D.S. Maolalai

Macrame: You have been writing and publishing poetry with an intensity rarely matched. Your work is highly regarded and has been found in publications world over in print and online, with numerous Best of the Net and Pushcart nominations to your name. Can you share some of your background, how writing came into your life, and what role it plays in it today?

D.S. Maolalai: I don’t know that my background is particularly unusual for a writer of poetry. I’ve been writing – well, “professionally” is never quite right for poetry, so let’s just say “with the semi-serious intention of having someone publish it” since I was 18 or 19 years old. I’m now 34, so that’s at least 15 years. I studied English Literature in college, and spent more or less four years there learning what I didn’t like, while also read a lot of the classic Literary Young Man books (Bukowski, Kerouac and so on) in between my assigned reading, some of which interested me but most of which – well, there’s benefit also to finding out what you don’t want to write. Over time in my reading I found myself naturally gravitating toward novelists who were also poets, and then ultimately to their poetry over their novels. Poetry also appealed to my college student mind because, with the logic of a bass player who picks it up over guitar because four strings is a lower number than five, I figured that, being shorter, poems would probably be easier to write.

It’s hard to say what role poetry plays in my life today, since I’ve been writing more or less constantly since that time and don’t really know what my life would look like without it – generally at least once a week I’ll have a “writing night”, where I’ll type up eight or nine poems that have been percolating, and I think I’ve never gone more than two weeks in that time without doing so. I imagine I’d go mad without that kind of release, that opportunity to organize my thoughts into a semi-pleasing stack on a screen. Certainly it helps.

Macrame: What is your inherent motivation to write, and what does it mean to you to be published so broadly and so well received as a poet?

D.S. Maolalai: For me, it’s a valve. As I mentioned, I generally have a session of writing about once a week, where I’ll get a good number of poems out together. They are written, they go out, hopefully they get picked up by a publisher and then even more hopefully someone reads them once they’re published. I’ve always liked Kurt Vonnegut’s description of writing as “opening the window and making love to the world”. I think if you write with the idea of finding an audience you’ll naturally compromise your own work. I’m happy that my poetry does well, that it goes out and that people seem to take something from it, but I think in 15 years doing this I’ve met only one person who knew of my poems before they’d met me (discounting people I’ve met directly through poetry), so I don’t generally think about it much. Nobody I work with knows I write poetry (admittedly, I keep it quiet because I’ve written a good amount of what I’ve written might technically count as libel) and the average person in the street doesn’t either. So it’s a private pride, but that’s not to say I’m not prideful about it. I am, very much so. Privately.

Macrame: You live in Dublin, and many of your poems convey the atmosphere of your homeland. What does it mean to you to be an Irish poet? What do you think it means being an Irish poet in general, today, in the past, and what would you like it to mean in the future?

D.S. Maolalai: I grew up in Dublin, lived here for 21 years, left for a little while after college and then came back with the intention that it would be a pitstop and I’d begin travelling again. That was 2017. I don’t think you can live in a place and take the world around you seriously without seeing it seep into your writing. I don’t think of myself particularly as aiming to be an “Irish Poet” but if you’re writing in any way seriously then the world will go in through your eyes and your ears and come out through your fingers, and being in Dublin means that what comes out will also be that.

Ireland has always had a relationship with our poets that, if I’m honest, I would politely describe as “annoying”. Obviously the country has an incredible literary history, and I personally love Joyce and Beckett, but the trouble with growing up in an environment with that kind of history is that nothing new can be done without it becoming a comment upon its relationship with itself – either through continuation, through rejection or through pastiche. Our writers have always been aware of themselves as Irish Writers, and of existing within a tradition, in a way that can make it a challenge to write personal poetry without the awareness that you are in some way refusing to take part in that tradition, and difficult to write poetry about Ireland without being influenced as much by Failte Ireland as Yeats. In a way I’m jealous of Australians and Canadians, for example; obviously they have their own literary past, but from what I’ve read it doesn’t anchor them in the same way as it does Irish writers. Maybe it’s just population density – other countries have less Literary History per capita than Ireland does, so writers are able to mix in a higher portion of themselves. This is the clean version of the response, by the way – for my full answer you need to catch me around my fourth pint on a Friday.

Macrame: Who are your favorite poets, and would you like to model yourself after anyone in particular?

D.S. Maolalai: I admire a number of poets; Frank O’Hara is a longtime favourite, as are Richard Brautigan, Ray Carver and Diane Wakoski. I’m currently very into Denise Levertov, Eileen Myles and Marianne Moore (though I can’t think of anyone who I write less like than her), as well as a collection of the Black Mountain College poets which includes one remarkable poem by John Cage, the composer. I also think that, while not technically a poet, Barbara Comyns has impacted my writing in ways I’m not sure I can quantify, beyond noting that I’ve multiple times reread a novel by her only to discover, more or less, the full text of a poem I’ve published as my own without realizing it. I think Martin Hayes is a truly great poet who I believe may be the most underread poet working today – he writes almost entirely about his job, but it’s a job I’ve done and he gets the culture exactly right. I don’t want him to become more successful though – I think the work would suffer. Mick Guffan too – seek him out. It’s fine if he becomes more widely read, he’s dead.

I’ve tried to shy away from attempting to adopt poetic models after an awful three years where I tried to be Charles Bukowski. That was from the age of 21 to about 25. I was awful. Some of the poems did alright, but again – all pastiche. It’s a common sickness to all young writers, and I think you just have to get through it. Like chickenpox. Now – I don’t think I try to model myself on anyone in particular, although it’s always the case that you decide you’re finally free of a habit and then look back a few years later and realise you were deluding yourself. Ask me again in five years and I’ll call this my August Kleinzahler phase

Macrame: Can you share some of your writing process, take us from the birth of an idea to the completion of a poem?

D.S. Maolalai: As I mentioned, I tend to write about once a week – it comes in a torrent. In between though, I try not to think about it. The easiest way, I find, to kill an idea for a poem is to think of a clever image, a clever metaphor or even just a pleasing rhythm of words while you’re doing something else and then squirrel it away or repeat it to yourself until you get a chance to write it into a poem. I know and believe that it works for other people, but for me it’s like catching a butterfly – you can’t keep it alive beyond the moment, you just end up with residue on your fingers and a dead insect. I don’t try to do that anymore. If I’m lucky though, when I do sit down, some of the butterflies will have followed me, but if they haven’t I never mourn the loss. There are always poems. I find wine helps (to indulge a stereotype) in terms of getting ideas to run fluidly, although the point in the evening when you start mentioning wine is a good time to stop. The following day there are usually eight or nine poems on my laptop in varying states of repair – at that point it’s more possible to fix them up a little with some rewrites and send them off to the world. The ones that are rejected get a further patching up and go again. I rarely give up entirely on a poem – I’ve had poems go rejected for eight years and then get nominated for a Pushcart (that happened once). As long as a poem still works for me, even if it hasn’t for any editors, I’ll still try and get it out.

Macrame: As you go on with your life and continue to evolve as a writer, how does poetry continue to fit into your life’s larger vision?

D.S. Maolalai: I would love to get my writing read more regularly. I’ve been making a promise to myself to attend more readings and launches (I’m terrible at them – it always feels like schmoozing) but I’m coming to the realization that if I don’t work harder at that aspect of it then I’ll remain where I am, or slip backwards. I’m comfortable here, and I’ve always liked the idea of being someone that people discover in a second-hand bookshop, but I wouldn’t say no to a Penguin Collected Works either if it came to it.

Macrame: What are the struggles that you encounter as you grow as a writer?

D.S. Maolalai: I think my previous answer pretty much says it; I guess, if I had to put it simply it the biggest struggle I’ve faced would be learning that there isn’t a level of success which automatically has more integrity than any other. I’ve reached a level where I can occasionally, on an especially fruitful month, pay for groceries with magazine fees, which is satisfying, but it’s hard to remain satisfied. I remember when I got my first Pushcart nomination I partied for two days. The same for my first book. Now – I’m proud of all my work, but when you’re starting out I think everyone believes there’s a point at which they’ll feel like they’ve reached some higher level and will feel different – will become a Poet, instead of a person who writes poetry. I think the biggest challenge I’ve faced, and continue to face, is learning that it’s still you after it all.

Macrame: How do you continue to hone your craft? Having already received many significant accolades, where do you go to learn?

D.S. Maolalai: I think the most important thing for a young poet to do, or a poet of any age, is to experience the world. Your poetry won’t be successful if all it does is speak to other poets, or (god help you) comment on other poetry. I think one of the things that’s most important (and this is contrary to conventional wisdom, I know) is to be utterly selective about what you consume. The art you create is in essence the world with you as its filter, and you should experience everything the world has in order to be a better artist. But the art you consume is what then shapes the tools with which you filter it, and consuming bad art will have an impact on the quality of your work. Good art teaches you technique – not in the “notes in the margin” lit class “this is what a metaphor is” way, but more subtly – so subtly you generally don’t even realise you’re learning. Unfortunately, the same is true of bad art. You pick up bad habits without realizing you’re doing so. I think being a snob is the healthiest thing a writer can be.

Macrame: Your trajectory as a published author is head spinning. Is it difficult to process what it all means and where it is taking you? What do you focus on and what is grounding you?

D.S. Maolalai: I realise I might have come across as a little dismissive of poetry earlier, and dismissive of what I’ve accomplished. Obviously, given that I’ve more or less devoted my life to it, I do think poetry is important, but in terms of being grounded it does help that of all the art forms one can practice, there are very few which most people care about less. It’s a real boon to know that when I’m arranging plumbers in my day job as a maintenance co-ordinator that none of them are impressed by my being a poet. I know there are materially successful poets, and I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t like to get there one day, but in the meantime the everyday life of an unsuccessful poet and a moderately successful one are very similar, even (especially) down to the level of private smugness both have about themselves.

Macrame: Many doors should be opening up for you as a writer, so do you ever think about how far do you want to go, how high do you want to fly?

D.S. Maolalai: At the moment my focus is on getting to the point where I have another book ready to go out. I try not to think beyond that in terms of ambition – you know, I don’t want to read at a presidential inauguration or anything like that. I know I’ve had success, but I like where I am now – I like the idea that some 20 year old might find a copy of Noble Rot in a second hand bookshop and feel like they discovered something. That’s incredibly important to culture, and it’s not possible if every good writer is a household name. I think that you need a certain class of minor writers to ensure there are still books like that in the future, and if I have to be of a class of writers I would like to be there.

Macrame: Can you share some words of advice regarding life, work, or writing?

D.S. Maolalai: I think I’ve given too much unsolicited advice already. I guess the only other thing I should say is that it’s worth bearing in mind that when someone is giving as many opinions as I do, and especially if they’re phrasing them as kinds of Rules for Life, they more than likely held the opposite ones five years earlier.

Macrame: What is next for you and what can we look forward to reading from you soon?

D.S. Maolalai: I’m hoping this summer to put together another manuscript – I’ve got a vague idea of a title; “Homesteaders”, but not much else. I got married two years ago and my wife and I recently bought a house, so a lot of poems about housing maintenance and early married life have of course been spontaneously happening. It’s all very early stages though – I’d imagine, if it ever gets beyond a title, it’ll be at least a few years. Otherwise, if you read enough literary magazines I’m both arrogant and realistic enough to say: don’t worry, there’ll be something. You’ll find me.