Independence Day



All things come to an end.  Good, bad and indifferent.  This blog has morphed from an outpouring of grief onto a creative journey that has will continue, but not here.

It’s been many months since I posted, and seven years to the day since that simple twist of fate changed my life completely.

I’ve integrated my Katypoetess alter ego into Katy Megan Hughes.  Me.

My first poetry collection is still available on Amazon Kindle Store under Katypoetess.

But my new work is under my real name, and part of a real life not a virtual one. You can find me on Twitter, Facebook or Write out Loud.

In November, I will decide whether to close this blog down completely.

Or I might re-launch my new poetic identity.

Until then…..thank you to all my voyeurs, which include you.

From Bolly to Dom

From Bolly to Dom



The Masquerade





Staring a half-hearted wonder of who you really

are into a crackle and glow of home comforts,

I swill serene glass of Margaux round and round

in a hand that writes and re-writes reminiscence.


Commuting through those sullied Surrey suburbs,

did the severity of your suit cut a sharp intake of

my breath as I pushed through the hollow crowd?

Poetry flames in devotion, an awakening in motion.


Far away, but recklessly closer than you think,

you slowly shut your MacBook down in disquietude.

Restlessly twisting vexed metal round and round

on finger that has reached out to any port in a storm.


Paroxysm of ravening strikes at being lost within loss,

eternally searching for your own fire nymph of fervour.

Body ages with resigned alacrity and mind unkempt,

a lonely clandestine, mixing glitter with fool’s gold.



Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.




Our host never lets guise slide as he enters

the ballroom, face familiar but unknown,

creating mystery with grammar school tones.

An iridescent blend of anxiety and cunning

He tastes debauchery with decaying eyes,

every flavour of colour through a screen of lies .


Host of followers delightfully exposed

on account of his whims, letting masks fall

dancing hither and thither, beautiful curves

weave and smile, they come – and they go,

but what he really craves for is a beautiful soul.

To keep him alight as years ember and cajole.



Clock strikes darkest hour before dawn,

he divines a brilliant blue flame in the hearth,

an uncomplicated complexity, rising a

Pandora’s paradox with hell-fired hair.

A nightmare dressed like a daydream

in libertine gown, tempered high heels,

an antagonist extreme, holding brave glass

chalice of mistrust, and whip of austere suspicion.


She strides – cracks right through his marrow,

Hands him her whip and blood-red drink

Even though they have only just met

She smiles an indecorous, whispering light

“Don’t look at your face in the mirror,

look at the nymph that sustains your soul.”

Stroking ashen hair at his tempestuous temple,

“You are not so faded yet – I think.”



*Excerpt from Dylan Thomas – Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night









Love in the Asylum

Mad Girl's Love Song


A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.


Dylan Thomas

I am Not his Muse


I am not his muse, and I can never be.

No time, circumstance or chance will let me.


After all he gives and gets, loves, regrets,

he remains my teacher and I, the taker.

He is anarchist and challenging creator,

who advocates the belief I have no need

to be seen and posed as a poetical parody.

I raise a reluctant pen, listening to his elation.

Spoken softly in spite of my self-deprecation,

questioning whether to make my verse heard.


I am not his muse, and I can never be.

No time, circumstance or chance will ever let me.



© Katy Megan Hughes 2016


Circe Invidiosa *oil on canvas  *180.7 x 87.4 cm *1892

He must feel blooded with the spirit of a god
to sit opposite you and listen, and reply,
to your talk, your laughter, your touching,
breath-held silences. But what I feel, sitting here
and watching you, so stops my heart and binds
my tongue that I can’t think what I might say
to breach the aureole around you there.
It’s as if someone with flint and stone had sparked
a fire that kindled the flesh along my arms
and smothered me in its smoke-blind rush.
Paler than summer grass, it seems
I am already dead, or little short of dying.



Sonnet XVII

Tristan and Isolde


I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


Pablo Neruda



I can’t believe you’ve come back,
like the train I missed so badly, barely,
which stopped & returned for me. It scared me,
humming backwards along the track.

I rise to make a supper succulent
for the cut of your mouth, your bite of wine
so sharp, you remember you were mine.
You may resist, you will relent.

At home in fire, desire is bread
whose flour, water, salt and yeast,
not yet confused, are still, at least,
in the soil, the sea, the mine, the dead.

I have all I longed for, you
in pleasure. You missed me, your body swelling.
Once more, you lie with me, smelling
of almonds, as the poisoned do.


Brenda Shaughnessy




Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam’st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me.

Or, as thou never cam’st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth.
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.


Matthew Arnold




Some may have blamed you that you took away

The verses that could move them on the day

When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind

With lightning, you went from me, and I could find

Nothing to make a song about but kings,

Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things

That were like memories of you—but now

We’ll out, for the world lives as long ago;

And while we’re in our laughing, weeping fit,

Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.

But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,

My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.


W B Yeats

Project for a Fainting


Oh, yes, the rain is sorry. Unfemale, of course, the rain is
with her painted face still plain and with such pixel you’d never see

it in the pure freckling, the lacquer of her. The world
is lighter with her recklessness, a handkerchief so wet it is clear.

To you. My withered place, this frumpy home (nearer
to the body than to evening) miserable beloved. I lie tender

and devout with insomnia, perfect on the center pillow past
midnight, sick with the thought of another year

of waking, solved and happy, it has never been this way! Believe
strangers who say the end is close for what could be closer?

You are my stranger and see how we have closed. On both ends.
Night wets me all night, blind, carried.

And watermarks. The plough of the rough on the slick,
love, a tendency toward fever. To break. To soil.

Would I dance with you? Both forever and rather die.
It would be like dying, yes. Yes I would.

I have loved the slaking of your forgetters, your indifferent
hands on my loosening. Through a thousand panes of glass

not all transparent, and the temperature.
I felt that. What you say is not less than that.



Brenda Shaughnessy


Art – Jack Vettriano

The Transformation





I remain free

my own lost saviour

a follower of no-one

sorcering a new novena.





I still storms

in steadfast spirit

a respectable sinner

proclaiming the illicit.





I demure uncertain

face reveals and veils

heart throes stone to flesh

keeping close my seven devils.





I am graced

with all virtues from history

my archetype immortalised

amidst this scripture of mystery.




© Katypoetess 2016



Love and Sleep


Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily’s leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said –
I wist not what, saving one word – Delight.

And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul’s desire.


AC Swinburne

Storm of Silence


As the indecorous breeze does billow

ebb and flow of his dreams,

swelling a deep desire

for her to return

within each tide

of hesitation.


As the unconscious ark of salvation,

sinks slow beneath his sleep,

drowning a deep desire

for her to return

he lies laconic

of malediction.



© Katypoetess 2016







He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead



Were you but lying cold and dead,
And lights were paling out of the West,
You would come hither, and bend your head,
And I would lay my head on your breast;
And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead:
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
Though you have the will of wild birds,
But know your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun:
O would, beloved, that you lay
Under the dock-leaves in the ground,
While lights were paling one by one.


W B Yeats

She Walks In Beauty


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!


Lord Byron

In an Artist’s Studio


One face looks out from all his canvasses,
One self same figure sits or walks or leans;
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
A saint, an angel; – every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light;
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.


Christina Rossetti

Paradise Lost – Book I

Geometric Urania in Libourne by Boulogne, le Jeune (1654-1733).

Sing Heav’nly Muse, that on the secret top

Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire

That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,

In the Beginning how the Heav’ns and Earth

Rose out of Chaos: or if Sion Hill

Delight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flow’d

Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence

Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,

That with no middle flight intends to soar

Above th’ Aonian Mount, while it pursues

Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.

And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer

Before all Temples th’ upright heart and pure,

Instruct me, for Thou know’st; Thou from the first

Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread

Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss

And mad’st it pregnant: What in me is dark

Illumin, what is low raise and support;

That to the highth of this great Argument

I may assert Eternal Providence,

And justifie the wayes of God to men.


Exerpt from Milton’s Paradise Lost (Book 1)