Author Archives: fridayam

I work as a TV Director, but have written poetry all my life. This is a selection of my work. Tell me what you think. You can see another aspect of my writing here http://fridayerotica.blogspot.com/

Siamese Smile

Fridayam's Blog

My current cat likes rough love now and then,

leaping onto the newel-post to bat at me as I pass,

begging me to take his gage and duel

over and under the banister, like cavaliers:

other times he offers his belly,

lures me with submission, his paws

cutely bent but alive with claws that

flash and scratch and draw blood.

Always there is the thrum of purr that says both

“I didn’t mean it!” and “That was fun!”

Just like you when you arch your back and

take me deep, your buttocks

smacking my belly, demanding

more and harder,  and the sudden

agile grace with which you throw

my twice-your-weight and pounce,

growling, clawing, engulfing:

the hum in your blocked throat,

the flash of dark eyes in wild hair,

your mouth alive with teeth and your

Siamese smile.

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The Drearies

Fridayam's Blog

We must be wary of the Drearies

draining life of all fun because we

might dare to dance and laugh in the

face of all that suffering, our

immature expressions of pleasure met with a

glare and a sharp “Shush!”.

But within the laughter and dance lie

abyssals of want, longing, love, grief,

regret, desire, frustration, all

confused in that joy which can

one moment spring a smile and the

next spring tears.

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Hearts

Fridayam's Blog

My heart goes out to hearts

caught in branches on a cold night;

caught waiting on a

street corner for a

car that won’t come; caught

watching the ice melt in a

bought drink that will

never be drunk; caught between

transplants not knowing which

soul to beat for; caught

hoping, caught dreaming;

caught in the act of

catching cold.

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Frames

Fridayam's Blog

The lost footage of your life

turned up, eventually:

grainy, disjointed (is there

some still missing?), but

compelling, though there was a

lack of narrative drive,

as though you had decided to

go round in circles

before you died (to baffle us?),

or maybe it was just one of your

trademark jokes, though this one was

sharp and stung like a

papercut.

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“Cheap Music”(Noel Coward)

Fridayam's Blog

We always want our adolescence back

to unmake, unprepare,

undecide our lives;

unkiss kisses– kiss deeper had we known;

dance as we should have, recklessly;

thought as we wanted, heedlessly;

loved as we ought, thoughtlessly.

We craved the false horizon of an alternate world

wherein anything could happen:

but it didn’t, so we listen and

leak tears in draughty kitchens to

other adolescences.

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“It’s You” Talk Talk

In our elder days I
listen to you talk in your
sleep: your worries,
frustrations, love,
muttered or out loud in
both your languages and I
hold you, let you
speak in tongues, my
mind full of images
of all that life since
I first saw you.

I’ve seen you wracked in pain and
writhing in ecstasy, in the
sough-trough of
housework, blowing
hair from your forehead.

I’ve seen you erotic and
neurotic and sclerotic (when those
lovely legs won’t
bend back so far).

I’ve seen you as a
Nereid watching
sea-clashes
ready to wrench out
sea-sodden sailors
unable to cope with your
liquid love.

I’ve seen you see life as a
patchwork quilt
forever frayed and
desperately needing repair
each thread a child
knitting their own known
needles wrenched from your
hands flapping
uselessly.

I’ve seen the flapping fade as the
wings of our children are
accepted, though you still
clutch some feathers as you
nestle into my warmth
speaking in tongues
hearth mother with
no hearth.

Bach, English Suite 2, Prelude

Fridayam's Blog

That initial trip sends you on a

breakneck fall down some

endless staircase, part

carpeted, part bare wood,

passing rooms full of

gay people dancing at whom you

smile awkwardly as you

think you find your feet then

trip again, continuing your

tumultuous tumble,

banisters like glissandi,

long flights interrupted by

short landings, a spiral of

startled faces, a

collective gasp as somehow you

land on your feet,

take a moment to

collect your dignity,

open the door and

exit.

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Anonymous and a Gloss

(Anonymous, 15th/16thC, English)

The maidens came
 When I was in my mother’s bower;
I had all that I would.
 The bailey beareth the bell away;
 The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
The silver is white, red is the gold:
The robes they lay in fold.
 The bailey beareth the bell away;
 The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
And through the glass window shines the sun.
How should I love, and I so young?
 The bailey beareth the bell away;
 The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.

(My gloss, though I may be mistaken)

The bell bespoke general joy and my

twittering sisters ran to find me

scenting my mother’s flowers and

plucked me to the house to see

such riches sent to

buy my maidenhead.

The bell still rang but

further off and fading while the

sun burnt through the window

flushing my face with dread.

The Great When

Fridayam's Blog

When will it be, the

great When? In which

month, which season,

which year?

Will the body be

fit for purpose when

When arrives? Will it

welcome When with the

pleasure of a glass well-filled,

liking the lack of

who, or will it

slap When’s face with why

now?

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Too Nice

Fridayam's Blog

Under the windmill you had me

and rejected me in that

devastating way young girls have.

We’d talked of books and music;

laughed, teased and touched; found

so much to love together

except love—because

love was something you couldn’t afford

since men paid good money to take you out

and all you had to repay them with was

your body. So the man walking his dog saw

two teenagers kissing in the birch trees on the

birchen head, and missed the

sad irony of

love besmirched:

by what? That you called yourself a slut?

I wanted you, slut or not, yet all you saw

was an empty purse and a boy who was

too nice.

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