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Puddle lump lives again. Art Blog.

full___and_happy_by_timothygough

Puddlelump used to be my only blog. It held everything Tim Gough – including all the youth work thoughts on here.

Since timgough.co kicked off I haven’t had a place to share my art, poetry and photography. This has left a very real hole. So puddlelump is now reborn.

timgough.co will continue to be my main blog – it will continue to feed and share in the youth work world.

puddlelump.wordpress.com is there to share the other huge part of my heart: art, music, poetry, spoken word, philosophy, travel and photography.

Of course these will overlap – and should – but at least I’m never stuck needing to separate myself!

http://puddlelump.wordpress.com/

Plug for my Wife’s book – Idiolalia.

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www.marykathryngough.com
facebook.com/MaryKathrynGough

Hi Everybody. For those of you who don’t know, my wife is an incredibly talented writer! She writes fiction, academic journals, essays, and poetry. In December last year she released her first books ‘Idiolalia‘ – a collection of spiritually driven nature based poems, which sold out all hard copies within two weeks. She’s toured it around a little (picture from En Gedi Poetica below), and has received amazing feedback and praise for it. Here’s the official blurb and some endorsements:

Idiolalia is a nature-based collection of poems written by Mary Kathryn Gough, a strange and meditative soul who hails from California. These poems are meant to walk with and encourage us all as we live in a broken place.

“Gough’s poems are excessive and wonderful and full of surprises. Like all good art, they trip us into a fuller experience of our own lives. She can make a leaf or a line break into just the insurrection we need to feel the moment, and transcend it.” –David Kopp, Executive Editor, Multnomah Books

“Mary Kathryn Gough’s poetry revels like that of e.e. cummings, dances like that of Mary Oliver, and prays like that of Gerard Manley Hopkins. But the shimmer and energy between each word is hers alone.” –Kathleen Popa, Author of To Dance In the Desert and The Feast of Saint Bertie

If you would like a copy, ebooks are £2 and are available herePaperbacks are £3 are available here (delivery is extra).

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If you’d like to read more of Katie’s writing you can visit the ‘selected writings’ section of here webpage here, or her blog here.

www.marykathryngough.com
facebook.com/MaryKathrynGough

This Time. (poem)

[Meditation I wrote in 2008 on getting drawn into sin and humbly coming back to God]

Lost within a time warp,
Going south, yet looking northward,
You’ve given me directions
Yet I’ve put myself at the front of my mind
Where it snows all the time,
Its cold, and I cannot see the distance
Where you told me there’s hope.

Lost in metafusion, where the now meets the then,
where I judge myself from experience,
where the papers, met the pen,
I couldn’t do it then, so I can’t do it now
Commonsense blinding me, it’s giving me to doubt.

lost in the physical, stuck in the real,
I thought it was yesterday, I’ve forgotten how to feel,
This isn’t life, it’s a fake reality
I’m tired of feeling this way,
I need stability.

Why do I do this to myself,
Theologize my breath,
I need only to trust to wait
Why am I so deaf.
God you know, I’m a human, I’m blind,
Open my eyes again, I’ll really try,
This time.

Satisfied. (poem)

[edited from something I wrote back in 09 when my depression, sin, and general stuck-ness we’re at their peak. A great reminder to me of total depravity of self and total all-loving control of God.  Not great writing, but twas a great meditation for me.]

Lost inside my self-conscious cage of unreal worldly reality
I’ve dug this hole, crawled inside the company of my mind.
Totally lost in claustrophobic space, blinding me, binding me
I got myself in, and cannot   get   out.

There’s nowhere I can go to escape myself in this world
Nothing I can do to help myself get out of myself.
I’m exodus from reality, lost in the world
Suffering from deliverance of heartless pollution.

There’s panics growing, and waters rising
no-where I can turn, the lights are all out.
There are shapes in the shadows, not just in my mind
My eyes, my life, my thoughts, my exodus breaking.

So confused within this darkness, did I do all this?
I don’t know which ways up, which way out, which way is is.
Everything seemed so real but now reality itself is so false
I walked in myself, but now something is holding me in place.

My deepened, despairing, downright dangerous decent
Has snagged me into his lair, the place where he
gorges on my meat. Sin blinding, Devil holding
Me in this pit of self. Did I do all this?

Only    one    way    out.
Not by my might, nor by my strength
I only dig deeper. No. Only by another
By a lover so powerful, reality inverts around Him.

Dug deep into this pit.
Yet still savable. Still satisfiable
‘God,’ I cry
And it ends.

We Are Sentence (poem)

[edited meditation on human unity. first pub on deviantart in 2009 or something]

 

And I too have seen the dusty clauses
attempt to accentuate that which cannot
quite
be
articulated.
And the phrases form the findings of their
own decision-able derision from these
said
clauses.

But isn’t it only in sentence that
judgement can hold poignantly to a meaning
of sorts, which is
consistent
in life
>and<
metaphor.

Clause is justly unfair,
and phrase meaningless until they
hold together
in holy matrimony.
A blessing of saints in lexical unity.
Semantics not withstanding of course.

So perhaps the question of our time is,
‘am I the clause, or the phrase,’
Not,
‘am I the subject or the object.’

So maybe, when we have our question rightfully
Formed can we find our answer:
‘it doesn’t matter, we are sentence.’

His Day. Poem written 05-07

I wrote this when exploring how senses, timelessness, and creation flowed together with the cross through the eyes of Jesus. I wrote it as an act of worship, maybe it might encourage someone else too?
His Day 

When I opened my eyes I burned with the absolute radiance of an indescribable, indestructible force, running marathons on its own persuasions gathering speed and power with every step. Every breath it drew led to the phenomena growing, never failing, never slowing, and never exhaling. Its fire broke the ice, the silence, the cold, the quiet; suspense was shattered by an unquestionable force unknown the void, undisputed among the nothingness. For now there is no nothingness. My eyes burned, my heart turned, my life learned that something new was about to happen, something from the eternal has touched the void and structured a force now settling, lying, prowling, the void is now gone. And it is good. I close my eyes, darkness, separated from the fire, different, yet penetrable. I knew a time had past, indeed a time, something never known, yet obviously apparent in its waves of certainty, the eternal is bold, and this is His first day. My eyes are closed.

I opened my eyes and behold, an expanse, rippling in its distance, crying, calling, reflecting, breathing, and knowing itself to be immovable as the fire itself. This structure screamed to all that couldn’t hear, ‘behold me for I am the heavenlies, I hold the glory of the eternal, hear and know me, for I will cover you, all your days.’ The water that held all such radiance, above compared only to the water that is held below, a fire in its own right, moving as the eternal gives it wings. Its substance, yes substance!, came across itself and wondered, ‘who am I but the bringer of chaos, what am I but reflective destruction?’ For this the eternal knew and himself took his sustaining, containing guard upon it, over it, within in, through it. So my heart burned, my eyes watered, brimming to their capacity, yet sustained, contained. It is good. I close my eyes. His second day. My eyes are closed.

I opened my eyes and behold, thunder! Loud quakes, shakes, the sounds of a thousand souls, unknown, unborn, screaming together, in agony, in harmony, in liberty. The waters that were held below rose and spiralled, drilling into the heavenlies with the fire providing its power, then moving, running, pushing its way through the crowd. Moving away from itself, towards itself, circling itself, leaving what? A void? Impossible, for that could never again exist, not now the eternal has imposed a time and a space. Then what?: A thunderous solid, not a fire nor a water; an unbreathing, a self, a constant, something inconsistently consistent within itself. Stopped. Settled. Land, Earth. A focal point for the waters to again meet, gathered about itself. I felt its heaviness in my whole being, I spoke unspoken fears never before to exist, never again to cease, the eternal is bold, yet., it is good. I close my eyes, unexpectantly, for I was lost within what follows itself as time and the arrival of this unexpected friendly foe. His third day. My eyes are closed.

I opened my eyes and behold, speckled breath, as intoxicating as the reality itself; lost, owned, known, controlled, yet bursting apart from its own radiance. Tearing. Pulling apart seams, reams, a reality from darklight dreams – a separation. A newness again, a formless void, yet not void, for void is void of void; and cannot be void, then what? A wisdom-formed time, dark, light, a time-before, a time-today, and a time-after. Part held by the warm-embrace of chaos, red-hot and true, expanding and raw, pure. The greater light, the authority of day. It settles in my nostrils with burning assurance. Assured. A lesser light too, abridged in its own right, night. A sensation. The eternal is bold, cunning, chaotically-pure. And good. It is good. And assurance to close my eyes in either time-before, or time-today to embrace time-after. I close my eyes. His forth day. My eyes are closed.

I opened my eyes and, does He dare? Yes, He dares; behold, movement, swarms, flow, heartbeat, the million-melodocracies maligning their own multitudes… … life … … what is this and what can I do, for every bud of my tongue is pierced as with a thousand drops of oil lifting and sifting above the chaos-controlled waters of certainty. The eternal is bold, with every eye and tooth, and cheek and hand there is another, and another, and another… but it is good. A settled consequence of ‘convenient coincidence’ the antimatter of void.: Life. Grouped and through, knowing, owning. Living. I taste a bitter piece beginning. Yet it is good. A mysterious melody of senses. I must close my eyes. … Submission… . His fifth day. My eyes are closed.

I open my eyes and searing pain shoots across my face, my chest, my lungs… filling, my heart… spilling. My hands, my feet… pieced. Eloi Eloi, Lama Sabathami! Tears, dropping, my heart craving , for healing, for reconciling life to life to time-before to time-today. I need. I thirst. Humanity,  Lost,heart,lost,wisdom,lost,innocence.  Yet to come, to come, time-after, in the eternal, tears today. Today. The image of the eternal, and very good it is. It is. But seeking, weeping, seeping. I close my eyes.   His sixth day.   My eyes are closed. … … My hands are pierced.   Life.   His day.   The eternal is bold.   Life.   my hands are pierced.
(copyright Timothy Gough, 2007)