Katie Donovan interviewed on RTÉ Radio 1's Poetry People & on the Shaking Bog & Books for Breakfast podcasts; reviews in The Irish Times & The Friday Poem; feature in...
This is our first time
meeting: she turns out
to be small, straight-nosed,
determined –
oddly familiar.
It was she who ended it,
their long engagement;
moved on, to a better job,
a certainty she needed –
more than he had to give.
As I puppet my way
through the narrative
of his illness, she grows still.
It is a long drive to the grave,
and I wait
while she has her tears.
I’d like to blame her
for something.
She’d like to pour balm on me.
She thinks quietly –
I imagine –
of her lucky escape.
I think of his misery.
But we are alive now,
and he has been gone
for seven years.
So I drive more hours
and we speak of our children,
as women do:
we women,
who live
long enough.
*
Snowman
After the blizzard,
the road is cleared;
bread and milk
are finally delivered.
The retreat of ice
leaves slush;
drip of melt
from the eaves.
Birds sing of their survival
through the freeze.
Ten years ago
a different storm
blew in – froze us,
brought him to the hospice,
buried Christmas.
When it left
his breath went with it.
Our snowman’s head shrinks,
loosening his stone teeth.
I begin to fear this thaw.
What will be uncovered
once the blanket is lifted?
Nothing is ever finished.
*
First Aid
Will I break her ribs?
Snap her clavicle?
I press and count:
One, two, three, four,
a burn kindling
in my braced legs.
My daughter holds the phone
as the emergency lady
guides us,
as we take it in turn
to dissuade
my mother’s heart
from quitting.
It’s not the same
as learning First Aid,
practising on a doll.
This my girl’s
grandmother, sprawled
on the floor – loud,
brash, stubborn as hell –
now, just a shell.
At last, the First Responder
finds us, takes over;
the ambulance team
fires up a defibrillator;
she’s stretchered
down our narrow stairs,
and sirened to the ICU.
We are left
in the shaking house.
It’s a Friday morning,
she had just
eaten scrambled egg,
in bed, said she felt
a little better,
ready to get up.
Next, we heard the crash.
*
Salad Days
I’m sorry,
you can’t be a poet any more –
you aren’t young or sexy now;
or even a beautiful person
whom everyone online adores.
You haven’t had a lover in years
and your children are teenagers.
You look all right – but not in photos –
and worst of all
you’re so peggable as a mum.
That’s you in the supermarket, right?
hovering over spinach
dreaming up a nice school lunch?
You should be slumped
over espresso in some NYC lookalike café,
or drinking wine as you pen
another lyric to heartache.
Stop thinking about feeding the birds
and paying the heating bill.
Don’t eat any more chocolate,
and, as for cheering your son on
while he plays soccer –
have you totally lost it?
If you could have just frozen yourself
circa 1995, when you wrote that one poem –
you know, that ended up
by freakish chance in the anthology? –
you might have managed
to remain a viable presence
on the poetry scene. But now,
well, truth to say (unless you’re prepared
to give a reading for a fund-raiser –
would you be? for free?)
you’re just a has-been.
Contents List
11 Deluge
12 Lost Song
13 Polar Switch
14 In a Perfect World
15 Arachne’s Metamorphosis
17 Wings
19 Interruption
20 The Verge
21 Stories
22 Invasive
24 Foxed
30 Midsummer Rescue
33 Détente
35 Honeycomb
37 My Fluffy Valentine
38 Recycling
39 Murder
40 Shelter
42 Needle
43 The Three Who Were Lost
44 Baby Feet
45 Home to Vote
47 Let’s Go
48 Two Women, One Grave
50 The Diggers
52 Beaming
54 Snowman
55 Archaeology
57 Portrait of the Mother as a Clay Teapot
59 Undertow
60 First Aid
62 Picnic in the ICU
63 The Dragon-printed Robe
65 Walk On By
66 Signs
67 Death and Taxes
68 Midlife Crisis
70 Salad Days
71 Spain
72 This Singular Horse
74 Berkeley
75 Olive Trees, Provence
77 Rome Project
78 Shapeshifting
80 May Swim, White Rock, 2020
81 Salvage
82 Marking Time, Dalkey
83 Catching Flies
84 Bailing
85 Divination
86 Sizing Up
87 Recess
88 Dancing Queens
90 The Seal