A New Ulster 101 by Amos Greig

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF Sinead McClure, Dave Jordan, Khaled Chalabi, Caoimhe Naughton, Daniel Galvin, Jessica Berry, Fionnbharr Rodgers, Gemma McNally, Alessio Zanelli and Shelley Corcoran AND EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 101 March 2021

UPATREE PRESS

The artists featured in this publication have reserved their right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work. ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Edited by Amos Greig Cover Design by Upatree Press Prepared for Publication by Upatree Press

CONTRIBUTORS

This edition features work by Sinead McClure, Dave Jordan, Khaled Chalabi, Caoimhe Naughton, Daniel Galvin, Jessica Berry, Fionnbharr Rodgers, Gemma McNally, Alessio Zanelli and Shelley Corcoran

CONTENTS Poetry Sinead McClure Prose Dave Jordan Poetry/translation Khaled Chalabi Poetry Caoimhe Naughton Poetry Daniel Galvin Poetry Jessica Berry Poetry Fionnbharr Rodgers Poetry Gemma McNally Poetry Alessio Zanelli Poetry Shelley Corcoran Editor’s Note

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Sinead McClure Sinéad McClure is a writer, radio producer, and illustrator. Her poetry has been published on Poethead, Live Encounters ~ Poetry & Writing, Crossways Literary Journal, The Cabinet of Heed, StepAway Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review. She was shortlisted in the Hanna Greally Awards in October 2020. Sinéad has written 15 dramas for the National Radio Children’s Service, RTEjr Radio.

Hawk Walking the long acre the clamped-shut quiet of August is interrupted by a clatter in the sycamore. A flurry of calls alert, alert, alert Siskins scream— one of their own is taken. I see it all happen right in front of me. A tiny bird dangles in talons. A hawk sweeps through the trees, leaving feathers and leaves to fall. This happens so swift it's almost as if it didn't happen at all. Yet here in this wild acre it probably happens every day. Each morning siskins prepare for attack tell each other not to fly too high, perch too long, practice how not to be birds. Somewhere, far from here women prepare for attack, gather each morning tell each other what to wear, where to be safe, practice how not to be women. Still he will swoop in, carry her away in his talons. Sisters will scream as one of their own is taken. The hawk returns to the long acre, hangs high patient for a catch, beak dry thin belly empty. Soft feathers settle on the air and sycamore leaves continue to fall I follow them all to find my way home.

(Sinead McClure) 2

"There is no peace," says your God, "for the wicked." I had no choice but to pass by the church when its loudspeaker cut the damp air of a soft Irish day. Take this all of you Even head phoned with Ripperton— singing about simpler things— I could not quieten the testament; This is my body As I walked on, the words faded behind me absorbed in the caws of a crow morning. But the anger stayed, it followed me, a ruffle at first, like ripples on the swelling river, lapping heavy against the bank where tiny fish hang in the shadows hoping not to be seen. Anger escorted me across the bridge and wound along uphill. Getting out of breath it fell behind for a short while before catching up—chasing every country bend— until it stood beside me, and in the wide view of the valley opening out below, anger became rage, and each step I took back towards that church was marked with my defiance. I don't need to hear sermons, or testaments, or witness sacraments. I want to walk on unconsecrated ground, these are the richest of all places, unsullied by religion. Where worms languish in the darkness, 3

make soft mulch for beetles and their larvae. Where insects play unabashed in the detritus. So much manure, and muck. I would welcome that lively murk compared to the paradise your loudspeaker spits. Sleep in its loam, allow the birds to peck. Eventually all shapes, and colours are winged away in beak and talon. Know that one day tiny bones will drop from high, and rain upon the culpable in a silent, unceasing storm.

(Sinead McClure)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Dave Jordan Dave Jordan is a writer based in Cork, Ireland. He has published five books, details of which can be found at his blog: shadowoftheglen.wordpress.com He also edited a literary magazine named Crossways.

Castlefreke

(David Jordan)

The man sitting at the bar was broad shouldered, and his posture indicated that he was tall too. He wore black denim trousers and a fading black shirt. If you were on the other side of the counter you would have seen a young, strong boned, handsome face with a broad, serene forehead. But he was soft around the eyes and mouth. The eyes were intelligent in a calm, radiant way. They shone out of his impassive face, hinting at hidden wells of emotion. There was pain and vulnerability behind those eyes, but it was made inaccessible by a look of uncompromising serenity. The young man drank stout and smoked strong cigarettes. When he wasn’t smoking, his hands played unconsciously with a coaster. He kept his eyes on the barmaid and the few happy customers, mostly students, who came in for liquid refreshment. He sat at the side of the bar, giving him a comfortable view of everyone who approached the front of it. He looked at the coaster he was turning round in his hands. It was an ad for Guinness. ‘Pure genius’ it declared. He tore it up, revealing an edginess that everything else in his behaviour strove to conceal. He took out another cigarette, tapped it nonchalantly on the box and lit up. It was a traditional style pub with lots of oak wood in it. The walls were covered with framed pictures and posters, mostly old adverts for tobacco or alcohol. There was a profusion of bottles, glasses and other drink related objects on the far side of the bar. It was like a miniature glass metropolis. There was also a mirror with large, golden letters gilded in an arch on the surface. But it was obscured by all the paraphernalia, making it impossible to read the words. As he was at the side of the bar, this did not trouble the young man. 6

He ordered another pint of stout and a shot of Southern Comfort. The barmaid was young and had bright, disdainful eyes. You could tell she was a student. Why was he surrounded by students these days? he asked himself. But he already knew the answer. It was Joe. He had introduced him to a whole stratum of society that he had hitherto been unaware of. Since meeting Joe, he had shed all but the vestiges of his Northside accent and discovered a confidence and an abundance of personality inside him that he never knew he had. As if on cue, Joe walked into the pub. He was tall and had a slightly self-conscious gait. He smiled as soon as he saw his friend at the side of the bar. He wore black combat trousers and a blue shirt, unbuttoned. An ankh hung from his neck. His hair reached his shoulders in a kind of bell shape. ‘Hey, Kev,’ he said. His voice was soft as old leather. ‘No. It’s Ulysses. No more Kevin.’ ‘O, that’s right. Sorry, I forgot. Ulysses. Ulysses Lynch. It has a nice ring to it.’ ‘Yeah, it does.’ Ulysses knocked back his Southern Comfort. A strong but pleasant fume went up his nose. ‘How are you, man?’ ‘I’m good,’ Joe said. ‘But I’ll be even better when I get a pint inside me.’ ‘How’s Harley?’ ‘Harley? She’s grand. Still waiting for her to…you know.’ ‘If she needs time, give it to her.’ ‘Yeah, I know but it’s been nearly three months now and I’m still waiting.’ ‘All good things…,’ Ulysses said. ‘How about you? How’s the love life?’ 7

‘Non-existent. But I think I like it that way. I like my freedom.’ ‘You should try it though. Chicks are great. They’re great to talk to, you know? You can learn a lot about yourself, being with them.’ ‘Plenty of time for that. I don’t see myself marrying though. I don’t want to live a conventional life.’ ‘Me neither,’ Joe said and signalled to the barmaid. He ordered a pint of stout and a shot of Bushmills. ‘She’s got a great body though,’ Ulysses said. ‘Harley? Yeah, she does.’ There was a comfortable silence. The two men gazed respectfully at the barmaid as she drew Joe’s whiskey. She too had a nice body. ‘I’m my own woman,’ Ulysses declared suddenly before lifting his glass and downing the rest of his pint. Joe went into a fit of laughter. ‘No, I’m serious,’ Ulysses said. ‘I mean I’m half woman, right? My mother was a woman. So, that makes me half one.’ Joe continued to laugh, shaking his head. ‘Man, I wish I had a pair of breasts. So, I could love myself properly,’ Ulysses said, grinning. This sent Joe into another fit of laughter. When he had recovered, Ulysses said, ‘well, I mean somebody has got to do it, right?’ ‘Yeah,’ Joe said. They continued to converse. It was a sweet hour. Everything was right with the world. Often, he experienced these moods of perfection. When everything seemed to glow and pulse in 8

sympathy with the music in his heart. The world was fresh, and in it he had discovered a serene country which made up for the misery and frustration of his teen-age years. Of course, it was all down to Joe. He had such a talent for people. He understood them. He could see through their eyes. Share their pain, share their joy. He took on their thoughts and feelings and experienced life with them. He made you feel like you weren’t alone. That was his gift. It was Joe who had introduced him to the path to serenity. Drink, music, poetry. But underneath the surface there was hidden the same shy and nervous kid that he had always been. ‘You ever heard of Castlefreke?’ Joe said, after finishing his second pint. ‘No. What is it?’ ‘It’s a mansion. An old, dilapidated mansion. In Hinch. You ever been there?’ ‘Sure. There’s a nice stretch of beach there.’ ‘That’s right. Castlefreke is about a five-minute drive from the beach. They say it’s haunted.’ ‘What’s it got to do with us?’ Ulysses said. ‘Well, Harley is going there tomorrow evening. Her friends are spending the night there. Want to come?’ ‘Spending the night?’ ‘Yeah, they’re bringing a couple of tents. Some music. And, of course, alcohol. Get a fire going. Should be fun.’ ‘Count me in,’ Ulysses said. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ ‘So, it’s haunted?’

‘Well, there are stories.’ ‘We should do some ghost hunting,’ Ulysses said. ‘Yeah. We should.’ ‘You ever seen a ghost?’ ‘Never. You?’ ‘No. All the more reason to look for one. I mean, it must be quite an experience. Something I’d like to have on my cv.’ Joe laughed. ‘You’re right, though. If there are ghosts out there, I want to see one.’ ‘Ok, sounds like a plan. What do we need for it?’ ‘For ghost hunting? I suppose an open mind.’ ‘No worries there. What about the others? Will they be ghost hunting too?’ ‘I don’t think so. I mean, they’re open minded, of course. But I don’t know if they have the imagination.’ ‘So, it’s not for real? Is that what you are saying?’ ‘O, it’s for real. I mean, what’s more real than the imagination?’ Joe said. He ordered a couple of pints. ‘So, you’re getting popular with Harley’s friends from college.’ ‘Yeah, I don’t know what it is, but they seem to like me,’ Ulysses said. ‘It’s because you have a way with words. And you read a lot. Most of them are English students, you see.’ ‘Yeah, they do seem to lap it up.’ ‘You still planning on going to college?’

‘O yes. Nothing is going to stop me.’ ‘It’ll change you. You’re never the same after it.’ ‘I’m all for that,’ Ulysses said. ‘Yeah,’ Joe said and fell into one of his sympathetic silences.

Harley, Joe’s girlfriend, drove a Mini. The two young men had to raise their knees and crouch to fit inside it. Once he had settled down in the back seat, Ulysses caught Harley’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘Hey, Ulysses,’ she said. When she spoke to Ulysses she would smile and talk to him with interest and just a hint of indulgence as if he were childlike. This didn’t bother him. ‘So, you’re going ghost hunting?’ she said. ‘That’s right. We want to see some spirits. Preferably of the non-alcoholic variety.’ ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she said. ‘Sure, what’s the harm in a ghost? They’re probably more scared of us than we are of them. Have you ever seen one?’ ‘No. And I don’t particularly want to either,’ Harley said. ‘I’ll be fine. Once I get a bellyful of beer in me. Isn’t that right, Joe?’ ‘Too right!’ ‘Wouldn’t it be better to stay sober? I mean if you really want to see one?’ Harley said. ‘No, you wouldn’t like me when I’m sober. Hey, put on some music, Harley. Some ghost hunting music, preferably,’ he said. 11

‘Sorry, Ulysses. I don’t have any music except for the radio.’ ‘Well, put it on! We might hear something creepy!’ Ulysses said. So, she did. She turned the dial until she found a station. Rio by Duran Duran popped out of the speakers. ‘That’ll do,’ Ulysses declared. ‘It’s a pity we don’t have a boat.’ ‘What put that into your head?’ Joe said. ‘The video? To this song? I reckon we’d have some good adventures if we had a boat.’ Harley laughed and caught his eye in the mirror again. She was smiling that slightly indulgent, slightly curious smile of hers. ‘One adventure at a time, Ulysses.’ ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ ‘Don’t give up the ghost,’ Joe quipped. They stopped outside an off licence. Ulysses bought a six pack of lager and a naggin of whiskey. When he was seated again, he saw Joe coming out of the premises with a large cardboard tray full of cans. He held it aloft, one hand underneath and the other at the side of the tray, securing it like a waiter in a restaurant. It was a moment. They continued their journey to Hinch. Ulysses drank and talked and sang and laughed. When he saw the sea, he became mildly ecstatic. Joe and Harley exchanged smiles.

Castlefreke was an old Big House that had fallen into ruin. It consisted of the main house itself and a complex of ancillary buildings. All were in a state of decay and reclamation by nature. When Ulysses saw it, he immediately fell in love. 12

They arrived at dusk. The front room of the house was exposed so that they could see the revellers inside. There was a fire going and the music of the Prodigy could be heard. Ulysses felt a kind of bliss awaken in him. The approaching darkness gave the scene an allure and a mystique that silenced him. All thoughts of ghost hunting left him. ‘What do you think, Ulysses?’ Harley said before they got out of the car. ‘Looks great,’ he answered. His eyes took on an eager and enamoured look as he gazed at the scene. They got out and approached the main building. They entered by a turret at the corner of the house and made their way up a spiralling set of concrete stairs. Inside the front room, where the revellers were, there was a mound of rubble that was piled high against the far wall. If you looked up, you could see a large hole in the ceiling which was the source of the rubble and, above this, another hole in the roof which revealed a patch of sky. The walls were leprous and graffitied and the shadows of the revellers were thrown up against them by the fire in the centre of the room. This fire was fed by wood from the nearby forest. Ulysses immediately began to pick out the people he was acquainted with. There was Colm. He was a student and a north-sider. They had a mutual affinity that had kicked in almost immediately after they first met. He had a mane of springy, blonde hair that was unique to him as far as Ulysses knew. His bearing was proud and nonchalant, even aristocratic. When conversing, he would often stand like Michelangelo’s David. He was talking now with Dermot, a diminutive young man with a face like a Greek demi-god. When Colm saw him walking into the room, he raised an arm and pointed directly at him. Standing near the fire were Fiacre and Ryan. Fiacre was, like Ulysses, an aspiring writer. Also, he was no student. He had the blackest beard and an intense, wounded expression in his eyes that told he was no stranger to suffering, that maybe he even liked it. He wore a dark trench coat and smoked like a trooper. Ryan was a student of theatre. He was quiet and debonaire and always seemed to look out at the world with a slightly bemused expression. He had a rapier attached to his belt, to get into the ambience of the place.

Ulysses approved of this. He liked the young man, even if he suspected that he was secretly amused by him. In a corner, sitting and sharing a joint, were Ber and Abba. Ber was an English student who was into the Beatniks, especially Neal Cassady. She wore a green leather jacket and had nice legs. Abba was studying philosophy. Her blonde hair fell down across her shoulders and to her breasts in waves, like a mermaid’s. She wore a neat, tartan dress with black stockings. Sitting near them was Abba’s boyfriend, Red. He was a quiet, scruffy young man with a rough, tawny beard. He gave off an air of melancholy and need. He was trying to smoke a pipe and was not having much success with it. There were other faces he was familiar with but most of these belonged to people he had never spoken to. Or at least not when he was lucid. He took out a can and opened it. It foamed slightly and he put it to his mouth so as not to waste any of the contents. He looked around again. Everyone seemed animated, as if they were drawing energy from the house. Shadows danced on the walls and light danced on young faces. Ulysses wondered how long it had been since the old house had seen such a crowd. He looked up through the hole in the roof to the patch of sky. It was dark but he could just make out a single star. In a corner of the room was a ghetto blaster. Love Spreads by the Stone Roses was playing. Someone threw incense on the fire and a sweet, cinnamon smell pervaded the room. He walked over to the fire to talk with Fiacre. ‘Hi Kev,’ the young man said with his intense eyes. He smoked a cigarette as if his life depended on it. Ulysses had met him at many student parties and he always seemed to be smoking and nodding his head and gesticulating as he conversed with others. ‘Hi Fiacre,’ Ulysses said, opening a fresh packet of cigarettes. ‘I should tell you I changed my name to Ulysses.’ Fiacre laughed. ‘Ulysses? Why?’ ‘It’s my favourite book.’ 14

‘Why?’ ‘Well, it just bristles with music and poetry and inventiveness. It’s just so beautiful. There are no other books like it.’ Fiacre raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘Sounds interesting,’ he said before returning his gaze to the fire. ‘Have you read any Joyce?’ Ulysses said. ‘No. But I intend to.’ ‘So, what are you reading these days?’ ‘Stephen King. The Dark Tower.’ ‘I love those books. What a great country. I can’t wait to go back there.’ ‘Hmm. I like that metaphor,’ Fiacre said. ‘Have you ever felt that way about a book? Like it’s a real place?’ ‘I guess so. It does make sense.’ ‘Yes. It does. The imagination is the ticket. The golden ticket.’ Fiacre nodded and gazed into the flames, puffing on his cigarette. ‘You getting any writing done?’ Ulysses said. Fiacre sighed and shook his head. ‘Not yet. But I’m planning on it.’ Ulysses put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and said, ‘don’t worry about it. There’s plenty of time. You have to stand up and live before you can sit down and write.’ Fiacre raised his eyebrows again and looked gratefully at the other man. ‘What about yourself?’

‘Just poetry.’ ‘So, are we talking about a life goal here or what?’’ ‘No. My ambition is to write fiction. Poetry is just…well an outlet. A lot of young people write poetry. You should try it.’ ‘I suppose I should. Before I reach twenty.’ ‘Your youth will last throughout your twenties.’ Fiacre caught his eye again and nodded appreciatively. ‘Thanks, Kevin.’ ‘For what?’ ‘You’ve given me food for thought. As always.’ ‘Well, more like drink for thought,’ Ulysses said and took a long draught of beer. ‘This is delicious,’ he said, turning the can and admiring it. ‘The true, blissful Hippocrene.’ Fiacre laughed. ‘Where did that come from?’ ‘A poem. By Keats.’ Fiacre nodded and flicked his fag butt into the flames. He reached inside his trench coat and took out a packet of Super Kings. Roadhouse Blues by The Doors came out of the ghetto blaster. Ulysses went over to Ber and Abba in the corner. He sat down Indian style and asked for a hit off the joint they were sharing. Ber handed it to him, expelling smoke out of her mouth and looking sophisticated while she did it. He took a couple of hits and then handed it to Abba. He then took the naggin of whiskey out of his coat pocket and finished it off. ‘Why do you drink so much, Ulysses?’ Ber said. It was out of curiosity, not disapproval.

He looked at the ground and frowned as if in deep thought. ‘Because it makes me feel good,’ he said eventually. ‘Did you read that book I lent you?’ ‘The Baudelaire? Yeah, I did. I liked it. It made me wish I was in Paris, drinking absinthe. Did you read the Kerouac book?’ ‘Yeah, I did. He led an interesting life,’ he said. ‘Himself and Neal Cassady. They really went for it. Most have drove their girlfriends mad.’ Ber sighed and said, ‘some men just can’t be tamed. So, what’s with the new name?’ ‘I just like the book. Have you read it?’ ‘Some of it. It’s pretty dense.’ ‘I like the cartoon too, I must admit,’ he said and grinned. The two young women rewarded him with laughter. Abba got up and went to her boyfriend. She sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. ‘I love this music! I love this place!’ Ulysses declared. ‘Me too! I don’t know what it is but I’m so attracted to ruins. Maybe it’s the romantic in me. I’m incurable.’ ‘That’s not such a bad disease to have,’ Ulysses said. ‘I suppose there are worse things.’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘I feel like a beer,’ she said. ‘Do you have one by any chance?’ ‘Sure. I’ll get one for you,’ he said, getting up. 17

‘And ask them to play a song for me. Loser by Beck.’ ‘Will do.’

The night sped along. Ulysses did the rounds, talking to anyone and everyone. There was much conversation about music and poetry. At times, he found himself standing alone, drinking from a can. The energy of young minds swirled around him. The place was filled with beer fuelled enthusiasm. The fire dwindled, so he and Joe went out to get some wood. They came back, dragging a couple of small trees behind them. The labour had sobered him up a little. They fed the fire and it returned to its former glory and Ulysses opened a can. At one point, he spotted Ryan on the other side of the fire. He was facing a wall as if he had been sent there for bad behaviour. Ulysses went to him. ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘O, I’m just trying to decide,’ the young man said, not taking his eyes of the wall. ‘Decide what?’ ‘What to say,’ Ryan said and showed Ulysses the can of spray paint in his hand. ‘Ah, I see,’ Ulysses said and started to think. The two young men stood there, looking at the wall, deep in meditation. ‘What’s happening?’ It was Joe. Ulysses explained to him what they were doing. ‘Any ideas?’ he said. ‘Well, you’re the writer,’ Joe said.

After wracking his brains, Ulysses said, ‘how about ‘Freak’.’ ‘That’s it,’ Joe said. ‘That’s perfect.’ ‘Yeah, that’s good enough for me,’ Ryan said. He sprayed the word on the wall, in large capitals: FREAK.

Eventually, he found himself talking to Colm. They were both pretty smashed. ‘Man, how are you?’ Colm said. ‘Ok, I guess. How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.’ ‘I’ve been in Vienna. Man, it is the coolest city.’ ‘A lot of history there,’ Ulysses said. ‘Yeah, you should see the architecture.’ ‘What did you do there?’ ‘Working as a barman. And living with a witch. In a basement flat. She was convinced that I was a magician, and I took so much acid that I became convinced that I was too. She asked me to marry her.’ ‘And did you?’ ‘Yeah, she performed a pagan ceremony and everything. She was well into Celticism.’ Colm talked deliberately, with a north side accent. ‘It’s a great time to be Irish.’ ‘Man, it is. I was telling her about Irish mythology and she just lapped it up. That reminds me. I have a name for my band. Finn McCool.’ 19

‘I like it,’ Ulysses said. ‘Let me know when your first gig is.’ ‘I will.’ ‘So, are you serious about it?’ ‘Totally. I was saying to Dermot earlier. The singer in a band should be more than just a performer. He should be like a shaman. It’s like Greek Tragedy. It’s not just a performance or act. It’s more serious than that. It has an important social function.’ ‘Ah, the birth of tragedy out of the spirit of music,’ Ulysses said. Colm smiled at Ulysses with ecstatic eyes. ‘You still reading Nietzsche?’ ‘Man, I can’t get enough of him.’ ‘Yeah, he’s great. Mind-blowing.’ ‘Hey, me and Dermot are going to take some magic mushrooms later if you want some?’ ‘No. I’ll only freak out,’ Ulysses said. ‘I’m fucked up enough as it is.’ A slight frown appeared on Colm’s face and Ulysses detected a mote of contempt. But it was only momentary. ‘So, are you getting any writing done?’ Ulysses said, quick to change the subject. ‘No, man.’ ‘I think I know what’s stopping you. You have to decide whether you are a poet or a philosopher.’ The ecstatic look come into Colm’s eyes again and he smiled.

‘Have to say though. There’s no money in either,’ Ulysses said. ‘I don’t care about money. I care about making good Art,’ Colm said with deliberation. ‘That’s god damned right. No compromise. And, if we end up poor, who cares?’ Ulysses put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘As Oscar Wilde said, we’re all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars.’ Then he pointed up at the hole in the roof and the dark patch of sky.

He vomited outside, his hands on his knees. heaving up puke almost heroically. Abba was standing over him, patting his back. When he had finished, he kept his hands on his knees and just breathed for a while, waiting for his head to stop spinning. ‘You okay now?’ Abba said. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Go on back up to the party. I’ll be up in a minute. The night is still young.’ Abba left him. ‘Hey Homey,’ someone said, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Joe. ‘You up for some ghost hunting?’ ‘O yeah. I forgot. Just give me a minute.’ ‘Here. Have a cigarette,’ Joe said and held his pack out to him. ‘Thanks.’ He took one and straightened up. Joe sparked up his zippo and lit it for him. His head was clearing. There was a strong taste of salt in the air from the sea. Soon, he felt restored. He could hear Live Forever by Oasis on the ghetto blaster above. When he finished the cigarette, he flicked it into the darkness. The tip glowed for a few seconds before going out. He gazed at the place where it had been. ‘Are we going to do it or not?’ Joe said. 21

‘Okay. Let’s do it,’ Ulysses said and they went into the turret to climb the stairs again. The inner wall of the front room gave way to a passage. It was pitch dark. Nobody had ventured into it since nightfall. The two young men walked down it now, alert and circumspect amongst the shadows. Joe held the flame of his zippo aloft. ‘Are they here?’ Joe said. ‘I don’t know.’ They stopped and listened and looked about them. There were rooms to their left. A row of them. They were so dark inside that they were like voids. ‘I’m going into this room here,’ Ulysses said. ‘You go on down to the end of the corridor. Extinguish the flame when you get there.’ ‘Why?’ ‘The ghosts. They mightn’t like it.’ He watched Joe as they parted. There was no sign of fear in him. Ulysses also felt no fear. In fact, he felt exhilarated. The darkness stimulated his imagination. And the sheer nerve of what he was doing excited him. He entered the room and briefly sparked up a flame from his lighter to get his bearings. When he was done, he extinguished the flame and made for the corner on the left. Once he got there, he turned around and squatted. It felt like he was taking a crap. The idea amused him, and he laughed out loud. ‘What’s so funny?’ a voice said. He jolted. There was a silence. ‘Joe? Is that you?’ There was no answer. He wondered whether he had imagined it. ‘Joe?’ He could hear the rhythmic thud of music coming from the front room. It was dance music. At that moment it seemed far away. His eyes 22

were becoming accustomed to the darkness. He could just make out a human form in the opposite corner of the room. It was standing and leaning a shoulder against a wall with arms crossed. ‘Who is that?’ Ulysses said. ‘Do you really want to know?’ It was a man’s voice. Ulysses hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m the ghost of Christmas future,’ the man said. Ulysses, not without relief, reckoned it was some student off his head on drugs. ‘Go back to the party,’ he said. ‘You don’t believe me?’ ‘Yeah, sure I do. Now go back to the party.’ ‘Sorry. I was being facetious,’ the man said. ‘I’m the ghost of you in the future. About 25 years from now.’ Ulysses shook his head but said nothing. ‘You don’t believe me? Maybe this will convince you.’ The man pushed himself off the wall with his shoulder and took a couple of steps toward Ulysses. His countenance became visible, even though it was still very dark. The man’s skull seemed luminous as if were lit up by an inner flame. It was a handsome countenance, but the hair on his pate was gone. ‘Ah, you mean I’m gonna go bald!’ ‘It’s not so bad. It’s a sign of intelligence,’ the man said, reversing back to the corner. Ulysses sighed and said, ‘okay, let’s just say that you are who you say you are. What do you want from

me?’ ‘The question isn’t what do I want. The question is what do you want.’ ‘What do I want? I want to see a ghost.’ ‘No, I mean what do you want out of life?’ ‘I want to go to college. And I want to be a writer,’ Ulysses said. ‘Very good. At least you know what you want. Most people your age don’t. Now, as I’m the ghost of your future, I’m going to give you some advice. To prepare you for college, that is.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Good. Kevin, college is going to change you.’ ‘Well, I hope so.’ The ghost was silent. ‘In what way?’ ‘Well, the best way to put it is that you won’t be a star anymore. At least, not in the way that you are now.’ ‘I’m not a star.’ ‘Yes, you are. You just don’t know it yet. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ There was a brief silence before the ghost continued. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get what you want out of it and you’ll discover brains you thought you never had but you’ll be a different person when you leave.’ ‘Okay. I can handle that.’ ‘There’s more. Over the years, you’ll have a plethora of opportunities. Especially with women. For Christ sake, don’t waste them!’ ‘Okay. What about the writing?’ 24

‘O yeah. The writing. You’ll be pretty crap at first. But you’ll get good at it. If you keep it up. Cleave to your art.’ ‘Okay.’ The ghost sighed and said, ‘there is so much I want to tell you, Kevin. But I can’t. I’m afraid you’ll have to learn the hard way. Most people like us do. But, please, heed the little advice I can give you and we should be okay.’ The ghost pushed himself off the wall again and slipped out of the room without a sound. ‘That was quick,’ Ulysses said to the darkness and then fell silent.

He was sitting at his desk at home, a book in his lap, when his phone started to ring. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hey Kevin,’ Joe said. ‘Hiya Joe.’ ‘How’s tricks?’ ‘Ok,’ Kevin said. ‘Yourself?’ ‘I’m good.’ ‘How’s the family?’ ‘Yeah, all good here.’ After a silence, Joe said, ‘I was just thinking about Castlefreke. Do you remember?’ ‘I remember everything, Joe.’

‘Really? I’m surprised to hear that with all the drink and drugs we consumed.’ Kevin laughed. ‘They were good times.’ ‘Yeah, they were,’ Joe said. ‘It was a pity they had to end.’ ‘What happened eh?’ ‘History happened.’ There was another silence. ‘I often think about those days. You know the great thing about being middle-aged is that you can look backwards and forwards,’ Kevin said. ‘Great comment. You still have it.’ ‘Have what?’ ‘Your way with words,’ Joe said. ‘How’s the reading and writing going?’ ‘Well, I was just reading Ulysses when you rang. You know me and that book. The writing is ok. I’m getting better at it. I think.’ ‘Don’t give it up,’ Joe said, laconically. ‘I won’t. I can’t. I’ve passed Rubicon.’ ‘I know you have. We’ve all passed Rubicon,’ Joe said and laughed. ‘Jesus, I never thought I’d end up like this, Joe.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘Here. In the same place where I started. Must be Karma.’ ‘You’re still in the game, Kevin.’

‘Yeah, but I’m not half the man I used to be.’ ‘They’re the ones you have to watch.’ The two men continued to converse, taking pleasure in each other’s words. They agreed to meet up for pints sometime in the future, before saying goodbye. Kevin tried to get back into Ulysses, but he was too distracted by memories of the old days, especially Castlefreke. He turned his chair around and looked at his room. He spent most of his time here. Reading, writing, sleeping, dreaming. He thought about when he was a young man, crazy for kicks and the bitter years of his 30s. Now, all he wanted was peace and quiet and solitude. He was content to lead a boring but productive life. He had no idea what had happened to the crowd he was in with back in the mid-90s. It all seemed to happen so quickly. Youth did not last long. He suspected that he was forgotten about by now. The truth was he was a peripheral figure. On the margins. Watching. Like a ghost. He got up off his chair and went to the window. Bird song and children’s voices rose to meet him, but he was so abstracted that he didn’t take notice. Joe had been right. It was surprising that he could remember anything. That it wasn’t all a blur. But he could. They were fine days and if nobody else remembered them, that was their loss. He knew he would never forget. He had been to Castlefreke a couple of times after that night, but it wasn’t the same. He had tried to recover his old form. But time can’t be reversed. All he found was an empty, ruined house, guarding its memories. Any day now it would be bought and restored to its former glory, but Kevin knew that it would never be as beautiful as it was that night. A line from Yeats came into his mind: ‘A heavenly mansion raging in the dark.’ Suddenly, he felt an urge to be there. Before it was reclaimed by civilisation. Just once more. To search its corridors and rooms, even though he knew there was nothing there for him. It was like he wanted to say 27

goodbye. Not just to Castlefreke but also to the crazy young man that had walked headlong into darkness.

‘Give me about an hour,’ Kevin said to his mother. They were in her car, having stopped outside the mansion. ‘Okay. Give me a ring if you want me to collect you sooner. You have your mobile with you, don’t you?’ ‘Yeah, I have it.’ ‘Okay. Then do what you have to do.’ He got out of his mother’s car and shut the door behind him. She reversed back through the entrance, headed for the beach. She wanted to walk by the sea. The weather was good for it. There was a taste of salt in the air. He faced the house. As he was expecting, nothing much had changed. At least not from this perspective. It seemed to look at him in silence, mirroring him. He took out a cigarette and lit up before approaching the entrance with slow, easy steps. He climbed the concrete stairs and entered the front room. Nothing had changed much here either. There was more rubble and more graffiti, but it was still the same old decaying heart of the house. There must have been a hundred fires made on the floor since that night 25 years ago. And for every fire a dozen faces lit up by its flames. Yes, the revellers came and went but Castlefreke still stood there. They may have forgotten about its ivy-covered walls and myriad rooms but had the house forgotten about them? He looked around him at the decaying walls. He felt peaceful inside, as if he were in an old graveyard. Until he noticed some graffiti that he recognised. In black, faded letters was the single word: FREAK. He walked across the debris laden floor to the wall that displayed the word. It was hard to believe that it had lasted this long. The other graffiti seemed to give it a respectful distance. He gazed at the word Ryan had 28

sprayed on the wall all those years ago. It was as if he were looking at the Mona Lisa. ‘Some lousy freak you turned out to be,’ said a voice somewhere behind him. He turned around. There was a young man squatting against the opposite wall. He wore black denim trousers and a fading black shirt. There was something very familiar about him. ‘Hi,’ Kevin said. He didn’t know what else to say. The young man remained silent. ‘Are you okay?’ Still the young man didn’t answer. ‘What do you want?’ ‘To talk.’ ‘Okay. Well, what’s your name?’ ‘My name is Ulysses,’ the young man said, not without pride. Kevin stared and frowned at the young man until he finally realised who he was. ‘Hey, you’re me. You’re me about 25 years ago,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’ ‘Jesus, was I really that good looking?’ ‘Yeah, you were,’ the ghost said, with a bittersweet smile. ‘I’d forgotten. I’ve been fat and bald for so long.’ ‘Ah, what a mess you’ve made of yourself, Kevin. How did you manage it? Honestly?’ ‘Years of practice.’ ‘I had such high hopes. All those opportunities you’ve wasted. You were told not to waste them.’ ‘Okay. But it’s not all doom and gloom, right? I did well in college.’

‘Yeah, you did. I’ll give you that.’ ‘But you were right. It did change me. I just wasn’t expecting it to be so …drastic.’ There was a silence. ‘You’re my worst nightmare,’ the ghost said, quietly, without a trace of humour. ‘My worst nightmare realised.’ Kevin laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I did the best I could.’ ‘No, you didn’t.’ ‘Well, what about the writing? I’m getting good at it, aren’t I?’ ‘You’d be even better if you had things to write about. Let’s face it, you have no life, Kevin,’ the ghost said. ‘There is still hope. There’s always hope. I know I’ve let you down. Big time. But you must believe in me.’ ‘I suppose I do. You still have a way to go yet.’ ‘Yes. That’s right. And I’ll make the most of it,’ Kevin said. ‘Yes. I hope so.’ ‘Why did you come here?’ ‘I came to say goodbye. Because you have to let me go,’ the ghost said. ‘Do you understand?’ ‘Yeah, I understand.’ ‘Good. Now go back out into the world again and give it your all. Take your chances. You need a girlfriend, not a ghost.’ ‘Maybe if I was as good looking as you…’ 30

‘Come on, Kevin. You still have it, and you know it.’ ‘You know, that’s god-damned right. I do still have it. Thanks, Ulysses.’ ‘Don’t mention it. Now go. I never want to see you again.’ He looked about him, knowing that this was the last time he would be here. The scorched, dirty floor. The scarred and graffitied walls. The sorry pile of rubble. Then he returned to the entrance. As he passed by, the ghost smiled. Not a cold smile or a ghastly smile but a friendly, slightly crazy one. In that smile he recognised all the pain and fear and vulnerability that he had felt as a young man. Felt but hidden from the world. Or maybe just hidden from himself. In that moment, it occurred to him that at least he had been young. Many people never experienced it. They seemed to jump over it like sheep over a fence. He had tasted the real thing. He had been called a star. He knew he was nothing special but, then again, what was so special about stars? There were thousands of them, filling up the night sky. Some blazed. Some fell. Some were part of constellations. Some died and some danced. Yes, and he had been in the gutter too. Of that he was sure. And he had felt the hand of destiny fall on his shoulder, in sympathetic fire. And he had dared to look up at the dark heavens, hoping to see, not a falling but a dancing star. A star that he could follow. A star that mirrored his soul.

(Dave Jordan)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Khaled Chalabi

Khaled Chalabi, an Instructor and Translator and Assistant Lecturer in Cihan University of Arbil, Iraq, born in Boukan in Kurdistan of Iran in 1983. He has been teaching English as an instructor for 10 years in the Universities of Boukan, Bane and Mahabad and translated lots of Kurdish poems into English and vice versa. Some of his works are published in different magazines in London, Ireland, Iran, and Iraq.

“The last letter”

I have read your letter and was expecting to lament me by lovely words like before, expecting to feel ecstasy! the hand of love word combs the block and cold season of my curly hair!

the first word: hi, but cold and numb,

the content: cold as ice! why didn’t I die! I don’t know, maybe it’s true that: “the lover is so hard core”.

the last line, was sea of grief such a pretty garden turned into autumn frost, garden of heart faded to autumn. go …..go……., best wishes but the lover’s heart is breakable and a sufferer of the chronic pain of parting! By Jalal Malakshah Translated by Khaled Chalabi

Jalal Malakshah (1951 – 2020) was a famous and notable Kurdish poet. He is seen as one of the famous Kurdish poets in modern poetry after Swara Ielkhanizadeh. Some of his poems were translated into Danish by The Kurdish Institute of Copenhagen for the Kurdish new poem of anthology.

“ The Little Match Girl” The Little Match Girl writes a letter to the sun to put the light in prison, cut the paws of the leaves and assassinate the breath of the river!

The Little Match Girl is drinking a coffee in front of a camera, Seeking asylum in front of parliament and the snowfalls is exploding one by one in her hire!

Poem by Arsalan Chalabi Translated by Khaled Chalabi

Two short poem by Koorsh Homakhani

1. I’m grape in your hug The more crush me The finer wine become my words In your hug!

*********

2. Your voice Still Is the light of my darkness Came…… left In the season of writing, Away from you Every night A single hire In the mirror Turns gray a word.

Poem by Koorsh Homakhan Translated by Khaled Chalabi

Kurosh Hamekhani (born 1345 in Kermanshah) is a contemporary poet and one of the figures of NeoPersian poetry in the last three decades. He has collaborated with literary publications such as Chista Magazine, Donya Sokhan, Adineh, Farda, Farjad, Asre panjshanbe (Thursday evening), and in outside of Iran with Arash Simorgh Magazines, Book Review, Cactus, Aftab, Qalam, Anus, etc… He was the student of Ahmad Shamloo and Mohammad hquqi. Hamakhani is a member of the Writers' Association of Iran and one of the signatories of the text of 134 authors.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Caoimhe Naughton

Caoimhe Naughton is twenty years old and from Dublin. She is in her second year studying English and History in Maynooth University with the hopes of pursuing secondary school teaching. She loves writing and always has. Her favourite poets include Sylvia Plath, Seamus Heaney, and Rupi Kaur although she finds it hard to pick just a few! Her favourite book (at the moment) is Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. Caoimhe is passionate about language and words and views writing and reading as essential for her wellbeing. Her writing is personal to her although sometimes based on imagined scenarios.

Politics

I have inherited pain Hunger.

I negotiate the war between orange and green In my mixed blood.

Ashamed and afraid of the part I played Empowered by the fight I fought

There is great confusion Loss Identity Hunger .

Briseann mo chroí Arís is arís.

(Caoimhe Naughton)

Vocal chords torn Plates smashed on the kitchen floor Heart scattered somewhere amongst them

Time does not heal all pain.

7 longshort years ‘Okay’ was left behind With innocence and Youth.

Older than my years But frozen at 13.

(Caoimhe Naughton)

There simply isn’t enough life For all the lives I want to live. How can I choose? How did you? Am I like her sitting beneath a fig tree watching life wither away? How can I choose between Safe and Free ? Love and War ? Life and Death ?

(Caoimhe Naughton)

Reflections

I stared in the mirror but the face that stared back was unfamiliar. She was hollow and weak, with black rivers running down her cheeks. She looked lost and scared. ‘I hate you’ I cried ‘I hate you’ I cried I stared blankly hoping for a change ‘I need you’ she whispered.

(Caoimhe Naughton)

‘Generation Snowflake’

The older and wiser who think they know better – They insist i have it easy – They call me a Snowflake. tell me i’m weak – i’m addicted to the glow of my phone – Cannot think for myself, i’ll never know real love (whatever that may be) i’ll Never be Happy. Too busy chasing dreams, Not prepared to put in the work – They tell me i’m too emotional. Can’t stand on my own two feet – Yet when winter comes, all the gents and all the ladies who knew So Much: They retreat inside for warmth. The snowflakes, they fall with grace and dignity. The older and wiser will marvel at their beauty and complexity. Their silent, intricate strength. They wish they could understand. I’m not trapped in a storm, I, the Snowflake, am the storm. (Caoimhe Naughton)

Punching

'You're punching mate!' A voice echoes across the street-lit street during the early hours of Saturday morning, Full of the drunken remnants of Friday night. He yells it to the boy I'm kissing. I didn't realize I was being punched. His soft kisses didn't feel like punches, Was that his intent? I think this As he shouts back with a smile 'I know I am!' But I still don't Feel the punches I think about asking but the voice has disappeared into countless others. And I'm still in the street-lit street The boy assures me it's a compliment. Is that what this is? Should I smile and blush and accept my new title? A Punching Bag. (In a little black dress and kitten heels.)

(Caoimhe Naughton)

FaceTime

A blue lit screen does you no justice.

I miss your breath , Your warmth , Your closeness .

This is not humanity.

(Caoimhe Naughton)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Daniel Galvin Daniel Galvin is from Ballinspittle, Co.Cork. His writing has been published in The Moth, Honest Ulsterman, Acumen, The West Texas Literary Review, Rock and Sling and Ofi Press Mexico. He came first place in the Spoken Word Platform at Cuirt International Literary Festival 2017 and won the May 2017 Sunday Slam in Dublin . Daniel was also shortlisted for the Red Line Poetry Competition, 2018. He is currently completing an M.A. in writing at University College Cork.

Arrangement Today I do the kitchen ceiling in an off-white shade called Pepper Pot (anything lighter requires too much cleaning) so once the fry is eaten I set about dismantling the place, remove the towels from the settle, lift the mat from beside the stove bring the sacred heart off of its nail and the holy water font from above the light switch. I fill the hall with chairs as though it were a wake. How fast what feels fixed is shown as mere arrangement, taken down. A bedsheet drawn over a stranger’s table, the scent of breakfast lost to the synthetic coolness of the paint.

(Daniel Galvin)

Junction My ball of falafel is topped with a dollop of hummus which in turn has been garlanded with a sprig of something green. A bite unlocks the fuming engine heart, pungent with spice, so finely cooked it must have been watched second by second, bobbing in the oil. The streets at night are swept of stalls that tell the time of year, no chestnut smoke to smear the station steps, no June bananas huddled in their boxes by the gate. Dyed bronze, the junction coughs as gentle traffic snakes home past my perch, the drivers’ chins changing colour when they yawn, throats scarfed in the gloom that love is made in, a wedding ring upon a steering wheel. Lights rush down the sleek fish bodies of the cars, ripples in the chrome warping the waiter’s reflection as he nudges tides of bleach over the sill. Eventually the furniture is taken in around me, and it’s time to head back. The orange trees outside the flat drop overripe fruit and I step between the husks as earlier you stepped between the worn out segments drained of juice with your swollen ankle and your bag of books.

In the stairwell, all dark water, where your finger found the little flame that shivers in the light switch, I can still detect the soft rattle of moths that were disturbed.

(Daniel Galvin)

Fires The jungle’s burning in Brazil and leafy shadows trembling in the alleyways are filled with the spirit of flame. I wait all week for the whites of your eyes to rise from my coffee’s moonlessness, to find your throaty chuckle tucked amongst the clutter, to be ambushed on the stairwell by the smell of your old house but eventually return to Ballinspittle, pass along the gable by the hedgerow’s mint and pollen as the sun is bedding down between the briars. I light a fag to keep your own one company, fetch a cup of water for the forest fires crackling in your lungs.

(Daniel Galvin)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Jessica Berry Jessica is 26 and grew up in Bangor, County Down. After attending Ulster University to study English Literature with International Development, she then obtained a PGCE qualification from Queens University. She now teaches English and Drama in a secondary school in Belfast. Jessica is currently working on her first poetry collection. Many of her works are inspired by family stories passed down through generations.

Main Street, 1992 But underneath tarmac lie Skeletons – putrid Chiselled in our marrow – temptations to return to a time where Unknowns shook hands with frozen glances The birds must have been terrified when that Bomb, thirsting for blood, made an office window mosaic This one was newsworthy. Black and white, angry letters, untethered from the umbilical Soared paperless. Unbiblical phrases still jammed in cracks on the pavement Imagine the next morning, as the people removed their caps in reverence – placed over their Chests. Their mourning breath trapped in the autumn air, breathless at the debris left Does it ease the injured to loathe the ones who lit the flames? How many moments are stolen when we keep enemies we can’t even name? (Jessica Berry)

Titanic There’s only one day I know My father cried. Sat one in a hundred Unlit faces, undefined. If two fell and bled, the red Wouldn’t tell them apart. If two compared organs, They wouldn’t find “Catholic” or “Protestant” Written on the heart. He sat in the theatre, enjoying the show Momentarily forgetting, the anger and sorrow of a lost Youth, to hurting streets. A priest came on screen Anonymous, from the back Someone gave precious breath To a laugh Hurled a daggered word at the actor To all who dress like him Full of his own godly wrath. A name that skewered dad’s stomach Like a knife. Robbed him of the rest of that movie An agony that robbed too many of life. He left the theatre, tears overwhelming I’m glad he stood and admitted – “Your sticks and stones, they hurt me.” Decades later, we’re still picking sides. When does the sun arise, to melt bitter ice? (Jessica Berry)

From the Ferris Wheel You’ll find us in Imperfect seaweed crowns, speckling soggy sand Thousands of stories the peddle swans have kept secret Familiar phrases in small conversation “Would you look at that wet rain!” Charming, twinkling boats, unmoving from our lilting marina Affectionate smiles from passers-by, holding up a mirror Soaring, daydream colours in the murals of astronauts and red admirals Kisses from the wind to grumble about, but miss when we’re far away A family of sycamores gifting us, and the ducks, with shelter and solitude Glittering, pink shoes keeping watch from the pebble wall, patiently waiting to embrace Curious sea explorer toes Noiselessness of late-night drives, fast asleep in the back seat Serenity and consolation in the red velvet summer sky Polka dots from the Ferris Wheel Our seaside town is a smudge on the map But it scribbles its own symphony And we’re euphoric Arms around shoulders As the last song of the night plays on High Street (Jessica Berry)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Fionnbharr Rodgers Fionnbharr is a freelance writer who has contributed to the Northern Slant, Backbench and is a graduate from Queen’s University Belfast.

Born in the USA; Made in China

Well now class Will ye settle down? You’ve had your Little excitement From the bar fight That spilled on To the Senate floor. Mad-hatters and fuckheads In rags stolen from the Back of the Virgin Mary’s door Liberty’s burning fire Made into the Most vapid of Paltry peasant porn Did you light the Spark of revolution? Is your nation Renewed or Was it stillborn? It’s hardly Dresden, Not even the

Hill at Calvary Wolfe Tone is nothing short of disappointed Robespierre looks on In clear disgust Bobby Sands is pishing himself and his children are too For all your talk of streets of gold You sit down to a plate of rust But still you cry For love on high, Of bells and freedom And The love of the God You supposedly trust

(Fionnbharr Rodgers)

Shliabh gCuillin

Sixty-five million years have gone by Since the earth rose up above itself And a lot as happened since As the time ebbs along our coastal shelf At it’s head a stagnant pool Which cooled historic embers The foot, there lies the wee stone chapel And the stones that mark the dear remembered Don’t move close to those fiery waters That turn a fair head white Lest ye reap the Cailleach’s curse But should she burn you, have no fright For here also lies the holy cross’s nurse Her watchful eye keeps all pilgrims right (Fionnbharr Rodgers)

Pied Piper Ate All the Pies

There was no light There in your eyes When you set me In your sights

The breadth of My disinterest Matched only By your thighs

Yet others were Not so wise When you played Your lofty tune

They followed you Out of town With open hearts To open doom

Your verse as Empty and unfulfilling As you made Wrappers and packets galore

My one regret If one can call it so I spent kindness Where it wasn’t earnt

(Fionnbharr Rodgers)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: GEMMA MCNULTY Gemma is a mum of one and one on the way! She enjoys writing poems in her spare time for family and friends. Her previous poem "Late Night Cuddles" was her first published poem and this was included in A New Ulster. Recent poems composed last year explored the highs, lows and uncertainty around the Covid-19 pandemic.

Tired Tired, exhausted, sleepy, fatigued You go to work You come home to work You’ve barely time to breathe.

You do what you can just to survive With no help With no village We really miss our tribe.

My husband and I are passing ships Full time jobs Juggling child care Normal life has been eclipsed.

Utterly worn out and in need of a rest No one can fathom Truly understand How lockdown life has been one big test.

(Gemma McNulty)

Pandemic The world is in a chaos My head is in a spin. Everything is changing, And we are all locked in.

The shops are all closed, Schools and nurseries too. The play parks are empty, There’s really nothing to do.

Meetings family and friends Has become a thing of the past. We really must hope and pray This pandemic will not last.

Hospital staff keep working, Emergency services too, Retail workers, bin men and cleaners Without them what would we do.

We must find our silver lining, Amongst the uncertainty. Everyone’s pulling together, There’s a greater sense of community.

When this is all over, We will appreciate life so much more. Until then, just stay safe And keep behind closed doors.

(Gemma McNulty)

Time

A positive of this lockdown, Is I’ve got to spend more time with you. It seems that with every passing day, You are learning something new.

Since the start of lockdown, You have learnt to walk and run. You’re always keen to get outside, Where you have lots of fun!

You like to point at big tall trees, Or birdies in the sky. You’re forever picking daisies, And waving at the dog who passes by.

You have also started to say a few words, It’s lovely to hear your voice. You love to sing and tell stories, And just make lots of noise!

Lockdown has given us the gift of time, To stop, to take it all in. To notice the beauty around us, Not fogged out by pollution and din.

I love to see you take such joy, In the littlest of things. I am very thankful For the time this lockdown brings.

(Gemma McNulty)

Christmas

Christmas is a little different Not quite the one we had planned. You won’t get to see all the family You’re too little to understand.

While this year has been hard, There’s been lots of good times too. Let’s focus on the positive, And the memories we made with you.

This Christmas will be special, Even if celebrations are small. The magic isn’t cancelled, We will make sure you have a ball!

2020 has been a tough one, But the year is nearly done. Let’s end this on a high note, With love and laughter and fun!

(Gemma McNulty)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ALESSIO ZANELLI

Alessio Zanelli is an Italian poet who writes in English and whose work has appeared in some 180 literary journals from 16 countries. His fifth original collection, titled The Secret Of Archery, was published in 2019 by Greenwich Exchange (London). For more information please visit www.alessiozanelli.it.

Wastepeople I see them, men and women blind, drag their feet on paper roads, loads of paper filled with rules and codes, prescriptions and proscriptions, scribbles of all sorts. Cellulose paper and silicon paper, anyhow paper, crooked paper. Men and women wrested from true roads, away from earth, sea and sky, twisted. Pulled out, beached, shot down. Without leaves and roots, without depths and horizons, without day and night. No more. Phantoms the power of sunshine and darkness no longer can be beneficial to. I see them, just out of the corner of my eye, in front of the waves, my feet firmly on the ground, but I take care not to watch or listen to them. Men and women blind, lost on wastepaper roads, selling their soul dirt cheap. Wastepeople groping toward their foregone fate. They’ll never have my run, my dive, my soar. My vision. (Alessio Zanelli)

The Invisible I watch her watch me, pupils into pupils, but there’s no eye contact. Something is missing, the intangible tie. Souls caress for an instant but fail to touch. And there's no telling what we see in each other's eyes, if anything at all, or just our own reflections. A deeply buried silent cry for help, the slowly waning shade of the whole world we shared. The invisible. (Alessio Zanelli)

On A Sailor’s Grave The belief you never held, all you believed in, the unconfessed desires, boasts and secrets, everything is now sealed six feet underground, to the joy of earthworms and of dandelions, while the seas you sailed no longer have you. Are you really in there though?

(Alessio Zanelli)

At The White Bull Women, lots of women, a whole battalion of them, judging by their appearance in the age range 65 to 75, in the family restaurant at Cannon Hall Farm. They talk and laugh, laugh and shout, shout and talk all the time across the tables put together, seem not to bother in the least what eats and drinks taste like. They're having a blast, for sure. Their inconsequential hubbies, either at the pub or in the grave, take good care not to complain. (Alessio Zanelli)

On The Edge Adrift through the peripheries, on a pretentious quest for the locus, for the secretive, primordial pole of attraction, or some such place, the days of giving quarter drawing to a close at breakneck speed. Like a running point on the screen of the honcho at the controls, a loose cannon aimed at wreaking havoc on a perfect machine, a ruinous marauder, an untrammeled whack job on the loose. The real loonies are those outside. Yes, outside of the outside. I take it that they’d kill in cold blood, as if nothing happened, then cook the books and make it look like a long-due cleanup. Don’t I know it, I’d better stay in hiding, lying low on the edge, rather than looking for a reckoning, but I’m way sick of roaming, I ‘m no oaf, nor a recreant, and I have more than a dog in the fight. So, I’ll stop going in circles and head for it as if there’s no tomorrow, courage on my back, my story in the bundle, one certainty in my eye: I’m not slow on the draw, I can shoot, and the wind is shifting anyway. (Alessio Zanelli)

The Swan Sometimes the swan believes it is a goose. No harm done, it doesn't last long, it almost always goes back to its old self before taking flight. It is when it convinces itself it is a puissant raven— while swimming in the pond, afloat on such a queer assurance, and a real raven whizzes in front of it skimming the water— that the problem arises. Because then it wonders why it cannot fly as nimbly and fast. It often takes quite a few days for it to repossess its identity, but it can happen that it never makes it again. Eventually, evidence wipes out any doubt. In fact, it stares at its own reflected image ineluctably day after day and every time it sees a swan just below the surface in turn looking it in the eyes and wearing the typical fearful expression of one that's met the ugly gaze of a raven. first published in North Dakota Quarterly (USA) (Alessio Zanelli)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: SHELLEY CORCORAN Shelley Corcoran has had her poetry published in Murze Art Magazine (https://www.murze.org/), issues 11 and 12, her local newspaper, in the New Writing Talent section, as well as Life in Lockdown Exhibition (The Library Association of Ireland).

Haunted House by Shelley Corcoran

Arriving at the haunted house at the top of the hill, after navigating the steep range, to reach the entrance, I listen. Unbolt, unlatch, unlock. In bewilderment I emerge, taking my breath away Here all along, where I had left me, locked away with the memories, the ghosts. A past I was inclined to imagine was extinguished. A time merely suppressed for a measure. Powerless to outdistance. I encounter old spirits that have been dead to the world. Rummaging around a sitting room devoid of seats, a kitchen lacking a sink, a bedless bedroom, leaves me unruffled, pacific. Grasping, after scrutiny, I have amassed a sink, a bed, a seat, in those years since departing these shadowy quarters Crumbling though the walls might be, it is fitting I embrace this inhabited abode, where I currently reside.

EDITOR’S NOTE Well, we managed to get January and February out but 2021 is proving to be a right pain the behind the recent storm which wracked the UK had knocked out our internet we spent ages trying to contact Sky to get an engineer out at least the phone line works however the green junction box for the fibre broadband? Right across from the sea looks lovely but strong waves, salt and electronics? Not a good combination, they got that fixed only for the ruddy wind to fray our fibre cable. Still we persevered and got the issue resolved hopefully that will be the last of technical issues were the internet is involved. Of course there’s still the pandemic and the fact that I am in Shielding and therefore haven’t been able to travel to see any of my family and several friends caught the virus. The work on this journal keeps us sane at least so I hope you enjoy what you have read so far. Happy reading, good health, and keep creating, Amos Greig (Editor)