Archive for the Poetry Category

Writing, for who?

Posted in Autobiography, education, Poetry, Stories and reviews, Stories and reviews by Kathy Da Silva, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 30, 2017 by kathydasilva

Albert Camus: writer of A Happy Death; Exiles and the Kingdom

I hope eventually that the novels, that I continue to write, might finally have their own independent voice. I have read over  a lifetime, so many books and quite a few from a previous century. The style of writing, in the Victorian era, which is described as the Romanticist period,  and a bit before the gothic/romantic Mary Shelley, included, held quite a few marvels, that seem forever, to be taught, and remain, subject for study, at university level at least. In my mother’s era, they as children, were given George Elliot’s Silas Marner at school, but, by the time, I came to do my final O Levels, the main study novel was indeed, the very famous To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. The American’s had usurped the English novelists, in importance! The consolation was Shakespeare for a playwriter, Romeo and Juliet, and still this was backed up with a visit to the local cinema to see Franco Zeffirelli’s, version of the famous tragedy. I am saying ‘backed’, because even by the time, that I came along, in the mid seventies, for O Level study, television, and the newly growing Hollywood film industry, had already made its dent, in the call for an attentive audience. In the fast growing technology of the TV playscreen, from black and white to Technicolor, there was an obvious demand for screenplay writers, and the need would have had many an aspiring, author in its clench. I consider myself lucky to have witnessed the replays of black and white movies, the early movies of Tennessee Williams’ screen play talent. There was a great sense of classicism, in the story lines, and emotional outpourings of the  characters,  who became iconic, to the next generation of would be actors and starlets. Great screenplays, added to great acting and directing, was bound to create diversion, and in the same breath,  an addictive pastime. I think the arguments for ‘where the great novel’ went, is thoroughly, embedded, in this call for time on everyone’s leisure moments. Hedonism, was with us from at least the post war era onward. However, it is true, that great novels, have been written that then have been made into films. But, it is also true, that not every novel, of our modern era, makes the same impact as something like, Wuthering Heights, or Gone With the Wind. And between the original novel, and the screenplay, there exists, a transformation, which does not always translate the greatness of the original text. I am mindful of something I recently, watched, but, mainly for the actors, and some of the ‘romance’, element of the story, the novelist Nicholas Sparks, who wrote Message in a Bottle, did not get to write the screenplay which is by,Gerald di Pego. I kept wondering throughout, about the flimsiness of the characters, and, so, yes, what could have been, an awesome, and, deep statement about bereavement, fell a little flat. Grief is a very complex, state of being, and my heart wanted to feel, something for the man who had lost his wife, Catherine. I could not create in  my own, head any more connection, with the entertainment of the film, than just letting the wash of the sea that eventually consumes the ‘hero’, wash over me by the finish.

Novels, That Last the Test of Time.. is that a better heading? Well I suppose the film industry is never really going to run out of great classics, as there are plenty of ghost stories and Tolkien went down a storm! Will that make people read the original novel. Well in my case, when they filmed,  Thomas Hardy’s, Jude the Obscure, I directly went out to Waterstones in Brighton and bought the book.

‘In it I argued that the novel was losing its cultural centrality due to the digitization of print.’ (Will Self)

Saving the Great British Novel? Well I am not worried too much about the novel, and whether to write it or not, as there is a market albeit for electronically transferred data, thankfully, long train journeys and commuter traffic will ensure, some readership, and a growing population of retired people, which is on the increase. I am not sure whether to rely on Will Self, as a ‘weatherman’ for trends, over literature, but, I guess, given, that the classical element of some high-end writing, meaning literature, might well be suffering, some lack of recognition for the modern-day author of works of a more aesthetical nature. My thoughts are in this sense, in the days of the writer, James Joyce, who married and kept his family, not only by the means of his authoring of books, but, also by whatever job, including teaching English to foreigners, in Switzerland, and working in clerical positions of government, still kept to his goal of breaking the mould, and experimenting with poetry in the prose form.


Will, himself is probably way out in the frontier zone, with abstraction, and by that meaning psychological realism, to the full brunt of interactive text. With all of the content of ‘Shark’, in mind, the social comment, and the whole drama of events described vividly, throughout the story, I found myself battling with the text, and surprisingly, ending up with quite a lot of memorable scenes to describe, after laying the book down.I am intending to write a bit more in due course, but, perhaps, in the past authors, did not  have the privilege of knowing what kind of response their work would create. My question perhaps, instead of why it is suggested that society is evolving away from story telling, is it not the case that much of what is life, repeats itself, even between centuries. Science creates new subject, and new subject will always inspire more story telling. Star Wars, and Star Trecking included! And there we have that wonderful tale, Hitch Hicker’s Guide to the Galaxy. My theory too, is eventually any true intellectual, will become bored fairly soon, with the tittle-tattle of new fandango gadgets, and plump right back to a source of enduring quality writing. Remembrance of Things Past (Marcel Proust) included!


























The Wine Press

Posted in Poetry, Stories and reviews by Kathy Da Silva with tags , , , , , on January 1, 2017 by kathydasilva



The winepress of God’s anger

Was created long ago

Our land our lives,  and now our living

Made the G_ A_ P grow

One night in the autumn in a  dark, dark dream

I saw the state of the present stream

The light over all things was grey like a cloud

The people in bondage the world in a shroud

In a shop down town, in the front of the store

I was like a  future bride  coming through the door

Escalators going up, were going to all floors

Well stocked and overflowing, the devil applauds

I couldn’t hear my footsteps, I couldn’t change the light,

There didn’t seem to be a way out  to join the BLESSED fight

I couldn’t find the exit

Which seemed miles away

I was praying for the dawn, I was praying for the Day

The clothes and carpet muffled every step

The giant padded cell,  that was playing with my head

And here’s the real mad house, not the way we’re led

If people can’t see the dark they are in

And turn away from their eternal sin

Stop all their magic, stop all the gain,

Start to live righteous, stop all the pain

Call in the debt the debt to Man

The God of Love can’t stop the plan.


City of Stone

Posted in Poetry, Stories and reviews by Kathy Da Silva with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 29, 2016 by kathydasilva


Water runs down a pane of glass

The cup of anger is still spilling

It leaves sticky stained materials

Bared fury like filthy broth and prison food

No one makes the choice of another

So mood swung damages, chipped floors

And bricks of hate flung into pits of fury

Chaotically, jumbled, living amongst the rootless,


The effigy of guilt

Wrapped round cursed scorn

And blue air turned into ice baths

Waking as if the bed is made of nails

That have cut and bruised nightly

Anything that laid itself there

Or dared to lay itself there

The felt floor that masks mistrust

Tapered, threadbare lives.

Chemically and filthy

Rat poisoned humanity

Grey-skinned and anaemically

Uttering their madness

As they roll like pigs in

Human fed obsessions

Swollen eyes and flesh clinging to the railings

Around the bathing pool of gloom

Watching the rest of humanity

Writhing in the catastrophic

Judgement of its own failure

Beads of sweat on the bald heads of men

With pig-like faces

The ultraviolet baring it all in glowing forms

Psychadelic amnesias, the petulant flesh expanding

Electronic conveyance like a manufactured coralling

To and from madness

To and from





The above poem was made earlier this year. The day after I published to the web, I noticed, IDS resigned from his position, as he disagreed with further cut backs for the disabled amongst us. But, truly the problem is on a larger scale, with regard to food and habits of humans who would if they could eat natural foods, grown by their own families. A return to natural food stuffs, and with a healthier outlook, might just save the day. But, where are we now, using our technology for killing people, basically through war. And all the technology for war has a poisonous effect, and after effect. We need to return to Our God, who cared and cares for us.

This and other poems by me can be bought in a collection Life Dance through and I publish with and everytime someone buys a book, I get fed too, with a small royalty, this keeps the poet in me alive, and enables me to share the wisdom handed down to us through the bible and philosophy.


Child Poem

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 26, 2016 by kathydasilva


Twombly said the thing that couldn’t be said,
A broken sapling, the top resting on the standing remainder,
My child saying ‘The snails make their bed in me’,
And that his bones ..’ … are as thin and brown as twigs’,
Children always tell you the truth through their own eyes and feelings.
I’d given birth to a poetic genius able to talk to me  from heaven or earth,
He says, ‘It’s all dark in the grave, there’s no light.’
I’ve learned to hate the rain.
My sister can’t bear to listen to me anymore.
She says she’s going to be cremated when she dies,
She’s adopted new beliefs,
But, it’s all old hat eastern philosophy.
I daren’t tell her I don’t follow that.
It’s true I can’t live this life more than once through,
You have to be too brave,
What will she do if it isn’t as she says?
Then there’s God Almighty,
And the question why?
But, at least we can feel close my babe and I,
In a sense there is no separation,
‘We watch you all the time,’ he says, ‘You’re a whuss.’

A Dream of..

Posted in Autobiography, Poetry, Stories and reviews by Kathy Da Silva, writing with tags , , , , on April 2, 2014 by kathydasilva


I slipped away like a tide

At the touch of your invisible hand

The hands of a clock kept a regular tic toc

Like my beating heart

Within  a moment, a breath,  a blink of an eye

Like a person who turns expecting to see someone

When no one was present, no one was accountable

Just like the taste of salt,

There’s something bitter left

Splintered broken skin.

Lost to sorrow, that followed sorrow’s mark.

The stain of which seems permanent.

I blink open my eyes every dawn

Through all the dim light of wintery breath on that glass

Which is only a window onto a wilderness of living life alone

Life wove it’s web and in it’s charms a soul was caught.