Pores

The world gets into our pores
and writes on us

lines with the clay of
earth, warmth of sun
and bite of wind caress ;

sorrow & joy clog our faces
with our insides, the experience of
our lived Grind:connected.

Existentially, we are slow-born sculptures
that tell of a daring hand
a fiery eye, laced with Power and Love

Why hide it?
you can tell a lot by the face of a man
who hasn’t washed it all away.

c. Kate Gough

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Grey

I’m still in this place. Sometimes it seems I never leave.
*

Gallery, 2014

Imagine, if you will
a gallery piece
installed,
a row of plants at progressing
stages of growth, lined up in
pots and flash-frozen in time, breathing cold puffs,
crystalline
almost synthetic.

Imagine also
the moment the exhibit
starts
to disintegrate, freeing
gouged and frozen cells one by
one by one by
one in
unwilling surrender to Death
nutrient-free, famished, value
less.

Imagine, if you will
our lives, taken
out of sine, cosine, curve:

motion
less.

 

~ KG

*

Everything Unresolved


“…I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

–Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903 [Letters to a Young Poet]

Idiolalia Poetry Collection Now Available!

Hello all 🙂 Thank you all so much for your support.Click here to buy from Lulu --->

Idiolalia is available straight from the printer now at 3 GBP or 5 USD each (or a cheaper PDF ebook copy).

If you order from Lulu through the link provided here it should be sent straight to your house, super-easy.

The price may change in the future, but for now it’s a steal 😉 so if you’ve appreciated any of the poetry on my blog and might like to have an accessible 25-30 of them for yourself, please support my work.

Please let me know if you have any questions or special requests!

Always,
MKG

PS. I’m currently working on a new collection titled Faith & Forces

Click here to Purchase some Poetry… 

http://www.marykathryngough.com/

Memo # 8 ~ Deep River (Shusako Endo)

“…And death itself began working backwards…”

A tree grows up into the light, oxygen-laden air from out of the dark, decaying remains of its parent. Forest fires are part of the cycle of a healthy forest. Ever noticed that serving someone makes your heart more glad than being served. In my own experience, dying to myself brings new vigour and life to my soul. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’ve also heard that people who have a near-death experience are filled with inexplicable thirst for life and growth and change ever-afterward.The death of a relationship can signal, for both people, the beginning of more genuine life than either has ever experienced before. The death of innocence can be the resuscitation of a truly child-like heart. Oddly, embracing the death in yourself and making mud to smear on its eyes can signal the birth of vision and the beginning of authenticity. It would seem that the dark, wormy soil in which we think to bury our dead is the self-same ground which produces sunflowers bigger than my head and pumpkins larger than I can hold, trees we can’t see the tops of and countless colorful foods full of nutrients to nourish growing bodies.

There’s no denying the tightly interwoven nature of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in reality. Not even just interwoven, but overlapping and constantly transformed. Teleologically, the yin and yang are not linear, but Whole, like the holy will of God. In the end, Life comes from out of Death, connection from out of solitude, and love from our recognition of sin, because Death, solitude, and sin cause us to recognize our lack of control and reach out for our Source in the unknown: to grasp Beginner’s Mind.

“They laid the stretcher near the riverbank… First a swarm of flies, smelling death, gathered round, followed soon by a flock of crows which began pacing nearby. But the mourners remained crouched by the river, and made no move to drive the scavangers away.” (144)

I am bird-boned; body twisted with suffering, hanging from a perch from which I cannot descend. I suffer.

And yet I live.

Somehow I cannot help but allow death to do its work in me.

And so I live.

I have wondered, often, about the river of life. Are its waters the unfettered flow of blood and tears within its banks?

c. all text Mary Kathryn Gough, 2005