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The days of the week



The Days of the Week


Sunday should be different from another day.

People may walk, but not throw stones at birds.

There may be relaxation, jobs deferred,

But there should be no levity, on Sunday.

Black humour may be practised sparingly,

Call their facial protection My Death Mask.

People may zoom, stay spatial, multi-task

But ease up on streaming soul-baringly.

Bold in bolt-holes, they may keep life holey,

Holes in plans, holes in coronaversation;

This should be not theirs, their Sunday solely.

Sunday may avoid the pulse quickening.

Dry cough, clammy forehead? Information

Please! A differently different sickening.


Day indifferently undifferent

From one unwilling week willing the next,

A pattern that kept wake-time unperplexed,

That old kickstart to how things ever went.

Monday was lifestart payout reckoning,

Ignored all complaints and looked straight ahead,

Silently adopted ‘best left unsaid’,

Routines and quiet deadlines beckoning;

Was, a day to share wet blanket thoughts,

Eat or be eaten, the lunchtime sandwich,

Afternoon’s noise normal chit-chat and hush;

Was, a day like other liquorice all-sorts,

Wanting a pay rise was all a bit rich,

Pushing and crushing through peak-hour rush.


Pushing and curling through soft breeze’s rush,

Screen-free the news is the turn of a leaf.

Silence, a freeway forgot to believe

Here below foliage in isolate hush.

A bird not seen in these parts many a year

Screen-free the choose of its ardent song.

Reports of the rain are weak front, then strong.

Sunshine headline news, or so it appears.

I whisper the tune from a scratchy disc

Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day,

The park one person, with dog all a-frisk.

Screen-free the news not a soul in the street,

Air cleaner than anything I think to say

Yesterday, then today, again, then repeat.


Yearnsday Zensday Againsday

Amendsday Amensday Befriendsday

Bendsday Blendsday Cleanseday

Commenceday Condenseday Consequenceday

Denseday Dependsday Descendsday

Endsday Expenseday Fendsday

Frenzday Henceday Immenseday

Intenseday Lendsday Lensday

Mendsday Mensday Offendsday

Omensday Overspendsday Rendsday

Sendsday Senseday Sitonthefenceday

Surrendsday Suspenseday Tenseday

Thenceday Trendsday Upendsday

Unfriendsday Ventsday Wednesday


When they say events may from a dream break

It breaks this way light alive everywhere;

Make of it what we may it shapes and shares

Particular and new, like we knew its make.

No mistake we work at home behind doors

Like a day before — switch — electric light;

Put shoulder to the chip as well we might,

It’s lonely outside where town meets the shores.

Thursday picks up where it left off before

Siesta become a moveable feast.

Small prayers, daylight music, coffee restore.

Dear Diary, it’s us and you by grace,

Some months all of this at the very least.

Cancel all entries. Where’s that CD case?


Cancel all entry, dust the CD case

I am DJ HAIKU of my own workplace.

Cancel canapés, the poolside digress

I walk the plank of the Ruby Princess.

Cancel Friday night out, would’ve been nice,

I thrive on a diet of rice, rice, and rice.

Cancel the Council on Doing Things Better.

I work at home, neither quitter nor debtor.

Postpone the crowd zone, its homegrown moan,

We retail with email, live on the phone.

Postpone the concert, ALL hypotheticals!

For us, the lifestyles of eremeticals.

Postpone the flight to our favourite Big Town.

We ask each other, how is your lockdown?


We ask each other, when is Saturday

Where sleeping-in is an occupation,

Shopping lists then shopping consolation,

The week behind us, the fun here to stay.

Garden till eve, or a book that engages,

The beach, the show, street auctions, the match,

Visit family, friends on their own patch —

So the poem goes on for fifty-two pages.

Critics, they’ve seen this sort of thing before

Superciliously humph and eye-roll,

Nostalgia meets neuralgia that’s for sure,

Here short of breath and there too much to say,

All highly improbable falderol

Now Saturday’s no different to another day.



Philip HarveyPhilip Harvey is the poetry editor of Eureka Street. He maintains a word study site, a poetry readings site and a workplace blogspot.

The opening four lines are from the writer Samuel Johnson.

Main image: Calendar (Utamaru Kido/Getty Images)

Topic tags: Philip Harvey, COVID-19, days of the week, Samuel Johnson, poetry



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Existing comments

The multitudes we all contain, now contained.

Pam | 21 April 2020  

Beautifully and playfully captured, kudos!

Barry Gittins | 21 April 2020  

New words for new ways of living with days - it's so true where is our Sunday? Merged with our Yearnsday? The poem is so lively within its containment of our current truth.

Angela Costi | 21 April 2020  

Screen-free the news is the turn of a leaf just one of many beautiful soft landings here, Phillip. And I’d take out a patent on those renamed days now. while all days are weak days.

Bill Wootton | 24 April 2020  

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