Poems
by DS
Maolalai
October, on the Monday of a long weekend
the sun is a desktop lamp
placed in a spare-
room-cum-office,
dripping a light off
which shines
without heat.
I am walking to Londis
for a bottle of wine –
something sharp
to cut grease
from our dinner. this is October
and really quite beautiful;
not the violence of summer
nor the violence of winter.
the year, turning quickly
to slowness and mumble
with the clarity of hands
on a kitchen wall
clock. I move through the park
and chip wrappers scurry
around me. they cross
roots of trees, forage nuts
from the hard scale
of pinecones.
they collect the tobacco
from the stamped end of dropped cigarettes.
The finish
after the second year,
we chip off the wood-
effect plastic from the mdf doors
on the wardrobes built into
the bedroom. use a paint scraper
mainly – a butterknife on mold
inset angles – it takes longer
than you'd expect. 30 years ago someone
paid a lot for the finish. took time
with a catalogue. we're going to paint it.
particle board looks antique by comparison
when it's been correctly exposed.
they sent me this rejection
and told me they were frankly
uninterested in seeing more
work. my viewpoint had made them
disgusted, they said, and I shouldn't
ever call myself a poet. I think it was a poem
I had written called "the immigrant"
which was in the second person
and was all about myself,
very critical of my motivation
for the two years in toronto,
being irish and picking
up these pretty canadian girls.
I suppose if you didn't know
you would think the thing as well
and why should they know
that the you in the poem
was anyone else? all rage at this sexy
young immigrant man with his sexy
young immigrant accent. his sharing
out cigarettes, drinking
on tuesdays. his tight-
trousered swaggering pass.
35
fallon has started
saying "back in our day."
I said "jesus christ,
are we that age already?"
I could do with a drink.
there are plenty in the kitchen.
do you want one as well?
no – but it's fine if I do. this movie
isn't very good anyway. I'm reading a book
while you watch and the dog
is being warm on the sofa
with both us. I'm sorry I'm reading
this book with the light on –
not enough to stop I don't think
though the book isn't very good
either. one has to do
something. I could do with a drink
but I already have one. could do just
with going to the kitchen. you know baby
in this light
you look terrific in pyjamas.
