw who he chased.
If I can't be his, and his alone,
Why must I desire him so?

At the cottage:
Lilies on the dark, rank pond;
bees swarm on the woodland sage.
God has not answered my fevered prayers
so this, this, is a destiny of my choosing
for I could turn at any time.
I observe a bird on the path, wing broken.
I try to help it but grab only dirt
as it flaps to the dark undergrowth
to accept its fate, as now must I.

The time is nearly come
when we might be as one

Tim Fellows 2017

Owd Nick 'n' Yung Tom

The absolutely 100% true story of how we got our crooked spire.



Owd Nick 'n' Yung Tom

Owd Nick com darn ter Darbiesher
In sum owden time
'E thowt 'e'd start sum mischiff
An' 'e kicked off wi' this rhyme

"'Im upsteers 's med this land
its grand as owt an' fair
Well ar've com 'ere to mek it woss
Ah'll ruin it, ah swair!"

'E flew abaht them peaks an' crags
'E tonned the rivers red
'E stared raight at an 'undred shaip
'An killed 'em all ston ded

A peasant, name 'o Thomas Dunn
'E wor raight big'n'strong
'd bin plowin' near ter Chesterfield
'E'd bin wokkin' 'ard'n'long

'E'd just sat darn to 'ay 'is snap
When Owd Nick com flyin' past
'E slew Tom's ox wi' a flay orriz tail
'It 'appened laightnin' fast

Off went Owd Nick darn ter t'tarn
Tom stood and shook 'is 'ed
'is fizzog war laik thunder
'it 'ad gone ten shades o' red

'E ripped a tree raight art o't grarnd
'An set off runnin' after Nick
'E ran to keep 'im in 'is sight
'E wor battin' - a raight owd lick

When Nick reached t'tarn 'e 'ad sum fun
'E wor causin' lots o' bother
'E drank all't beer in't Market Place
'An peed it art in't Rother

By t'time yung Tom caught up wi' 'im
'E'd sat on top o't church
'E wor laughin' fit ter bost
Up theer on 'is perch

"Oi Lucy! Get thissen darn 'ere,
Ah'v 'ad me fill o' thee;
"Tha'll get what's comin' raight enough
Wen tha picks a faight wi' me"

Nick couldn't believe 'is 'airy lugs
This barmpot must be cracked;
E' wor climbin' up outside 'o t'church
Wi' a tree strapped ter 'is back

He wrapped 'is tail ararnd the spire
'An stared raight in Tom's eyes
"Tha darst com 'ere and faight wi' me?"
"Ah duz", yung Tom replies

Nick took a swipe wi' 'is deadly claw
But Tom swayed art o't road
then whacked 'im w't tree in 'is ugly chops
until 'is grain blood flowed

'E wor raight shakken wor'oary Nick
Tom dealt him blow on blow
'E flicked 'is tail raight off o't spire
An' scurried back below





"Ar, womit thee, ah'll gi' thi' more
If tha wants me to!!"
Tom louked darn ter see that t'spire
wor twisted laik a screw

Folk wor cheerin' young Tom Dunn
As 'e slid down from up t'top
Rarnd and rarnd that twisted spire
Til 'e com turra stop.

"That lonned 'im, Sorrey!", blarts art Tom
to that cheerin' crard
They all et souse'n'tonnips
an' drank beer darn't Falcon Yard.






Nar, lowk ovver theer, si fer thissen
'Ow t'devil med it twist'n'buck;
Tom'd tell yer't tale 'imsen
if yer bort 'im beer in't Mucky Duck

(c) Tim Fellows 2017 with help from the spirit of Tom Dunn

Passive Aggression in an English Office Kitchen

This is absolutely not a true story. Honestly. 


Passive Aggression in an English Office Kitchen

Day 1:
All the bloody milk's gone again, says A
We had 6 pints this morning, says B
It's people having their breakfast, (A again)
They should have it at home

Day 2:
It's 8.30am and I'm making a coffee
C comes in - mutual Hi's but I notice
she's carrying a packet of Weetabix;
my eyes narrow in suspicion

Day 3:
All the bloody milk's gone again, says A
It's only 3 o'clock
B shrugs - Shall I put a note up
Best not, says A, not worth the hassle

Day 4:
A has a point, for there has been a note
reminding people to put their dirty dishes
in the dishwasher, not the sink. It is in large red letters,
capitals. SHOUTING, but impersonal and ignored.
It is torn

Day 5:
8.42am A catches C eating Weetabix in the communal room
Milk dribbling down their chin and spilt on the table.
He says nothing - his mouth is tight shut. No Hi! today.
She puts it in the sink and leaves it.
3pm - All the bloody milk's gone again, says A

Tim Fellows 2017

Killing Machine

My poem, followed by one written by my dad 40 years ago


Killing Machine

The pavement is wet -
puddles lie in its uneven surface.
Head bent against the
northerly wind
I catch the reflection of a
streetlamp in one of them.

Its not too bad a thing
to be your last image -
although a nice sunset or
apple blossom on a spring tree
would be better.

I didn't see it, behind me
on the pavement,
traction lost on slick
road by worn rubber -
a moment's misfortune.

It is a strange thing,
I thought at the end,
to end up as another
statistic; one more victim
of the killing machine.

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Motorway waterway

JE Fellows

The Decoy Bird

This was created in basic narrative form at a storytelling workshop at Towersey Festival led by the brilliant Debs Newbold and refined into a poem later. I've recently been reading Charles Causley and there are some nods to him in here too.

The Decoy Bird

Soldiers were coming - from the West
Nowhere had we to hide
except an oak tree or a ditch
there was no time to decide.
The leafy tree grew high and broad
so we began to climb
when a bird appeared, so very strange,
with plumage so sublime.

It shimmered blue, its crest was green;
night black its pointed beak;
it opened up its golden wings
and then began to speak:
"This tree not safe, come not in here,
your steps you must retrace!"
and so the dank foul smelling trench
became our hiding place.

The soldiers came, their crunching boots
stopped by the old oak tree;
We thought that they must surely find
my cousin Jack and me.
When suddenly a shout rang out
and then a gunshot too;
I saw when glancing at the sky
a flash of glistening blue.

The bird was dead, the soldiers laughed
and carried it away
But what they saw was not so strange
on that enchanted day;
They just saw a plain game bird
not sparkling in the sun
They left our land, we left the dyke
and to our home did run.

Years passed by but I ne'er forgot
the exquisite Decoy Bird
who saved our lives and died for us
yet we never said a word.
And now I'm old, my time is up
I wait to breathe my last
My mind is filled with memories
of my forgotten past...

An image flashed across my sight
from when I was a child
A fallen bird on the garden path -
my tired old face just smiled
I'd put that bird back in its nest
though I could not have seen
Its blackened beak, its aurate wings;
its crest of radiant green

I closed my eyes one final time
one crowning shallow breath
The long hid mystery was now solved
so thus I met with death.
But as my soul rose to the sky
I saw my golden wings
I opened up my jet-dark beak
and I began to sing.

"At last my story can be heard
for I'm the angelic Decoy Bird."

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

The Ghost Of Emily Wilding Davison.....

The Ghost Of Emily Wilding Davison Goes to Chesterfield Bowling Club on Hearing That They Have Voted to Not Admit Women

 BBC report
 
The outraged, resolute phantom
descended on the town.
Made a beeline for the Bowls Club
and flattened down their crown

She glided round the trim green lawn
diverting all the bowls.
She took a trip to the countryside
and brought back fourteen moles

She flew into the clubhouse
and put laxative in the beer.
She listened to the members chat;
wondering what they could fear.

About a missing chromosome
and the ability to give birth?
She'd died a hundred years before
to allow women to prove their worth.

As she sat there eavesdropping
she stopped being quite so mad.
And just felt pity there instead
because they were merely.. sad.

She allowed herself a giggle
at the panic it would bring
if a transgender bowler
applied to join their gang.

They'd all join her soon enough,
those cantankerous old men.
And their grandsons would vote for
not just old cocks, but hens

So she gathered up the fourteen moles
and restored their grassy crown.
But before she left she made sure
she put the loo seats down.

Emily Davison, suffragette

Winter's Journey

This poem started as an exercise from a poetry workshop in Rossington on 12th July 2017. It is based on words taken from the poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost

I woke up from my darkest sleep
My skin by downy quilt caressed
A frozen landscape from my window sweeps
to the snow-covered woods so dark and deep

The stony lane banks round the bend
The house retreats as I move on
Fear and uncertainty I must forfend
As on my thoughtful, passive way I wend

Far distant bells toll on the wind
The grey, damp church cold comfort now
Where once my hopes and dreams were pinned
A melodious hint for those who've sinned

What is the course that I intend?
No stopping now, no going back
After the village lonely miles extend
The journey starts, or does it end?


First undrafted version

I woke up from my darkest sleep
My face caressed by downy pillow
A lovely frozen landscape from my window sweeps
to the snow-covered woods so dark and deep
The journey starts, or does it end?