Friday, 12 April 2019

Selene

Moon over South Yorkshire, June 2018


Selene

Selene drifts across
the darkening sky,
calling on them.
Pulling.
She pulls at the shining sea -
dragging.
Tides, they call them, dear Selene.
Her face shines, shape-shifting,
waxing,
waning.
For eons she called
but no-one came.
Sweet, barren Selene.
Then one day, a tiny speck,
flickering in the light of Helios,
shining.
She sighs as it arrives,
circling.
She prepares for contact,
her bombarded face
expecting.
This is not the time.
But it went as soon as it came
and so did others, closer, finally
touching.
Silvery, they crawl on her,
silent as their covered faces.
My sister, they do not hear you. 
They come and go,
they leave their detritus,
littering.
They are not your children.
Will they ever stay?
She so yearns to be
breathing.
There can be no tears.
She will wait, patiently, endlessly
pulling,
calling,
pulling
calling.....

Tim Fellows 2019

Friday, 5 April 2019

It Comes To Us All

Getting old - it sucks.


It Comes To Us All

Today I got a present
Something I could wear
It felt quite soft and comfy
I opened it with care

But when my eyes fell on it
It just revealed my age
It was a v-neck jumper
the colour - it was beige

So perhaps I need some slippers
and a hat for when it's cold
Or those other things you acquire
When you're getting very old

But you don't know where you put them
can't find your reading specs
and other things you've forgotten 
like the last time you had sex

And your pate has long since baldened
and the remaining hair is grey
and you stare at your fat belly
with sadness and dismay

You have boobs just like your mrs
and you groan when you stand up
and for no good reason you prefer
to use the same old coffee cup

There was some consolation
for the turning of the years
One small crumb of comfort
to keep me in good cheer

That although age is something
that comes to every man
At least I saw it wasn't
a chuffing cardigan

Tim Fellows 2019

Friday, 29 March 2019

Spirit

 I wrote this one a while ago now as an exercise at Read To Write when we were looking at the poetry of Thomas Hardy. It's based on a real incident that happened a few days after my dad died in 2005.



Spirit

1

I knew at once that he was there
"Hello Dad", I said, even though
 in the mirror I could see behind
nothing at all but light and air

2

I felt a soothing in my soul
Tortured by such knotting pain
in lonely hours, the darkest days
when there was no-one could console

3

A shaft of light broke through the grey
As his presence drifted off
"It'll be OK Dad", I said at last
 Though I wished so much for it to stay


Tim Fellows 2019

Friday, 22 March 2019

No Name

I wrote this before the New Zealand Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern, announced that she would never speak the name of the man responsible for the Christchurch terrorist attack. As you can see, I fully agree.





No Name

I don't want to see your face
I don't need to know your name
no martyrdom for your vile acts
we must not amplify your fame

You should just quietly rot in jail
as the days and weeks pass by
and we can mourn and honour those
whose souls have flown to the Southern sky

We will need to record your crimes
and carry out the rule of law
but we should do this while calling
you Prisoner 33694

Shut down your social media
Delete your spewing words of hate
I don't need to know your name
Let anonymity be your fate

Tim Fellows 2019

Friday, 15 March 2019

Peur du vent


My first attempt at an original French poem. The vocabulary is simple as I am not fluent, but I hope there's more to it than just wind. Thanks to Flossie Malavialle for the inspiration and Fred Kihm for the grammatical corrections.




Peur du vent

N'aie pas peur du vent du sud.
Il souffle des mots chauds
pour rendre les phrases douces.

N'aie pas peur du vent du nord
qui porte les mots froids
pour écrire de la poésie triste.

Le vent d'ouest est parfois fort.
Il mugit les histoires de l'enfance
que l'on connait bien.

Mais le vent d'est est sournois.
Il se glisse dans ton lit
et, sans bruit, fait froid dans ton dos. 

English translation:

Fear of the Wind


Do not fear the southern wind.
It blows warm words
that bring sweet, soft sentences.

Do not fear the north wind
that carries cold words
for the writing of sad poetry.
 
The west wind is sometimes fierce -it howls the childhood stories
that we know so well.


But the wind from the east is sly.
It slides into your bed
and, silently, makes your skin crawl.
 
Tim Fellows 2019
 
 
 
 




Friday, 8 March 2019

Mrs Frankenstein

Written as an exercise based on the idea behind "The World's Wife" by Carol Ann Duffy. I haven't published a villanelle in a while but this just cried out for it. 

Mrs Frankenstein was actually not Mrs Frankenstein for long - Elizabeth Lavenza was killed by the monster on her wedding night as Victor was out searching for it.



Mrs Frankenstein

Another late night at the lab he said
His hair is wild, he cannot fall asleep
in thrall to his obsession with the dead

What's his secret? A girl he takes to bed?
I can't bear it - he makes me feel so cheap
Another late night at the lab he said

One day he said "Beware the path you tread
or one day you might be the crop I reap"
in thrall to his obsession with the dead

He brings home hands, an arm, a leg, a head!
He hides them but I couldn't help but peep
Another late night at the lab he said

And now he's vanished; left the girl he wed
This lonely night I lie in bed and weep 
in thrall to his obsession with the dead

I feel an ancient, chilling, crawling dread
As Victor up the stairs begins to creep
Another late night at the lab he said
in thrall to his obsession with the dead

Tim Fellows 2019

Friday, 1 March 2019

Missile




Missile

I am shining, poised and ready
Pointing to the heavens
In ranks, proud with my brothers
Identical yet different
I have my ID number
I await my own map reference
My program's ticking over
My program's ticking over
My program's ticking over
All systems go, release me
Through cloud and air yet thinner
I burn just like a meteor
A one-way guided system
Forged in peace yet fired in anger
I am smart but I am stupid
Flat out, earth flashing past me
Descending on my target
I care not for the future
My mission is accomplished

Tim Fellows 2019

The Colours of Her Skirt

Based on a memory, which may be unreliable, from some time in the 1960s.  With thanks to Sarah Wimbush and Ian Parks for editing and for the...