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A Gift of Rivers
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About This Book
Kate Foley is a much published and respected poet with many awards to her name. This, her 8th collection is made from meeting, migration and marriage: poems reflecting the journey of one poet and her wife, across linguistic and geographical boundaries - and with Brexit in the offing, it's far from over yet.
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CATECHISMS
i Who made You?
Who made you? God made me.
Why did God make me? Little girl
voices, piercing as a chalk squeak, filling
late autumnâs afternoon classroom dusk,
believing in the importance of themselves
chanting. Like allintergethergirls, this
fineweathergirls, knowing if you dropped
the rhythm, made the rope stutter, something
that hung between you might break. Snap
of a brass switch. Shadows run from Mother
Monicaâs habit. Worn soap, no longer ivory,
her face in the scrimped, yellow 40 watt glimmer,
is like all mothersâ thinking abstractedly of tea,
canât or wonât tell the big secret I know
she knows, Who or Why or How I must be?
ii The Means of Grace
Pamela Grierson wasnât even a Catholic.
She had tight fair baby curls â you could
unkindly say a frizz â and small teeth
which would age grey, not yellow but
Mother St Helen, whose teeth were already
yellow and Mother Aquinas, whose farmerâs
face reddened as she looked fondly, knew
despite being a Prod, she could do no wrong.
âOriginal Justiceâ that state is called and wangles Noble
Savages and Prods whom Providence has excluded
from the Means of Grace, into Heaven. âWhy?â
I argued. âSheâs here at school. Invincible Ignorance!â
A mean, ungraceful choice of weapon. The sin
of logic over kindness. It will always win.
iii And the Hope of Glory
which gathered at the door of the chapel
in febrile silence, in the splash of holy water
on your dress, in the thin, wobbly voices of nuns,
and the shadows round the blaze of white and gold,
Himself, who never failed to disappoint.
But the old, brown gardening nun who swallowed
and smiled as I cut her irises to the corm,
then showed me the folded purple thrust and green
that has to grow, knew skill, weather, luck
and kindness, all as strands of hope,
the ontology of her garden not
what it seemed but twisted together,
rough and strong as twine
supporting scarlet runners or a vine.
iv For Four out of Seven Sacraments
you get a white dress, well I suppose
in a mother and baby home they lend
you one. Late to communion, wouldnât
wear a sash, suffered rag curlers, skew-
whiff wreath, no spectacles, sun blazing off
the shiny serge bellies of the marching band,
Our Ladyâs grotto a white blur. Confirmation â
legs longer, dress shorter, pink bishopâs hand
and waiting, waiting for that friendly
fat pigeon who never came, to light on
my shoulder, nibble my ear. Somewhere
in that g...
Table of contents
- Cover
- Title Page
- CONTENTS
- Dedication
- PERMISSION
- WISHBONE
- CATECHISMS
- A LOOSE CONFIGURATION
- A LITTLE LOCAL LOVE
- LIKE A GLOVE
- ORDINARY EXILE
- FOREIGNERS
- MOTHERS AND FATHERS
- UNMASKED
- From THE SILVER REMBRANDT
- STICKS
- BECOMING ENOUGH
- THE QUAIL SYNDROME
- JAIL BREAK
- SHEEP MAY SAFELY
- HEREâS THE CHURCH, WHEREâS THE STEEPLE?
- BACK TO BASICS
- A GIFT OF RIVERS
- WIVES
- WHEN I LIE NEXT TO YOU IN SLEEP
- I AM YOUR SECOND LANGUAGE
- IN THE DOGWATCHES
- SLEEPING TOGETHER
- HEART SURGERY
- TO THE FIELD OF REEDS
- COPYRIGHT