Monthly Archives: January 2019

Fingerprints

Fridayam's Blog

The spackle of snow on the hills reveals the

ribs and sinews beneath the green flesh, the

lines of life and heart, the

whorls and ridges of

Earth’s bare body

dusted like a fingerprint.

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A Saint for our Troubled Times?

Wilgefortis wouldn’t wed,

would rather marry Christ so

willed herself a beard and

bearded was crucified.

 

“Liberata” in Italy,

“Librada” in Spain—liberated,

though in France she was “Débarras”,

riddance, which is two-edged.

 

“Kümmernis” in German—anxious

perhaps, and “Ontkommer” in Dutch but

I prefer the English

Uncumber as that

 

exactly expresses what she wanted,

what women prayed to her for–

a life uncumbered by the

wrong sort of men.

Aquarius

Fridayam's Blog

I know he’s Ganymede, another gorgeous

bum-boy of the Gods, but we

all have our own mythologies and

water makes me think of women.

Maybe it’s the spill and torrent of hair

as she bends to a kiss, or the

billows of her body

breaking over my groyne, or the

tempests of tears that

undermine my foundations, or the

drip, drip, drip of her passion slowly

weathering my stone.

Times she will talk like a river in spate

–crushing, churning, heaving

great boulders of thought—

into which I daresn’t step:

but rivers become seas become Ocean;

chaos, commingled, calms;

and the oily slap of home waters will

rock my dark hull to deep sleep.

There was a girl from Canada, once

who wished for a river: this one?

Eridanus? flowing from the cup,

in which whales and southern fishes swim?

Maybe not: she wanted to skate away

avoiding the buoys…

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Delight in Dance

Fridayam's Blog

“I just delight in dance”, I said and
blushed, for he was famous here and
I was not, just teaching his
awkward daughter in this
ballet school in Berkshire.

“She’s coming along at the barre….”
but all I got by reply was that
hungry question on his face, that
male question that is meant to end in
strewn sheets and sweat,

“…good at battements, but
far too young to go en pointe,
don’t you agree?” But the
question hung about us, a
bad smell that wouldn’t dissipate, even

amongst the dusty shoes and dirty feet, the
exhalations of everywhere dancers have
worked their bodies to exhaustion, the
rank scent of effort we have harboured for
many thousands of years.

But it’s all about sex isn’t it? Dance.
I knew it the first moment my
hips swayed, my pelvis pulsed with
naked rhythm, my nascent nipples
chafed on rough cloth.

Mr.Question…

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The Great Heard

Can a small voice compete with the
Great Heard? Or will it always be
trampled beneath the hooves of
heavier beasts? Can it
squiggle out from the scrum and
bleat at least one
word of love?

Rumour of Morning

Fridayam's Blog

There are gashes in the hills where the

chalk shows through that

catch my eye in what should

really be night

as though they had some

inner light, some

revel within that

refuses to end, demanding my

attendance to drink and

flirt and dance and

forget that it’s just

photons following the curved Earth to

spread a rumour of morning.

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Chiromancer

I’ve read your palm so many times:

holding your hand on that first date and

now walking London streets; after

sex when touch seems so much more

intimate; even now when

intimacy has gone but your

slender hand seeks mine in the

silence of sleep but despite

knowing it so well I still

cannot read your future, nor

mine.

The Lost Thing

Fridayam's Blog

The search for the lost thing turns the

house upside down: drawers are

tipped out, bins rifled to their

mucky depths, papers

stupidly shaken; every step taken

retaken, reconsidered, was it

lost then? was it there when

that happened? Then, usually, the

lost thing turns up where it

always was and we laugh at our

forgetfulness, ignoring the

upside-down house and all the other

lost things within it.

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Winter in Suburbia

Fridayam's Blog

Past, present, future commingle in this

uncertain weather, dull at dawn,

spats of rain like chaffinches in the bush,

there one moment, gone the next, wind

waking dead weeds, the

threat of snow without the

glee of children, late and

unexpected sunset, startling stars,

silence, approaching midnight, as the

dryer switches off,

static making sheets

dance like spectres.

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Morse Code

Fridayam's Blog

The planes come in like morse code

(dot, dash, dot, what are you

telling me?) resolving into

gaudy crucifixes passing overhead,

tubes full of happiness and stress, just like

life really–are there good deals,

marriages, love, hope, new

life on board? But, breaking air, they

vanish over the horizon—

dash, dot, dash—their

message undecrypted.

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