untitled

whenever i haven't had enough time to dedicate to creative pursuits and, as a consequence, feel my creative instincts have withered somewhat, that's when i write poetry. (also, when i'm "excitable" or "edgy" or any of those other words that serve as a code for "i have no attention span".) i find it's a way of getting myself writing without having to burden what i'm doing with too much structure.

of course today, i set myself the challenge of writing a poem with rhyme, which is something i've never done before (or at least, not as an adult). and below is what i ended up with.

the end result is a little too similar in sound to sylvia plath's "daddy". subject-wise and tone-wise it's different enough and it's not like she's the only person to use that rhyme scheme (and even then, she uses it irregularly), but my own admiration for that poem is strong enough and well-known enough that denying its influence would be futile.

so i'm left with this little thing, which would probably remain in my vault untouched until the end of time except that i'm giving it a little portion of internet space in which to exist and be seen by others.

Scrutinised fully
A heart that’s unholy
A face made of lies
Smiles untrue
And whispers temptation
Conveys indignation
And promises nothing for you
For you
How unlucky now
To be you.

What once seemed endearing
Has always been veering
To a black sea
Of sludge and of goo
No wining and dining
Can quell the great pining
For the baby
Who changed into you
To you
The soul that calls out
Now to you.

That memory unfettered
Of a moment together
In passing before you outgrew
The pleasure of others
And saw they were smothered
In the lightless trench
Left to be you
Be you
The shelled snail we’ve
Come to call you.

That warbling song wafting
To your ears is the laughing
Of the visitors
Come to your zoo
But no amount of attention
Can forestall the destruction
Of the hologram
That claims to be true
Be true
Who passes to others
For you.

the filth and the fury

as many of you know, i have done a lot of writing on music for paraphilia magazine, a peon of the perverted arts if ever there was one. but you might not have known that their newest issue features one of my short stories, one that either seems to alienate people utterly or win them over as die-hard fans. please do check it out, as this is a great place to discover the kind of writing that is routinely ignored by anything in the mainstream, or even in most artistic communities. bonus titillation: i say fuck a lot.

the googles, they do nothing

one of the things you like to think when you've been busy is that the fruits of your labour can be recognised by others. however, what i've determined after a short research effort today is that the ability to "get your name out there" is entirely dependent on how (un)common your name is.

a quick internet search on my name yields results for a celtic harpist, a wedding photographer, an author from the province right next to mine (seriously, if you search on amazon, i'm not even the first kate macdonald who pops up), a "home economist and food stylist" and a bunch of graduates from my alma mater (well, one of them) whose chief unifying feature is that they're not me.

the internet has a way of making you realise how far from unique you really are. apparently, if i want to become the most renown kate macdonald, even the most renowned author named kate macdonald, i have my work cut out for me. on the other hand, if i ever want to tell people i'm actually a harpist-photographer- pr executive- author- painter, the internet will back me up.