The view from his bedroom

a view which looks south
which looks south, south
and south again. all over Dublin
until landscape gives way
at the curling-lipped
sneer of the mountains.
he's lucky – below him 

a couple of football fields,
and nothing but otherwise
Dublin, which wallows like cattle
in distance and under the sky.
the city sinks slowly
like water down plugholes
and disappears into the view
from his bedroom. and he'll
wake up – he's delighted,
I don't understand it –
each morning a dry mouth
with the heat from the sun.  

he brings us through casual, talking
walls downward and telling us
which will stay standing
to give days some shape –
where new doors will be,
and new bathrooms,
and bedrooms for expected
tenants. the whole back wall
an open panorama
which he intends to keep  

his own, quite sensibly.
it's all interesting
and honestly a little
depressing; a hermit
crab crawling past seaweed,
dead seagulls, mistaking
a can for a shell.

Dispatch

paper over paper
and windblown
curling sand;
parched fragments
like turning racked plates
in the back of closed restaurants. 

and the office is hot, dry
and full of operating systems,
while our job involves working
with men who fix things
and quite move. and we move
there also,
but we move
through paper
and computer screens, writing things
down, fixing nothing,
sending messages. 

on the walk home
I stop
at the bridge,
by behan
with his crossed legs
and his blackbird,
surrounded by cans and grass. I take a breath
and feel stone,
cold granite,
with my hands
and the tips of my fingers.

Hell yes 

hell yes. they are jumping
off the bridges.
a sunny day afternoon,
months into the lockdown.
they are taking off trousers
and jumping from the bridge.
older men, homeless – junkies,
aged with young bodies
and faces gone rubbery
like eggs left too long,
too much oil in the pan. 

and swimming. the clean streaks
of their skin on the surface
of the water, above
the black river – you can taste
their refreshment (yes) and join them
in yelling at their shoremates
to just leave the clothes
alone. 

it is a quiet day – these sounds
loud as cups
being broken, but joyous –
like cups fallen over
when we banged up the side
of the table
because we were
in the kitchen, drunk
and dancing together (hell yes)

Author’s Biography

DS Maolalai has been nominated eleven times for Best of the Net, eight for the Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize. His poetry has been released in three collections, most recently "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)