Katherine Gallagher
Woman in a Tableau
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Itinerants
Her family remember her from childhood
as the one who travelled brightly
in a big-roomed house,
who always played for time.
For years now I have been following her,
taking on her disguises – globetrotter
bon vivant, tasting in a glasshouse-array.
Sometimes I have wanted to halt, finally settle
but still she lures me on, across each brink.
She is my sister, we live our lives twice over –
times we have seen hemispheres in space
the way a bird might – or finding villages
weft with stories, feeling local again.
Feasts, illuminations, we have taken all
to heart – artefacts, trips out to markets
buying more than we could carry.
I can never quite catch her
nor does she ever let me rest, to shrink quietly
into the hedgehog of my days.
No, there is more, she swears –
her foot a shadow ahead of mine, circling out
saltbush and spinifex before our eyes,
daring me on to the next stage –
to take our lives to pieces,
fossick for new stones.
as the one who travelled brightly
in a big-roomed house,
who always played for time.
For years now I have been following her,
taking on her disguises – globetrotter
bon vivant, tasting in a glasshouse-array.
Sometimes I have wanted to halt, finally settle
but still she lures me on, across each brink.
She is my sister, we live our lives twice over –
times we have seen hemispheres in space
the way a bird might – or finding villages
weft with stories, feeling local again.
Feasts, illuminations, we have taken all
to heart – artefacts, trips out to markets
buying more than we could carry.
I can never quite catch her
nor does she ever let me rest, to shrink quietly
into the hedgehog of my days.
No, there is more, she swears –
her foot a shadow ahead of mine, circling out
saltbush and spinifex before our eyes,
daring me on to the next stage –
to take our lives to pieces,
fossick for new stones.
The Magic of Hands
Put your hands into fire
The magic of hands
is rarely celebrated
Test your hands
on the heart’s edge
The music of hands
is born in flame
the instinctive touchstone reaching
finally beyond fire
beyond sign-language
to shore each blending
unique as a leap into light
The magic of hands
is rarely celebrated
Test your hands
on the heart’s edge
The music of hands
is born in flame
the instinctive touchstone reaching
finally beyond fire
beyond sign-language
to shore each blending
unique as a leap into light
The Long Reach Out of War
They will keep restoring the glass
in broken cathedrals
to carry the eye and the colours
that were shattered
They will keep restoring the stone
in bombed cathedrals
to carry the face and the idea
that were crushed
They will keep carrying the burden
of destroyed cathedrals
even as the ashes blow back
Humanity
keeping faith with itself
even as the ashes blow back
in broken cathedrals
to carry the eye and the colours
that were shattered
They will keep restoring the stone
in bombed cathedrals
to carry the face and the idea
that were crushed
They will keep carrying the burden
of destroyed cathedrals
even as the ashes blow back
Humanity
keeping faith with itself
even as the ashes blow back
Domestic
He tells me I'm the untidiest
nice woman he's ever lived with.
It's our bad joke – I pluck resolutions,
see garbage floating three floors down
have him doing housework,
say we'll eat out, eat less
eat fast, or just let dishes pile up,
find a stairway of paper-plates
to take us right down to earth.
But I don't leave it there,
race through the apartment
picking up papers, carbons,
the half-made poems disappearing
into paper-clips, folders. Suddenly
it's a tidy hinterland –
the desk bare, no books on the floor,
just that coffee-table
better-housekeeping look.
He smiles approval then
our eyes lock together, we purr,
it's love's dream whirring
till I see my two selves again
shadowing each other, colliding –
the writer watched warily by the
Vermeer girl, head down
over her chores.
nice woman he's ever lived with.
It's our bad joke – I pluck resolutions,
see garbage floating three floors down
have him doing housework,
say we'll eat out, eat less
eat fast, or just let dishes pile up,
find a stairway of paper-plates
to take us right down to earth.
But I don't leave it there,
race through the apartment
picking up papers, carbons,
the half-made poems disappearing
into paper-clips, folders. Suddenly
it's a tidy hinterland –
the desk bare, no books on the floor,
just that coffee-table
better-housekeeping look.
He smiles approval then
our eyes lock together, we purr,
it's love's dream whirring
till I see my two selves again
shadowing each other, colliding –
the writer watched warily by the
Vermeer girl, head down
over her chores.
Chartres Cathedral
The spires lean
into the air
touch the blue inside
of the sky
lightly
a philosophy
a cathedral
about to lift the world
off its knees
into the air
touch the blue inside
of the sky
lightly
a philosophy
a cathedral
about to lift the world
off its knees
The Survivor
~for Anna Akhmatova, 1889 - 1966
A woman sits in a corner of sun
tracing a poem. Slowly
she is woven into it like the day
as smells of burning
carry her outside.
There, soldiers and jailers
are blocking the street,
books are being burnt –
thousands of words collapsing
in on each other. Suddenly
she sees her own fate:
her fellow-poet is taken
leaving her only silence.
She goes back to continue the poem:
it will go on for twenty years
islanded in her head
and Russia will remember her
as a lover
waiting for the ice-walls to break,
for her hermit's cry
to be carried like fire
from hand to hand.
tracing a poem. Slowly
she is woven into it like the day
as smells of burning
carry her outside.
There, soldiers and jailers
are blocking the street,
books are being burnt –
thousands of words collapsing
in on each other. Suddenly
she sees her own fate:
her fellow-poet is taken
leaving her only silence.
She goes back to continue the poem:
it will go on for twenty years
islanded in her head
and Russia will remember her
as a lover
waiting for the ice-walls to break,
for her hermit's cry
to be carried like fire
from hand to hand.