Five Poems by DS Maolalai (Diarmuid ó Maolalaí)

 

Mongrels

 

light comes down thickly

like spiders on thread

upon buildings and liffey-

side docks; burning all over

the floating and motion

with colours

and various blues.

 

and they're tearing down all

of the dockland-side warehouses

to make room, so apartments

can spread out their legs. alright,

I suppose – people must

live somewhere –

but there's no style to any of them,

no style at all.

like getting rid of the mutt

and buying a dealer-

bred puppy. in 50 years

 

time then these things

may look natural. until then,

thought, they're ugly

and rough out of place.

 

The kitchen table

 

went for some second-

hand furniture. Chrysty’s

been working now

full-time from home –

needs a desk that will fit

her much-too-big computer

and keyboard. pens and some

pads and some objects.

 

got a table instead.

pulled out from somebody’s

kitchen. it'll do, and it fit

in the van. and a barstool,

quite cheap, which we don’t

yet have plans for. eventually

we’ll put a plant on it – a fern.

 

it looks quite good,

stood where it is

by the sofa. the lamp

throws a shadow

of patterns. reading

I feel like a tiger.

A patch-furred dog

 

the fire flares finally

and we lay out our sausages.

slices of bacon, impatient

cheap hamburgers – and you’re

supposed to wait hungry

for the charcoal to whiten,

but we cannot do that

since we're all hungry

 

now. and the red flame

burns anyway; black-brown

with some white bits,

the mixed-up meat tones

of a patchy furred mongrel,

sending smells next door

to heaven. I let you flip them

 

while I sit five minutes,

then take the plate

and pass it around

with buns

and onions and ketchup. we chew,

drinking and feeling the sun,

feeling freedom,

 

hoping the strength

of the flavour we taste

is because the meat is good quality

and not because it’s too

undercooked.

 

Carrion

 

eating lasagne, core cold

and old tupperware,

microwaved in our stripped

leitrim cottage. and tea:

 

sharing room temperature

milk for the tea – on a sofa

jammed slantways,

half moved through

the kitchen. our knees

broken tables, our plugged-

out refrigerator

laid on its side,

waiting for the man

from the dump.

 

we crouch

in the ribs

of this opened

breast of building. pick

like birds at carrion,

broken on a side

of road. 

Making things warm

 

on the corner

of the sofa, eating toast

with real butter.

tearing off edges

and throwing them down

for the dog. she goes crazy –

I suppose I would too

if I had to. the flavour of butter

a depth in the crispness

of crust. her eyes springing

wider – dancing like mice

around catclaws. my back

on the sofa melting warmth

from black leather.

like being in a pool

and surrounded by water.

or warm butter. life, I thought,

such life. so much

of making things warm

or warm enough to enjoy them.

hills in italy, the sun

and grapes growing.

DS Maolalai - Diarmuid ó Maolalaí has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has nominated eleven times for Best of the Net, eight for the Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)