I Wannaby

This is a poem for my grandsons David and Edward and for all my Australian friends, who have had a bad week.

Photo by Glen Fergus (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)]

I Wannaby

I wanna be a wallaby
For if I were a wallaby
I'd lie beneath a leafy tree
I'd be so bouncy and carefree
and be as happy as could be
If I were a wallaby

I wanna be a kangaroo
For if I were a kangaroo
I'd do the stuff marsupials do
in the bush - or in a zoo
Hop around and graze and chew
If I were a kangaroo

I wanna be a grey koala
For if I were a grey koala
I'd welcome you into my parlour
and my Eucalyptus larder
I'd really be a tourist charmer
If I were a grey koala

I wanna be a yellow dingo
For if I were a yellow dingo
I would into your rubbish bin go
I'd only speak in dingo lingo
and have a good old howling sing 
Oh if I were a yellow dingo

I wanna be a Great White shark
For if I were a Great White shark
I'd glide in where the buoys are marked
or sneak into a Water Park
Oh what fun! What a lark!
If I were a Great White Shark

I wanna be a Queensland croc
For if I were a Queensland croc
I'd wait with the patience of a clock
tick tock tick tock tick tick tock
Then I'd give you a horrible shock!
If I were a Queensland croc

I wanna be an Eastern Brown
If I were an Eastern Brown
I'd slither in to your home town
and when the sun was going down
I'd hide inside your dressing gown
If I were an Eastern Brown

I wanna be a redback spider
If I were a redback spider
I'd scuttle in and hide inside a
shoe or glove or somewhere wider
I could wait and then I'd bite yer
If I were a redback spider

But, actually....

I don't wanna be a wallaby
with a joey on my knee
I don't wanna be a horrid shark
or dingo with its warning bark
I don't wanna be a kangaroo
or snake or shark or spider too
I just wanna live in a southern land
where its so easy to get tanned
when I get there I'll try to mail yer
if the animals don't get me - in Australia

Tim Fellows 2018

Raven

Humans have been fascinated by, frightened by, and have written about ravens for millennia.

In Greek and Roman mythology the raven is associated with Apollo and was an omen of bad luck. The raven is the first bird mentioned in the bible - Noah sent a raven out to test for the end of the flood but it never came back - the dove was second and did. Hence dove (white) is seen as good and pure, the raven (black) is treated with suspicion - in the Talmud version the raven has a huge argument with Noah before leaving.

The Three Ravens is one of the oldest recorded folk songs and has versions in many countries. The ravens discuss eating a dead knight but he is protected by his hawk, hounds and lady. In the Scots version things are darker - there are two (twa) corbies and they have noticed that the protection has gone and will be feasting on the body parts.

Shakespeare's references and Edgar Allen Poe's famous poem did nothing to dispel this ancient fear.

The facts about these birds are not helpful if you are superstitious - they appear to be instinctively aware of what people and animals are thinking, can solve puzzles and are cunning thieves.

I did a workshop in Derby where we had to write a piece about a dark creature doing your job. This is mine. I also wrote a second one, inspired by Three Ravens that will appear in a different blog entry.

Raven

I

Raven pecks with fury at the keyboard
jerks up his head; eyes dart across the room
as if he is observed; but he is not
he pecks some more, stop-start the words fall out -
the email, treacle-like, sucks at his will.

II

The project is late,
the people are whispering
it's all his fault,
it's out of control;
centuries of discrimination
weigh on his soul.

III

People smile at him
but he can sense they are fake.
They see their quota,
their percentage point
of guilt-free recruitment.
Crow didn't last long -
couldn't cope with the
seething resentment, the lies,
the nervous, twitching,
field-mouse eyes.
Two of them, sat eating bread
at lunch, alone together.
Segregated.

IV

He knows he's better than the rest;
they tolerate him, they appease;
as long as he is not a threat.
He scans the message from his boss
"Get it finished by the twelfth"
Raven sighs and slowly pecks -
he knows that code won't write itself.

Tim Fellows 2018

Across The Platform

Stephen Fry suggested a poetry exercise where you take a classic poem structure and use it to structure a poem of your own (I'm sure other people have suggested this too). So I found one and wrote this, which is based on actual events on Doncaster Station when I was waiting on a train bound for Leeds in October 2017. I knew I should have written down the original, but now I can't find it. I think it was either Keats or Wordsworth, and I've gone for a Romantics feel to the poem.

Across The Platform

She stands so tranquil yet it seems
a low conceit disturbs her dreams;
A vision locked in time's swift stream
and so she waits.
Around her stillness masses teem
in surging spate.

Her elegance, her careful pose
In her fair cheeks a hint of rose
So many pass but no-one knows
for whom she waits;
Yet in her eyes the sadness shows
her inner trait.

Across the platform her sad eyes
invite the questions - what or why?
What secret does her peace deny?
Why does she wait?
What form of wicked destiny
would God create?

We drew apart; just one last glance
but I remained without the chance
to find out if some sad romance
had sealed her fate
and could not break her mournful trance.
So still she waits.

Tim Fellows 2018

Stop Apologising

I've written a rant poem - I'm fed up of people (nearly always men) apologising for their crappy behaviour after they've been caught out. 

Heads of multinationals, movie producers, actors, politicians - this is for you.

Stop apologising
for your selfishness and hate
Stop apologising
It's too little and too late

Do you expect forgiveness,
to simply carry on?
You abused your power
and now you cower
but I see your little con

My newsfeed shows your image
looking oh so sad
well, think about your victims
who are really feeling bad

I don't want to hear "sorry"
We need change, we need it quick
So stop apologising
then stop being such a dick

Tim Fellows 2018

Snowflake

Based on something I saw on 5th February 2018

Image by Wilson Bentley

Snowflake

I saw a solitary snowflake
on a bitter ice-grey day
unaware of its uniqueness
lost in all its loneliness;
aimlessly drifting 
timelessly falling
to meet the cold ground

where you lie
and my heart lies too.
I watch as it alights
and vanishes;
in an endless loop
it recycles
ice to vapour
dust to dust

Tim Fellows 2018

Public domain photo via Wikipedia - http://snowflakebentley.com/snowflakes.htm

Gedling

1899

Beneath the earth of Nottingham
Lies our future, to be claimed,
The hole is sunk, the men are drawn
towards a dark and deadly flame

1915

Nine men fall down the hungry shaft
and come back up without their breath
just nine more on the tally chart
of all the men who met their death

In Gedling's pit, where thousands worked
the rich, deep sedimentary seam
from all the world the miners came -
Jamaican beach to Sherwood's dream

1991

The Pit of Nations is no more.
Struck down; an easy callous swipe
of the blue-edged capital sword,
ignoring what remained behind.

Was it worth it? Those six years?
Working on while others starved?
The end was coming sure enough
when unity was rent in half

Ninety years and more of toil
torn to a pile of dust and scrap
leaving a silent open grave
mighty holes filled in and capped

2018 

The pounding of 700 feet
on the crushed and stony tracks
give birth to yet another year
as the distant, lonely sun 
washes gently on our backs

We climb the hills, embrace the dips
accept the cold upon our face
we pass the embryonic homes
as an uncertain future looms
behind our gathering pace

(c) Tim Fellows 2018


Gedling Colliery, which was the life-blood of Gedling and many of the surrounding villages, opened in 1899 and was closed in 1991. 128 men died at the colliery, which produced over a million tonnes of coal per year in the 1960s^. It developed a reputation as the "pit of all nations" because of the diversity of foreign miners who worked there: in the 1960s, ten per cent of the colliery's workforce of 1,400 were originally from the Caribbean.
The site was opened as Gedling Country Park on 28 March 2015 and is the location of Gedling parkrun. 

Facts courtesy of Wikipedia.

Forge

I wrote this sonnet for my daughter Lydia's wedding.

Forge

The love of youth is like a burning flame
which, if unleashed into a blacksmith's forge,
could make cold iron with white hot purpose gleam;
no cold wind nor harsh words its heat assuage.

The love which wraps itself in common bonds
of friendship, care - unwavering in time -
grows stronger still when vernal longing ends
and glows with inner strength and joy sublime

But if each heart wants only what it wants
and cares but for its own needs and desires
then love will slowly cool as lust departs
extinguishing those faint remembered fires

When love is new its flames blaze readily
But tender care will forge sweet unity

Tim Fellows 2018