The Friday Poem

A poem every Friday

Friday Poems

Quellenstraße, 1100

Quellenstraße, 1100

by Kathryn Gray — February—and I was young. / Spring Street! My blue bag was swinging // in uncommon warmth, even the shadowed / shapes of pavement under awnings // seemed ripe with a peculiar kindness / and promise. The snows, at last
Black text on white reads: 'Old Woman Ravine by Jennifer Copley' with a quarter of a small yellow Friday Poem blob just visible in the bottom right hand corner.

Old Woman Ravine

by Jennifer Copley — No one knows where it is. / Maybe behind the sloping granite stones / of Carlingill or in the dip / between Hobdale and the sea? // The old woman who lives there / has been heard cursing anyone who seeks her or her place
Black text on white reads: "Double first, 1957 by Beatrice Garland" with a small Friday Poem yellow blob over the 1957

Double first, 1957

by Beatrice Garland — Judy in rose chiffon balancing / on four inch heels like blades / makes a late entrance / to the Dean's sherry party / for the First Years in the College library — / and everyone stops talking. // The MG she arrived in can be heard 
Black text on white reads: 'Forester by Vera Lynch' with a medium-sized yellow Froday Poem blob over the 'este' of 'Forester' and the word 'Vera'

Forester

by Vera Lynch — The local news adored it / A female forester! / Our very own lumberJill! / I smiled patiently // Laughed along / Answered their questions / I've always loved being outdoors (true) / I've always enjoyed working with men (false)
Tulipa Ingens

Tulipa Ingens

by Oliver Comins — Once again, the tulips have been immense this year, / having the appearance of beanstalks when viewed / through the ground floor windows. From our loft, / on the second floor, you could reach out and touch / their sail-like petals
Black text on white reads: from 'Testimonies (Scotland 1623 - 1930)' by Hamish Whyte

from Testimonies (Scotland 1623 – 1930)

by Hamish Whyte — PAISLEY, 1684 // Margaret Whythill, spouse to James Love, / said she saw James Algie, a merchant, bring his wife / to the close mouth and throw her down / in the strand and saw her rise again
Wet for Literature

Wet for Literature

by Devon Webb — I used to go out of my way to get laid / but now I’m lying here on a man’s bed / thirsting for the third instalment in the Magicians trilogy by Lev Grossman / you know like I’m not even that fussed about sex anymore I just wanna read
Black text on white reads: 'Visiting David Hockney by Michael Di Placido' with a small Friday Poem yellow blob over the top half of the 'it' 'in ‘visiting.

Visiting David Hockney

by Michael Di Placido — He looks up and half smiles / as I drift in and settle on a chair — / as though I was expected: / “The studio would have to be a riot / of colour with you in it”, I say. / And when I tell him I live near Brid — / not far from his mum's
Black text on white reads: 'Epitaphs by Stephen Payne' with half a big yellow Friday Poem blob rising like a sun from the bottom edge

Epitaphs

by Stephen Payne — TINKER // Despite the name, he worked with several metals. / Despite the name, he worked with craft and care. / Let him forget about the pans and kettles / that all his tinkering could not repair. // TAILOR // Although his future
Black text on white reads: "Phobia by Nicholas Hogg". There's a quarter of a big yellow Friday Poem blob over the top right hand side.

Phobia

by Nicholas Hogg — We used to play a game called Stuntman, / I explain, when once again I'm called a psychopath / because I don't get scared on fairground rides. / I try to convey that fear / was leaping off the Co-op roof into a skip
Black text on white reads: "How It Began by Charlotte Muse". There's half a medium sized yellow Friday Poem blob on the far left hand side.

How It Began

by Charlotte Muse — The barrel maker gathered up all his wooden soldiers. / One by one he set them where he wanted them. / I am making one of the wonders of the world! he announced. / You will see! And he made a show of planing wood.
Mirage

Mirage

by Jeremy Wikeley — I’m driving. The devil’s riding shotgun. / Well? He waves out the window. Was it worth it? /  Ahead, the A36 piles into Wiltshire / like a needle piercing through a quilt. / The countryside is a knotted rope of cars. / I'm driving.