Owen Gallagher

Owen Gallagher

A book for Christmas: The Sikh Snowman
Saturday, 11 December 2021 09:59

A book for Christmas: The Sikh Snowman

Published in Fiction

Some snowmen had topknots. Some wore football scarves and skull caps. Some had veils over their faces. One had fairy wings. They all began to sing......

Snowfall, friendship and feelings combine in this heartfelt and celebratory story about coming together. There's a relatable and joyous sense of wonder as the snow starts and as the friends pull together to build their snowman. Filled with heart, hope and humanity, it is easy to imagine The Sikh Snowman becoming a firm favourite. - Jake Hope, Youth Libraries Group

The Sikh Snowman, by Owen Gallagher with artwork by Fiona Stewart, ISBN 978-1-912710-29-4. Price: £9 plus £3 p. and p.

Everyone's Hearts Were Clapping
Saturday, 28 March 2020 10:54

Everyone's Hearts Were Clapping

Published in Poetry

onavirusEveryone’s Hearts Were Clapping

by Owen Gallagher

Everyone stood outside their front door.
As the clock struck eight they began to clap
slowly as if someone was coming on stage
but as more in the street joined in, they clapped
louder and louder as if they were freeing
something within, perhaps a patient who never
had the opportunity to thank everyone
who looked after them when they were ill.

Everyone was clapping all over the country
banging lids, pots. Fireworks lit the sky.
Their spirits zoomed. They felt how a patient
must feel when administered good news.
Their hands will never finish clapping.
Everyone has been a patient.
Everyone’s hearts are clapping.
As long as hearts clap, hands will too.

Friday, 24 January 2020 10:57


Published in Poetry


by Owen Gallagher, with image by Jon Addison

When a Conservative candidate calls
Ruth wears a blue rosette.

When a Labour candidate knocks
she reaches for red.

If there’s a rapid rap she freezes
at the thought

of her grandparents rising as smoke
from a chimney.

National Poetry Day: The Truth about the Arms Trade
Wednesday, 18 September 2019 16:01

National Poetry Day: The Truth about the Arms Trade

Published in Poetry

The Arms Trade

by Owen Gallagher

Hearing of a request for an instrument
of death they swoop onto our estate.
They have no website or business card

to sell rifles and guns from the boot
of a car alongside pit bulls guaranteed
to eat and excrete your enemies.

Knuckle-dusters and machetes are two for one.
Drop-dead poisons are on special –
bouncers and minders on speed-dial.

A sliding scale of rates range
from teeth extractions to assassinations –
backhanders to the boys in blue not included.

Police records can be erased,
new identities created with the assistance
of Her Majesty’s employees.

Limb and corpse disposal is available
to Gold Card holders.
Late payments are taken in severed ears.

Mayday poem: The Blacklist
Thursday, 02 May 2019 12:47

Mayday poem: The Blacklist

Published in Poetry

The Blacklist

by Owen Gallagher

Everyone sped off at the end of their shift.
No one saw him sobbing in his car.
No one paused to say he deserved a star
for speaking out; that his courage was a gift.

He feared his wife’s reaction to the news,
he’d been sacked instantly without pay,
and was on a blacklist for his views,
this was his last working day.

No one saw him reverse his car
into the river and drop out of sight.
His workmates sent a sympathy card.
His wife set his boss’s car alight.

Monday, 14 December 2015 23:08

Two Poems by Owen Gallagher

Published in Poetry

The Accumulation of Capital

Marx and Engels almost drained this bar in Soho,
finishing ‘The Manifesto of the Communist Party’.
Thirsting for another round, I consider pickpockets,
not the ones working streets and malls,
or those in pulpits pilfering what’s left in minds,
but the one kitted out like a toff,
currently lifting my friend’s wallet. I ram
the full force of justice behind his knees
and haul him to his feet, lecture him, mercilessly,
on the nature of Capitalism, how it encourages thieves.

First published in the Morning Star

I Saw A New World Being Assembled

In the tenements
    there were workers
who built dreams for others,

singers who got drunk
    on rebel songs,
fighters who fought

for themselves
    in the workplace
and lost every round.

All were in revolt
    against their masters
one way or another.

I saw a new world
    being assembled
in a sweatshop, dreamers,

singers, fighters, unfurled
    a union flag, voices
were bolted and welded into one.

From Militant Thistles, militantthistles.moonfruit.com