Katie Donovan

Volcano

Saucer-sized homunculus

leaks scarlet pus, stains shirts,

emits an overpowering stink.

Its cousins are hidden –

their growth easier to ignore –

their plans mysterious.

This one is grumbling,

we’ve been warned:

it could erupt.

I have the blanket ready

for the lava burst,

and, for him, a sedative.

A quick death, 

this threatened haemorrhage. 

He welcomes it.

But our living memory 

would be forever branded

with that surge of gore.

That’s why, mornings,

I check the scene,

before I let the children in.

*

Their Side

He breathes in a guttural rasp,

all the hollows in his throat

like little devouring mouths.

For years he was immersed

in the tantalising secrets 

of his family’s past.

The lost ancestors clamour,

wishing to greet him,

charmed by his attention.

It won’t be long now

before he joins their side

and the shadows

of their forgotten lives

will be transfigured,

into light.

It won’t be long now

before he leaves us –

his living family – behind.

*

Making the Call

The snow fell like a shroud

as he slept over his soup,

the sixth day

of glaciered roads, 

the car useless,

the children stranded

at my mother’s.

I trudged down the hill

seeking quiche in the village,

panting home to whizz it smooth

for the sake of a few 

pained, attempted swallows.

I renewed the dressing

on his suppurating tumour,

the house was humming 

like a cruise ship,

with the heating full on

hour after hour, to try

and keep him warm.

It was when blood

spooled out of his mouth

and he couldn’t get up

that I made the call.

The ambulance was like

a fat yellow duck, waddling

slow and sure to our door, 

never slipping once

on the black ice,

nurse and driver beaming

through the blizzard. 

Safe in the hospice

he looked out on the garden,

huge snowflakes circling down,

his face spreading a smile,

ready for rice pudding.

*

Off Duty

Is my face just right,

am I looking as a widow should?

I pass the funeral parlour

where four weeks ago

the ceremony unfurled.

Now I’m laughing with the children.

The director of the solemn place

is lolling out front, sucking on a cigarette.

We exchange hellos,

and I blush, remembering

how I still haven’t paid the bill,

how I nearly left that day

with someone else’s flowers.

9 The Game of Sleep

10 Hold On

11 Child’s Play 

12 Wish

14 Christmas Birds

15 Arrival

16 Labour

18 Sinking

19 The Journey, the Destination

20 Poem to a Sleeping Man

22 Shell

23 The Drowning Elephant

25 The Next Exit

26 Still Well

28 Gluing Up

29 High Rack

31 Tears Naturelle

32 Years

33 Retail Therapy

35 Hallowe’ened

36 Mission

37 Dyno-Rod

39 Lucky

41 Shirts

42 Surgery

43 Operation

45 Marked

46 Lips

47 Four

49 Falling

50 The Electrician Says 

51 Taxi

53 Wedding

55 The Pinning

56 Away

57 The Kitchen

58 Volcano

59 His Last Winter

60 Their Side

61 Will You be There?

62 Making the Call

64 ‘What Can I Give Him?’

65 The Closing

66 At Least

67 Regalia

69 Off Duty

70 Widow

71 Erstwhile

72 Glenageary Sorting Office

73 Mourning

74 Next Year 

75 October

76 Familiar

77 Stress Buster

78 Winter Heroes

79 Wash

80 The Cough

81 Doors

82 50

83 Millefeuille

85 Humpty Dumpty

86 The Tooth Fairy’s Last Visit

87 Cusp

88 Foundation

89 Deeper

90 Snowdrops

91 Rue des Ursins

92 Benchmark

93 Witness

94 August

From the reviews of Rootling: New & Selected Poems:

'The voice of these poems is unpretentious, funny, earthy, honest and bursting with energy… It’s her craft, however, that creates the illusion of high-spirited spontaneity and buoyancy… In this new book Donovan’s remarkable fertility with imagery serves a profound exploration of the first and last mysteries of the flesh.' – Peggy O’Brien, The Irish Times

'These are subjects at the core of human experience, made poignantly luminous by Donovan’s assured touch and uncluttered poetic language.' – Dr Charlotte Beyer, Iota

'The new writing describes the birth and early years of her daughter and son with an impressive clarity and lightness. These are personal, touching and accessible pieces… full of struggles and delights.' – Charles Bainbridge, The Guardian

'Rootling [is] … a strikingly successful – and immensely enjoyable – attempt to name and chart all the various roots that have nourished and formed the poet.' – Jaki McCarrick, Poetry Ireland Review

'Donovan has an exceptional descriptive gift…a highly idiosyncratic, individualistic writer who probes experiences for hidden meanings...her seeming introversion is expressed through a poetry of great solidity and tactility… She covers a remarkable range…extending from the powerful elegies and international death-rituals of the opening poems to smart human parables' – Bernard O'Donoghue, Irish Times.