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

ripple,

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

scraping

over rocks.

incitatus

caligula

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

nuts,

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.

dani

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.