Four Poems, DS Maolalai

Everyone's generous

a park around 7. and sunset.

and march. sun bouncing up 

from the grass at all angles

and this soft falling hill

like a candleflame light 

and a saucer of warm liquid wax. 

some dogs playing chasing.

some people 

sitting out. my god – 

there are times in the world

you'd be generous

to offer a share of.

and everyone's generous,

passing out bottles 

of beer and their loose

of cigarettes. ten-year-olds 

bike riding, teenagers kissing,

a woman, some distance off

reading and smoking 

a joint. and that's 

spring air too, 

and the smell of it

wafting occasionally 

over: like cracked open

greenhouses, 

crowding with mushrooms

on wood. wet scents

and plants mulching. 

composts and 

burning weather.

The iron.

the street fires; flat

as an unironed shirt, and an iron

pressed down, raising steam

in an arrow. now 

it is 8am, morning 

and burning past buildings. 

I drive up clanbrassil st,

rolling like a hot marble

on tarmac and in

between slant beams of sunlight

which fall sideways in shafts

as light does in a church

through tall windows.

a coffee shop open, a newsagent.

a man on a bicycle.

an office block, open

in an hour or so. I push on a pedal;

the world streams behind me

and flat. the street fires – 

creasing in one 

long direction.

Garnish.

peace 

has come rolling 

from branches.

peace is out 

wagging 

the air. 

going to the park

or the countryside.

making some shade

upon avenues. 

a simple relaxation 

of leaves in the sun,

like a garnish

in a drink

and on a south-

facing patio. I roll 

up my sleeves

and walk 

for a while

underneath them.

the skin

on my forearm 

dapples flicked

blacks

like ripples

on a leopard's 

muscled hindleg.

On the seafront in portugal

(and I want to say lisbon,

but it might not have been)

where we saw our first statue 

there the whole trip

after such a long time hiking 

countryside; some poet or patriot – 

someone or other – 

in a market square 

facing some docks

there were boats coming in: 

a scene and an outflow pipe 

pumping continuous under. 

and the water was festering, the water 

was fishes, all crawling oil mackerel-

scale, guppies and something else

brown. the sea lapped like fishscales

with the wet necks of fish,

pressed against the shore

and devouring sewage and run-off. marvelous,

this nature, and hungover. 10 years

ago – 20 years old. like dirt in the pearl 

of a live opened oyster. 

and johanna said gross, and cian

said also; I said it was cool, 

but the wind overruled me 

by suddenly turning and throwing

the air in our mouths. in town

two blocks out from the seafront

we went to a cafe for lunch

and then to a bar. I shit only once

and pissed 4 times in succession,

thinking about fishes

as they chewed into my tide.

DS Maolalai has received ten nominations for Best of the Net and seven for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry 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).