A Day Like Any Other

This is my second poem dedicated to the men who died and were seriously injured in the disaster at Markham Colliery in Derbyshire on July 30th 1973. They included Joseph (Joe) Birkin, who lived in our village and whose twin daughters Lynn and Sadie were regulars at our chapel and were only 21 when their dad died.

 A Day Like Any Other

It was a day like any other -
dawn's sunlight split the blue-black sky.
It glinted on the pit-head wheel
and lit the dusty roads in layers of gold.
Dreams escaped from sleeping heads
and drifted round silent rooms,
disturbed by gently ticking clocks
that marked the time before

the fractured metal, screaming rope
and broken hearts. The silence explodes.

A shattering of memories.

Tim Fellows 2018



Here's a link to the first one - Markham 1973

Full details are really well described here.

Poem of the North - 821 Challenge - "Legacy"

This was my unsuccessful entry to the "Poem of the North" competition. The format is 8-2-1, 8 lines, 2 lines and 1 line, 821 being the classification for English Poetry in the Dewey Decimal system. The theme is "The North" and it must have a turn ("volta") before the couplet.

You can find the winners (including at some point those by my friends Mick Jenkinson and Ian Parks) on the Poetry of the North website



Legacy

The further south I go the more I feel
the warmth around me feeds
the cold within.
The memory of bleak, wind hardened hills
tugs and spins like thread upon a wheel.
A legacy of factories, mines and mills,
harsh injustices galvanized by greed
and the angry cries of my ancestral kin.

Though history informs our common bond
the future can't be smothered by the past.

The time has come to hone our northern steel.

Tim Fellows 2018

Badger

I do not, by the way, condone culling badgers.

Badger

Snuffling, grunting
Brock roams the moonlit land
in woodland, forest, field
and garden he sniffs for food.
Pale shadows fall in his padded trail
through leafy hedge
the scent of bulbs in fresh-dug soil
overpower him as he digs and feeds;
the hyacinth bulbs will never grow -
those proto-plants I so carefully placed
to become a spring delight
are just a tasty treat for the badger.
What a stripy bastard.

Tim Fellows 2017

Iron

This is a poem about slavery - specifically the slave trade between Africa and the Americas for which we, the British, were responsible. We were part of the triangle that took slaves from Africa to America and the Caribbean then brought back the goods to the UK - cotton, tobacco etc. before restarting the cycle.

Iron

As I lie in this hold with my captive brothers
the iron cuts deep but the hurt is within.
We'll never see our sisters and mothers
or our beautiful homeland ever again.

The ship yaws and rolls, I feel so sick -
in the blackness the shouts, the cries and the moans
seem somehow worse; it's hard to pick
the sounds of my mother tongue over the groans.

There are five hundred souls aboard and yet
we're all so alone; the man next to me stares
into the void - he is covered in sweat,
his mumbling incessant yet nobody cares.

Others, perhaps lucky, have flown to unite
with ancestral spirits, yet I cannot forget
their pain as they died with no honour or fight;
to die without dignity will be my regret.

I was warrior, provider, respected and strong
but these chains make me nothing; they only mock
all that I am, to what I belong.
I'm just on the inventory, part of the stock

I stare at the iron in which I am bound.
Who created this horror? What were they paid?
Did they really not care that far from their land
their intention was only to shame and degrade.

I might die on this ship but yet I might see
those beautiful valleys, rivers and streams.
With no iron chains I am once again free
in that far distant land that lives in my dreams.

Tim Fellows 2017

Kipper

Two years on, I'm still pissed off about having my, and my children and grandchildren's, rights taken away.













Kipper

You sell your poison, never count the cost
Your bluster rouses anger and despair
With your world view humanity is lost

When you pass by you leave a trail of frost
Toad like, you squat inside your lair
You sell your poison, never count the cost

Casually the racist slurs are tossed
You feed on people's ignorance and fear
With your world view humanity is lost

When you speak the truth is rudely squashed
When questioned you equivocate and sneer
You sell your poison, never count the cost

Real lives were trampled with the lines you've crossed
While you're posing with your cigarette and beer
With your world view humanity is lost

The thoughts that you have recklessly endorsed
Rise up and swell into a hate-filled cheer
You sell your poison, never count the cost
With your world view humanity is lost

Come On, England!

Several forces have joined the Give Domestic Abuse the Red Card campaign after research found domestic violence increased when England both lost and won matches during previous tournaments.
Analysis by Lancaster University found during the last World Cup in 2014 incidents of domestic abuse in Lancashire rose by 38% when England lost.

When they won or drew abuse increased by 26% compared to days when there was no England match.

Come On England

I'll put out a St George's flag
next week, when England play.
Cos if they lose he'll make sure
I'm the one who'll pay.

Evening games'll be the worst
when he's watched it with his mates
If they've lost it will be me
and not Belgium that he hates.

He comes in drunk at half past twelve;
I'm up for work at six
I can pretend to be asleep -
that sometimes does the trick.

But if I'm awake when he gets back
I can't do anything right
Whatever he or I might say
he's spoiling for a fight.

If I was the England manager
he might just have a case
but I'm not so I have to use
extra makeup on my face.

Why does it really matter
if eleven millionaires
lose a game? I once said that
and he pushed me down the stairs.

So come on England, please don't lose
although I know you will -
probably on penalties
or perhaps something to nil.

Even if they win he's pissed
and might still beat me up,
so cheers to the England football team
until the next World Cup.

Tim Fellows 2018

The Boys of 49

Parkhouse Colliery FC competed at the same level that their modern equivalents Clay Cross Town FC do today. In 1949-50 they took part in the premilinary rounds of the FA Cup, beating Jump before losing to Rawmarsh (1).

The Boys of '49

Heavy boots, caked with mud
churn the windswept Clay Cross field.
Hard men, forged when the game was tough,
would laugh if they could only see
these moneyed, preening superstars
who never knew a real day's work
in factories or down the mine -
they'd wonder at our changing times
would the Boys of '49.

"Two games a week, it's all too much!",
cries the coach, explains his loss
by how their poor tired bodies fail,
try telling post-war Clay Cross
folk where men worked shifts before they played
in rationed times they never made
the same complaints; they just ploughed on
did the Boys of '49.

Rain soaked leaden leather ball
encased and laced to match their boots
meets a resilient, determined head
or waits while Tommy aims and shoots.
No high tech swerving perfect sphere,
feather-like, caressed by priceless
technicolor foot
insured beyond their lifetime's pay -
a million miles from football's roots
and the Boys of '49.

No Ferraris for these blokes,
no image rights or Nike ads.
Just the pride of the red and white,
the bond they had with the other lads.
Woodger, Brazell, Wragg, Dooley, and Lunn -
the whistle goes, the game is won.
Connaughton, Bradbury, Simms and Baker -
they won't dive, no simulation faker.
Bernard Bowen and Tommy Churm -
my uncles, faces proud and firm
stare from this ancient photograph
this timeless, epic epitaph
to the Boys of '49.

Tim Fellows 2018  

(1) Information courtesy of the Football Club History Database