Kathryn Lucas: “The More Self Aware I Become, The More Passionate & Free I Can Be”

Kathryn Elizabeth Lucas

Poet/Writer

Toronto

When did you first really get a passion for writing?

I remember keeping a diary as a child. I have a few vivid memories of writing before bed when I was maybe five or six  about what I had done that day or whomever I beat in a race to the park. I kept a journal through my adolescence and young teenage years. As I became angstier and angrier, the depth and subject matter of my writing evolved. I wrote a ton of letters, short stories, and poems. The more self aware I become, the more passionate and free I can be and the sanctuary of my writer’s mind and soul is my most prized possession.

GARBAGE SKIN Please Let me out. I only just made a home here And now I want to burn it down. I know these skin and bones are a rental- I know me in my chest I know I know me best. I try to outrun my running Try to out-cun my cunning. Nothing Grit, effort, or prayer Will make me free The way I once was. Please Let me out.
GARBAGE SKIN
Please
Let me out.
I only just made a home here
And now I want to burn it down.
I know these skin and bones are a rental-
I know me in my chest
I know I know me best.
I try to outrun my running
Try to out-cun my cunning.
Nothing
Grit, effort, or prayer
Will make me free
The way I once was.
Please
Let me out.

From what I understand, every Instagram post with your poetry is a freestyle – how do you get inspired for each?

I feel a lot. I feel deeply. I’m not thrown around by my emotions anymore, I am rejuvenated by my depth of feelings – good and bad. I write what comes out and I rarely edit it. I experience every second of my life as though I were wringing it out over a bucket. There is so much that I appreciate deeply about “ordinary” things that inspiration can come from a simple scrawling of a word on a scrap piece of paper, a moment alone with someone I love, or even something as seemingly unnoticeable as the way my chest vibrates when the bass is high enough.

“A lot of the time, it all just comes to me and I have to write it out before I lose it. I experience music, eye contact, and the way words sound coming from different mouths.”

Everything is enriched. I even stop for deep breaths in moments I hope to never have again. I revel in memories of my own survival and how lucky I have been to love. I have been disgusted and amazed by my own capabilities. I know I sound like I just faced a blunt to answer this. Maybe I did. Either way it counts.

 

Have you ever thought about turning your work into music?

A few people have approached me about this, but I hadn’t thought about it before they brought it up to me. I would love to see my work become music – as a fervent music lover – I just don’t know how to get it to where it would have to be. I frequently say that I would love to come back for my next life as a musically inclined person. I don’t sing well enough to do it outside of my car. With that, If anyone were to invite me to the studio to write and string verses together, I would never leave. Simply being in the studio where music is made would be enough for a tidal wave of words from me. It hasn’t happened yet – but I’m hoping that it’s part of the journey.

 

EXCERPT: PRIVATE LETTERS January 19. Your dance is an unwitting balance of fury and faith. Nothing swallows me like you, Or since you. Is there a reason for your disappearance? I would like to hold your hand beneath a lamp shade. Between others, Light is the only clarity in the bedroom. What we know- has no use for light. I like to think that our shredded epitaphs spelled it out for us- Who we were. What we were. Why we were. I can see without eyes. Understand without words. I know you remember the silent smile and nod. In thin moments, I wonder what we agreed upon. In thick moments, It pulses between my thumb and forefinger.
EXCERPT: PRIVATE LETTERS
January 19.
Your dance is an unwitting balance of fury and faith.
Nothing swallows me like you,
Or since you.
Is there a reason for your disappearance?
I would like to hold your hand beneath a lamp shade.
Between others,
Light is the only clarity in the bedroom.
What we know- has no use for light.
I like to think that our shredded epitaphs spelled it out for us-
Who we were. What we were. Why we were.
I can see without eyes. Understand without words.
I know you remember the silent smile and nod.
In thin moments, I wonder what we agreed upon.
In thick moments,
It pulses between my thumb and forefinger.

For every written work you share, what do you hope it does for your readers?

I share work about what I am going through, thinking about, or have gone through in the past. I write poems about dreams I had that I can barely remember, I write poems to send a message, I write poems about my breaking, bending, bleeding heart – every writer has one. I write poems about conversations with my mom about lobsters or about the amazing sex I had on Sunday. So I guess that I hope that people will relate or experience whichever emotion it elicits in them, wherever they are in their journey.

“I really like when someone talks to me about the same poem twice – with two different perspectives.”

I get a variety of messages from readers – sometimes they are saying thank you, sometimes they are asking for clarity, sometimes they are laughing. Some friends call me in tears because something I wrote brought them back to something they’d been holding back. Connecting with the people who actually read my work is amazing. I’m open to more of it.

STAY ALIVE TO FIND OUT Demons get hungry. Eat you inside out. Hand and heart, The pit of your stomach is not the only thing in this room. I know white lines and fine lines, Blurred lines and time lines. Stay alive. You aren't even half a lifetime. On the same day My flesh and blood tried to do away with me I bled for miles, walked diagonally, and knew nothing for sure. Whiskey soul fires, flooding eyelashes. Pop No Pills Post No Bills Down Town Drown Town Tomorrow is a best kept secret - Stand on yesterday's throat For the best view. (For a beautiful friend. You know who you are.)
STAY ALIVE TO FIND OUT
Demons get hungry.
Eat you inside out.
Hand and heart,
The pit of your stomach is not the only thing in this room.
I know white lines and fine lines,
Blurred lines and time lines.
Stay alive.
You aren’t even half a lifetime.
On the same day
My flesh and blood tried to do away with me
I bled for miles, walked diagonally, and knew nothing for sure.
Whiskey soul fires, flooding eyelashes.
Pop No Pills
Post No Bills
Down Town
Drown Town
Tomorrow is a best kept secret –
Stand on yesterday’s throat
For the best view. (For a beautiful friend. You know who you are.)

What’s one thing your followers, fans, readers don’t know about you?

I suppose there are a million things my readers don’t know about me – because all art is open to interpretation. I find honesty liberating. I think that making a statement about myself that I am sure of is a powerful thing. I could write quirky and hilarious facts about myself here, but how about this: I’d rather you ask me what you want to know, than for me to decide what to tell you. That’s a shard of my introspective war that I have not settled yet – because I am always asking myself why I think what I tell others about myself is important. I’d rather think about why you ask me what you ask me. It’s more fascinating.

YOU A BITCH Weakness feeds on weakness. Maybe if you and her Put the skeletons together You could have a spine in your closet. Let me know if you need someone to write your vows with intention.
YOU A BITCH
Weakness feeds on weakness.
Maybe if you and her
Put the skeletons together
You could have a spine in your closet.
Let me know if you need someone to write your vows with intention.

What’s a goal you want to accomplish as a writer?

I am writing a book, and I would like that to be as great as it is in my head. I would get a kick out of being on a fortune cookie fortune or on the inside of a stranger’s notebook. I want to work with as many different types of artists as possible. I would like to work with a musician on a song. I would like to do more performances, and I have a friend pushing me in that direction. Everything in time.

“I’d love to see someone vandalize my poems on something. Like a green box or an alleyway.”

RAINBOW MOTEL AND HEROIN PRACTICE Our water Is thicker than blood. I am neck-deep And swimming, Love. You turned to face me In a linen beehive So I wrote to sleep: Just burn me alive. Moments of ache And running to doors Chasing your gasping And scraping your floors. Your life is my life I know true and fine- My fondest memories Of how we survived.
RAINBOW MOTEL AND HEROIN PRACTICE
Our water
Is thicker than blood.
I am neck-deep
And swimming,
Love.
You turned to face me
In a linen beehive
So I wrote to sleep:
Just burn me alive.
Moments of ache
And running to doors
Chasing your gasping
And scraping your floors.
Your life is my life
I know true and fine-
My fondest memories
Of how we survived.

 

Support/follow Kat’s poetry on Instagram

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s