Oct/Nov 2019 Poetry

Two Poems

by D.S. Maolalai

Image courtesy of The British Library photostream


rain scattering
on the wind of a hot day,
sticking in mugginess
and the sour breath of summer,
a sound on the earth
like loud applause,
celebrating the end
to a spell
of lighted weather. a june evening;
all around
and flashes on the edge of lightning.
the clouds tea-stained,
cutting the coastline,
threats and mumbles
from red gods,
driving the dogs


John Wild

bored at the start of summer
I scatter seeds
for wildflowers—paper packets
bought on the assumption
that they won't need
much care. 6 weeks on

and I go out again, and the garden
is mint
and all poppies—
6 foot standing,
and wet with rain
like wax paper. they were planted
in my grandfather's
vegetable garden;
now I grow
no parsnips. just
the sound of butterflies
floating about,
busy and quiet
as an unloading banana truck
or people working
in the mcdonalds kitchen.

none of the other flowers
have sprouted—I'm a poppy farmer
now. one of them, the petals
battered down
with rain, traps a bumblebee—the hum on saturday
hammers my peace. I pull them back
carefully, and it floats upward,
wavering in an ungainly hover
like a helicopter, shaking on the thames,
or the seed of a dandelion
caught in its wake,
blowing, and beginning
to take off.


Previous Piece Next Piece