Author: Katherine

Poetry writer and author

WHY AM I WRITING A BLOG?

This is very much worth reading

Deena Metzger's avatarRUIN AND BEAUTY

I HAVE BEEN WRITING A LETTER TO YOU IN MY MIND, EVERY DAY. I began it on the computer, last month. But it wasn’t really a letter, and it wasn’t really a letter to you. It was an informal essay passing as a letter. But that is not my intent. I am hoping to write a real letter to you. Even though I don’t know you. Or I don’t know that I know you as I won’t know when you come to the site which will be for us the same as if you, at another time, picked up a sealed envelope and opened it, though it was not addressed, and reading it, realized it was intended for you.

Spirit works that way. It speaks to us through coincidences and strange, encounters, occurrences we could not have designed, possibilities far beyond us. A book falls off the shelf into our…

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New limericks

I was never much given to boasts,
Or cooking large beef or lamb roasts
But I liked to eat men
Just now and then.
I like them with butter on toast!

I liked to eat bread and red jam
When mother ran out of her spam
So I grew very large
As big as a barge
Still I’m happy just being who I am

Are vocations still options today?
Do you get one if you never pray?
I wanted my own
But I should not moan
I find it takes me all day being gay

Silver words

BLUE TREES

After silence

Words fell from my lips.

I was a god

I created everything.

I spoke and each word

Was a new world.

Words fell from my lips like a silver stream of beauty.

I was a god.

We were all gods.

We created worlds.

Words touch the secret core

At the heart of the other,

Or they violate it.

“Too many words” hits me like a bullet.

I need silence

And one word,

To call me into being.

God breathed

And the world breathed.

Speaking is like breathing,

But is more than breathing.

Words sail out

Like boats crossing the sea

On a breeze of breath.

A word from a man came at me.

Like an arrow,and pierced me

With sharp sorrow.

Only a few have the true voice,

The voice that does not harm

WORDS RISE UP

Poetry

The highest calling of the mind

Is to choose the words that free or bind.

Without choice words  in true design

Human beings will be quite blind

 
York Minster,home of sacred song and word
 

 

After writing about maps I began to write about words.Words are very powerful in any kind of society but more so in a highly literate one.Words can be sacred or mundane.They can be loving or heartbreaking.And in English we have so many of them because English was developed from several other languages….Anglo-Saxon,French,Latin,Greek,Celtic…..so more than one word for some things.Here in this poem I compare words to birds [ geese ] flocking into the sky like words flock into our minds

 

Words rise up like geese at dawn

When with pale sun new day is born

The words approach and dance in line

The choice of words is mine

 

 

Words spelled here by sense and sound

In clause and sentence weave around.

Which tempting words shall I now use

And which shall I refuse?

 

 

The fire lights up inside my heart

So now my writing hand can start/

I sit down at my desk and say

“This is the way I spend my day.

With words I sing and play!

WORDS STROKE MY MIND

 

A peaceful place to meditate
A peaceful place to meditate

WORDS STROKE MY MIND

Here I talk about words as if they had a physical existence and can stroke my mind and  give me pleasure like a cat can get from gentle stroking.I treat words as if they are real things which they are when spoken out loud.And someone’s voice can soothe you if they speak mellifluously.

 

Words mark the page and stroke my mind,

And sentences are words combined,

So,many brushstrokes make a shape,

And round my mind the sentence drapes.

 

Words from farthest realms of mind

Are drawn to me by this design.

And,look, they brighten in the sun

The picture forms,my work is done

A Texas thistle flower head

Stunning photograph

Steve Schwartzman's avatarPortraits of Wildflowers

And here’s the flower head of a Texas thistle, Cirsium texanum, that’s come a longer way toward being fully open than the bud you saw last time. I took this picture, like the previous one, close to an office building, but the building was on N. Capital of Texas Highway, the date was May 11, and I got away with sitting rather than lying on the ground. The ground that the Texas thistle covers is primarily in Texas and northern Mexico.

If you’re interested in photography as a craft, you’ll find that points 1, 3, and especially 8 in About My Techniques are relevant to this photograph.

© 2013 Steven Schwartzman

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Riemann’s cat

Two whole worlds.
One small cut.
One little chink.
Hard to find.
Very,very hard.
One small place
Where a very little cat
Could slip right through
The geometrician ‘s cut.
Cat could slip right through.
Just,slip straight through.
Joining it’s own reflection
On the opposite side.
The mirror’s other side.

And if I caught that tail,
If I caught her little tail,
She could pull me through,
She could pull me through,
So she and I too
We’d be on the other side,
The wrong way round,
On the opposite side.

So when you looked in,
If you looked in,
You would see me there,
Looking out at you,
From the opposite side.
From the opposite side.
And the cat beside
Looking very small,
Very,very small;
But very,very real.
How do you think you’d feel,
If I was looking out,
Staring at you
From the opposite side?

I can’t get back.
I can’t find Riemann’s cat
and without that pussy cat
I can’t find Riemann’s cut.
I think I’m in a trap.
I cannot find that cat.
So she can’t find the cut
To get me back,
She can’t bring me back
To where I was before.

Oh,how queer,
To have two of me in here.
I hope I’ll get on well
With my other self,
Behind the looking glass.
No one looking in,
But two are staring out.
From that other world.

I am looking out,
I’m looking out
To see if you are there.
One of you’s with me
That makes the total three.
Oh,dear me,
I should not have grabbed
Little pussy’s tail.
I didn’t really know
Where she meant to go.

“Wherever have you been?
Where do you think you’ve been
To get so filthy black,
And where’s your pussy cat?”
She never came back.
Never came back
From the opposite side.
Mummy thought I’d lied.
I don’t tell lies,
But I can see my cat
Staring out at me.
Staring out at me
From the other side.
From the opposite side
Of my looking glass.
My lovely looking glass
Has trapped my tiny cat
On the opposite side.
On the opposite side
On the other side

Enchantment

BLUE TREES

My old blue fountain pen allows

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush.

Enchanting through the hand which writes,

Bewitched with art, beauty alights.

The script is like a music score

Through which you pass as through a door.

Imagination’s home.

As,mysteriously.to you, to me,

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,

By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.

They enter vision quite unplanned,

Like moths to flutter softly round

Fire joined heart and hand.

The pen slows down,the hand goes still

And just as dreams at daybreak will,

They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone.

I almost caught that one

A tax on sin or on grammar

I like to write imaginary conversations with myself. free entertainment

Image

She said she never knew what syntax was until she met me.
Well,you do look worn out by your sins.
How do you know they were sins?
Well,you went to Confession twice a week all your life
That was my scruples.Sometimes I went twice a day…
It sounds like having an upset stomach.
In my case it was an upset soul.The soul emptied out and hung out on the Maginot line
Eventually I realized virtue is not attainable by Will Power alone
How is it attained… won’t power?
I knew you’d say that!
That!
Anyway to get back to syntax,it’s about structure.
Like council tax?
Words fail me
That’s good.I meant tax on a building
You seem very rude today
It’s not just today,I’m like this all the time.
I never noticed before
You only met me tonight
That’s almost true..now syntax is a very important topic.
Are we on a date or are you giving grammar lessons free?
No,I have Wasperger’s Syndrome.It’s as if I have Asperger’s but I sting too.
When do you sting
When people say sharp things to me.
Go on,you’re just needling me..
Truly I think you’ll love syntax and spelling rude words.
Well,we’ve had santax for years.Women pay VAT of 20 per cent on Tampax
It’s enough to make me throw up
No,throw out!Throw out the Coalition Government
Do you think Labour will remove Santax?
I don’t know but at least you’ll learn how to do percentages with them
I will?
Thank you so much.I am delighted to hear that.We are engaged.Here is a ring.
That’s beautiful.Was it your mother’s?
It still is my mother’s.
How can I wear it when she might see it?
I’ll tell her I liked hers so much I got one the same.She’s got poor vision so don’t worry.After the Wedding I’ll give it back
How mean.
I never knew you liked statistics.What about deviance?
Well,some I like,some I don’t… you catch my drift?
Well,babe,I’ll explain everything when we lie together.
That makes us sound like the government.
How come?
They all lie together.
Do they really.That explains a lot.Do they come together often?
I guess they have a rota.
You can’t come by will power.
That’s good.I want to come in a a horse and carriage.
It might frighten the horses.
I mean to our Wedding ceremony
Do you want four horses?
I am not that heavy!
No,I want you to have it all.
Suppose it’s not enough.
We’ll have to play it by ear..
Is that the organ?
Well,it’s a kind of organ.
A harmonium?
Maybe..I’ll ask the priest.
Does he play?
No,he just hears confessions and says Mass.
It’s a pity confession secret.He could write a long novel.
I daresay some have…. with pseudonyms.
I use a wordprocessor… should I get a pseudonym too?
You are crazy but I love you with all my heart.
And is it big?
Big enough for two.
Thank you,God.
I

In The Eye

Beautiful

Ron Scubadiver's avatarRon From Texas

8 Photos in This Gallery

During August the art gallery scene in Houston is very quiet owing to our extremely hot and humid weather.  Fall is still a month away, but the galleries were open in mass last night and there will be more this evening.  Last night I visited Diverse Works, Isabella Court and 4411 Montrose. In the Eye is a close up of a small sculpture by Katja Loher showing at Anya Tish Gallery. The Butterflies are by Michael Crowder showing at Wade Wilson Art.

Jay Rusovich is a houston photographer.  He is next to the model who appears in “Mother and Child”.  It’s easy to find on Jay’s site.

The last three photos are from the August 29th opening for Lisa Harris at Fresh Arts located in the Winter Street Studios.

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Geese

It’s Autumn weather, geese fly by,

Autumn rust,red gold,so gay

Drystone walls edging fields,

Apples gathered,holly berries

Flash so brightly

Look like flowers

Sun shines sideways,shadows long

Of trees appear.I dwell among

Woods of gentle beeches sing

Swaying with the sideward wind.

See their roots, all intertwined.

Feel their geometry in the mind.

Look up now into the sky,

See the V formation high.

Geese fly home at end of day.

My heart is moved by patterned dance

In this peace and great silence

My mind widens like the sky

And in this moment I would die,

So I would stay with this still vision

Of geese set out on autumn mission.

Snails in rain pools slither near

My feet upon the terrace here

And look,upon their whorled backs

All the sense of life is packed.

And yet so easily Life’s destroyed,

When blind foot foot steps into the void

The museum of my heart

A poem about love,loss and memory.The title came into my mind like a shy animal from a forest.Then I had to construct the poem

I’ve got just one letter
written in your hand.
One small letter.
I understand,
One is as infinity
compared to having nought.
I’ll keep this letter
In the museum of my heart.
I’ve only got one photograph
and that is very old
but to me this photograph
is more valuable than gold.
Time has hastened by.
Is it now too late?
But may there be a second chance?
Let’s not accept love’s fate.
No matter how we falter,
No matter how we fail,
We can still forgive ourselves,
and rewrite this sad tale.
One more loving letter,
One more loving smile,
That will be sufficient
To rebirth a love grown frail.
For once this love was stronger;
Once this love was true;
Accept this invitation
To recreate our love anew.

Gathering the words to say it

Source: K
Source: K
Source: Kathryn

being a writer is like being a wordherder
words run about like lost sheep on the high moorlands
and I have to catch them and keep them safe
I need a trusty word dog to get them together
and keep them safe.

sometimes they have wandered far away
and I stand forlornly in the fields
then I hear the bark of my word dog
and down the hill a host of words are running towards me
looking pleased to see me.

so then I try to catch a few and shear off their wool
so I can knit a poem out of it all…
there are some wild,shy words
that so far have eluded me
maybe I need two trained and kindly word dogs not just one…

see the words are all running off to hide under a hedge till morning
goodbye words I love them all unconditionally
especially the wild ones
i too like the high hills and the distant blue of the far away edge of the landscape
the haze of summer and the purply moors
the wild blue and the sacred sky high blue
the earth and the heavens and the still something to discover yet.
if there’s an ordnance survey map of this world
I have not seen it yet and anyway
who could have made it?

Maps

Words structured make a map for me
Sentences enable me to see.
But there are maps of other kinds
And different maps suit different minds.

The artist with her skilled brushstrokes,
Her unique sense of the world evokes.
This goes straight to the heart,and tells
Of feelings’ deep, unfathomable wells.

The sweet, plain singing of the spheres
Moves those who hear to happy tears.
Yet notes are written on just five lines
From which can flow all music’s rhythms

There are so many different worlds,
Which all these maps to us unfurl.
The Art of Travel is to guess
Which Map will suit which World the best.

In memoriam

I look up our small street,
To see if you are coming.
I don’t know what time it is,
But I think I hear you humming.

You sang sweet songs for us,
And you could whistle well .
You wore an old tweed jacket
You loved us,I could tell.

I look out there each day,
But I can’t see your tall, thin shape.
I saved your Woodbine packet,
It made me feel some hope.

What does death’s door mean?
Where has Daddy gone?
When will be the welcome day,
When we hear his songs again?

I’ll sing like him all day,
I’ll dream of him all night.
I hope he won’t be angry,
If his cigarettes won’t light!

He can’t write his own songs now.
He went too far away , too soon.
I’ll write down what I think he sang,
And I’ll invent the tune.

I hear him singing now,
He dwells inside my heart.
And though I still can’t see his face,
I recognise his Art.

Aural love:be my now

I  kiss your  funny ears ; you kiss mine

I love Beethoven.you have qualms

I lick your ear;your licks  divine.

I love listening ,in your arms

 

I love music;you love song

I kissed your lips.you bit my tongue.

I love rightly;you love  wrong.

I’ll buy a guidebook to learn how to long.

 

 

I lick your whiskers;you shampoo my brow

i love Stravinsky.; i  love  you so.

I’ll be your sweetheart,I am unsure  how.

Since I’m in your arms . you must be my now.

 

 

Never mind the numen,think about the human

I was reading on the blog of an artist how long they spend gazing before they take a photograph.And how long they spend editing or thinking about it before they post it.And therefore criticising people who take lots of photos and post them all quickly

And I truly wish everyone would spend such time before they post a letter or send an email to  a friend..

Still,it’s just a case of the pot calling the kettle black!

Ahaaa

We English have a grating sense of numinosity or did I mean h umorosity?

Never mind the numen*,think about us humans!

Sprechen Sie Freudsch?Lie on my couch, please.Pay first,talk later

“Rudolf Otto “The idea of the holy”

The promised land

England’s green and pleasant Land

England's green and pleasant Land [from Jerusalem,by William Blake]

Note: This was a surprise to me when I was writing the last part .I will try to explain.At first I started off wanting to write a poem about nature,And evening falling as the sun set.However something else seemed to take over for the last few verses.I was especially surprised by the end….”.at last we have reached the promised land”

That is the best thing about writing poetry,that it can surprise the writer as much as if it were written by someone else.Also it is very absorbing so that the time seems to very quickly.Sometimes a serious poem has turned into a funny one and I laugh out loud.So it saves having to buy funny books….I can amuse myself.Writing  is even better than reading.

Just think of anything at all for the first line,then make a second line,then all of a sudden …you are off.Some days are better than others and you need an hour or two to do it.Or come  backto it later to edit it and knock into shape.It is a bit like sculpture,I imagine.

Joy sings out loud in golden light

Yet after day comes black of night.

New moon is rising by gray trees

This earth is where I want to be.

I want the day,I want the night

I want the darkI want the light.

I want to see and to be seen,

And not to lose myself in dreams.

The sun has set ,gray clouds turn black,

The day just gone will not come back.

I’ll rest in quiet reverie

Until the Reapers’s scythe takes me.

And then I drop and mix with dust,

And worms and beetles sate their lust.

I fall into ten thousand motes

And in sunlight ,dance music’s notes.

No more striving.no more ambition,

No more fighting,nor competition.

Every particle’s the same,

Without even a personal name.

And side by side,we all are one.

The lusts of life have been and gone.

We dwell with dirt and grain and sand

At last we’ve reached the Promised Land,

The inarticulate

Beware of people who talk a great deal of their religion,their supposed holiness and their wonderful deeds.For this may be a trap for the innocent.Satan is reputed to have a smooth tongue and an eye for our weaknesses

The poor in spirit, the in articulate,the wounded may he kinder guides to living your life well.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,for they shall see God.

Sun shines sideways

It’s Autumn weather, geese fly by,

Autumn rust,red,gold,so gay

Drystone walls edging fields,

Apples gathered,holly berries

Flash so brightly

Look like flowers

Sun shines sideways,shadows long

Of trees appear.I dwell among

Woods of gentle beeches sing

Swaying with the sideward wind.

See their roots, all intertwined.

Feel their geometry in the mind.

Look up now into the sky,

See the V formation high.

My heart is moved by patterned dance

In this peace, God’s own silence.

My mind widens like the sky

And in this moment I would die,

So I could stay with this still vision

Of geese set out on autumn mission.

Snails in rain pools slither near

My feet upon the terrace here

And look,upon their whorled backs

All the sense of life is packed.

And yet so easily Life’s destroyed,

When blind foot foot steps into the void

Leave again;leave better.Why not become a better leaver?

.

 

since i lost you i have lost
the keys to my heart
the front door key
my mobile
and my money

now all i have is a large tube of ibuprofen gel max strength
and some feathers from the tail of a baby wood pigeon
that flew into our house when i left the back door open

maybe i need better boundaries
closed doors
and windows

the wood pigeon was so strong its agitation rocked the front door like a thundergod
like you,it did not realise
there are easier ways to leave
than smashing through glass
leaving shards to pierce my heart
not to mention my feet

become a better leaver
have mercy on those other lovers
for charm wears thin but courtesy is everlasting
like love itself

B

The skylark

Freed from her trap
Bird soared into air,and hovered
And floated, resting;
And flew higher, singing as she flew,
And higher again,
Till there was only her song,
Left in the silence,
Trembling.

Up on the wide,stump topped hill,
I felt the lark inside my heart
And heard her singing.
And flying up with her,
I saw gold sun and silver moon,
Moors of heather ,and sheep grazing
Green hills,
And shimmering lakes,
Clouds ,sun and sky in watery mirrors.
And sang ,and dipped,and dropped,
And curled
Up the blue
Bright heaven, and rested
On the wind.
All that day
I was a lark singing.

I shall always have a vision of
A bird
That flew upwards,
Rejoicing and free
Into a deep blue sky, and high
And higher
Beyond high
Into a place, beyond eye even,
But music still sending.

I wish I were back on that heathery moor,
With the nibbling sheep and the bees sweetly humming,
Hearing again
The poignant song
Of the skylark,
A prisoner,freed by a magician,
From her trap,
So happy to be free,
So wonderful to see.
Do it again,
For me,

Silence and music

trees swirl

I didn’t hear you coming,
then you were by my side.
Happiness fills me.
Standing in the garden
looking at red leaves,
I hold your hand gently,
and share the sweetness
of these green leaves,
the distant doves cooing,
the sun dipping to the horizon.
Life is good.
We hear together
the music
of this silence

Birds can see God

Reverie and fantasy « katzideas

What a marvelous day yesterday was. for us here in London.

The sunlight was powerful;

the sky blue and on the trees and shrubs I could almost see buds opening.

By the lake a huge flock of pigeons rose from the trees and circled  in precise and moving geometry

whilst simultaneously many sea gulls which had been floating on the windblown water arose

and formed concentric whirling music in the sky.

We stood still on the grass in the deep silence, absorbing the colors,shapes and murmurings.

Just a normal  day in the country park but I am sure of one thing:

Birds can see God

And in such green stillness,perhaps we can feel God ,if only for a moment

When words are not enough

Katherine's avatarHow my heart speaks

Imageh,words

when words are not enough
to give our feelings form
music is the language
which many find gives calm

when words are too clumsy
touch may be enough
a glance of compassion
may pull us from the Slough

when words don’t come easy
when music fails to charm
then come to me and tell me;
I’ll enclose you in my arms

gestures,touch and glances
are a language in themselves
words are not enough for us
We need  touch as well.

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