The Friday Poem
A poem every Friday
by Frank Dullaghan — Three times I called from outside. / Being the eldest girl, I was tasked to do so. / I bid them kneel and then entered / with an armful of rushes from the marsh, / which I heaped by the wall. / We prayed to St. Brigid, had a big pot
by Colm Scully — These days I remember things that never happened; / how the world was won / by us, through our evolution, / winning each fitness battle that we fought. // How we changed just the right amount / at just the right time
by Andrew Neilson — I dreamt the body was an instrument / and lay as such, beneath a great black lid. / As I waited, subdued in that antique air, / dust gathered on the inward machinery – / the wrest pins and hammers, the tension of strings
by Tim Goldstone — You see them from the village / only as tiny silhouetted off grid figures / high on the exposed ridge / bending straightening bending / all day long / patching holes / in crumbling dry stone walls, / hot coffee-splutters
by Philip Hancock — Two lengths of inch and a half / by a quarter, stacked one on top of the other, / planed: no splinters, no need to tape or tie them. / In one hand seems the natural way / to carry them – no bother. // Impossible to say how they come
by Rachel Burns — Suddenly, I’ve time warped like in that German TV show / where everyone listens to cool eighty tunes on a Walkman. // I’m fifteen again, sat on the top of the double decker / with best friend, Kat. Look, we are sharing a long menthol
by Karen Smith — there are ways to protect yourselves / from the perils of quickening in these / days of proscription. After the event, hold // your breath, sit with your knees bent /
and sneeze out the seed, or prior / plug yourself with nettle leaves
by Jay Whittaker — Where do I start? / Not with the gut punch, / all my father said / after I came out. //
I’ve deleted his slander from this page. / I choose not to repeat it. / Didn’t he apologise? / Don’t I have the last word? // It was the argument
by Rowan Bell — Dear Daddy, I love you so much / but I don’t want you to come / to my pre-wedding party. You’ll be / there at the lunch, so you mustn’t be glum. // You can go home on the train / and spend a few moments alone / in Tavistock Square
by Nell Prince — The early light is wooly blue / and comes with a buzz: outside / the room a single bee assumes / a sonic prominence, sounds large // against the dusty silences. / It gives the quiet day
by Martyn Crucefix — I will talk of course / but mostly I listen / and at lunchtime / snowflakes crashing down // onto London tarmac / though you’d hardly / call this snow / perhaps even sleet // yet something more / fleecy than hailstones / is making
by Richard Meier — A wide, blank beach in northeast Norfolk, / my young son learning frisbee throws. // A backhand, arrowed from his checkered breast pocket. / A second like it, only one which reaches // the other thrower slower, stalls, / to
