Biography of Katherine Gallagher
Katherine Gallagher is an Australian poet resident in London.
Gallagher's poems have been published in French, German, Hebrew, Italian, Romanian and Serbian.
Gallagher translated from French to English Jean-Jacques Celly's poems in The Sleepwalker with Eyes of Clay.
Writer in Residence at Railway Fields Nature Reserve, Harringay, in 2002.
Writers Inc/Blue Nose Poets' Education Officer until 2008. In 2004/2005 this included coordinating the Young Writer's Mentorship Project funded by the Arts Council.
Poet in Residence for Havering Council's third annual Parks and Arts Healthy Lifestyle Walk in Hornchurch Country Park on 17 July 2006.
Founder of the Poetry Society Stanza Group (London North), started in March 2007.
1978, Australian Literature Board Fellowship
1981, Brisbane Warana Prize
1986, nomination of "Passengers to the City" for the John Bray National Poetry Award.
2000, Royal Literary Fund award
2008, London Society of Authors' Foundation award
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Katherine Gallagher Poems
Dog waits in and out of shadows. Dog dives around chairs and feet.
The Last War
There was only one war, and it was finishing any day soon. Ears keyed to the wireless, we waited. Then the news: Japan bombed, gigantic clouds curling, skies burnt scarlet —
Thinking Of My Mother On The Anniversary...
I search her face across a hemisphere, embark on one more journey: Will you come?
After Kandinsky: Blue Painting (1924)
Let the eye investigate blue and all the arrows focus gravity. Across the spectrum — cerulean,
We have covered him with real flowers and taken him from country to country. It’s always the same journey —
He had a way of looking at the clock when he arrived, while undressing. She never
Kathe Kollwitz 'The Face Of War'
Black paint grits under my nails. Always death, his death leaping ahead. My son, eighteen, how I begged him not to go.
After Kandinsky: Yellow, Red, Blue (1925...
Watch the animal eyes that whisk corners faster than an angel breathing passwords in a mesh of yellow. Cloud-sure, life flags itself on. Circle after circle is mapped in the mystery
I take my countries as they come, fall in beside other travellers lifting their lives like lightweight suitcases carried under the heart
Getting The Electricity On
The farm has changed, face-lifted since we put away the lamps or hung them up with lanterns, as antiques. The house is new-veined, lush.
Haunting, the way they discovered them — selves in spiralling night messages — a web of promises broken, abandoned under the eye’s disdain: cool words
That year you lost your husband you wore one brave face after another. Next thing, you kept changing countries. Making a fresh start, you called it.
For Julien At Six Weeks
Already you have taken the world by your fingertips small hands closing on
That day Uncle Tom was a hero. Mostly he was unpopular just for living with us in the old family home — taking up space, thinking it was his.
For Julien At Six Weeks
you have taken the world
by your fingertips
small hands closing on
grapes of air,
first fruits that you touch
and hold at arm’s length
to choose and choose again.