NEW Poems everyday in February

me cuppa

Hello beautiful people!

Please do check out my new poems that will be posted on my Page

These poems will be shorter but dreamier. If you’re new to my work check out my past poetry challenge posted here as well as my debut poetry collection found here. Alternatively read my book of poems for free here.

For those familiar with my work you know yet again I am pouring my heart and soul into this beautiful art form of poetry.

Feel free to comment, leave feedback I really want to hear from you.

So catch my new poems on they will be posted UK time 9pm. While you’re over there please like my page.

Thank you soooo much!

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Happy Reading…


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“The Quarter Life Crisis Poet”
Buy USA   Paperback   Kindle
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Twitter: @CattVaughan
Facebook: /CatherineVaughanWriter

Florence’s Dining Table (from novel Welcome to Wonderland)


Her parents own a Georgian townhouse that is never inhabited. So much of Flo’s belongings still live there. It’s her home away from home. Tread carefully on those Minton tiles as you enter…

You’re greeted by a Marie Antoinette blue that has lost it’s lustre and has resorted to a muted existence. Curiously you see shortbread crumbs lie on the staircase, they are left so that the house mice can be fed. Specks of crumbs are still in sight after all these months. Sometimes tiny paw prints are seen from the grey house guests. Long ago, Sophia saw one of them and decided to call it Roquefort.

If only you’d seen this house during childhood Christmases the staircase wore ivy like a winter shawl, Bing Crosby in the background, the scent of cranberries, mandarins, evergreen leaves and cinnamon too. Grandma would hand-make the door’s wreath with little Flo every November. Oh, and the Christmas tree was glorious, the baubles from Florence’s Great-Grandmother. The glitter remained on three precious baubles ordained with scenes from the nativity the others in deep red, evergreen and navy with lashings of silver and gold and delicate beads decorated onto them. Such a shame that her parents moved out to the country this home is seldom brought to life anymore.

Most evident in the drawing room are the late Georgian interiors. The walls eggshell blue, profiled with the white panels you’d expect. Some old VHS cases hidden behind the sofas. There’s a vinyl player in there too Florence’s only contribution to the house as everything is pretty much inherited.

Her father’s old study has draws filled with old moleskine journals, a magnifying glass and old stationery. There sits letters from his university days as he wrote to his mother, they even have his grandfather’s letters from the war. Also sat demurely a feather quill, an empty ink pot. Nobody has ever dared opened the Moleskines, after all Mr Clover is so endearingly rotund nobody could possibly betray his trust.

A large antique globe stand alone.

The next door down is the library with much to Olivia’s delight a ladder, the girls spent many after-school hours reenacting Belle’s swish with a rockler along the cases though the girls would have to push each other as it’s not as elegant as Disney made it out to be.

Silver and napkins perch on the dining table awaiting their night of resurrection. The plates are hidden in the cupboards as they are most fragile. No flowers or fruit sit at the centre, not since Christmas. The chandelier pleads for one dalliance, one more night of romance even if it is just to be used.

On the fourth floor we see that one room upstairs is like a pretty thrift store, embellished hangers holding moments of 60’s and 70’s glory, Woodstock inspired dresses from the era. Indian slippers, Gucci loafers, buffalo sandals sit neatly in unison with the lines of the wooden floorboards. Serena’s Floppy hat sits on the standing lamp, a milkmaid’s jug sits with dead flowers. An old candle once held memories of idyllic spring mornings has now lost both light and scent.  The dressing table and looking glass is strewn with neglect. The room is an homage to her maternal grandparents bohemian glory days.

The wardrobe lined with sheets from The FT and Telegraph. Alas this is not a Guardian home. Cashmere sweaters shoddily folded, an overflow of natural fibres. Some of Florence’s jumpers from childhood are shoved in too. Do you remember when Laura Ashley used to do childrenswear?

clothes wardrobe

As we make our way down one flight of stairs and another we find cabinets of curiosities, religious icons on the walls, no carpets. Flo’s mother collected crucifixes, elaborate ones from the Clover’s honeymoon in Mexico. Bloomsbury waywardness juxtaposed with piercing la boheme sparseness. Empty are the floors, the fridge and the cupboard. Bare floors only a Persian rug to warm bare feet, walls lined with eclectic Frida Kahlo imitation art, Mexicana tones, Ceylon tea stained walls. The warmest and most welcoming room of the home though the paternal grandparents never wandered in- they never approved.

In the basement we find the kitchen. The walls above the kitchen counter tops lined with mismatched tiles some artisanal others mere fillers, slapped on as the Clover’s tried to make it their own. Tiles collected from trips to Spain and Mexico. Naturally there’s an Aga with copper pans hanging. There’s a kitchen island that has open shelves on one side for all those cookbooks as well as for all those ceramic dishes as Mrs Clover loves to cook English classics.

The pantry is surprisingly full given that the Clover’s are never there. You can see the preserved lemons, (half eaten) pickles, a row of almond milk, rows upon rows of jars: tahini, pepper corns even rose petals. Next you see bags of quinoa, lentils and basmati rice. There’s even a gourmet selection of salt. It’s like a little hideaway Deli.

Inside also sits clutter and art supplies expectantly waiting to be used back to life. A deck of tea candles await their next turn to shine. They haven’t been used since a Summer garden party back when Flo & Simon were together. You see all types of jams some handmade from idle summer afternoons, others leftover from Fortnum & Mason hampers. Old Crabtree & Evelyn biscuit tins (sadly empty). A glass full of paintbrushes, masking tape, pencils. Sitting there folded up a tattered, paint stained apron for kitchen and art room.

The Laundry room remains untouched as if the servants were still here, it’s like peering into a museum.

In what used to be a House keeper’s room a tiny desk sits there and stored in the walled shelves her fathers old accounts.

Nowadays the girls are likely to get together for Sunday lunch and the occasional meet up. They get together to decorate the house over Christmas but rarely are festivities celebrated there for some reason. Diane has been pestering Flo to use her parents house more often. It will be made into a home soon, if only Flo had someone to settle down with.



Flo falls into a more Bloomsbury set of Bohemia, a High Bohemia shall we say. Though as you read the novel there will be heterogeneous depictions of Bohemia so you will find a Bohemian that resonates with your soul. Stay with me and stay aboard the train to Wonderland…

Poem: By and Bye

girl bed flowers

By and Bye

I dream about you
but I wake up without you

I’m in love with you
but I can’t be with you.

You’re always on my mind
but you never have time for me.

I see you
but you don’t see me.

I’ll always remember what we had
You forget so easily.

All I have is a fleeting moment of you
that’ll weigh heavy on my heart
for a lifetime.


Poem: The Fall

man woman forest embrace

Secretly we all wish
we could just
lose ourselves
in someone
to drown in someone
be overwhelmed in love
enveloped in lust
consumed in passion
and lost in hedonism.


Other poems by Catherine can be found in her poetry book “The Quarter Life Crisis Poet”
Buy USA   Paperback   Kindle
UK     Paperback   Kindle
Twitter: @CattVaughan
Facebook: /CatherineVaughanWriter

“… It cuts me up inside and the only person I share that with is me. You don’t know me…” – On Poetry, emotions and reactivity.

girl staring darkness

My poems are very personal. This August challenge literally makes me feel like the whole world is looking inside my journal and they are going to know exactly who and what I am writing about… Which is false. We are usually just projecting ourselves and at the end of the day nobody was there for me, nobody was around when things happened so they cannot possibly know…

People deserve to take what they want out of a piece of art and I hope that at least they can get some kind of comfort, recognition and feeling of belonging from my poetry that they are not the only one feeling the same way or have been through similar situations.

I really like recalling lines from film or TV or art or anything that captures how I feel. The above headline quote is from an episode of the 90’s TV show Angel and it sums up how I feel about my poetry even though the original context and meaning of the line is irrelevant to my poems.

The point is we need that understanding from someone to explain and surmise a state or emotion previously beyond our comprehension.

You are welcome to share lines of my poetry that make you feel something and ignite a feeling of connection from writer to poem to reader to your heart… Tag me on twitter @CattVaughan or share poems from my Facebook page /CatherineVaughanWriter.

At the end of the day my poems are about my life yet are also not about me and they are in some ways about “saving somebody’s soul” [Angel, Sanctuary S1 ep 19] and then they end up being about everyone, particularly everybody that is hurting right now. I’m very conscious of the fact that souls need to be saved, I’m so aware of human suffering on all levels…

Notably it’s too agonizing to write about certain hurts or traumas all the time so in this upcoming August poetry challenge some poems are about lovely things like cherry blossoms others like “Tiara” are completely imaginative and fictitious and some bare my deepest secrets… In my earlier published works it was autobiographical yet expressed in a veiled manner as I did not have the audacity to say what I felt whereas now I am more explicit with my feelings yet the events described may overlap it may be about more than one person or there may be some artistic licence and imagination to bring a poem to life…

I know how important and meaningful certain song lyrics and quotes are and how they make me feel and I truly hope and would be honoured if any of my poems make you feel that sense of deep connection.

The biggest lessons I’ve learned is that you can’t control anything or anyone. People just think what they think regardless. Sometimes it’s because they don’t know how to think other times because they’re just closed up in their own minds. I made the assumption that when girls said to me they have dated a guy like the one in my poem 2am that suddenly their relationship pattern played out the same way mine did. But in reality they could tell me what the guy did and how it made them feel and it could be totally DIFFERENT to the situation I was writing about. Sure the poem has resonance but it’s possible the sentiments or situation differs vastly. I’d hate to explain the literal meaning of a poem and then it is totally at odds with the reader’s initial interpretation it would just give the feeling of dissatisfaction like when a book is turned into a film you can’t be happy with both versions because one conflicts with how you imagined it to be.

I’m still at a very early stage with my poetry and there is no gap or separation from my words and me. Some Poets have a totally separate identity from their art and heart they can convey personal experiences in poetry yet remain detached. At this phase in my life I haven’t got to that level but I just have to remember that I will someday and everything I’ve poured my heart and soul into will just be words on screen/words on ink. Eventually I’ll reach that threshold and be detached… Or perhaps that’s the beauty of my art that it truly is an imprint of my heart and soul and maybe my poems will forever make me suffer and I will become a tortured artist because I cannot let go…

I felt the need to maybe explain some poems but what is the point? It would still get misinterpreted anyway… Unless someone was in that period of my life and was right there next to me as I wrote the poem they would simply have no clue what it’s about, they don’t need to. They can just take whatever they want from it. I relinquish control from then on which is a very important step to making poetry.

Explanation isn’t required in art. I’m only just starting to understand this. Misinterpretation also acts as a liberator and gives me the permission to write what I need to write.

I may have published “my heart / your art” in a self-conscious moment as I lacked the bravery to admit that “my heart is my art” but now I come with full force to declare to the world “I chose my art over my heart.”

I have to remember I’m still young and it’s so early in my literary career. I haven’t even started. These emotions fuel my art and help to counteract writer’s block. As painful as some of these poems were to write, ultimately, it’s inspiration and is helping me build a body of work. It comes at a huge cost but I couldn’t not be doing what I am doing.

I’ve come to a place of acceptance and maturity. Quite simply all this pain and anguish is a creative catalyst, without it I would have no art. Literally. It is just who I am.  It took me a really long time to realize it and understand what my style is but it is romantic, not necessarily filled with lovey-dovey stuff but with attention to detail, appreciation, sentimentality and nostalgia.

Juxtaposed with the fact that in my mind I keep thinking that my poetry and my novel will (verbatim) be “the death of me.” I really do die a little inside each time I write poetry particularly when I have to read my poems aloud. So much of my art is simply a mirror of the cocktail of chaos that my life has been, so I have no choice in what I write.

You have to be so painfully honest in art. At least, that’s the standard I hold. I guess it’s because I’m so intense and an all or nothing kinda person. It doesn’t mean you have to be explicit like describe how they look or outright explain that it was your best friend who screwed you over or whatever the case may be. It just has to be the absolute truth of the emotional dynamic or the wave of emotion or ’emoji’ has to be accurate you can’t downplay it.

If Van Gogh didn’t go all pointillism on canvas we wouldn’t have Van Gogh. If I hadn’t have experienced repeated lost love and unfulfilled love and dissatisfaction with the philistines I dated I’d never have have my novel.  If I had the bohemian boyfriend I always thought I would have my novel would never be conceived and I’d be lost and never found.

From absence and lack we can make our best art. A lack of love or a lack of understanding can create a covetous cocktail of creativity.

I guess without it I’d be stuck feeling like I had something to make and do but coming up blank. If you want to be a writer you have to have something to say…

It’s the dissatisfaction that keeps me moving forward therefore I’m always searching. I shall continue to be on the search for everything and may spend a lifetime this way.

Join me on my journey…



Poetry Reading Event @ De Koffie Pot, Hereford 03/03/16

Invitation Poetry Reading

Thursday 3rd March 2016

19:00 pm

FREE EVENT:  @ De Koffie Pot cafe


(in the Courtyard behind the main Left Bank building)




Performance by Hereford born and raised Author + Poet Catherine Vaughan. Readings of classic poems by Walt Whitman to Pablo Neruda followed by poems written by Vaughan taken from her poetry book: “The Quarter Life Crisis Poet” and NEW material!

Location: On Bridge Street, before the Old Bridge -> where that white tent is!

Tell your friends and come along!