Thank you, Dr. Seuss for speaking for the Truffula trees for the brown-bar-ba-loots, the swomee-swans, and the humming- fish -- and all those whose blood in some way becomes the many fine objects, the many somethings that someone thinks everyone needs. Thank you, Dr. Seuss, for the mossy old Lorax -- because Truffulas have no…Read more Thank You, Dr. Seuss
We haven't room to simply let down our hair and full-Being flow anymore (. . . did we ever? We try at clubs, through music laughter and loving children, through food and hobbies, but We live lives of stuttering action pinned like fading butterflies to an event-oriented oblivion. It's not modernity but rather the building…Read more Flow, Earth
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.
Autumn breathes on my face from afar — so fresh! — stirring every unique nerve ending to sudden, electric life. As if my mother’s cool hand rested gently on my arm, I’m startled awake. And out from the ashes of languid, summer days, my heart rises up and up, spiralling higher, higher, and higher still, feathered and beating…Read more …That Thing with Wings
you reach out a hand to pull sky down the stars, yes the heavens themselves are but bread to you, so break it, break it all upon the ground, shake this broken universe until it begs for release from the ungodly bass of your voice; your ego polishes its own brass to trumpet a truth…Read more Capital
My own particular brand of bleak is firm, and unambiguous enough to recognise our dark as a basic truth: the world-rending fire of the human soul is fearsome, yet only another face of the death seeded so deeply within us. But bleak is neither black nor white, only barren -- and what is barrenness but…Read more Realism.s
at the end of days all days, including today, I am terrified of tomorrow, as if every sleep is a death, a dreamless, black hole that will drain away and shadow all future colour and life ~ I know it not to be so, but there is knowing and there is knowing, and until I…Read more Potent.ial
A poet's work is no respector of designations like quantity, or achievement, or target, start, and finish. We dance to the beat of our own loves, our partner the world, laughing as our footsteps disappear ~ c. Kate Gough 29/4/19
This is trench warfare. As bloody useless and harrowing as. No one really gains ground. No one really wins. Even waiting or withholding takesone to the grave, one torn limb at a time, a burning treespitting firey sapdesperately - not to live, you understandbut simply to discharge excess energy.I could throw some aged work your…Read more Poet (dried).
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.
my brain bends bars of light with aplomb, shifting universe a simple excercise in relativity; no excuse for helplessness c. Kate Gough
making art: metaphor, metamorphosis, metastasis, m e a n i n g c. Kate Gough
again and again overwhelmed by tears that do not come heating my face, burning my eyes, stoppering my throat like a cork in a bottle the possible and the real take a back seat to everything that is not the darkness i feel, like my soul evaporating within c. Kate Gough, 17.11.2017
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
- When I feel inclined to read poetry, I take down my dictionary. The poetry of words is quite as beautiful as the poetry of sentences. The author may arrange the gems effectively, but their shape and lustre have been given by the attrition of ages. - -- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., writer and physician…Read more Oliver Wendell Holmes
Empty pages are freakish. Too beautiful to touch, to sully, to fingerprint so casually. They are whole, and the essence of words, writing, / breaks that / like speech breaks a full silence. / ... I live my life breaking things, so why am I so afraid of killing clowns? / / c. Kate Gough…Read more Killing Clowns
I am gluttonous for life and all things life. --- Something, /////// contrary to popular opinion, never comes from something else but always rather ///////// in some fundamental way from nothing. --- (hovering over the waters) --- out of the emptiness /////////////// comes potential ///// --------- realized, ////////////////// Now. --- --- c. Kate Gough, 2015
stark feathers rise in rows from soil soaked by rain a farmer's windbreak --- --- c. Kate Gough