The Oil Press – a poem by Fraser McDougall

The Oil Press


There were no olives in that press
And yet, the wheel was turning,
No one to witness such distress
Not flames, but passion, burning.

Nobody saw the olive sweat,
Great drops, like blood, descending;
No fruits were crushed that night, and yet
The oil still flows, unending.


Fraser McDougall hails from Ayrshire, Burns’ country, and has been writing poetry for four years. He counts Norman MacCaig and Robert Burns himself among his influences, but also reads and enjoys a wide range of modern poetry.
Whilst it is his hope to see more of his works shared via both the printed page and electronic media, he rather more enjoys the immediacy and drama of live recital, since poetry is essentially an art of the spoken word.


  1. nemoverum says:

    Beautiful Imagery. works on so many levels needs many readings, and each is a pleasure.


  2. John Montgoery says:

    Brilliant work yet again fraser. Works so well


  3. Caz Hamilton says:

    Love this. Simple and yet incredibly profound. Well done


  4. Lorna Mcneil says:

    Incredibly deep and very moving!


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