it was months ago when i picked rosehips along my path home by the sea, slipping each one like a little gold nugget into the pockets of my grey, zip-up jumper. i’d imagined doing it so many, many times, like a child in a candy shop, reaching up to pluck the beauties down; this time,…Read more i dream of rosehip tea.
A Gift --- Just when you seem to yourself nothing but a flimsy web of questions, you are given the questions of others to hold in the emptiness of your hands, songbird eggs that can still hatch if you keep them warm, butterflies opening and closing themselves in your cupped palms, trusting you not to…Read more Levertov / Dust
stars spark in the blackened deep: fingertips of the gods (carefully holding in bright hands a ravaged planet, burnt flowers drifting down from each. point. of. contact.
The Greek Spirit: For the Greeks only *watch* the objects of Nature, and form *surmises* respecting them; inquiring, in the depths of their souls, for the hidden meaning. According to Aristotle's dictum, that Philosophy proceeds from Wonder, the Greek view of Nature also proceeds from wonder of this kind. Not that in their experience, Spirit…Read more On Greek Spirit, Hegel
The world gets into our pores and writes on us lines with the clay of earth, warmth of sun 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…Read more Pores
stark feathers rise in rows from soil soaked by rain a farmer's windbreak --- --- c. Kate Gough
First flush of Spring //// green blooms in the arms of the trees en masse, a cloud of //// minty fresh /////////////// newness --- Life wakes one more ////////////////// time. --- c. Kate Gough
sooty secrets buried in black: bleak as beak. --- windswept wood, wild sweet orange, swan's neck swoops. --- carefully curated, beautiful mind hovers over clear blue sky, being. --- reincarnation of flightless, imagined love, figment-tied: lost. --- so a lone --- ---by Kate Gough ---17/8/17
I can’t find my incense. I don’t want to write. I desperately want nothing more than to write. For ever. So then, perhaps I’m just a stymied masochist at heart(less), doomed to miserable inaction for the rest of my days. I do not dedicate myself as I should, as I need. . . There’s a…Read more The Ever-Processing Machine
Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it. — Anne De Lenclos
'It is widely rumored, and also true, that I wrote my first novel in a closet. Before I get all rapturous and carried away here, I had better admit to that. The house was tiny, I was up late at night typing while another person slept, and there just wasn't any other place for me…Read more ‘If the Furies Should Take…’
c. Kate Gough
c. Mary Kathryn Gough Instagram
self portrait. Instagram c. Mary Kathryn Gough
Hello all 🙂 Thank you all so much for your support. 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…Read more Idiolalia Poetry Collection Now Available!
It's pouring in clear sheets outside in the dark, and the trees' branches are like many arms in a wild dance with the wind... The sound of the water falling, making contact with earth and with my dwelling makes me content. I feel clean and whole inside. I pray this is not the last day…Read more Beauty
this cool breeze reaches me through crAcked this window, freshly filled my lungs, with oxgyen-laden truths. my ears taste tiny drops of rain -- so many millions hit smooth decking at Once: jUmp, lay still. my senses are soothed, surrounded by the joining of guitar chords dancing heart-to-mind-to-fingers and the sound of rain-drip-dropping, pat-a-rat-tatting, sky…Read more :Scarred Sky Weeping: