In Sepia

Photo is of the Glaswegian soldier John Gardner White, age of death listed as 20. Photo courtesy of the Imperial War Museum.

Lieutenant John Gardner White © IWM (HU 127373)

 

A war poem written as a half-rhyme exercise at Read 2 Write and inspired by Wilfred Owen (of course) and by the wonderful WW2 anti-war song Bomber's Moon by Mike Harding.  

In Sepia

As grey light filters through the misty dawn
we rise from mud where we had hunkered down
and make that climb to face the greedy shells,
the bullets that await the whistle's shrill.
Where men face sorrow lost in cooling blood;
on wire, in holes where other men have bled.
Oh mother, father, let your hearts be broken
and then with grief for me you may be stricken.
For grief you will not find a remedy
a long held portrait is your memory.
You filled with pride the day that I was called
and in that frame my face will not grow old.

Old Tower

This was written in Torrevieja, Spain, and was inspired by Miguel Hernandez and his time with the anti-fascist fighters during the Civil War.

 

Old Tower

The sun gleamed on the Old Tower.
Winter hid in the shadows as the sea
slept. I closed my eyes and let the warmth
wash my face. 

With cat-stealth the cool breeze spoke.
Tales of crystal lakes, of the snow mountains
where you lay. Panting shallow steam breath.
Stomach empty as your gun. Hunger and despair.

It whispered old stories. Allegories.
Carried me to where the dead cried.
A seabird's call brought me back.
Salt had dried on my cheeks.

My arid thoughts.
Your mortal wounds. 

 

Image by mtomasel from Pixabay

The Purbeck Boy

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

Finding Them

Written for Holocaust Memorial Day. 

Finding Them

Iron gates, unlocked,
open and creaking.
Buildings, wood
and concrete
containing
only things

they chose
to leave 

behind.

Shoes, spectacles, teeth,
skin and bone.

Everything is hollowed out. 

Tim Fellows January 2021

Photo by Frederick Wallace on Unsplash

Unknown Soldier

 

Written at a Poetry Business workshop in 2019. Re-worked several times. With thanks to John Foggin for some excellent advice to tighten it up.

 
Unknown Soldier

He lies in the sun, a map
in his outstretched hand.
Music, a song in unfamiliar tongue
drifts from a nearby house
and flows through a haze of heat.
It washes over him, entering
deafened ears. The sun-baked
sand shows no noon shadow.
Static from his radio scatters
the languid flies that buzz
around the blood-black pools
around and beneath him.
The crosses on his map
mean nothing now.
He is blind and cannot feel the insect
crawling on his reddening face.
Even in this blazing heat,
he is cooling.
The music stops, the radio cuts out
and the insect is still.
Everything is dead.
Everything.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Dariusz Sankowski from Pixabay

Water Tower

This was inspired by the Water Tower in Vukovar, Croatia. We visited it in July 2019.

Water Tower

I remember, when I was young,
that all I needed
to do was to hold water.

Up and down the river
the boats sailed
as I filled and emptied
while the waters rose and fell.
My people would climb
inside to see the panorama
that was mine
by day and night.

Then, one day, in a shock
of noise and fire,
everything changed.

I watched as

innocent homes,

museums, workplaces

fell like sandcastles
in rolling tides.

Hollow, burning shells
with skull eyes stared
at me in the darkness.

I took blow upon blow,
punished with holes
and gashes, barely standing.

At last all was quiet;
resting in the stink of death. 

I became no longer
just a tower.
They will keep me, gaze on
my wounded body,
preserved as something

I never wanted to be.

Tim Fellows 2019

The Leather Pouch

Written at one of Ian Parks' Peace workshops

The Leather Pouch

Six weeks had passed
since that knock,
the half-expected shock
that fades to cold compliance.
Then
              she found it

His leather pouch, with some money in.
Coins, tiny pebbles of silver and bronze,
that took her to the place
where his blood soaked into the ground.
Reaching into its depths
she feels its velvet touch.
She closes her eyes and wonders,
in elongated moments,
what he saw.
The chaos and death,
the wheeling birds
cutting through emotionless clouds
laden with snow for winter's dawn.

The skies opened
the rays of maternal, eternal love
shine through the tears
and she feels the first soft touch of peace.

Tim Fellows 2018


Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

I Fell at Towton

The Battle of Towton took place during the Wars of the Roses in the spring of 1461. There was heavy snow. It was long and brutal, possibly the bloodiest battle to be fought on English soil.

I Fell At Towton

Red flesh, vivid on splintered bone
where blood flows in angry 
torrent my unseen foe emerges 
through the thickening snow 
that dulls the sound of screams and roars;
mace aloft to strike a cruel blow. 

His eyes a blaze of fear and hate;
his breath in plume
as in a scything, swirling blur 
of arms he aims 

to crush my head, it glances 
from my helmet as I swerve 
but slip and fall where mud 
and gore have mixed with ice 
slick from the snowy squall. 

On the ground I lie and to my right 
a comrade lies, a trace of tears 
frozen on his empty eyes
that stare as once they stared in birth, 
and now must gaze on death. 

A blade is lifted to the sky
and as I await its fatal bite 
I see the snow is settling now 
covering bodies with a shroud of white 
and I can only think that how 
the rose I served must win 
or why else did I fight?

Tim Fellows 2019

Birth

In February I visited the Pima County Air Museum in Tucson, Arizona. One of many splendidly preserved aircraft was a B-29 bomber, Sentimental Journey, like the one in the image below.

The atomic bomb known as Fat Man exploded over Nagasaki on the 9th August 1945 at 11:02 a.m. at an approximate altitude of 1,800 feet. Less than a second after the detonation, the north of the city was destroyed and 35,000 people were killed. It was delivered by the B-29 bomber Bockscar.

Birth

In the cavernous hangar
the silver beast is silent.
Its belly gapes
and I imagine
Fat Man hanging inside,
primed and bloated
with a deadly load.

The belly is opened and
the beast gives birth,
a bastard child falling,
screaming its first breath
with the light of a thousand suns.
Blistering meagre cloud.
Nagasaki opens her arms
and takes it into her soul.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by guralski from Pixabay

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

A different take on 'Night Mail'

I wanted to write something to commemorate Holocaust Memorial Day in January 2018 and as it developed I realised it was a bit like W.H. Auden's famous Night Mail so I thought why not go the whole hog and just use it as the whole basis of the poem. It's taken a while to refine it.

You can read the original here but it's worth finding the video on YouTube of it being read on the original film as the different sections scan very differently and are worthy of being listened to in the correct rhythm. 

Night Train 1943

With thanks, and apologies, to WH Auden. 

I
 

This is the Night Train crossing the border

no hindrance thanks to the Fuhrer's order

Carrying the rich, carrying the poor,

the owner of the shop and the girl next door.

Out of the Alps a steady climb

Under this regime she'll arrive on time

In open trucks the people get colder

Rammed like cattle shoulder to shoulder

Scarce sympathy shown as she passes

the silent stations of the huddled masses

People turn their heads as she approaches

Don't look at the faces in the coaches

No-one wants to change her course

despite occasional silent remorse

At night she passes, where no-one wakes

In the carriage a frightened woman shakes

II

A New Dawn rises, the job near done

Down to the ghetto she descends

Towards the town brimming with the sick and dying

Towards the state apparatus, the furnaces

hidden in forests like ancient monsters

The Reaper waits for her.

In far away countries, exalted lands of the free

Families long for news.

III

Letters of hope, pleas for help

words without joy from girl and boy

Filled-out forms, formal invitations,

To live with more fortunate relations

Applications for situations

arising in remote but safer nations.

Letters arrive then suddenly stop

Why would they not write? Why would they drop

the letters from uncles, cousins and aunts

trying to get to Belgium or France

then on to Chicago, Miami, New York

News from Europe increasingly dark

Letters of love, of hope, then fear

from Vienna stained by desperate tear

Written on paper of every hue

by the victimised, robbed and hounded Jew

who cannot bypass the black pen's scoring

as the cold official censors their heart's outpouring

The arm of the fascist state is long

the deafening silence feels so wrong

IV

On the train there's fitful sleep

And dreams of real life monsters

suddenly alive; no friendly waves from neighbours

who sleep safe, for now, in much quieter streets

In ethnically cleansed Munich, Cologne and Berlin

a few remain, continue to dream

and shall wake soon, ten to a room

and none shall hear the fateful knock

without a quickening of the heart

For who can bear to feel themselves forgotten?

Tim Fellows 2018

The Fallen

I wrote this after walking along the side of the Thames in November 2018, 100 years after the end of World War I.

The Fallen

On a crisp November day
under a listless pale blue sky
I saw, beneath my feet,
Autumn's fallen.
A multitude of shades and hues,
all shapes and sizes,
scattered on the earth.

The dirty earth
where some, among the first to fall,
were merged with the mud.
Trodden down by those
whose only goal along the path
was the next half mile.

Some still looked alive,
blown away in their prime.
Too young
to lie like this
among the dead.

Some remain above this realm of death
Hopeful as they face the sun
As Time's swift river passes by
Until at last their race is run.

Tim Fellows 2018

Memorial

In memory of the millions killed in World War I

Memorial

We remember them in black and red
Millions slain in muddied ground
The dead were piled upon the dead
In blood and tears their hopes were drowned

We see them now in black and white
In uniforms so crisp and clean
Young faces scrubbed and shining bright
Before the nightmare stole their dreams

So when we stand in solemn row
Honouring names all carved in stone
Do any of us really know
why souls like poppy seeds were sown?

Tim Fellows November 11th 2018

White Feather

This one was written at the first of Ian Parks' Peace Workshops in Doncaster earlier this year. It was read out at The Cast in Doncaster as part of Doncaster Choral Society's "Lest We Forget" concert.

White feathers were handed out by women during World War One to any young man who was walking the streets not in uniform, to shame and humiliate them into joining up. They were also posted to known conscientious objectors.

White Feather

Why did you feel the need to share
those perfect pure white feathers?
Plucked bitter from the wings of birds
whose peace was cruelly shattered.

Your face is torn and twisted
as you caw your words of hatred
for those who see no reason
to kill a fellow human.

I take your gift, soft smiling,
I am proud of my heart's calling.
However you despise me
I'll stand my ground with honour.

No blood will stain that feather
This bird will sing forever

Tim Fellows 2018

4.30 am, France, Summer 1918

"Stand to, me bonny lads,

Stand to and make you ready.

Stand to, me bonny lads,

Hold the line right steady.

Let bright bands rule the flame;

This day shall bear your name.

Stand to, me bonny lads,

Hold the line right steady." - John Tams

4.30 am, France, Summer 1918

I wait for the explosions
that come when dawn is breaking,
when darkness fades like phantoms
of my mutilated comrades.

Death is my companion
and fear is our lieutenant
who stalks the stinking trenches
barking his commandments.

The rats are getting ready
for they will feast by sunset.
The guns will be their waiters
who serve a varied menu
from many different nations.

I think about my mother
as the shells are dropping.
My love of King and Country
crumbles like the breadcrumbs
that she used to put in puddings.

I recall she always told me
that nothing should be wasted
I recall
she told me
nothing.....

Tim Fellows November 2018

Faded Flowers

The Boer War (1899-1902) in South Africa was, by the standards of the Great War that followed a decade later, relatively light in military casualties at around 28,000. However 46,000 civilians perished including over 20,000 women and children. Many of these died in what started as refugee camps but later became something akin to concentration camps. Certainly the British had not intended this to happen but the brutality of war led inexorably to thousands of deaths due to illness and malnutrition.

When reports of the state of the camps reached London, the radical Liberal opposition, including David Lloyd George, were persuaded into harrying the Conservative government into ending the war by the campaigner Emily Hobhouse. Hobhouse visited South Africa in 1901 and met a young Boer girl, Lizzie van Zyl. Read the sad story here - it played a part in the eventual acceptance of the fact of the conditions in the camps that were initially denied by the government.

It was Hobhouse who described children lying in the camps as "faded flowers thrown away".


Faded Flowers

A nation is corralled and trapped
on scorched earth and salted fields
under the never-setting sun
bitter as its barren tears

Under canvas, torn and bruised
wasted down to skin and bone
Half-starved fledglings, open mawed
fall from nests to die alone

Black or white are all the same
they stare into the stoic face
the barrel of the self-same gun
caring not for creed nor race

Bodies lie on sterile land
water dries in poisoned wells
towards the shining Southern Cross
ten thousand souls fly and swell

The brutal fist of history
sends echoes down to us today
yet we ignore the images
of faded flowers thrown away

(c) Tim Fellows 2018

While you were sleeping

While you were sleeping

While you were sleeping
Some lights came on
While you were sleeping
Telephones rang
Your gentle snoring
did not silence the orders
You turned on your side
and dreamt of the seaside
Blue skies, breeze salt scented
The cries of small children
Swimming and splashing
Unaware of the horror
unleashed in your absence
without your approval
The cries of the innocent
Screaming and pleading
Grey suits grimly smiling
When you were sleeping

Tim Fellows 2018

Resurrection

Soldiers in a mass grave 1916 By Hermann Rex (1884-1937)

Resurrection

When he came back no fanfare was sounded
The heads turned away, or just stared straight past
the shambling figure missing eyesight and limbs
a gift of warfare; from the bombs and gas
that fizzed and hissed and thudded and pounded
and arced like bright rainbows and sang like hymns

That Friday dawned just like any other
in the stink and mud they slogged to the line
they stood no chance; they were sacrificed lambs
who were nailed to their cross; a mandate divine
to brother lying in death with brother
that cursed the living and howled with the damned

He died on that Friday; they brought him back
and he lay in bed a year and two days
He limped from his sick bed and dimly saw
the people they died for; so drab and gray
hiding behind the old Union Jack
that flew in false pride as we fought its war

The church was near full that Easter Sunday
when he hobbled back to his silent town
but he could not pass through those hallowed doors
where the statue shone with its holy crown
of thorns; He turned his damaged eyes away
and left there to fight his own private war

Tim Fellows Easter 2018

Untitled by Willy Jaeckel [Public domain]

For those interested, here are three drafts. The final version was switched to 3rd person on the suggestion of Ian Parks and after a day or two of reading and re-reading I decided it was more appropriate.

Original

When I came back no fanfare was sounded

The heads turned away, or just stared straight past

the shambling figure missing eyesight and limbs

a gift of warfare; from the bombs and gas

that fizzed and hissed and thudded and pounded

and arced like bright rainbows and sang like hymns

That Friday came just like any other

in the stink and mud we slogged to the line

we stood no chance; we were sacrificed lambs

who were nailed to our cross; a portent divine

where brother lay in death with his brother

and the news was relayed through telegrams

I died on that Friday; they brought me back

and I lay in bed a year and two days

I limped from the hospital where I saw

the people I fought for were drab and grey

hiding behind the old Union Jack

that flew in false pride as we fought its war

The church was near full that Easter Sunday

when I hobbled back to my silent town

but I could not go through those wooden doors

where the statue shone with its holy crown

of thorns; I turned my damaged eyes away

and left there to fight my own private war


Draft #1

When I came back home no fanfare sounded

The heads turned away, or just stared straight past

the shambling figure missing eyesight and limbs

a gift of warfare from the bombs and gas

that fizzed and hissed and thudded and pounded

and arced like bright rainbows and sang like hymns

That Friday dawned just like any other

in the stink and mud we slogged to the line

we stood no chance; we were sacrificed lambs

who were nailed to our cross; a mandate divine

for brother met in death with his brother

that cursed the living and howled with the damned

I died on that Friday; they brought me back

and I hid my soul a year and two days

I limped from my sick bed and dimly saw

the people they died for; so drab and grey,

hiding behind the old Union Jack

that flew in false pride as we fought its war

The church was near full that Easter Sunday

when I hobbled back to my silent town

but I could not pass through those hallowed doors

where the statue shone with its holy crown

of thorns; I turned my damaged eyes away

and departed to fight a private war

Draft #2

When I came back no fanfare was sounded
The heads turned away, or just stared straight past
the shambling figure missing eyesight and limbs
a gift of warfare; from the bombs and gas
that fizzed and hissed and thudded and pounded
and arced like bright rainbows and sang like hymns

That Friday dawned just like any other
in the stink and mud we slogged to the line
we stood no chance; we were sacrificed lambs
who were nailed to our cross; a mandate divine
for brother met in death with his brother
that cursed the living and howled with the damned

I died on that Friday; they brought me back
and I lay in bed a year and two days
I limped from my sick bed and dimly saw
the people they died for were drab and gray
hiding behind the old Union Jack
that flew in false pride as we fought its war

The church was near full that Easter Sunday
when I hobbled back to my silent town
but I could not pass through those hallowed doors
where the statue shone with its holy crown
of thorns; I turned my damaged eyes away
and left to fight my own private war

In memory of Jim and Wilfred

These poems are dedicated to Wilfred Owen, the poet who most influenced me in my teenage years, and my great-uncle Jim Whittaker, who served in the First World War after enlisting in 1915.

Owen was killed on 4th November 1918, one week before the end of the war. Jim survived and lived out his life in Derbyshire.

The Old Man In The Bed

(for Jim Whittaker 1889-1973)

There's an old man in a bed
in the front room
at my grandparents' house
He is my grandfather's uncle 

who complains a lot
when he does speak
which isn't so often

I hear him as
he bangs on the wall
with his walking stick
that he can no longer use
for he is confined.
"Rita!" he shouts and
she feeds and cleans him
It seems like he is waiting to die.
It is odd and uncomfortable
for an eleven year old

What I didn't see
is an ex-miner
who volunteered in 1915
to fight in the war
to end all wars

What I didn't see
is what he saw
in the Balkans and in France
Unimaginable sights

What I didn't hear
is what he heard
the explosions, the screams
the orders to advance into
possible death

What I see now
are the medals
he so bravely won

What I see now
is the hero
who never spoke about
what he saw
or what he heard

The Sherwood Forester
didn't die in Ypres
or in Turkey
he died in the village of his birth
a half century later and
his memories died with him

When you see an old man
or an old woman
struggling to rise or to
remember where they put their glasses
when you say
"they didn't take their pill today!"
remember that they had lives, had stories;
If they wish to speak
we should listen.


Escape from Hell

In World War I enlisting was seen as an escape from the danger and grinding hard labour of the collieries. At one stage 25% of Welsh miners had enlisted, forcing the Government to stop it happening to make sure coal production was maintained. Talk about out of the frying pan, into the fire.

We'd step into that cage, boys
down to the bowels of Hell
No matter what your age, boys
you couldn't do so well

in any other job, boys
until the Army called;
You'll earn a good few bob, boys
In uniform you'll stand tall

We marched off to the War, boys
no grinding daily graft
We'll give the Hun what for, boys
you really must be daft

To stay down in that pit, boys
Come with me to France
No gas, no dust, no heat, boys
Just do the Victory dance

We dug down in the earth, boys
I was a military mole
Dig for all you're worth, boys
For the King, and not King Coal

But do it really still, boys
For the Germans are so sly;
Ready for the kill, boys
We heard them scraping nearby

One day when it was late, boys
Soon time to rest my bones
A shell sealed five men's fate, boys
And I was left alone

I signed up for the front, boys
I'd almost lost my wits
To go back down; I couldn't, boys
to where pals were blown to bits

As we sat in the trench, boys
I wished that I weren't there
Oh God, the mud and stench, boys
There's nothing to compare

I'm in the bowels of Hell, boys
There's no escape from here
Bullet, gas or shell, boys
That's what I now so fear

When your shift is done, boys
You walk out of the night
We'll walk towards the guns, boys
In morning's shining light

I'll walk towards the guns, boys
In morning's shining light


Our Time Has Come

I wrote this on the day of the centenary of the Battle of the Somme, July 1st 2016

The guns are silent
We wait...
I am shaking
A sound in the sky
Cloudless and blue
It is birdsong
We listen....
"One minute boys!"
Bert is praying
We wait
The whistle blows
We go...
                Our time has come

The End of Summer 

This was written at a workshop - the title was "The End of Summer". I suppose they were expecting some summery imagery, and so was I to be fair. What no-one expected was this - nearly unchanged from what I first wrote in the 4 minute exercise.

It was the end of summer
Nineteen seventeen
We'd been through hell
I was still there
No flowers, just mud, no green

Where were my old companions,
Billy, George and Ted?
Gone away in a single day
What more have I to dread

It was the end of summer
But not the end of war
Live or die, with all my parts
I care not any more

Jack and Bill (after Siegfried Sassoon)

Jack and Bill took on the hill
in the face of fearsome slaughter
Bill went first as a great shell burst
and Jack went not long after

Up Jack got but he'd been shot
and no longer would he caper
In a flood of red he soon was dead;
his name was listed in the paper.

(c) Tim Fellows 2017