Sylvia

 

Written for Paul Brookes' ekphrastic challenge - one poem a day in April 2021. 

 

The art work for this day is by Jane Cornwell

Sylvia

I never coped the way I thought I should

I never meant to suffer for my art

I faded like a shadow in the woods

I always knew the bad came with the good

And one day you would likely break my heart

I never coped the way I thought I should

 

When words spill out they gush in bitter flood 

or sting and burn just like a poisoned dart

I faded like a shadow in the woods

 

Did you behave the only way you could?

Come each new day I'd hope for some fresh start

I never coped the way I thought I should

 

When next to you I felt some kind of dud

They didn't care that I was pretty smart

I faded like a shadow in the woods

 

And now it feels like sinking in the mud

And finally we'll always be apart

I never coped the way I thought I should

I faded like a shadow in the woods

 

Tim Fellows 2021

The Lark Has Flown

Like to the lark at break of day arising
from sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate - William Shakespeare, Sonnet 29

The Lark Has Flown

The flowers in earthy beds were gently swaying
Near where the lark had built her perfect nest
The ground absorbs the sound of children playing;
the breeze blows soft, the fragrant scents caress 

The lark flies high, she swoops and sweetly sings
Around and through the blossom laden trees
her call the catalyst that fuels and brings
the tiny creatures; lures the eager bees

But time flows cruel; its purpose to deny
sweet moments only it can take away
The sullen earth will turn; the skies will cry
and darkness will return to claim the day

The garden wakes when dawn's first seeds are sown
All seems unchanged except the lark has flown

Tim Fellows 2019

A Friend Calls

A Friend Calls

For Matthew

I

Where was I, when you called?

It's hard to forget that sunny

windswept Birmingham field.

The news, you informed me,

was not good.

My brain reminded me, as you spoke,

that you too had played rugby

and rowed to a good standard

for your college.

I'd forgotten which one,

because you were saying

two years

perhaps, or ten with a following wind.

As I walked the mud thickened

on my feet as the rogue cells

were thickening your blood.

It's hard to forget where you were,

on those days.

II

As days became weeks, then months,

you described the treatments

in forensic detail. I imagine

the doctor did not get away

with any waffle.

The worst case date passed by,

as each year lived

allowed new medication,

new research.

Chemicals distributing

cleansing death

through your body,

but at such a price.

Marrow extracted
from anonymous, caring bones
flew the Atlantic.

III

One day, in our irregular

update call, you asked me

what I thought about dying.

I had no answer - nothing

but awkward platitudes.

IV

It wasn't two years,

but neither was it ten.

It was seven, or more precisely,

as you would have insisted,

seven and a half.

Six months is a long time.

We carelessly let a day

go past,a week, a month.

But as I sat in the cold

cathedral, where you found
some comfort,
I knew how precious

those days of life

must have been.

Yet even there,
in God's grandest house,

voices of tourists echoing

in the vast and perfect space,

still no answer came.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Michael Beckwith from Pixabay

Dedicated to Wilfred Owen

On 4th November 1918 the poet Wilfred Owen was killed during the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal, exactly one week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice which ended the First World War, and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the day after his death.We studied his poetry and that of other war poets at school and his work, and tragic story, had a profound impact on my poetry and my view of war. This is my tribute to him, reflecting his time recuperating from PTSD.

Wilfred

One day, whilst musing on the cost of war
my mind fell back a full one hundred years
and saw, behind a dark, oak panelled door
a man with shattered mind still burning clear.

Can he not see, in some strange haunted dream
this future ghost with sad, lamenting eyes
that pleads for him to stay, a silent scream,
but knows that he will never earn his prize?

Yet he refused to yield, he ventured back
where hell fire rained and broken bodies sprawled.
This man, with fortitude that I would lack
stood up when King and blessèd Country called.

And though his poems plead, his words implore
Like blinkered sheep we still march on to war 


Tim Fellows November 2018

The Tees flows slower today

The Tees Flows Slower Today

The Tees flows slower today
From Cross Fell to its wide bay

The Black Poplar stands less proud today
Its branches in tribute languidly sway

The music has less joy today
The whistling gently fades away

The kipplers do not bat today
In the Rud yard where they play

The world is a lesser place today
in many ways we can't convey

The world is a lesser place 
the kipplers do not bat
the music has less joy
the Black Poplar stands less proud
and the Tees flows slower today

In memory of Vin Garbutt (1947-2017)

I've not been following folk music for long but I can spot the real deal when I see and hear it. Vin's style was truly unique, both musically and in the "inbetween bits" that separate the best from the rest. His meandering, slightly surreal, gentle humour would be punctuated by his own songs and his interpretations of other people's that would often carry a powerful message that was heightened by the contrast to his humourous, laid-back intros.

I'll lift a glass of red wine for your tonight Vin. Cheers, and thank you.