A New Ulster 103 by Amos Greig

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF Karina Acedera, Tadhg Russell, Michael Boyle, Saeed Salimi Babamiri, Simon Leyland, Margaret Kiernan, , Peter Hollywood, Martin Hanratty, Rosalin Blue and Sarah Marie Jones EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 103 May 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 Karina Acedera, Tadhg Russell, Michael Boyle, Saeed Salimi Babamiri, Simon Leyland, Margaret Kiernan, , Peter Hollywood, Martin Hanratty, Rosalin Blue and Sarah Marie Jones

CONTENTS Poetry Karina Acedera

Page 2

Poetry Tadhg Russell

Page 8

Prose & Poetry Michael Boyle

Page 13

Poetry Saeed Salimi Babamiri Page 27 Poetry Simon Leyland

Page 31

Poetry Margaret Kiernan

Page 39

Prose Peter Hollywood

Page 42

Poetry Martin Hanratty

Page 51

Poetry Rosalin Blue

Page 54

Poetry Sarah Marie Jones

Page 67

Editor’s Note

Page 65

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: KARINA ACEDERA Karina Acedera is currently studying Analytical Science in Dublin City University. she writes poetry as a hobby. Karina is an avid reader, especially when it comes to the classics. Poetry for her is also a form of therapy. She is usually a very emotional person and when they get overwhelmed, they use it as an escape. Karina hopes to publish her own book of poetry and prose someday, maybe a unique concoction of her love for both literature and science. Their favourite quote is, “…in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.”, by Anne Frank.

Tree of Lovers By Karina Acedera

Under the tree of lovers, A romance began to bloom, After a budding friendship, When we fell too hard too soon.

Every day it grew taller, Reaching towards the sky, Watered by our love for one another, We grew side by side.

Until the day I lost you, And everything fell apart, When you flew away with the leaves, You forgot to leave my heart.

Memories of you hurt me now, Like petals picked from a flower, Thoughts of you remind me of, A sweet fruit turning sour.

But even after all this pain, I’m rooted here on this fateful day, 2

There has never been any other, Like us under the tree of lovers.

And so it goes By Karina Acedera

A heart that bleeds for you My tears, a river running downhill Chasing you as always Through the rocky exterior In between the cracks of an Unexpected facade You break me apart

A heart that bleeds of you My fists clenched, holding back How do I stop the ruin Suffocating me from within A sigh of relief - Breathe The lingering longing of a song In your name

A heart that bleeds because of you Your memory in every glance Every risk - I take the chance I’m scared How do I know this is real If everything about you is screaming 4

Run away to me How do I know this is true When all life leaves me Broken and bruised

A heart that bleeds in spite of you I hope someday I get there Through the mountains Out the other side Black and blue But finally, Finally free of you.

A heart that bleeds but beats. And so it goes, me and you.

Star-crossed Lovers By Karina Acedera

To love and to lose They both sound the same to me To trust someone so completely In a world like this, where Pain is only ever inevitable And you and me We were no exception

Walking on glass shards Bleeding lovers who would sacrifice All for nothing A tragedy you can’t take your eyes off of Romeo must have loved Juliet Dying in vain for promises made and unfulfilled in hushed voices A banquet for slaughter and The table’s all set.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Tadhg Russell Tadhg Russell lives in Donerail, North Cork and has been writing poetry for the last number of years. His work has been published by Southword, Cyphers, New Irish Writing, Crannog, Poetry Ireland Review, The Stony Thursday Book, West47 Atlanta Review (USA) and Solas Nua (USA). He was on the shortlist for the Patrick Kavanagh Award in 2010 and took second prize in the Gregory O’Donoghue Poetry Competition in 2011. He was featured poet in the Stinging Fly winter issue 2012-13. His short stories have featured in the Cork Evening Echo.

THE SWALLOWS By Tadhg Russell We were told they came from beyond the western sun, but that orientation proved wrong when we saw them returning from the warm south, unnoticed at first in shy ones or twos, then acrobatting into our eyeline in swooping curves, chittering the season into being; soaring high meant good weather, but on days when they shadowed close to the earth, we knew to watch the sky for a different reason; so, soothsayers of a sort, and wherever it was said they came from, always welcome

IDYLL By Tadhg Russell Late summer, and these country back-roads are dusty with heat and absence, the day world has come to a stop, the fields appear at a distance under a shimmering haze, and right now, as nature quietens further, this is the centre of all I know and wish for

HARVEST LANDSCAPE: VAN GOGH By Tadhg Russell At first you see a landscape in summer, harvest time, the fields swimming in a golden sheen, but as you look closer, people appear, as if they had merged with sunlight, men working hard, driving horses with cartfuls of hay, watching the progress of each oncoming cloud, noting the pressure of every passing hour, all unaware of their moment in posterity, which doesn’t matter, until it matters most of all.

THE KNIFE By Tadhg Russell The knife for snagging turnips was a squat weapon, somewhere between cleaver and machete, and roused fantasies of glory in young hands, but on frosty mornings it rasped clear through pulpy flesh with a precise edge-line, and on occasion was cadged for illicit forays in a nearby wood, which magically turned jungle just a few steps beneath the canopy, but today it rusts in a garden shed, cobwebbed between here and some other time, waiting in vain, and not quite sure of its place

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Michael Boyle

Michael Boyle graduated from St Joseph’s College of Education Belfast. His poems have appeared in ‘The Antigonish Review” and “New Ulster Writing.” He lives in St John’s Newfoundland Michael Boyle came from Ireland to be principal of a three school a remote island on the NE coast of Newfoundland. His poems have previously appeared in ”The Antigonish Review” and ‘New Ulster Writing”. Today Michael lives in St John’s and he operates a historical walking tour there.

Frozen Mouths and Wooden Faces. By Michael Boyle

Years ago, country schools had few visitors or interruptions of any kind to the daily grind. Normally, there were just two figures that struck terror in the hearts of the teachers –the local parish priest and the dreaded school inspector. The local priests made short courtesy calls to the school. Pupils enjoyed seeing Father Joe Doherty come by the school on his bicycle and his little dog Spot. Father Mac Menamin came to the school to have a chat in Irish with my Aunt Miss Boyle who was a long-time principal of the school. School inspectors made numerous visits to schools and made detailed observations on both the teaching and the general state of the school. Among the distinctive foundations of the Westminster government in Ireland the school inspection system was one of the most established in the world. However, the investigative and authoritarian manner of some inspectors meant their relationship with teachers was always tense and very formal. Recommendations for the teachers were hand written into a bluish hard -covered book measuring 18 inches by 12 2 inches. It was covered in brown paper that was now frayed at the corners and spine of the book. This suggestion book was only for the eyes of the teacher and the local parish priest manager. The inside cover held an ominous warning. “No remark left by the inspector may be altered or interfered with and no page of this book may be tore out or mutilated.”

Then at the bottom of each page of the 100 pages was another caution. “N.B. This book is for the special information of the manager, teacher, and Board’s officer and not for the public generally” Since I found this book smeared with a trace of cow dung at the bottom of a garbage dump I feel I have rescued an important historical and social document. From the 1920s, typed comments were also forwarded to the Ministry of Education. Inspector visits were not relaxing occasions. They were unpredictable and they could come early in the morning or late in the afternoon. Surprise visits were often made on the first and even the last day of the quarter. Most times if he came in the 3 morning the inspector would stay the whole day and leave at three thirty when school was out for the day. On February 19,1920 the infamous inspector Mr. John D. MacManus had been in the school since 11 o’clock in the morning and he stayed to well past four o’clock checking the penmanship of the school transcription books. The teachers were nervous and pupils felt the tension and awkwardness of these general inspections. Pupils were so anxious not to “let down” the teacher and afraid and they were afraid of making a mistake Very often pupils clammed up when the inspector asked a simple question or tried to listen to a pupil’s reading. Indeed senior inspectors noted all over the province that inefficient attention was devoted to speech training and vocabulary. This was a perennial problem and inspector’s reports constantly pointed out the shortcomings of the oral response. On February 19 in 1920 MacManus observed, “Teach reading as shown today. Get rid of the frozen mouths and wooden faces.” 14

4 A year later in February 1921 inspector MacManus continued-, “Might I again appeal to the teachers to insist on the organs of speech being used properly?” In November of the same year MacManus came into class with his gabardine coat that he threw over a desk in the front row and observed a singing lesson. He noted: “Audibility depends of the proper use of vocal chords not on loud noise.” Teachers could not trust MacManus and called him Mr. Hyde because on the same day MacManus made an almost contradictory typed report to the office of National Education in Dublin. “Oral response has improved and pupils read with some intelligence………… ,,,,,,,,,,,,,the conduct and efficiency of this school are approaching a satisfactory standard.” The famous Irish storyteller Bryan Gallagher from Fermanagh observes that in the 1920s and 1930s a common complaint of

5 inspectors was that children were totally unresponsive to the simplest of questions. MacManus comes back to oral response on his school visit of June 13 in 1923. “Children should speak more clearly and more distinctly as well more accurately.” He then makes comments on the proper way to hold the pen. On his final visit to the school on April 29 in 1924, MacManus arrives just before break time at 10 15

15 and he sat in the teacher’s chair at the back of the room underneath the well-worn map of the world. He stayed most of the day. And then he wrote his parting volley, “See that your pupils are kept busy all the time then there should be no reason for sleep at lessons.” Other inspectors in turn made comments on pupils -not to be writing with school bags on their backs, writing out spelling corrections and having better care of all writing books.

6 All the inspectors documented in details regarding the weakness of the school and, on January 24 1923 the lanky Mr. William Macmillan arrived just after ten o’clock. He strode to the front of the class and occupied a chair beside the stove to keep warm. He took out his brown leather brief case and he made copious notes all day of the happenings in the school. After lunch the stove smoked a little and then he moved to the back of the classroom. Shortly before two o’clock he took the Inspector’s suggestion book and with his black fountain pen he wrote in immaculate penmanship a full page of suggestions on corrections of spelling and problems solving in arithmetic. Of course, he came back to the thorny issue of oral response: “Senior pupils should read slowly with some voce modulation. Make them open their lips and teeth.” MacMillan made a short visit into senior classroom on June 18 1924.He arrived just as the senior class was saying The Angelus and he remained in school until nearly three o’clock. He noted-,

7 “Look for distinct audible speech and fuller complete answers. More life should be implanted in pupils to stir them up.” In this vein a year later in March of 1925 inspector Anderson said“The majority of the senior pupils require waking up. Oral response is weak. Train pupils to open their mouths and speak distinctly.” It appeared that a succeeding inspector continued to detail the deficiencies of the school. On January 20, in 1926, Mr. A. Thompson arrived at school at 9. 35 just after Religion class had finished. He had a packed lunch with him and he left at 2 o’clock. He observed-, “The most obvious weakness in this school is that children do not express themselves distinctly, correctly or readily.” Now in fairness to these Inspectors some of them did in fact make practical suggestions on how teachers could improve oral response. For example, teachers should listen on occasion to

8 pupils reading reading with their book closed. Oral answers should be given regularly in the school and these answers should be in a complete sentence. The teacher should stand back as far as possible from the reader or reciter. Study the factors, which make for expression in reading. For example: pace, intonation, articulation etc…….,,,,,,,,,, A good senior pupil should read the dictation and this will free the 17

teacher up to attend to the reading class. On March 18, 1931, school Inspector Weatherup suggested: “Definite lessons in voice inflexion need to be given. Try to develop an appreciation of what is being read this implies the comprehension of the subject matter.” Inspectors now made more positive suggestions to both teachers in the school. For example just a year later on August 9, Mr. Weatherup grudgingly gave credit to the teachers in the school.

9 “On the whole good educational work continues to be done in this school. The teachers are conscientious and carry out suggestions designed to help them in their teaching.” It seemed that inspectors appreciated more readily the work being done despite the poor condition of the school. For example the small windows meant there was poor lighting. The roof was in poor condition and there was no spouting. External plastering was needed and the wooden floor needed repairs because from time-to-time traps were set for mice. There was no porch and the only access to one room is through the other. Desks were too small and they were not enough of them. Over the years slow gradual improvements continued in this school but this was an era when pupils were told to sit in their seats and do what they were told. A time when children were seen but not heard. Indeed, a time of innocence and ignorance combined. 18

These reports document and highlight a time when “whole class teaching” was in vogue. This meant rote-learning, memorization 10 of tables and long poems. This was long before the modern child centered approach to teaching took hold. During the 1960s, Irish society changed dramatically with major socio –economic and cultural changes. This was a time long before radio, TV, Internet and all modern forms of communication. The inspectors in time changed their role to being more advisory but their ‘bogeyman” perception still remained in country places for a long time. In the Dreenan school area, adults had a deep distrust of all strangers asking questions. This remote part of the Ireland had a long tradition of illegal poteen making, and during 1920s it was a time of political turmoil. The school indeed reflected the society of that time. When sociologists research the role of school inspectors in Ireland, perhaps they will see we have come a long way from “Frozen mouths and wooden faces,” of the past.

GATHERING POTATOES

(For Harry. Kiln field October 1957.) By Michael Boyle

We didn’t call it tatti hooking. Our October school holidays. on chilly frosty mornings, with blistered hands and aching backs made us wish -for half a second- we were toasting by the cosy hearth of Dreenan school. Away from there -this was our time of freedom. guldering, gyping ,gatching,shouting, clowning and carrying on. Noisy rackets over those not gathering their share. Fighting to get the light wire baskets that were much better than heavy wooden crates that stuck to the soil

That day the world changed. We looked up to see the Russian satellite Sputnik One move across the sky. Forget about space another twenty drills to gather by sunset at the foot of the water logged field. Emptied countless baskets to triangular pits covered first with rushes and heavy black soil. 20

Collected withered potato taps, that looked like decaying bones. On Samhain Eve we lit a huge fire to worship our ancient Celtic Gods and yet they couldn’t prevent the Great Hunger. Today no potatoes are gathered here anymore.

I WAS THE WRONG HORSE. By Michael Boyle

St Joseph’s University College was so far from the center of Belfast that it was nick named the ‘The Ranch.” Being an all-male college, it had the reputation of having one the best university Gaelic football teams in all of Ireland. Back then young students appeared to have money and time on their hand to sample Guinness and to go to the bookies. Afterwards they sauntered next door to the pub to place bets on horse racing or soccer games. Normally this very small sub-culture element of Ranchers kept to themselves and would rarely attend any sporting events in the college. It has been reported that on Wednesday afternoon when Doc Rogers gave his homily folks had bets on whether he used “and” or “but” the most. I have been told that the outcome was often in doubt until the good Doc gave the last “Amen” A sporting event at the college, which drew considerable interest, was the annual cross-country race held during the fall term on the Wednesday afternoon half-holiday. Teaching staff attended including my English teacher Seamus Heaney who helped another Seamus-the big lanky Seamus McKinney a former British decathlete to organize this event. I should say I won this coveted race in 1964 and 1965 and for some I was favorite to triple in 1966. I trained hard and I was ready but I knew I would face stiff competition from first year students Sean Meyler from Omagh, Paddy Diamond from Portglenone., Sean Ward and a few others. I would run my race and that was that. There was a carnival and fun atmosphere at this event in which over a hundred students took part. On race day the starting pistol went off and runners ploughed down the steep hill by the green houses then jumped the small drain and went on to a circuit of the football fields. Then runners weaved their way through a narrow forest path out past the music room and then come around by the front of the college below the nature study shed. That was one lap and we had to complete two laps of the course. Along with other six runners I forged ahead opening a twenty-yard gap on the rest of the field but it was going to be a tough finish as the first-year runners were competing as a team. As the runners jumped the ditch approaching the football field I heard the breathing of Diamond, Meyler and Ward close behind. I knew after the forest climb; I would get a chance to speed up and try and shake them off. Suddenly in the distance 22

I could make out the scarves of four suspicious “Ranchers” idling by on the course but I was focused on sprinting ahead. Suddenly then two of them jostled and bundled me right off the path and held me back for about twenty seconds seconds. I swung round a punch which missed but by then all the other lead runners roared abuse and tried to push my ambushers as they passed me. It it took me more than a second or two to rejoin the race and now I was in sixth place place. I struggled along and made a fast burst. We ran around the college towards the finish I surged all I could and I was lucky to finish in third place. There was no steward’s inquiry into the race and I could imagine it would have been sour grapes if I complained to Mr McKinney of being ambushed on the course by fellow student from my home region of South Derry. No doubt these folks felt determined the wrong horse should not win. I heard later a sizeable betting sum of money were made on the outcome of the race that day.

KEEPING THE CIRCLE TIGHT By Michael Boyle

You’re not from here and you’ll never be one of us. We’ll do things our way and to Hell what you say. So stop your bitching, complaining and making a fuss.

If you can’t do that –too bad get to the back of the bus. Shape up or ship out -no delay - we work for our pay. You’re not from here and you’ll never be one of us.

So stop your bitching, complaining and making a fuss. We work night and day and we have little time to play. You put my blood pressure on bust and make me cuss.

You’re not from here and you’ll never be one of us. We rest every Sunday and we always find time to pray. You waste time doing nothing because you are a wuss.

You are a strange battery always on negative never plus. We paint the house mend fences and mow the hay. You’re not from here and you’ll never be one of us.

You never ever listen and you are not able to discuss. We really don’t mean to be harsh or lead you astray.

You’re not from here and you’ll never be one of us. So stop your bitching, complaining and making a fuss

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Suwara IIkhanizada & Saeed Salimi Babamiri

Suwara Ilkhanizada is a Kurdish poet and writer. He was born in the village of Turjan near Saqqez in the north-west of Iran. He went to local school and continued his studies in Tabriz. In 1962, he enrolled in the judicial department of faculty of law at the University of Tehran.

Saeed Salimi Babamiri is a Kurdish translator and poet. His published books in Iran are “Half an Apple” and “The Mouse's Wedding” a play and a story in verse, both for children. He has many other translations waiting to be published. His major long translation from Kurdish into English verse is “Mam and Zeen” by Ahmad Xanee. It is known as “Kurdish Romeo and Juliet” which is ready to be published.

City

My heart’s full of pain sweetie! So I like to leave your city,

I would like to kill the pain of waiting for you, By a cup of spring water that in village can come true.

My soul is tired of city pollutions, Of dirty days that makes me ill, Of night fevers that come to kill.

So I do like to leave city!

To leave the lights that damages the sight of eyes, And go to my village where, moonlight in of my feelings flies, And lovely sun in my dreams happens to rise.

How on earth can I stay in city… When I heartily hate city’s cruelty?!

Full of iron, full of minarets…your city, The bird of love in your city; a stranger full of pity.

Each fence and phone, cable and wire,

On my wrists a pair of handcuffs, Around my neck the loop of death made of fire.

In your city, sculptures are scarecrows, Lamp-posts the symbol of gallows, coming in rows!

Smoke lassoes coming out of house of the rich, To catch clean rays of the sun, they fly each!

In each place in your city there is a wail, depressing it is, It is never hand of the friend which I squeeze, But wooden hands that make me freeze!

In your city lions are forlorn, Foxes are enemies and sworn! Each look contains a virus, They wire us!

I like to leave, I do believe, Yes sweetie! That’s your city. On dark stones never grows rose and beauty!

In your city, old shoes of lies shine in the sky!

O my beautiful gazelle!

Cities are hell! Cities are big just for grieves, On trees I see no happy leaves. Cities are small to find some love! The sky there, is not enough to fly a dove!

In your city, in your poor-killing city, I have no part, No one listens to the sacred verses written in book of heart!

In front of tents in my tribe, I am some oil in the sun, To the coffin lanes of city, I don’t adapt, they have no fun.

Mountain slopes full of springs in very pretty springs, Reds and greens touch my poems and my feelings in lovely rings.

Kurdish poem by: Suwara Ilkhanizada Translated by: Saeed Salimi Babamiri

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: SIMON LEYLAND

Simon Leyland is an ex- City trader who fell from grace and now lives in a small cottage in Connemara.

Singing strange By Simon Leyland

Should the heel of a shoe cry out When separated from the body? Dancing, you must think Where to put your feet. Too much and too little wine (Maybe palm wine) says Even the Grand Turk can find The answer in a certain Italian book.

Girdle, beard, burnt hair. Prophets think in figures, Sins of taking things literally When the two of everything are invisible. Signs and effects, combinations of miracles, They cross their arms and prefer to watch Young ciphers learn to shimmy, Never hear King Alpha’s song.

Without such a counterweight – Double laws, double figures, double captivity. Imagine a body of thinking members, How they would pray to be kept on.

Sometime too near or faraway-eyed, We come close to it. Casuistry. Perpetuity. Novelty. One opinion against another. Mangrove, et cetera.

If anyone said... The illuminations did us harm. I attacked you on behalf of others. At home we maintain five propositions, Six fathers, and six orients at the beginning of six ages – That all the alm-boxes of Saint-Merry can be opened, That an arm is good as a foot or – gun.

In the day [that thou eatest thereof], In a treatise on the vacuum, The same river flowing over there Is numerically identical to the same River flowing in China, River of Babylon. Escobar, master of conjugal acts, proves night is noon. By their fruit, feigned peace remove. So you too are in this civil war.

The anatomy of melancholy By Simon Leyland

The streaming lake and the low hills Lent the chessmen a noble oaken calm in their conical hats And with it a sensibility of division wherein The winding river and the light paths disappeared into the trees, seemingly breathing in the generous darkness.

Sea to land Night to Sky Eye to hand Dog to Cat

A calm of self sufficiency blunting the contrasts, conspiring against those outward forms, rendering the horses hooves into straight grooves

Utterly lacking in charm, His mien was remarkably casual for someone with his stain.

Evening comes far more swiftly in the tropics Than in Letterfrack In heated debate much of the great equation of facts may be lost of forgotten

One or two fingers extend as if the whole hand is about to enter in to the Argument Such is the life of one hand: the other daydreams alone in a maze lined with fine Corinthian leather, bleached and cracked by the sun

At the sound of the bell, the bulls moved south

In Lieu of coin, the usurer offers a small phial to the two young newlyweds The mountebank clad in red, is blurred in the double mirror.

In which from a distance he appears as a school of apples plying the waters

In the phial, the dark ages lie sleeping As the mirage fades and the music begins Our two newly weds glean that this is no normal hunt

Maybe I was more able than I am now, if I understand your question correctly.

As the saying goes, one man’s mickle is another man’s muckle. And so it goes. The tranquil hamlet of Purview, whose neighbour is Hindsight, sleeps through the night even as the time of doves nears. But who can or will say, as a car drives by in the night rain, what might occur or may go unnoticed?

Meanwhile, in Venice, blue held the east as nature tended to express itself in sky. The sinking sun, buckling under the rigors of life, knelt before the impending storm, which punctuated the drama with an affirmation of youth and the stimulus of lightning. The unique thing she possessed was a sense of grace foreign to others.

For what it’s worth By Simon Leyland I went to wash Flaubert’s parrot in the river. The river offered me its crumpled yellow chamois. To me it seemed a lie about to happen.

It so happened I was springing ever upwards. For fun I began to think of myself. For fun I took two hands and a map. For fun I came up short of breath and gasping for a rope, when I knew there were only buoys this far out, or the occasional sad sailor dreaming of five lonely notes on an underwater cello.

I had drifted to the lower left-hand corner of the musical collision we call the planet Earth. A full bath at constant risk of draining out or falling like a gavel through the universe with me in tow, holding in memory a few good days and a smiling hamper of complaints, Complaints it would take a child to mend.

But men don’t cry, they shrink exponentially, starting as giants and ending as graphite tracing the faces of women they have loved onto the finest paper.

Every now and then it works out: a number, a letter, a page of mirror script, I don’t know, anything that might make sense, just take it and run, far and fast, past pristine hymnals covered in snow, almost to the edge of the canvas, almost falling into the cup of culture, where there is room for you and your phone charger, and whatever else you find on your run around the lake of thoughts and deeds, crusted with frozen lichen locked in the kiss of the thought of an end.

Which is which?

But then it was time for tea, time to take myself seriously, and I slept through the ringing of the bell, dreaming I was licked again and again. And by licked I mean beaten, defeated. And by dream I mean good and only and thing.

O God, I hope I have a better posture in the year to come.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MARGARET KIERNAN Margaret Kiernan has a background in Public Policy and Social Justice. Writing in several genres including, Fiction and Poetry. Deeply committed, Margaret has attended many workshops and Tutorial led days over the past four years. A list is available. She is published in poetry and creative non-fiction. Appearing in The Blue Nib, Lit. Journal, New Ulster, Pendemic. Literary publication. Black-lion Press, Vox Galvia, Culture Page. Shortlisted at Fly on the wall Lit. Journal. Also, on-line. She is a Member of Over the Edge Advanced Poetry Org. Galway. Ox Mountain Poets, and Irish Writers and Poetry Centre, and Writing.ie

“Mulranny Twisted Sands.”

Atlantic Ocean laps in thrum and pull Beneath a rising orange moon Tides with morsels of news, Why do stars dance?

Beneath a rising orange moon I stand on grains of sand Why do stars dance? As rockpools, glimmer dreamily.

I stand on grains of sand As a Curlew echoes across the Sound Borne on the Westwind Canada geese soberly fly above.

The strand runs to the edge of light Against the sky of inked blue Canada geese might chatter soon Cycles of change, thrum beneath my feet.

Against the sky of inked blue I wait, watch for signs Make a fable from negative space

Clamp my lips closed, turn my collar up.

Walk back towards land, where houselights peep I ignore the pull and ebb beneath my feet Clamp my mouth tightly shut Aim those steps with intent.

Ragged wind catches in tangled briar The road opens out Moonlight silhouettes shadow Atlantic Ocean laps in shushed, thrum and pull.

Margaret Kiernan

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: PETER HOLLYWOOD

Peter Hollywood is the author of Jane Alley, Pretani Press (1987); Lead City and Other Stories, Lagan Press (2002); Luggage – a novel, Lagan Press (2008); Hawks and Other Short Stories (2013) and Drowning the Gowns – a Novel (2016) both published by New Island Books. His stories have appeared in numerous journals and he has had stories represented in three anthologies: State of the Art: Short Stories by New Irish Writers edited by David Marcus, published by Hodder and Stoughton and 'Krino - An Anthology of Modern Irish Writing' edited by Gerald Dawe and Jonathan Williams, published by Gill and MacMillan. The Welcome Centre opens the recently published anthology: Belfast Stories, Doire Press. I have also had ‘flash fiction’ anthologised in The Bramley Volumes 1 & 2. The story The Cataracts Bus will appear in the forthcoming anthology The New Frontier: Contemporary Writing From & About the Irish Border. Peter is currently Royal Literary Fund Writing Fellow in Seamus Heaney Centre, QUB.

Titania’s Town By Peter Hollywood

To be immortal is commonplace; except for man, all creatures are immortal, for they are ignorant of death – Jorge Luis Borges.

It was a lovely garden. It was an untidy and overgrown garden. The flowerbeds were aflame with colour. They needed manners put on them. It was autumn. It was summer. It was winter. It was spring. The garden could contain grandchildren. It had a rat.

And he was like a mad Ahab after it.

The large, red-bricked gable-end at the bottom of his garden had a little ledge or outcrop built into its construction. Hank had spotted the rat scamper across this and on into the neighbour’s garden. In plain view. Even with the clematis beginning to flower on the wall he scales each springtime to pin things back into place. He was affronted.

For Hank’s first book, the publisher’s photographer had posed him with that red brick as background. There had been no clematis then. -I’ve just got to take you against that. That red brick is almost as emblematic of Belfast as the Titanic, the photographer had enthused. Don’t you think?

Hank was not from the city, so didn’t know what to think. In the photograph, his hair is jet black.

The gable against which his garden abutted must once have been a stable or storehouse, part of some big property. It belonged now to a care-home. The cloying scent of suds and fabric softener, and the low electric hum of machinery, told how it housed the care-home’s laundromat. -We should knock a wee door through, Hank’s daughter and his son had the joke between them. Then you can move in and we could easily visit you. -You’d have to sell the house to afford to put me in that place, he pointed out.

Beside the care-home a developer had built apartments. A stockade for residents’ bins was situated close to the bottom of his garden. Hank blamed the bins, but his wife had always pointed a finger at the birdfeeders to explain any appearance of a rat. Not wanting to forfeit the visits of the birds, he had no qualms distributing, discreetly, little pouches of blue poison, among the shrubs and bushes.

Now he would have to do it all again. He knew if his daughter smelt a rat, she would think twice about letting his two grand-children play in the garden. As they had done the previous week. Or was it the week before that?

-There are fairies at the bottom of the garden, he would tell the little ones.

Who puts that nonsense in their heads? his son-in-law had asked, one evening, after his children had come to him to enquire about the precincts of their own larger, land-scaped garden. Oh wait, he had said. Let me guess.

For example, at Easter, Hank hid chocolate eggs around the garden, and his daughter would turn 43

up with the two grandchildren for the Easter Egg Hunt. -I don’t think the Easter Bunnies have turned up this year, he would lament meeting them in the hallway as they let themselves in. The children would look horrified and his daughter would intercede by saying: -I’m sure they have, Dad. You just haven’t looked in the right place; that’s all. And she would hit him a playful slap on the arm as she followed her children who were already dashing out into the garden to begin their hopeful forage. Outdoors, as they both stood and watched, she turned and said to him: -God. Remember you used to say that to us. -Well, he insisted. You never can tell with the Easter Bunnies.

It was mid-week and there were parking spaces aplenty outside the Homebase store. You can view yourself entering the hardware store on a TV monitor just inside the automatic doors. Hank grimaced at his image.

From years of D.I.Y. and gardening and buying Halloween decorations and fairy-lights for Christmas, Hank knew the lay-out and the aisles. He had to grunt and groan in order to bend and lift a box of rodent poison off a low shelf. It rattled like a cereal box. -Unwelcome visitor then, the till-lady commented scanning the box. - Blasted bins at the back of me. -You should report it to the Council, she suggested. If I was you.

On his way back to the car, Hank mused how cashiers and waiting staff were the people he most regularly came into contact with these days, baristas and barmen. Calls from his publisher were 44

getting scarcer; fewer and fewer emails. The odd PHD student might contact him. And of course, his coffees with Maurice. He also gave the cashier’s advice serious consideration. And phoned the minute he was home.

Two days later, a van with ‘Belfast City Council’ emblazoned on its side, for all the neighbours to see, pulled up outside his door; and out got Colin the Pest Control Man. Hank brought him around the side of the house and into the garden. -Least there’s no decking, Colin from the Council observed, surveying around him. He evidently did not approve of decking. They proceeded to the bottom of the garden. The bins were beyond, hidden by a high fence Hank had erected. There was an old bench there where Hank often sat of an evening, catching the last rays of the sun. -Maybe I should move the bench, Hank remarked. However, his suggestion did not seem to sit well with Colin the Pest Controller. -I wouldn’t do that, he warned. Rats have photographic memories. -Is that so, Hank replied. I’m not sure if I even have a normal memory anymore. He said this heartily enough but noticed that Colin the Pest Man seemed to be frowning. -They also suffer from neophobia, Colin the Controller continued. Hank’s turn to frown. Colin nodded gravely and clarified: -Fear of the new. -Well, Hank returned. I certainly have that. But Colin of Pest Control was down on his knees now peering in under the bench and fencing. -Change anything and they’ll notice something’s out of the ordinary. They become suspicious.

He looked around as if to check that Hank was still paying attention. -Wary. -You’re the expert, Hank assured him. So, the bench remained in situ. Colin the Pest Officer pointed out the smooth runnels worried and worn into the soil and undergrowth, which were the rat runs. Hank marvelled at this new world being revealed to him of secret and discreet byways and passageways. -This is where we’ll place the bait station. He almost whispered this prompting Hank to observe: -You certainly know these critters, don’t you? Colin, the Environmental Officer, stood up, and straightening himself, declared: -We have to study all sorts. Bats, cats, rats and dogs. -And wasps, I expect, Hank added. Colin, in control, mustered a bit of a smile. -All sorts, he assured the old man.

-Old age has nothing to commend it, Maurice announced the following week in the Caffè Nero on the Ormeau Road.

They discussed then their respective BPs, statins and how many times a night they did it. One Christmas, Maurice had to have stents put in. Afterwards, after the recovery period, he told about reappreciating taste. The one pint of Guinness, Maurice meant. The one glass of red. He was learning to savour, he said; not slaver. They both sipped like connoisseurs the coffees the waitress had set down in front of them. Then Hank regaled Maurice, telling about the visit from the representative of the Belfast City 46

Council.

Days later, Hank got the foul stench of decay, emanating from his garden shed. Peering into the dark, untidy shed, he did not quite pinch his nose but he did recoil a little knowing that the dead rat lay somewhere among the mess of mower, tools, garden furniture and old paint cans, boxes of empty jam-jars; the huge cauldron his wife had used to make the jam in with the loganberries from the garden; long forgotten sports gear abandoned by his son. He knew it would be a major job for him to remove all the junk in order to locate the decomposing carcass. Hank heaved deck-chairs, spades and stepladders, hoes and rakes and dippers, out onto the lawn; barbecue and lawn-mower; the cracked, clay Chiminea. Eventually a tiny, bright runway of white maggots lit the way to the corpse. The teeth bared in the rictus of death. It looked like it had been a painful one. He half-scraped, half-scooped the semi-gelatinous mess onto the garden spade and carried it over to the compost heap. He had an ancient, long-handled poker Excaliburied in the heap. Putting the spade down, careful not to let the rat slide off the blade, he extracted the poker. The point of the poker was heated by the slow combustion of decay. With the poker he hollowed out a space large enough to slurp in the rotting remnants of the rat, interring it in the middle of the compost heap. He scraped the remaining maggots off the spade and turned to assess the junk and jumble on his lawn. -No rest for the wicked, Hank said aloud and then, with a sigh, he proceeded to return the items, but in more orderly fashion, to the shed, while also laying aside items destined now for the local dump. A good excuse for a spring-clean. After all of which he retired, exhausted, back towards the house and lowered himself with a groan into his garden-seat, that spot from which he could survey his garden and observe the birds and their flitting, fleeting visits to the feeders; or later, contemplate the stars that wheel away above him despite the light pollution - though he’d need a coat on then. He looked down and noticed that he had clay on his hands and in under his fingernails. He would wash them in a while, he thought. 47

And then there was a bright flash in his peripheral vision and turning his head he clucked in admiration: a bullfinch Velcro-ed to the feeder, bright and bombastic, more like a bird belonging in a garden from Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

So.

It is half-past bat-flight, twenty-five fathoms to mothnight when Titania steps elegantly out from between the overgrown Acer and the rosemary and rue that grew at the bottom of the garden. She beholds the form still upright in the seat across the moon-blue lawn. -Quit! She immediately freeze-frames a couple of her entourage who are moving inquisitively towards the figure. -Away! She commands. When she is sure they have heeded her and are remaining in place, she approaches the old man herself. She admires the aconite-blue lips; the delicate dentellerie of bubbles embroidered there by his final breath. -Ah, Hank. Hank, Titania says; but her rebuke is not for the old man; she reprimands rather this misery of being mortal. She senses the impish ones are creeping up again, their cobweb footsteps disturbing the dew, and stills them with an imperious raising of her hand. Turning her head, she glares them back to the bottom of the garden. It is not time yet, she judges, for them to see such immense senescence; this impermanence that galls and frightens her in equal measure. The sere and not the verdure. Instead, withdrawing back across the moon-lit lawn, she lets them linger a little and explore the compost heap. She supervises as they circle and poke and prod; approaching and recoiling from the mound of mulch. She would allow them, she decides, to make acquaintance first with this lesser putrefaction, this slow oven of decay. 48

Then through the late air come the clear chimes and Titania casts one last, wary glance over her shoulder. It is time, she knows. Time to go; to merge once more with the shrubs and bushes and return then to the forest. For here is to be found the venue, the rendezvous where everybody dances in the clearing after midnight.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MARTIN HANRATTY Martin Hanratty lives in Castleblayney, Co. Monaghan. He is a poet

A Temple to Atlas Your body might be a temple, Yet! It can have you on your knees. When you mind is a prison, Yet you cannot find the keys.

Never the Twain Radiating love and lust She sits upon the bed. Flirting with an inward trust And a soft thrust is up ahead. Beautifully breasted and eyes that match, My passion rested, My thoughts detached. All that is down is her hair, All that is, is gone. No rules save the unwritten. I write in this song, Beautiful body, Beautiful soul. Never apart, yet never quite whole.

By Martin Hanratty

A Bright Pen in a Dark Place I had no pen to write down how I feel. To learn my wrong from right; To feel what is really real. And as I dwelt upon society And all the cracks it’s made The Samaritans give me forty pens And I write with the brightest shade.

A Nursery Crime Hey diddle diddle The Fat Cat’s on the fiddle. There’s an abattoir now on the moon. The little dog wept In a puppy farm And the dish Took the kids from the spoon.

By Martin Hanratty

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ROSALIN BLUE

Rosalin Blue is a poet and translator from Germany, performing since 1995. Since 2000, her poetic home is OBhéal in Cork. She has performed in Cork City and County, Limerick, Galway and Dublin, and at festivals like Electric Picnic and LINGO. Her poetry has been anthologised in Cork and was published in magazines including Southword, Revival and Crannóg. Her collection “In the Consciousness of Earth” was published by Lapwing in 2012, and her translation of love-poetry by the German Expressionist August Stramm were published by the University Library (ULB) Münster in 2015. Since 2020 she facilitates the Blue Mondays Writing Group. You can find her on Youtube and facebook.

By Rosalin Blue

Silence of the Night

Oh, how I love the silence of the night, when not a whisper cuts the dimmed light, just sounds of dogs and single cars pass by: Before me lies in peace the sleepy night.

No tick-tock of a clock dissects the time, no beeping phone-call that disturbs my mind, no-none wants me with an urgent need, No empty radio-noise and no TV.

The quiet of the night is free and wild and the silver moon and stars up high awaken all my senses into motion: My mind and spirit open deep and wide.

Then in poetic mode from heaven's ocean the sparkling inspiration wells and flows. This is, of all, my favourite time to write: Oh, how I love the silence of the night. By Rosalin Blue

Chocolate

The chocolate melts under my palate my tongue languishing in the lush creamy texture of this brownie its intense dark flavour overpowering my taste-buds

I close my eyes and reminisce over memories of chocolate moments my mind joshing my skin relishing in velvet nights of soothing smoothness my body tickled by the views

In writing out these most emotive moments of love flowing in all its sensuality my pen carries me over the line between want and wish

between deed and dream between tongue and skin

By Rosalin Blue

Future in Pandemia

Pandemic pandemonium: a plotted heteronomy – When social distance has widened the gaps long enough We become creatures with no mouth no nose no smile remote controlled and never touching We come in a cubic cage 2x2x2 for safety We move on a distant path lane by lane We buy through the glass chip integrated now long since where our mouth used to be Forgotten our bonds incapable of closeness 58

fingers shortened for lack of touch still technologically suitable Isolated our thoughts no feedback to feed back spinning spirals controlled only by the media we view Opinionating, labelling: segmented, fractured easy to steer easy to guide the sheep we be Pandemic Pandemonium: What we don't see behind our screens our doors, our views: Divide and isolate achieved. Heteronomy being executed.

By Rosalin Blue

Seeds of Darkness

Seeping into sleep deep through the aural canal this regime of social distance saps our energies to zero

Coiling its poison into minds blocking the concept of life like a copper contraceptive an IUD spreading venom

Between mother and child Barbed wire between I and U, deeming doomed whatever life conceives

The pain in our solar plexus not just a side-effect lack of energetic exchange seeping deep, disturbing sleep

Cutting social connections

reminding us of the need of light by way of plunging us into the cold of darkness

We are social beings being hurt by distance Seeded and confused by fakeness and false news

We need to rise above the venom of our fears Seeded by the voices of darkness in our ears

By Rosalin Blue

Somewhere Anywhere

Noise drowning out our whispers hushed voices ducking in the darkness of the bunker

We ran from the rain of bullets jettisoned from the sky

Piercing the ground the walls, our skin like grains of sand whipped up by desert storms

Fashioning horror with wars, cold and hot anywhere – everywhere

The planes kept chasing our little feet stumbling, falling struggling, struck

Until most of us – most of us – made it into the shelter shaking, frightened shedding tears

Here now in the darkness we whisper our hopes into each other's shoulders

While somewhere – anywhere – another bullet shower rains

By Rosalin Blue

Dreamspaces

The sun is rising honeydew colours into the silence of dawn

Spaces between dreams and waking become smaller The honeydew melts into drops of rain trickling down the window pane

Digging deeper into pillows trying to drown out the dawning day as the crow-chicks' cries pierce deep into the last spaces of my dreams

Waking to the thought of the most ugly baby-cry mother nature has ever brought fourth – It's done: I'm up

Shaking the dream-spaces off my wings with drops of honeydew By Rosalin Blue

EDITOR’S NOTE I apologize for the delay in getting this edition out there has been a lot going on lately and several losses which have affected us. There were issues with several prints of the hard copy edition of April’s edition so we had to wait for that to be resolved before we could go to print so to speak. This is the first time there has been any issue with the POD option we use but PEECHO helped get things running again. Our inbox is full with submissions and I’m working through them as fast as I can we may even have to bring back one of our old segments for the next issue as we have been sent some amazing artwork. 2019/21 has been a trying time for all of us but we managed to weather the worst of it relatively unharmed physically if not financially. Our friends over at PoetryXHunger have a new collection of poems coming out soon based on the fight against world hunger which is a worthy cause. I have nominated several of the poets we’ve published this year for a number of poetry awards whether or not they win is beside the point their work deserved to be recognized. 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)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: SARAH MARIE JONES Sarah Jones, is a 27 years old writer who lives in Co.Wexford. She has been writing poems and stories since she was a child but has only recently found their creativity again. Sarah recently had a sort story published online at Refresh magazine.

Daylight had faded without us realising the air felt cold around us but I was glad because you moved closer to me then I didn’t say anything when our bodies touched and neither did you afraid to break the spell of this evening we had shared unwilling to look away but inevitably the daylight came back with the brightness of the dawn came the harshness of the day you had to leave me again and go back to her and I would do my very best to hold onto the night to the words and the softness of your voice but I would think of you at home with her slipping quietly into the bed you shared together wrapping your arms around her holding her close for warmth and I would be in my bed alone wearing your jumper you said I could borrow and I would inhale deeply trying to fill my senses with your scent trying to hold on the the hope that you gave me and I would be so happy and then all of a sudden I would cry and curse you but in the end I would still be glad glad that we had the night together glad that I had a piece of you