Capital

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 that none can
fail to recognise, once they are
dead and behind you (the wild wonderings
of a world which did not want
to be owned flash brilliantly, widely
once
and are gone) for you desired
More.

c. Kate Gough  11/5/19

Advertisements

Realism.s

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 testament to another aspect of all-
extant life?
child, richness, burgeoning and love
are never-not, always
drawing changes toward
fullness and bursting and
birth ~

If you are a realist in
any real way, these things cannot
completely escape you
except by prejudice, ignorance
or despair.

Future is not future, per se,
it does not fix,
or justify,
or do-it-better-this-time-around;
it belongs to none
today, but only to itself, for who
can live in it, truly?

Future is Faith,
no more,
no less.

c. Kate Gough

2/5/19

Potent.ial

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 find the peace
to face this most elemental, daily
change
all my dreams will be grey and
formless, trailing away like the final
thrashing tail of my hurricane psyche
lost, mad, howling in grief
for things never born,
for the changeless,
barren,
void
~

c. Kate Gough

1/5/19

Poet (dried).

This is trench warfare. As bloody useless and harrowing as.
No one really gains ground. No one really wins.
Even waiting or withholding takes
one to the grave, one torn
limb at a time, a burning tree
spitting firey sap
desperately – not to live, you understand
but simply to discharge
excess energy.

I could throw some aged work your way
and call this done
suppress the nature of the battle, the pain of
punching through — dub it
progress, stamp the compromise
honourable comportment
in the discharging of duty, but
I would always know, and I would
never again
speak truth, only ever empty
repeatedly
some less vital compartment, a
No Man’s Heart, a space of non-
the place of
None.

Courage, my heart.
Be brave, my soul.

~ Kate Gough

28/4/19

Levertov / Dust

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 injure
their scintillant fur, their dust.
You are given the questions of others
as if they were answers
to all you ask. Yes, perhaps
the gift is your answer.

–Denise Levertov

^folk, (o)=e

excerpt from my journal:

———————
“I think there’s really something magical about folk music. I’m sitting in Connemara in a pub and there’s these 3 guys just chillin’ with a few traditional instruments (staples. guitar, accordion, folk guitar, mandolin i think…?). Every time I listen to this stuff I get swept away to another world and time, where people performed to share and to keep things alive — when stories were told instead of written… when stories were sung and danced instead of told. Why does this idea hold so much power for me?
Perhaps because I am a writer. I write stories down. I want folklore to be squeezed into 2D, but no one can quite seem to manage it — there’s an element of human flesh and blood and experience in it deeper than anything that can be nailed down on a page in black and unmoving white. The whole give-response mechanism is truly different. Utterly different. It cannot be flattened — it IS music. It flies through the air and buries itself in people’s hearts, and people’s hearts give back… The nature of this creating is continual and communal. An holistic expression of Heidegger’s ‘Being’… ha! I love it.
Joy.”

c. Mary Kathryn Gough, spring 2006, clifden, connemara