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Jeff Gallagher is originally from Manchester and grew up in Cheshire. He was educated at Lord Wandsworth College, Hampshire and Keele University. His poems have featured in many publications including The Rialto, Acumen, New Critique, Littoral and The Journal. For many years he was a teacher of English and Latin. He has had numerous plays for children published and many of these have been performed nationwide. He has also appeared in an Oscar-winning movie. He currently lives in Sussex.

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Introduction

Like many people of my generation, I feel quite strongly influenced by Auden, Eliot, Larkin and Hughes. The poems I was taught at school (some very ‘traditional’), and those which I have myself subsequently taught, have also created a lasting impression on me. An anthology of my ‘favourites’ would include, in addition to the above, poets as diverse as Norman Nicholson, U.A. Fanthorpe and D.H. Lawrence. Lawrence especially interests me: that constant struggle to reconcile saying what he felt with finding the right form in which to say it. I also admire Auden’s diction, his precision, his economy.

I don’t have a specific approach to how I write. I have tried many different forms, although I don’t usually set myself the ‘challenge’ of writing a sestina, a villanelle or whatever. I am more interested in the rhythm of the words I use, and how well those words convey a ‘message’ when read aloud. I don’t like being too introspective. I don’t presume other people are interested in me and I prefer to be an observer ‘on the sidelines’, or to assume the ‘voice’ of an imagined protagonist. Sometimes I try to parody a familiar ‘style’ – for example, that of a news broadcast, or an obituary – or employ language related to the usual everyday assaults on our senses by advertising and social media. We are partly defined by the words we carry in our heads – so the vocabularies of religious worship and of pop music, drummed into the memory, still exert an influence.

There are two types of subject matter which have often engaged me. These are popular culture, TV, film and fashion; and history, especially our interpretation of it, and how it relates to current events. Most of the poems featured stem from the latter.

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Jeff Gallagher: Eight Poems

HISTORY

The rock and the club and the spark to make fire,
A hide and a carcass, a spear and a knife,
The sowing, the harvest, the store for the winter,
The village, the empire, the civilised life.

Philosophy, culture, the pride of the warrior,
The need for a leader to show you the light,
Indecision, suspicion, the hoarding of plenty,
And fighting for causes they told you were right.

The stake and the axe and the flaming hot poker,
Lies, superstition, false promises, famine,
Rhetoric, lost hope and man-made disasters,
The killing of children, the torture of women.

Murder rebranded as collateral damage,
The constant suppression of anything odd,
Like those with a different language or culture,
And those who believed in the wrong sort of god.

Heroes defending what cowards had stolen,
Inequality hidden by national pride,
Swastikas, heraldry, crosses and eagles,
Bright flags and platitudes for those who had died.

Destroying the planet disguised as prosperity,
Dreamers and schemers ignoring the science,
Marketing rubbish as essential to living,
Envy and greed in one more grand alliance.

After desert and snowstorm and flood and pandemic,
The poor go to heaven, the rich go to Mars;
The rest live in caves, find a spark to make fire,
Start another new history, then weep at the stars.

JUST SAYING

Hidden in heart and sense,
touched by the cruel and kind –
the obstacles, the open doors,
the goals attained, the chances missed –
we seek with reverence
choice words that might be mined.

The need to frame our living
as epic or biopic,
our joys and triumphs, give us cause –
bereavements, births, our treasured list
of loathing or forgiving –
to pen our chosen topic.

We search for thought or phrase
to fix our memories,
but feel emotion soon surpass
our skill; and so with busy hands
we catch the precious days
in virtual galleries.

Or taste reluctant tears
moistening a stubbled face –
with platitudes, we raise a glass
to birthdays, funerals, rings and prams,
our fading hopes, our fears
adorned in gold and lace.

Then, as our epitaph,
we cite some clever line
from poets who have wrought with pain
profound constructions, built to name
those landmarks on the path
thrown up by age and time.

But poets cannot explain
the purpose of our season –
our influence, what we believed,
all that we failed at, or achieved,
our very being, remain
beyond all rhyme and reason.

SIX BENEFITS OF TURNIPS

‘A lot of people would be eating turnips right now.’
(Advice from Therese Coffey, Environment Secretary, on how to maintain a healthy diet during the cost of living crisis.)

They assist the absorption of iron –
this raises your fitness levels
and boosts your physical strength.

They reinforce the firmness of bones –
this creates self-confidence
and encourages flexibility.

They have traces of manganese –
these will boost your immunity
and help you absorb more nutrients.

Their fibre supports your gut –
this will help you settle your nerves,
and make you brave in adversity.

They are high in vitamin K –
this speeds the clotting of blood
and the healing of common wounds.

They improve your cognitive function –
this will develop your initiative
and give you the edge in battle.

Turnips are prohibited to us –
we must rely on meat and fish
to maintain our combat readiness.

Turnips are your special privilege –
bringing you closer to your roots
and the land you now defend.

Turnips are a healthy lifestyle option –
consumed by generations of patriots,
sustaining them in times of hardship.

You must eat them in the fields –
you must eat them in the trenches –
you must never surrender what is yours.

Turnips are the cherished fruit –
our history and our heritage –
the foundation of our society.

You stand among heroes, prepared
to defend what is yours: right now,
a lot of people will be eating turnips.

(The title is taken from an article in Saga magazine.)

BARBECUE

As barbecue season draws closer
it’s time to get your grilling set up
just right. Whether you prefer
authentic coal or easy gas, we’ve
put together all you need to know
to make you the king of the grill.

Buy your chunks of chopped cow
and dissected pig’s particulars
in handy polystyrene trays
wrapped in cellophane. Cremate steaks
on sticks, immersing charred slices
of deadstock in their own fat.

Chop down trees for wood. Plant pasture.
Feed cattle. Let them fart methane
into a sky lined with vapour trails.
Then kill them. Purchase your processed
heterocyclic amines and wait
for your colon to reach a full stop.

For those in a hurry or thinking about
the environment, there’s ‘Grillin’ On
The Go’. Save on fuel. Save the planet.
Clean your chin with a wet wipe. Establish
your green credentials with a garnish
of lettuce straight from the packet.

Now take the earth. Poke it, flip it, cut it.
Serve it in a sandwich. Have it on a plate.
Blame your cancer on the government.
The clever design of your barbecue
includes a chimney which will disperse excess
smoke into your neighbour’s garden.

EINSATZ

I do not really expect you to
understand what is going to happen.
I shall explain it in gentle words,
like a prayer, or a lullaby.

How fortunate we are to
be together at this moment.
This is an important occasion:
there are people watching us.

We are gathered here today to
travel to a new destination.
It will soon be time for all of us
to return to the arms of God.

The man in uniform, about to
extinguish his cigarette, stands.
He is an angel, and his duty
is to give us our instructions.

Soon our turn will arrive to
walk beyond that line of trees.
You will see people you recognise:
your family and your friends.

Like us, they are required to
be naked, as the rules insist.
We brought nothing into this world
and we may take nothing out.

Asleep and still, they seem to
be dreaming of what is to come.
They no longer fear or suffer
any separation or harm.

They seem too many for God to
accommodate in his house.
But the necessary arrangements
have already been agreed.

I do not really expect you to
understand what is going to happen.
But be content that I am playing
with you and making you smile.

You turn your head again to
cling to my breast, afraid.
And yet you have nothing to fear
if you listen to my voice.

The angel raises his arms to
deliver a kind of blessing.
For an accurate record, he says,
we must speak our correct names.

Future scribes are certain to
declare this a memorable day.
A child, his mother, the old ones,
the smiles, the family gathering.

Here is your doll: she is to
journey on the same permit.
Like you, she has never lied or
betrayed, need confess no sins.

Only because we learned to
obey were we given this chance.
Only those who do not question
the law can receive this gift.

I do not really expect you to
understand what is going to happen.
But be content that you lived, once,
and gave us a reason for joy.

Lie down with me now, try not to
cry or become alarmed.
And before you close your eyes, look:
we are surrounded by angels.

DUMMY

Spent the first thirty years
as a shop window mannequin –
my buff, polish, overhaul, spit and shine
seeking approval from others
too busy working on their own presentation
to pay much attention –

the faults in its design
patched up by my surgery –
my squeeze and tweeze, my rasp and prune and pluck
creating a glistening model
smoothed over with smells, with creams and sprays,
and manicured mince.

Then spent thirty more
in regular maintenance –
my brush, dye, massage, smear and gloss,
diverting attention away
from flaking paint and plaster cracks,
created a demon –

the face, the empty eyes
revived by variety –
my style, trend, tailoring, shape and cut
yearning some acceptance
as something constructed, ornamental,
shrouded with fashion.

Now this body is spent
and removed from display –
the aches, scrapes, scratches, strains and pains
showing its age and decay,
a figure denuded and decommissioned,
and shorn of pretence –

but my body, reclaimed,
is no longer exhibited:
the marks, spots, moles, gaps and growths
are regarded with easy comfort;
and, stripped of disguise and decoration,
I am finally human.

SAMSON

You are blind now, and compelled
to compose long symphonies of death
and paint landscapes of dust.

Your creations are theatres of war
shaped by anonymous sculptors
flying at twenty thousand feet.

Now your manuscripts are burning,
their charred edges framing agreements
breached, and promises broken.

There is no more music in the streets
or on the airwaves – all ears are tuned
to the frequency of sirens.

This stage has the Complete Works:
revenge, much blood, speeches
and rude mechanicals who direct the show.

The new poetry is unverified footage
and flash photography of scenes which
some of us may find upsetting.

And God’s finger, severed by shrapnel,
cannot inspire us to reflect upon
this ochistka, these kindertotenlieder.

Our children will never rival you as artists:
they conduct the flames, blank canvases
and empty scores flapping in surrender.

The earth is embroidered with craters,
a series of subtle sfumato gradations
that do not include lines or borders.

Your canon of invented histories serves
as your muse, your technology forging
this brazen substitute for culture.

These unexpected cadenzas in the midst
of the familiar are designed to shock
and awe your appreciative audience.

But there is no applause for this latest
virtuoso performance: your great works
set no precedent for this blindness.

Now you must throw down the temple,
while we steal away, to leave you
listening to the silence you have created.

NINE LIVES

Death was much closer then,
dancing on feast days
or holding the hand of a child
claimed as a tithe

before we began to delay him,
waiting at bedsides
while smiling priests and quacks
prayed for a cure

or saw the dead as still alive,
hoarding their treasures
and morphing into spirits
for liars to tame.

Death is the world’s spent force,
a long lost relation,
kept at arm’s length with pills
dispensed like sweets,

who cannot kill: instead
we pass, with our dying
an informed consumer choice
shrugged off with smiles –

till we are borne beyond doors
to float through the sky
away from those who mourn,
and ease their pain.

Death seems so distant now:
yet here he is still,
attending the wounded child
mourning his father

and here, to lay a hand
of false condolence
upon the grieving mother
crying for peace

and here, as I conceive
his triggered finger:
his blazing arms enfold me
and his heart is flame.

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