Sunday, April 29, 2018

Poetry By DS Maolalai

DS Maolalai recently returned to Ireland after four years away, now spending his days working maintenance dispatch for a bank and his nights looking out the window and wishing he had a view. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press. He has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Winedrunk in Kerry.

the stars that spot above us
as alive
as woodlice
on a white pine floor,
with the colours then flipped by a photographer - but there must
be some easier way
of saying this,
of getting us right
to the heart
of the nighttime;
white spots on plums
light dappled on the curves of a bowl full of blackberries
a dropped box of dominoes scattered on dark tile

aw fuck,
we are all winedrunk in Kerry -
who cares how you would say about the sky,
we are sitting here on the little bridge by a bar called An Droichead,
all happy,
all talking
(we think)
pretty clever,
all 18
and still looking good.

below us the water only sinks a few inches
but it is as black as the night sky is,
shine given in spots by the streetlamps on ripple,
and making a loud thunder
running as shallow as it does
like a rake
over rocks.


had it right though -
someone in senate
who finally
could do no damage.
who you could shoot
when they got old
and mince
and sell for dogfood. imagine
a charger in charge
who liked skies
and meadows
and who didn't get into politics
because girls kept laughing at his dick.

On the death of Stephen Hawking

who cares?
auld philandering vegetable.
I hope he's rotting
in a hell he doesn't believe in
and smoking like a burned grape. hell,
I hope I go there too - I don't believe
in hell either
but I could talk to him
and I suppose apologise for being so disrespectful
in this one poem that I wrote.
although I maintain
that he wouldn't have been famous
if he didn't look so interesting
that's true for a lot
of famous people,
and while the cynic I am
wants to mock him
the romantic
wants to hear him tell me
something about stars.

I think she hooks a little but I won't ask and she wouldn't say.

burns slowly
but undeniably
with style.

some people explode.
dani won't explode.

she's a lion-headed dandelion
blowing away on the wind.

The curve.

the son pulls up sharp,
leaves the g off his sunglasses
and peers over
at girls
strolling past him after school. he's steered
into the pavement - your husband
taught him straight. he turns in now
even without thinking, even
looking around
for something else to leer at
when his mind should be fallen
like leaves on this new tragedy.

last week your sister tripped.
they say she got her skirts caught
right in the turn of
the staircar.
Paul is in hospital -
the nurses aren't treating him right.
Ellen won't eat her breakfast
or drink anything but milk.

you have news for him.
you always have news.
he will enter and be handed it
like a heap of long receipts. the girls
turn at the corner
and walk on,
legs flashing white curls
at the sight where the skirt meets the stocking.
there is a curve he sees
going around the corner. and this house

is a packet of angles.

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