Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net
Bio (auto)
| Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri, U.S.A. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had poems published in or accepted by The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, Commonweal, Snakeskin (U.K.), Revival (Ireland), The Christian Science Monitor, The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Poetry Super Highway, Public Republic (Bulgaria) and other publications |
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The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by Donal Mahoney and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The Man Who Lives in the Gym
.............St. Procopius College
.............after World War II
The man who lives in the gym
sleeps in a nook up the stairs
to the rear. Since Poland
he's slept there, his tools
bright in a box locked
under his bed. At noon bells
call him down to the stones
that weave under oaks to the abbey
where he at long table takes
meals with the others
the monks have left in
for a week, or a month, or a year
or forever, whatever
the need. The others all know
that in Poland his wife
had been skewered, his children
partitioned, that he had escaped
in a freight car of hams.
So when Brother brings in, on a gun
metal tray, orange sherbet for all
in little green dishes,
they blink at his smile,
they join in his laughter.
first published in print in The Davidson Miscellany
Vol. 7 No, 2 1972, Davidson, NC
New Girl
Light ambrosia of the sun
is over all of her.
She is shy
the way the flicker
pink of rabbit eye
is shy. Within the
almond hair, cliffs
of cheek round in, where
unifies her chin.
There, two birds meet
before they carry out her smile.
first published in print in Meridian Magazine
Vol. 1 No. 2, 1965, Evanston, IL 60202
Husband and Wife on Hassocks
Eating Sausage
He tries again to situate
the grosbeak nose beneath his spectacles.
He twists a toothpick in his teeth.
He hunches just a little more toward her,
saying “Listen, dear, I’ve said all this before,
and now you make me say it all again:
“You’re slovenly and gross.
Your jowls swing beneath your jaws like testicles.
Your mammoth breasts need tweezing.
Your freckled calves are carved of lard.
These things are true, my dear,
as they are and as I list them.
They’re not some crazed vision of conjecture.”
The lady belches, reaches for
a pickle spear, a slice of cervelat,
and begins to comb her yellow hair.
She hunches just a little more toward him,
saying “Listen, dear, I’ve heard all this before.
What’s happened here is eminently clear.
You no longer love me.”
first published in print in Salt Lick Magazine
No. 9-10, 1971, Baltimore, MD 21202
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Richard Spuler
ricks@rice.edu
Bio (auto)
| Spuler’s poems and short fiction have appeared in numerous literary magazines, including BlazeVOX, Word Slaw, Poetry Super Highway, Best Poem, Wizard of the Wind, Autumn Leaves, Miranda Magazine, New Mirage Quarterly, and forthcoming in Ugly Cousin, Breadcrumb Scabs, Unfeigned Coffee Fiend, South Jersey Underground, and The Houston Literary Review. He is currently working an a collection of short stories and poetry (Memorabilia and Other Assorted Forgettables). For nearly 20 years he has served as Senior Lecturer in German at Rice University in Houston, TX. He enjoys music and reading. |
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The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by Richard Spuler and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Harboring Routines
Every night before you go to sleep
you tuck the words you never used
under the covers, where it's warm
and safe, and they'll never be
seen or heard by others.
You need them for your dreams,
which you place beneath your pillow,
closer to home.
The Earth turns. You harbor your routine.
Like old age, residue grows under your bed,
a tattered shoe, a kleenex of two, and balls of lint.
And you ask yourself:
Is this what has become of my life?
Could it be that's all there is? Before you go
You pull back the cover to find the bed empty:
You're no longer there. And you turn the pillow.
Thinking, hoping, that maybe its all on the other side.
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