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
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.
I do not know who you were,
or when I knew and loved you.
You are not the man I am with now,
but there is an essence of his spirit
that has travelled through time
and rescued me
from some situation
that is lost in years gone by.
This life with you
where we met once again
I am reluctant, cynical and suspicious
and search for the look in your eyes
that won my heart hundreds of years ago.
I cannot see, hear or touch that soul but I feel it.
It was not there when I met you again
but gently over time, I feel him coming
over hills, forests and desert.
And I watch for him.
And I wait.
And I hope he does not arrive too late.
If you are interested in military history, here’s an opportunity to make a pledge for Tim Atkinson with his new novel on unbound.co.uk:
The Glorious Dead
I feel that all creatives should try and promote and support each other, so take a look!
Now that his armor was clean, his helmet made into a complete headpiece, a name
found for his horse, and he confirmed in his new title, it struck him that there was
one more thing to do: to find a lady to be enamoured of. For a knight errant without
a lady is like a tree without leaves or fruit and a body without a soul.
Cervantes, Don Quixote
Tear off my guilt,
tie me to your salvation,
innocence will fall,
at your feet of vindication.
J W Waterhouse: The Sorceress
I’ve already told you: the only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torment. I know none other as sure.
Marquis de Sade
(And this poetess can’t stop writing either……..)
The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing… not healing, not curing… that is a friend who cares.
Caring through silence
I cannot feel your pain.
Your body is numb,
Your mind in hibernation.
For now, let yourself rest
In June’s heat and chatter.
It will take time to be
the dominant man again
that I love.
But I am there.
Within the silence
I am there.
© Katypoetess 2015
Edvard Munch – Vampire
“It is not who we are but what we give to each other in life”
Excerpt: “Your Father”, from Of Lilith and Anthony poetry collection by Katypoetess
When I came first came across you, I will admit I didn’t really take much notice of you seriously, but over time you have become a delightful distraction, making me smile, and have re-kindled my poetic spirit.
I thought I could only write poetry if I was in some kind of trauma (as I was when I wrote my first poetry collection after the man I thought who was “the one”, my soul mate, my dominant, my kindred spirit and lover left me and went back to his wife) but I have learnt that I can write anytime and that trauma was the beginning of Katypoetess who has continued to grow and evolve into a happy and healed poetess.
More recently, I wondered what to do next poetically and started to look at you in a different light – as a source of inspiration on which to create a blend of fact and fiction, reality and fantasy and a new and more accessible kind of writing.
And as the twilight falls, I know that you mirror me in many ways wherever you are – as I scribble in notebooks, bits of paper or post on twitter as things fall into and out of my head.
I am resigned that I will never get to the truth of who you are, but it does not matter to me. Creatives give and take from each other on many levels in the most unconventional and unexpected ways. I hope that I give you something in return and maybe one day we both might make our mark on the world.
But I guess, for now – I will never know.
The Perfectionist – Jack Vettriano
“There is a pleasure in poetic pains, which only poets know…..”
“I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding.”
― Anaïs Nin
There is as much poetry in a city like Las Vegas, regardless of its reputation as Sin City, than any other. Admittedly, it is very much a place to experience and indulge, rather than to watch or reflect in.
However, the extreme visual and sensual stimulation provides material that can be used for many different analogies that can be used in poetry, for example, to express a wide range of human emotions from the overtly obvious to our unconscious deep desires. Having recently spent a week there, I was overwhelmed with ideas amongst all the “superficiality, shows, sparkle and sin”.
It has as much depth of character as a city that is hundreds of years old in England. Inspiration for the here and now rather than history…..
“The vulnerability undid him even as the strength brought him pride. And the whole of her brought him love beyond the measuring of it. Of all he’d craved in his life, all he’d dreamed of having, all he’d fought to gain by fair means or foul, he’d never imagined having such, such as she as his own. Never imagined himself the man he’d come to be because she was.”
― J.D. Robb
The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth….
As poets I wonder how often we take time out to reflect upon our own creative needs? To absorb our surroundings, see people, places, objects architecture and events and not busy scribbling in a notepad or back of a receipt or train ticket found in our bag. To see situations that at first glance appear banal but offer up a wealth of creative opportunity to open our minds is a skill to be learned and developed. For me what better place than on the South Bank of the Seine. The spiritual home of artists and fellow creatives for centuries.
Relaxing one’s mind and moving away from the day-to-day needs of what we see as uninspiring or a mechanical process is the best tonic to induce creativity in poetry. It is said that one cannot teach an artist to create but they can be taught processes and techniques. Those essential core skills that constitute good technique do not in themselves make good poetry. Take time out for yourself, be self-indulgent and let the poetry flow.
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools’ Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
With unconditional love and inspiration to my voyeurs,
To all my readers, seekers and fellow writers
Merry Xmas to you all
x x x