5 Poems by D S 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.
Squatters rights.
they all stand up
when I come.
very respectful
like butlers
caught smoking
in untucked shirtsleeves.
then
when they see
I'm not here to kill
or take out any trash
they settle again,
flecking down
like black confetti
on every white surface
and I'm sure
on all the other ones.
I am the queen
to their colony,
the lioness
bringing the bread. I am
their source
for bacon rind
and the stems of cauliflowers,
orangeskins
on a good day
and on a great one
wine.
I'm sure
they dont resent me
my evenings spent stalking the walls
and striking
with a black thumb from their guts
and their wings.
after all
I'm the one washing it
and they're set
up.
they don't even split the rent we owe
or help out
with any utilities.
Life in an open cave.
we wrote home of nothing -
come to somewhere new
where everything
was promised
and nothing
needed at all.
why then
would we want
family following?
we rented a place
near a bend in the road,
trout fishing
close by
and a tv
that picked up
3 stations
and shopping
after 11pm.
the radio cable
reached
from the kitchen
to the porch
and two miles down
there was a man
who sold beer
cheap
from a cooler
and newspapers
3 days out of tune.
the world
closed
like a flower at night
and our lives
opened
like a flower in the morning -
we had what we needed
and asked for nothing else
and we were given it too,
with a complementary side of bacon,
birdsong
and some butter
to go on our toast.
Checkers.
there's nothing much like it;
sleeping together
after you've got used
to each others bodies,
after
your legs
no longer play against one another
like hockey sticks
chasing the puck.
there's something
restful,
like sinking
into a heated swimming pool
or feeling arms reach out
quietly in bed.
such a fine chess-game,
knowing the moves,
the click of pieces,
simple as checkers.
we both play,
respectful,
knowing
where the game is going
and early on,
how it's going to end;
neither of us
coming here to castle;
king me
and do it now.
Symphony.
the piano
goes spooky
and the violins
play
like someone
is killing a dog.
this
is symphony.
this is the world
revealed.
wine
stings my lips,
dry
as the string section.
my glass,
wet as the trombone player's
feet.
the radio
is tilted - there's a biro
under one end
and it buzzes the table
whenever the bass drum hits.
it all adds
to the sound. the table
is just another instrument
and outside
the rain hitting the window
comes like percussion
and the buses
driving people home.
sometimes
static
shakes
and changes the tenor to rage.
I drink
and listen
like a jazz-band spectator - all this
improvisation;
good music
can stand
any amount
of interference.
Diagnosis.
quiet as a cat in handbag
bad health comes in
creeping,
sitting behind the wheelie-bins
and standing behind you,
sleepy
in a crowded pub.
you're feeling fine,
you could walk
the steps of Rio
or go 3 to 1
fighting hercules
and then suddenly
it's 90 for a check-up
and 600 for a full
scan,
80
with the crown for
another 100,
a full grand for a biopsy
while worrying
comes along free.
age
is a place
where the rich go
to retire
and set alarm clocks
while we walk around
with a pain in our side
we don't talk about
and a sensation
that only comes sometimes
when we piss,
we smoke
because
if it's a rib out of joint
then we're healthy
so fuck
and if it's something else
then it's too late
to start
stopping it
now.
