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/

Confusion between Dark and Light

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There’s a confusion between

dark and light in Autumn,

sharp sunshine sometimes

warming my face, then a

sharper shower, laundry

drying in the breeze

suddenly scooped in,

something soothing on the

stove smelling

sweet and strange, my

hands hesitating to

draw the curtains while the

sky is still coloured-in and there

remains one last

glimmer of the day.

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Stormfront

Fridayam's Blog

Squalls precede the storm, a

skirmish-line shaken out by the

dark host over the horizon

whipping itself into action, sucking

resupply from salt-water and

riven air with bagpipe blasts to

terrify, brigades of rain

beginning the bombardment, seeking

weaknesses for the penetrating wind to

infiltrate, develop, envelop, create a

Cannae of Air against Earth, but like

Schlieffen’s Plan it will all come to nought,

in a day or so Earth will remain,

battered, scarred but still there and the

storm will be spent, leaving

skirmishing squalls and rainbows.

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Butts

Fridayam's Blog

Is there an end to things? Can you feel it?

Rounded and smooth or

jagged as though broken off

roughly, or in anger?

Maybe it’s just a butt

trodden on outside some

seedy joint from which

I am excluded.

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Wisps Of Taste

To the West wisps of cloud

reflect the langorous

vapours of a last cigarette, while

to the East the Moon rises

like the cream on an

Irish Coffee in which I can

taste, beneath the caffeine, the

smoke of peat, of

earth alight in the

wisps of whisky.

Reading

There are no notations on your life,

nothing to say allegro or andante, no

punctuation either, no

commas or colons and certainly no

full stops, so I can’t

play you or

read you but must

take you as you

say you are.

The Queen’s Intelligencer

Fridayam's Blog

The Queen's Intelligencer

I feel like a spy in my own country,
snapping secret photos full of
operational intelligence:
how wide is that river? how deep?
is that mud or will boots grip?
is the bridge defensible or
easily taken in a coup de main?
if tidal, when is high, when low? are there
fortifications? landward? seaward?
are they expecting us?

Wait a minute—us?
For every “us” there is a “them”.in which
category I felt ensconced,
so when exactly did I step onto the
slippery slope between
“them” and “us”?

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Hera at the British Museum

Fridayam's Blog

They know me now, the Security Guards,

nodding faint acknowledgement that the

crackpot is back, the dapper old lady with a

screw loose, blinking her bovine eyes before

blanking them and heading for the pathetic

shards of my life enamoured with glass.

They think I am a bag-lady without bags,

except that exquisite Chanel clutch. Did I

steal it? they wonder, but I shan’t tell them

how many such guilt-gifts I’ve had from a

husband who has fucked everything

including my life.

There is rarely anyone there to see my

family album in red and black:

nothing like us of course, as though we had

all turned away when a photo was taken, or

been blurred or photo-shopped,

and I am always such a frump!

Was I ever young? Or did you

birth me as a mother? Was there

something before? Heat and dust, the

sense of a jolting cart…

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Musings

Perhaps you are the backing singer

harmonising his songs of

lost loves, your

soprano squeezing some

juice into his

grizzled heartbreak,

knowing you will

share his bed but

wondering about his heart.

 
Or perhaps you are cold and

naked on a dais,

perused and perplexed while

pen, pencil, oil or

watercolour try to

capture you who have never

wanted capture.

 
Or you are the anonymous

face on the tram or train or

bus, your vacant stare

stirring a man or

woman to sieve the

vast pot of words to find a

few to describe you.

“These are the things that happened in Sicily”

Fridayam's Blog

ταῦταμὲντὰπερὶΣικελίανγενόμενα.

Athenians thought Nicias modest, walking with

downcast eyes, but really he was just another

morose millionaire on the

lookout for a lost obol, missing the

minor miracles of life, like the

meteor streaking across the window, the

everyday stars that evanesce from

evening sky, the abrupt

startlement of jays, the woodpecker’s

gentle tap-tap seduction of

soft bodies in hard wood, the

redefinition of grey in every

overcast sky—all this is

missed if eyes are fixed to ground or

face is pressed to pillow, eyes

gummed shut with tears as even

Nicias’ eyes were when he led Athens to its

Golgotha in a Sicilian quarry, hot, dust-dry,

surrounded by spears, where all his

millions couldn’t buy a

cup of water.

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Focus

Fridayam's Blog

In that dim room, between

dozing nods, the people looked like

figures in an Adoration around an

oversized crib; next moment a

different tableau, a

Night Watch, then an

Exemplary Dissection, a Demonstration of

Gas in a Jar, a

Dawn Vigil—all, my

fuddled brain knew, with something

very precious at the

focal point of all those

nocturnal witnesses.

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