A weak candle
taking the coast road from town
as one would pick up change
from a counter; casually, without
motivation. and the car moves steady,
and natural as a trotting dog. once
I took this route
to visit an old girlfriend.
this was college –
she lived in bayside
with some friends
and I’d take the occasional trip. now
it’s just homeward, and she’s in england
somewhere, and happy, and a long time
with someone else. to my right
the sky darkens
in contrast with the sun – amber firing
all over ireland, like a weak candle
flicking a dark room. I try the radio,
then turn it off, and lean back
and absorb the evening. I’ve just dropped off
my current girlfriend
in sandyford; something adulterous
in these sneaking
pasts. but the mind goes
where the mind goes;
certain directions
all the time. you can’t stop it,
any more than horses. and daylight goes down too,
behind clontarf,
casts the shadows of trees
toward england.
• • •
The painter
(With apologies to Frank O’Hara)
anyway,
what I’ve always
really wanted
is to be a painter,
not a poet.
I am,
I guess, a poet,
though even then
I don’t feel it. two collections published;
one limited, the other
even in those shops
where I used to pass time in college
instead of going to class. but anyway,
I had a day
last week
and finally
bought the stuff – some paints
cheap, brushes
and two canvases. they sit on the table
in my kitchen
taunting me
like church bells
before mass. no excuses, and I had
all these pictures – a red fire –
a sunset over the dublin
chimney stacks – a man in a bar,
with a pint
and his head in his hands – but now;
wrapping them in words
somehow seems
enough. tearing off canvas
and watching
as the paint dries
like beaches in summer
with dying fish;
sand washed
by the sea bleaching,
and blinking
on my laptop
screen.
• • •
The comma
it was a black shape,
chrys told me,
and said she thought the dog
had done another shit. it was only
when she’d gotten the spade
she saw it properly. and it was a comma,
and the back half
of a sparrow, curling its guts
like crawling snails on the grass, black and green
and broken. the claws were relaxed; the wings
gone. feathers
rolled like petals
flicked from the tip
of a kicked up
flower.
some cat in the garden
while we’d both been out at work.
something stylish in sunlight,
flicking a beautiful tail.
later, when I’d gotten rid of the body
wrapped in an old shopping bag
the dog came inside
licking her nose and lips.
all evening, watching tv,
chrys refused
to touch her.
• • •
DS Maolalai 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).