Posted by: tsopr | March 1, 2010

Donal Mahoney, American Poet

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, MO. 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, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Poetry Friends, Poetry Super Highway, Pirene’s Fountain (Australia) and other publications.

Featured Poetry of Donal Mahoney

Returning to Work

After the others had welcomed him back,
had shaken his hand and returned to their desks,
another as ancient pulled over his chair
to inquire of him who six months before
had been taken away
on a pallet of interlocked arms
and parallel faces:
“What happened that day?
No one would say.”

Both men talked softly,
held cigarette rites:
the delights of the tapping,
the lighting, the stubbing,
the one man explaining,
the other one listening,
both of them knowing
a matter of months.

Three Girls of Spring

In this college town
three girls of Spring are fresh bread
brown before the noon of May.

In pink and yellow frocks,
with hair unfurling in the breeze,
they laugh and glisten in the sun

and like good daughters wave
to the old professor on a bench
who’s waiting for the end of day.

He returns the wave and smiles,
knowing girls like these, once close,
now wander many miles away.

Botanical Garden

When she arrives
in sunlight,
orchid ribbons flowing
in her hair,
an orchid dress rising,
she finds the rest of us
are standing there,
simply unaware
that only she can hear
the applause
of a thousand orchids
break the air.

Summer Sayonara

If you can hear
as I can now
the rose of noun
the bee of verb
the hive of mind
then you can hear
as I can now
everywhere the zither
of the siphoning of day
everywhere the last
letter of the alphabet.

On Taking Secretaries To Lunch

If you live in the valley
know the lava above
has the tact of Comanche
demeanor of dove
Hoe furrow
don’t sprinkle
your seed
then enwire
Post sentry
tall criers
Go home
to your love

The Foyer Of The Heart

In the center there’s
a hollow
small, enclosed,
oval like a locket
called the foyer
of the heart.

There the bullets
carom while
the widow,
room to room,
hunts her man
around the house.

Copyright © 2010 Donal Mahoney

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