May 11-17, 2009: Donal Mahoney and Richard Spuler


week of May 11-17, 2009: 

Donal Mahoney and Richard Spuler

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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

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

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.

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.