DS Maolalaí has been nominated four times for Best of the Net and three times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019).
Inscriptions.
reading through books
in a second hand store
like shopping at lunchtime
for fresh apples –
standing at a stall
in the temple bar market
and testing for age and firmness,
looking down
along the sides
for signs of any rot.
incidental sweetness
people’s penciled carelessness
scored in brown marks.
~
My legacy.
it’s one thing, this
doing poetry,
but the bathroom needed tiling
and my aunt had taken a break
from her paintings
so we could knock it all out
quickly and in one afternoon.
last time they were done
was nearly 60 years earlier – fixed in
by my grandfather, dead now, and sometimes
also a poet. I’ve never read his stuff –
he didn’t publish much,
just wrote them down
longhand with pencils and cigarettes
to throw away. and we peeled it
back with chisels, hammers
and broken screwdrivers, killed any spiders
and sanded the walls. Then
we applied cement
and pushed in the fresh ones. all
very good. new paint
and waterproof grouting. white and tile-grey,
like teeth and white toothpaste. I stood back, imagining
it stuck there – my work to last
for as long as the house would still stand. the toilet,
new too
in the centre. waiting for piss to come toppling,
spitting like poems
on a winedrunk night.
~
The van.
I didn’t want it
much. didn’t want to take
a bus journey to an office
in a new location
and when they offered me
a vehicle
I also didn’t
want that.
but they were insistent
and finding a new job
would be difficult
in the circumstances.
girlfriend maybe pregnant
and we’re looking
for a house.
and of course
you do get used to things;
try out various routes
and find a quick one
through the city.
get used to reading less
and figuring out the radio.
the way things happen
without their meaning to happen.
like breaking the leather
in uncomfortable shoes.
seals on the wreck
of an easy life – watching
as whales topple icefloes.
~
Midnight mass
it’s an ancient choir;
dust, wool clothes
and christmas
carols. and somehow
they sound better
than any
beautiful song. the way a garden
looks better
with blackbirds picking
than peacocks. old ladies,
all age
and no
immaculate notes.
it’s midnight mass, 9pm, and rag-drunk
on wine since sundown. candles
all over, making light
with the varnish
of wood. and the prose
from the gospels
frankly not bad either.
you could almost believe
that these people believe it.
you could almost believe
something else.