A poem inspired by Miguel Hernandez and by the birth of my third grandson Oscar Luke Fellows.
Cradle Song
The air sings to you,
born in blood,
and you cry back;
first breath
cold in your body.
The blood is now your blood,
your mind is now your mind.
The phantoms we dance with in the night
sing you to sleep
Tim Fellows October 2021
In memory of Matilda Hooper (1884-1950), mother of James Ernest Hooper (1915-1935) and James William Hooper, my grandfather.
A true story.
An Inquest Into a Mining Death, 1935
The jury donated their fees to the mother
of the dead miner.
The words of the witnesses had hung
in the stale air, crushing and suffocating.
How he was in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
How the company was not at fault.
It was sad of course, but part of life.
Before they filed out into the soot-soaked streets
she made sure she thanked them all
for their sympathy and generosity.
Tim Fellows 2021
I wrote this one after a walking holiday in Dorset hosted by Jay and Jon from the folk group Ninebarrow. Poole harbour was used as practice for the D-Day landings. It's quite rare for me to write a ballad these days, but it felt right.
The Purbeck Boy
In the mellow cloak of summer
I played on dappled lanes
and climbed up to the Ridgeway
and dreamed of roaring Mains
where I would sail a mighty ship
in pirate days of old
with sword and musket I would search
for silver and for gold.
Though I was just a boy back then
and now I am a man
my heart still drums to Purbeck's beat;
my blood flows through this land.
The Dartford Warbler in the furze,
the adder on the trail;
Old Harry's white and battered sides,
the ruin on the hill
will never fail to comfort me
and harden in my core;
fight all the darkness in my mind
as we prepare for war.
I grip my gun in shaking hands
as we set out to sea
no Spanish Main, no treasure, just
the coast of Normandy.
I pray to God with all my strength
as we splash on the shore
that I may roam the verdant fields
and Purbeck's hills once more.
On Juno Hell has risen up
and Gold turns slowly red
where bullets fly and meet with flesh
and waves comfort the dead.
So far from there the Warbler sings;
the sun lights up the lanes
and seabirds nest on ancient cliffs
til I return again.
Tim Fellows June 2021
A follow-up to my winter Linacre Woods poem
Linacre Woods in Summer
Only the holly remembers the winter.
The rest slept, brown and drenched,
as frost and wind were kings
within these woods. Now they stretch,
reach out to brush and scratch my exposed skin.
Here, between the rigid trees, the sun
spotlights the path. Cow parsley crowns rise
high. Briars mock, rope-thick, dagger-sharp.
Behind, in the depths, the woods call.
Part of me is drawn there, to lie
in dark dampness. Become one with the earth.
Tim Fellows Summer 2021
Image by Valiphotos from Pixabay
A found poem - that I tweaked and extended - in the comments section of YouTube below the video we made of Ian Parks' poems. The contributor is anonymous, as I don't think "Hugh Mungus" is their real name. 😀
Gentleman
for Ian Parks
I often used to see him, walking
on Castle Hills. Always well dressed,
looked like he didn't belong here.
I even saw him down dog shit alley,
he didn't have any airs or graces
but seemed like he had another world
that developed and swirled in his head
and though
I am from the lowest class in this broken town
I love listening to his words.
I once said eyup to him, walking
with my soft but stocky looking Staffy.
He smiled and said hello back.
Absolute gentleman of a man.
Tim Fellows 2021
with help from Hugh Mungus
I wrote this on a visit to Yorkshire Wildlife Park with my grandson Edward. He seems both fascinated and horrified by the black and white photos of dead tigers in India that are on the fence by the tiger enclosure.
Tiger
She pads down to the silent pool,
rippling stripes dip in and out
of sunlit patches lying in her path.
Slips in, jaws ease open to display
curved scimitars designed to rend
live flesh, lolls a tongue evolved to lick
the pulsing blood of freshly slaughtered prey.
Behind the cage, lenses point and children gasp.
She ignores them all as she ignores the dragonfly
that hovers near her glorious head.
On the fence a sign displays old images;
an animal hung upside down, borne on poles.
Another skinned and proudly splayed
across a colonial floor. A small child
clutches his toy dinosaur and turns his eyes
from dead to living, then back to dead.
Tim Fellows 2021
 |
| Photo by Alan Roe |
