Unfamiliar things
it’s tough – walking dublin
with my wife now.
every turn a memory;
some other woman’s place.
like the breaking of eggs
open badly at breakfast
and watching the yellow
as it fries into white.
we get coffee one morning –
I’ve had coffee before. I drink
a lot of coffee – often on dates.
or movies. ones I’ve seen
and other ones
which someone didn’t feel
like watching.
or parks. jesus, or parks.
her hands get cold –
she doesn’t wear gloves
and likes to put her hands
in my pocket. I don’t think
anyone’s done that. or wait –
no; someone did.
does it with someone else now.
or not. doesn’t matter. we all move
and this is what comes
out of traveling, seeing
such unfamiliar things. everything
becomes familiar. going to spain
and getting a different mcdonalds.
this burger a little like that one.
A pedestrian animal
sitting out Wednesday
on a North Dublin balcony.
watching pedestrians
as they walk early quarantine.
it’s remarkable sitting; no-one ever
looks up – not in the whole time
that I’m watching. invisible,
being here, sitting so
high. you could be walking
beneath falling pianos
or under the most marvellous
architecture. mankind, I’m afraid,
is a pedestrian animal. very ground level
like dogs around
corners. I watch all the movement,
the steadiness
of legs. the natural gait
of the very best rowers. all minds
on ahead, not around.
The courtyard
life given colour
like blood in spat toothpaste.
the windows around me
all shining white squares
as a lantern string hung
through a garden for chinese
new year. flitting thin skins
across bonnets
of cars, all gauze
and hung willow-
branch curtains;
the occasional silhouette
standing behind them.
moving about,
struggling with a blindcord.
London, Toronto
I do wonder sometimes
what old loves
are doing. it’s weakness –
please pardon
a taste for nostalgia.
sometimes worry
I’ll see them
in the street
or in coffee shops,
though of course
most are elsewhere,
and are beautiful
as elsewhere always
is. that is to say
not very beautiful.
London, Toronto –
warts on the lip
of a landscape. I finish this poem,
check errors and alter
some language. go into
the sitting room
to talk to you.
you are in there,
beautiful as here.
Time before motion
time before motion
and time after
motion. this –
each moment
a wonderful
moment. a car parked
in neutral – the clutch
like small rocks
under pressures,
waiting for ice
to grow hot. a cat
crouched at the edge
of a countertop –
coil spring and ball-
legged intention.
the language you find
at beginnings
of novels – the stretching
of arms into poetry,
before obligations and plot.
like dreams. the leg,
clicking down
like machinery brought
to motion. the bird
on a fencepost
and startled – the instant it falls
on its wings.
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has nominated twelve times for Best of the Net, ten for the Pushcart 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).
You can find more of DS’ work here on Ink Pantry.