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Kathryn Gray

@kathryngray.bsky.social

Poet. Film fanatic. Editor @badlilies.bsky.social. Hollywood or Home, a Sunday Times Poetry Book of the Year, out now: https://www.serenbooks.com/book/hollywood-or-home/ and https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hollywood-Home-Kathryn-Gray/dp/1781727120

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Kathryn Gray@kathryngray.bsky.social · 2mo ago

I’m reading online for the Transatlantic Poetry Series on 19 June at 7pm GMT. Tickets—free—available at the link to book. Would be lovely if you’d like to join me for poems on Hollywood, musicians, poets, desire, memory, and the middle life. ❤️

ticketsource.com

Kathryn Gray@kathryngray.bsky.social · 4mo ago

Caught some good films over the past few days: A Real Pain (so v long overdue—absolutely adored it, will stay with me) and Project Hail Mary (v good fun and touching, too). Oh, how I love the movies!

Kathryn Gray@kathryngray.bsky.social · 5mo ago

Happy St. David’s Day from my late bampy (that’s a grandad, to the non-Welshies). Greatest publican South Wales ever knew. Here he is in The Greyhound (now The Llanfabon Inn), with two of his most wonderful, no-nonsense bar staff. A blessing on their beautiful memory.

Vintage black and white image of three individuals posing in front of a bar, evoking a nostalgic atmosphere.
Kathryn Gray@kathryngray.bsky.social · 8mo ago

It’s my 28th year in London. In 1997, I turned up with a suitcase and no prospects but for the kind loan of a friend’s room while she was on the other side of the world. I thought it would likely be a momentary adventure. It became my life. Here’s my favourite view.

A lush green hillside overlooks a city skyline under a bright blue sky with wispy clouds, creating a serene and expansive view.
Kathryn Gray@kathryngray.bsky.social · 8mo ago

Something strange happens to time when you get older. Over the past few days, it’s dawned on me that Roddy Lumsden has been dead six years this coming January. A poem I wrote about incorrigible Roddy—my early mentor, my friend, and then not my friend, but always my friend.

Slightly, a Lost Boy Not that my heart is a stopped clock. Not that I even think of it at all, come to think of it. To tell the truth, I've long since regarded such things as more or less inevitable, particularly at three in the morning. There is, quite naturally, the perambulator to consider, and the smallness of you tumbling out of time so long ago, it might as well have been yesterday, for what that means... That sort of set-up can make you emotional. But my ways are logic, lately. I tell myself you are happy with your gift. I see you, there much pleasure in your flute, fashioned from a branch, and you are dancing! Dancing to your self! You are merry, and you are grateful for that tree. I don't think you are lonely, not especially. Truly—I don't. You have company. I don't think you give much thought to it, quite honestly. Still, I ponder the story, its radical departure. Maybe someone is sleeping on the job. I've thought of that. A lacuna in my heart, this morning night. The boys stay lost, but not really, not really when you come to think of it, which mostly I do not. It's just that it's three in the night of morning, and I do that hauntological thing with the pages. I guess this is what happens when you get to my age. Not that I miss you. Not even, Slightly.