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

In The Smoke (for Grenfell)

 

In memory of Grenfell - 14 June 2017  

In The Smoke

In the smoke we see no-one;

we are all the same.
We live together, we die together
but who will take the blame?

In the smoke we are but shadows
that flicker in the flame.
We scream in silent unison

when no-one takes the blame.

Tim Fellows 14 June 2018

Lifted

Yesterday evening I had the privilege once again of reading one of my poems at the commemoration event at the National Coal Mining Museum for England. The one I chose was "Walking Home" about the 1938 Disaster at Markham. This one was inspired by those events, by memories of my family and by my visits to the memorial at the NCMM. We were discussing last night that many poems about the industry dwell on the difficulty and danger that was involved - I hope this one carries a more positive message.

Lifted

They carry me easily
those blue-scarred men
From decades in the burrowed earth
lifting the black rock

They lift me up
Through exams they never sat
they carry me
Through the halls of academe
in which they never walked
they carry me
In journeys to the ends of the earth
they never took
they carry me.

From out of the darkness
they lift me into the sunlight
while they must stay
under the ground
until the day that I join them
I am lifted.

Tim Fellows 2018

A Doctor Calls

Pneumoconiosis is a disease that continues to afflict active and former miners worldwide. another price paid for the black gold. 

Thanks to Ian Duhig for workshopping it with me.

Micrograph of diseased lung

 A Doctor Calls

The taciturn green door closes
on terse goodbyes
as my inadequate presence
is ushered away.

My years of training
might have been a dream
for the man who stares
from the frayed and faded chair
at the recently ignited fire
as I listen to his chest.

It crackles the eager coal that
is the unconscious genesis of
this meeting, the slow laboured breaths
and his gaunt, hanging face.
He keeps his counsel. 

My face is a mask.
I have seen this before
and I will see it again.
He knows it but has little strength
to grunt his scorn.

The impatient wind
blows away my thoughts
and the bare branches
of the winter tree
in the garden
wave their goodbyes.

I hear the door close -
I will not hear it again.

Tim Fellows 2018

Photo By Nephron - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7597853