Dearest People, Books are brains, inside-out. Books are impossible, archaic, odd, and easy to dismiss - but only if unread. When read, books show us everything that is Other. Our personal concepts of these things are unravelled, reveled in, and transformed in the journey of reading - a private paroxysm of epiphanic communication. Life previously…Read more An Ode to Books
We come with no knowledge to this place and share nothing with each other of the essential key that grows inside us like a living being, limned in gold, far more precious than the blatant, bleating answers we all seek, and seeking, sometimes find. That essence is more powerful than any knowledge gained or lost,…Read more Connection and Peace.
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).
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
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…Read more ^folk, (o)=e
I cannot write. Cannot write, cannot write cannotwritecannotwrite. There is nothing to say, it's all been read,saidanddone. I cannot write right: my idealism won't countenance these mongrel awkwardnesses, won't afford them the space, award them the effort, free them for flight -- the gut-dropping, nose-first dive I know it will inevitably be. I cannot write…Read more Today
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
stark feathers rise in rows from soil soaked by rain a farmer's windbreak --- --- c. Kate Gough
smoking stacks weary my soul. --- --- c. Kate Gough
I want to reclaim so many words from the INDUSTRIES of today: --- Reverberate is a wild, wide, ecstatic word that could cover the earth with waves of pressure all by itself! The sound of a gong struck by Olympus-like gods --- huge and soul-changing, sweeping aside old leaves and leftovers for something fresh and…Read more reverberate.verb
you're \ \ \ so carefully constructed flaunting what you \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ think they want to see \ \ \ a rare yet \ \ \ ordinary concoction of \ exotic and reliable \ likeable, careful, reserved: never known. but when you look in the mirror thousands of…Read more Constructed
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