A New Ulster

ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of Darragh Mayne, Stephen James Douglas, Alisa Velaj, Dr Sreekanth Kopuri, Anne Irwin, Rinat Harel, Fabrice B Poussin, Claire Lawrence, Greg Huteson, Connor Foley and Patricia Kamradt. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue 85 October 2019

A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website

Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents

Editorial Darragh Mayne;

1. Inch Abbey Stephen James Douglas;

2. Absurd Ulster Alisa Velaj; 1. Review of Reuben Woolley Dr Sreekanth Kopuri; 1. A Lie 2. To Jean-Paul Sartre 3. The Priest, His Wife and the Young Girl 4. A Destination 5. Tea Folk Anne Irwin; 1. Not Knowing 2. The Giants of Ballynahatty Ring Beseech 3. Ode To the Present Rinat Harel; 1. Ireland 2. A Two Year Old Among Them 3. If a Tree Claire Lawrence; 1. The Eviction of Benjamin Tovey’s Soul Greg Huteson; 1. End of Debate 2. Peace Like That 3. Watches of The Night 4. The Willow River

On The Wall

Fabrice B Poussin; 1. Six photographs Message from the Alleycats Round the Back

Connor Foley: 1. Something Moves Patricia Kamradt: 1.

Down The Long Winding Dirt Road

Poetry, prose, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Or via PEECHO Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://anuanewulster.wixsite.com/anewulster Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland.

All rights reserved The artists 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) Cover Image “Portal� by Amos Greig

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. � Aristotle Onassis.

Editorial Been a difficult month it started off with just a flu which I managed to shift after a few days however shortly after that I began getting short of breath and needing to take my inhalers much more, I attended the Asthma clinic only to be told that it has lingered on not quite a chest infection thankfully but lingering none the less. Added to my parents health it has led to one heck of an annoying year Healthwise.

Back to video games one of the first authors to recognize the potential for video games was Tom Clancy he started up a small games company specifically to make games based on his novels as well as original games based on ideas, he himself came up with. Over time as with his novels he started hiring ghost writers to continue the themes he began Rainbow Six being one of his longest running game franchises alongside Splinter Cell.

Indie game developers can take more chances with their story telling and a lot of games have become the new fairy tale or myth, games like Trine were three hapless heroes for lack of a better word are joined on a spiritual and physical level until they can resolve the quest, The Children of Morta tells an entire story of a family whose bloodline is destined to protect their world from an evil and over time the mythos of the story is laid out for the ‘reader to explore in detail from the larger gaming houses you have the Dishonoured series which has quite a background and explores themes of morality with the game being able to be played out in multiple paths with dozens of potential endings based on your actions.. .

Amos Greig Editor.

Biographical Note: Darragh Mayne

Darragh is an Ulsterman living in Waterford. He is an active member of the Red House Poets in Lismore

Inch Abbey (Darragh Mayne) For Alice Hatfield Here where the river veers away from bridge and town the abbey ruin breathes out its beneficent gravity through hawthorn gorse oak and sedge rolling out across the water drawing down the tumult of the world into silence in the silence each glinting wavelet points to the essence of light and the breeze names us as we truly are whispering the unspoken word

Biographical Note: Stephen James Douglas

Stephen James Douglas is a Northern Irish poet based in Scotland. He was educated at the Royal Belfast Academical Institution and graduated from The Queen’s University, Belfast in 2010 with a joint honours degree in English and Film Studies. Having gained a Post Graduate Certificate of Education at Ulster University, he has taught in secondary education for five years and is currently a Teacher of English at Merchiston Castle School in Edinburgh.

Absurd Ulster Act One Ulster. Rubble. Evening.

NATIONALIST, UNIONIST and STRANGER walk into a bar, except there is no bar. Bars don’t exist anymore. Circling methodically as if in a trance, NATIONALIST and UNIONIST eye each other suspiciously; STRANGER watches on impassively.

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, irritated.] What’s your name?

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, irritated.] What’s your name?

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, defensively.] I asked first!

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, defensively.] I asked first!

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, irritated.] What’s it to you?

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, irritated.] What’s it to you?

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, defensively.] Nothing…

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, defensively.] Nothing…

STRANGER, sighes deeply, growing agitated.

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, irritated.] Where’re you from?

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, irritated.] Where’re you from?

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, defensively.] I asked first!

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, defensively.] I asked first!

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, irritated.] What’s it to you?

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, irritated.] What’s it to you?

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, defensively.] Nothing…

UNIONIST: [To NATONALIST, defensively.] Nothing…

STRANGER, advances as if to intervene, halts, turns and sits despairingly on a conglomerate of broken bricks and mortar. NATIONALIST and UNIONIST turn and approach STRANGER in unison.

NATIONALIST: [To STRANGER, irritated.] What’s your name?

UNIONIST: [To STRANGER, irritated.] What’s your name?

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, defensively.] I asked first!

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, defensively.] I asked first!

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, irritated.] What’s it to you?

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, irritated.] What’s it to you?

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, defensively.] Nothing…

UNIONIST: [To NATONALIST, defensively.] Nothing…

STRANGER, motions as if to speak.

NATIONALIST: [To STRANGER, irritated.] Where’re you from?

UNIONIST: [To STRANGER, irritated.] Where’re you from?

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, defensively.] I asked first!

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, defensively.] I asked first!

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, irritated.] What’s it to you?

UNIONIST: [To NATIONALIST, irritated.] What’s it to you?

NATIONALIST: [To UNIONIST, defensively.] Nothing…

UNIONIST: [To NATONALIST, defensively.] Nothing…

NATIONALIST and UNIONIST remain motionless, then together make a sudden rush towards the wings. Stopping half-way, NATIONALIST and UNIONIST run back, pick up broken bricks and circling methodically as if in a trance, they fight to the death; STRANGER watches on impassively, stands and exits the bar, except there is no bar. Bars don’t exist anymore.

CURTAIN

S.J. Douglas

Biographical Note: Alisa Velaj Alisa Velaj’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals and magazines, including . Poetry Space Showcase, The Curlew, The Seventh Quarry, The Poetry Village, The Stockholm Review of Literature etc etc She has been shortlisted for the annual international Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in UK in June 2014. Velaj’s poetry book “With No Sweat At All” (trans by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj) will be published by Cervena Barva Press in 2019.

Alisa VELAJ THE NOWHERE ECHO INSIDE US The poetry book “Some time we are heroes” is an exceptional parody of our contemporary times.

Each poem comes as a prolonged echo of the nowhere inside us, a nowhere projected by such a sophisticated architecture that any of us can find themselves in this building like inside a prison with no doors and no windows. "i´ll break bread for this & end a fast.there is no reason for so much blood in our cups again” here are only whales singing Again resembles the distressed sleep in Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”, where the playwright writes: "Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more!

Macbeth does murder sleep”—the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care..."

(William Shakespeare, "Macbeth", Act 2 Scene 2, P.3) Mary and John, the two main heroes of this poetic confession, all naked from their mythical garments, have murdered their sleep and our sleep; since they in themselves are any of us; just like we are inside our stuckness a little bit of Mary and a little bit of John. “i just tick for syncopation he says.who cares for words” …………………………. "each moment arrives whatever john says” & it’s saturday all the same “some time we are heroes” comes built in the form of a drama, through dialogues between Mary and John within the same poem, or through monologues of each of them from one poem to another. The poet describes that process of the loss of equilibriums where we murder sleep, hovering around like night shadows, running into the walls of our cavern, and then, when the fatigue wears us out to the end, we start to see light traces at the caverns entrance, or that tiny piece of sky out of the only window of the cell. Yearning for things more and more heroic, more and more magnificent, we abandon the words we know searching to invent other words, other realities, other worlds. We peregrinate with heroic nerve and in the end we find ourselves as Sisyphus’s fellows. We seek to be inhibitors of the waves of time, but we orchestrate dead symphonies. Caught in the noose of egoism, we avoid the wonderful manifest “Carpe diem” by proclaiming other manifests, and we forget that there is nothing new under the sun...

“Each moment arrives/whatever john says”, stamps that that time flows regardless of us and we will forever be lost heroes against it, because those times have always been the same; it is us who need to understand themselves in the flow of moments. Time is not in the least the one that has to be subjugated to our judgment. We are the guilty ones, not the time!

Reuben Woolley’s poetic heroes get through their odyssey to the end. They come out in front of the reader stripped of the heroic, experience painfully the phase of delirium, and then they make efforts to rehabilitate the murdered macbethian sleep. "some time we’ll be human open for delivery. meanwhile let the wind blow" some kind of prologue "i hold light like sand

trickling a galaxy unstable" mary writes a love letter Demythification (recalling Saint John and Saint Mary in biblical writings), or keeping the myth as a structure but not as a core, “serves� the poet to transmit the universal messages of the all-time humanism to the reader. Black humor and the Socratic irony are used to penetrate as deep as possible in the psychic of the former hero human or the former Human "hero". The poet sees the perversion of the latter with eyes wide open from the horror. Therefore we can say that “some time we are heroes" is a hymn full of pathos for the Human and their happiness.

Biographical Note: Dr Sreekanth Kopuri Dr.Sreekanth Kopuri is born in Machilipatnam, India. He has come out with two books of his poems The Shadows and The Void. His poems were published in India and abroad. He presented his research papers in many reputed universities like Oxford University United Kingdom, University of Caen France, Banja Luka University Bosnia and Herezegovina, University of Gdanski Poland and others. He was the reciepient of Dr. J.K. International Award for 2014, Man of the Year Award 2011, Editors Choice Award 2009 from India for his achievements in poetry. Sreekanth Kopuri presently Lives in Machilipatnam dividing his time between teaching and creative writing. His areas of interest are Postmodern Poetry, Ekphrasis Poetry, Silence, Holocaust Poetry, Quantum Art Poetry and Christian Literature.

A Lie (Dr.Sreekanth Kopuri)

woven with the void of years in the African sands, borrowed from the life’s incomplete pages sits in secure chair today bought from the supermarket as a highest bidder at a secret government auction the shallowness adorned in showy kinesics entreats for scraps of learning from another that proclaims the biography of its own blunder written with the stolen letters from the pages of a ruined history it picks up the leaves and windfalls spilled under growing trees in the government orchard with more lies that socialize a life whose belly bulges with the voracity for wealth

To Jean-Paul Sartre (Dr.Sreekanth Kopuri)

The words of pain could rise only above turning down an earthly honour.

Seventy five years of an existential darkness sleeps in a dilapidated tomb but still the beatitude of a meanest flower and noontides give the testimony of a shoulder that hasn't shrugged off the atlas and its pain.

Behold the footprints on the splinters of a blurred glass beyond the Whitmanisque multitudes where The Word builds life from the melted clocks, dust and ashes.

The Priest, His Wife and the Young Girl (Dr.Sreekanth Kopuri)

The soul of the girl is the subject, darling! between you and me like a swarm of flies between a piece of cake and my watering mouth of diabetes.

The conscience always ages like woods where the deer of desire is always lost when the summer mirages draw it like the midnight dreams.

It’s another Sunday dear! with the girl, her distracting words, and the roses of the youth and the worm of desire secretly wriggling in the apple of this eye, and The Word, between us with its question of the soul like my walking stick to walk the talk with her along the dark, slithering road towards our golden destination but only with you because.... this flesh is ailing and I will be left behind.

A Destination (Dr.Sreekanth Kopuri)

Those bruises see that the time’s ashes beneath these aging feet will bring home a love beyond all our meanings but not yet, since the ash flakes of these dreams still blur the way.

Tea Folk (Dr.Sreekanth Kopuri)

Another milk-white morning pours into the town’s tea-dusty bazaar. Folk spilled here and there, warming up in the endless melting pots along the bazaars with pinches of sugary granules at tea shacks with spoonfuls of tea-dust-like guffaws and giggles of the Indian brown faces suffusing into the milky morning boiling with the fragrance of native exchange of pleasantries with the warm sips of the cardamom tea.

Biographical Note: Anne Irwin Anne Irwin lives in Galway. She studied English and Philosophy in U.C.Galway a long time ago.

She is a homeopath and tutor at the Belfast School of Homeopathy. Her poetry can sometimes be political but generally her inspiration comes from life, nature and her ever extending family. She has three sons and seven grandchildren. Her poetry has been published in many magazines including ROPEs , Skylight 47, Poetry Bus, Irish Left Review, Boyne Berries, Galway Review, High Window, Crossway. The Sea etc She has been guest speaker at Over the Edge, North West Words, O’ Bheal, Cork, An Beal Binn in Erris. The Play House, Derry,

Not Knowing (for my sister) (Anne Irwin) In the sober world beneath the blanket of certainty I think of you, fragile, waiting asking if you will be okay.

At night I dream of magical lands where everything is possible but wake to sombre days that have no answers.

Looking out from my numbness I see the soft green of May, smell the meadow sweet scent the white rowan flowers and hear the yellow tits flutter above the tree, protecting their nests I lie beside you wiping tears from your frightened eyes, willing you, be okay

The Giants of Ballynahatty Ring Beseech (Anne Irwin) Small people of earth stop self-aggrandising, ego posturing voting for clowns, Your kingdom is now.

Give yourself a break.

Burn fires on hill tops frolic in the woodlands let your eyes spiral through galaxies drinking the rhythm of stars We were here before you and will live long after, so look up‌ See our powerful stone teeth bite into sky.

See shadow birds circle navy trees as moon casts silver ribbons on still water.

Search for badger’s healing roots the wisdom of crow the bold heart of hawk.

Dance, breathing in the playfulness of Belfast night slug deep her beauty.

Ode To the Present (Anne Irwin) Oh present, how finite you are a bubble born in the quickening stream dynamic and real, how far back your roots reach shaping our language, perception and being.

Yet how nebulous our recollections filtered impressions through the lens of now sculpting grandfather-past into stories to support our beliefs.

How carefully we seed our destinies transforming past to future in that infinite sequence of nows.

Each a bubble, animating the circular river, life.

.

Biographical Note: Rinat Harel

Rinat is a Native of Israel, with a bachelor and master’s degrees in fine art, and studied creative writing at Emerson College in Boston USA, where they received the 2015 Nonfiction Award. (Judge: Robert Atwan, editor of Best American Essays.)

Rinat’s writing has been shortlisted in the 2017 OWT Short Fiction Competition, and published in East Coast Ink, The Masters Review, Consequences Magazine, Canyon Voices, Dunes Review, Exclamat!on: an Interdisciplinary Journal published by the University of Exeter England, and forthcoming in Waves, an anthology by A Room of Her Own Foundation.

Currently a PhD student in Creative Writing at University of Exeter, Rinat is working on a collection of autofictionalized connected stories.

To learn more, please go to: www.rinatharel.com

..

Ireland (Rinat Harel)

Down the meandering dirt road, too narrow for two wee cars, the rounding hills speed by in a blur of infinite greens, the fresh of the sheer blue skies inhaled deeply, sweet as lake water, we glimpse thatched roofs set upon perfectly square brick-houses, fences and hedges, a lone dog’s barks flailing in the breeze, we wave gloved hands at passing folks, the chilly air comes through the open windows, and I tighten my scarf, my eyes swallowing the hills, the road tapering, then opens wide

again, where are the sheep? I wonder listening to the distant bleating rising from the field, and the sky darkens with steely clouds, and the car cuts through swift sheets of rain, and just as sudden, the blue of the sky spreads above, and we cheer at the sun, mouth agape at a rainbow, stretching to occupy the entire sky,

as large as the universe, as vibrant as life, and I spot two sheep in the cleave of the hills, one marked blue, the other red, they mind us not, grazing on the lush grass, the car will devour the road all the way to Derry (No! Not Londonderry), where we’d climb the infamous hill to see the two flags: one Israeli, the other Palestinian, and I still— to this day, am not sure what I saw, what I heard,

what I know of Ireland.

A Two-Year-Old Among Them (Rinat Harel)

In the pitch-black box the air is dying with each breath.

Who does she cling to as the highway roars outside the metal cage?

Is she screaming in the people-crammed space, her small lungs sucking in vain on the dwindling air?

Is she falling asleep as quiet thickens within the locked poultry truck, fear numbing her young limbs?

I want to know her name; and the color of her shirt; and

In the news, 27 August 2015: Austrian police confirms … abandoned truck …71 refugees… likely suffocated

If a Tree (Rinat Harel)

If a tree falls in a forest, and no one had heard it, does the tree make a sound?

If a tree falls in a forest and no one heard it, would the fallen tree mind?

Would the nesting bird, seeing her offspring prematurely take flight?

Would the shrubbery beneath, burdened by the trunk’s weight?

Would the tree’s beetles, quickening away in a frenzy?

Would the alarmed herd of deer grazing nearby?

Or the brook, its clear calm now disturbed?

And the beavers, their lodge upset?

Would the sky above?

Would the sun?

The moon?

Biographical Note: Claire Lawrence Claire Lawrence is a storyteller and mixed-media visual artist based in the wilds of British Columbia. Her stories have appeared in numerous publications worldwide including Geist, Litro, Ravensperch, and Ouen Press’ Anthology. Her art has been accepted by Black Lion Journal, Esthetic Apostle, and Fracture Nuance. She was nominated for the 2016 Pushcart Prize. Her goal is to write and publish in all genres, and not inhale too many fumes from alcohol ink.

The Eviction of Benjamin Tovey's Soul

by Claire Lawrence

Benjamin pulled his plastic folding chair closer to the table. The metal legs shuddered across the linoleum. He adjusted his paisley tie and pulled his paperwork from a used attaché case.

It was Tuesday and had been raining all night. Benjamin had arrived early at the church to organize the room. He had a seating plan, drawn up alphabetically so as not to appear biased. He laid his papers, journal and a wrapped gift into two piles and double-checked his coat pocket for four small pills.

With all in order, he began to chip away at the glitter and blots of paint plastered onto the resin tabletop. He wished there was a new table: maybe he’d donate one if his meeting went well. For now, he would tidy up his small area of elbowroom and hope the attendees would notice he was serious about cleanliness.

He was nail deep in dried purple paint when he stopped. He had forgotten to say a prayer. He wanted the Almighty’s full attention for the meeting. He took a deep breath and began.

“Dear Jehovah, Allah, Yahweh, Jah, King of Kings, Holy Spirit, Divine Being, Lord, Numen, Creator,” he wheezed. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to converse with your esteemed religious leaders and scholars. As you know, today is the BIG day to make things right. I know it wasn’t your fault.”

Benjamin wondered if he should take back those final words. But it was the Creator’s fault, and something had to be done about it.

Father Connor, from Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, had been providing Benjamin religious counsel for the last four months. Prior to the church, Benjamin had sought spiritual guidance from a plethora of organized religions. He was a monogamous serial postulant with issues.

It was Father Connor who had reluctantly offered the Sunday school room for Benjamin’s meeting at no charge, as long as Benjamin cleaned up. Benjamin was thrilled. He sent out fifteen invitations to the religious leaders, sages and scholars he knew, but only three accepted. Apparently, miracles didn’t draw crowds like they used to.

It was ten o’clock, precisely. Where was everyone?

Father Connor’s voice boomed from the corridor. He arrived at the Sunday school room accompanied by a conservative rabbi wearing a black suit and tie, and a young, bald Buddhist nun dressed in a saffron robe. They were talking about the new vegan restaurant.

“The veggie sushi is to die for,” Benjamin heard the rabbi say.

On entering the room and greeting Benjamin, Father Connor gagged and began to retch.

“Can’t you smell that?” he said to Benjamin.

The Sunday school room was ripe with stale urine. The others commiserated and plugged their noses.

“I can’t smell anything,” said Benjamin. “That’s another glitch I have. I forgot to write it down.”

He grabbed his journal and added his inability to smell to his defects list.

While he was writing, Father Connor wouldn’t let anyone sit down until the source of the odour was located. Rabbi Lieberman and Marisa Mannawanphatad, searched the room. It was the rabbi who discovered the pungent nappy stowed behind an art drawer. He refused to pick it up. The nun laughed and patted him on the shoulder.

“I’ll get it, tough guy.”

Marisa pulled a wad of paper towel from the dispenser over the sink and went to grab the soiled diaper.

“Isn’t that a bit . . . overkill?” said Father Connor. “I mean taking so many paper towels? We’re trying to save the environment.”

“That sounds like virtue-signalling to me,” said Marisa. “Didn’t you just drive to the church in a gas guzzler?”

“I’m just saying precious trees died and paper towels cost money. Do you really need five to pick up a diaper?”

“Is this about money?” asked the rabbi. “I’ll pay for the paper towels.”

“It’s not the cost. We need to think green.”

“I’m not convinced any of you should be here,” bemoaned Benjamin, shuffling his papers and placing his journal on top of the pile. “I mean, if you can’t figure out how to dispose of a dirty diaper, how are you going to help me dispose of a defective soul?”

Father Connor and his religious colleagues stared at Benjamin.

“Is that what this is about?” asked Marisa, placing the diaper in the garbage bag and tying it tight.

“I face potential damnation or a failure to reincarnate.”

“Whoa! Settle down, Ben,” said the nun. ”Take a deep breath.”

Father Connor had found some air freshener and gave the room a good spritz.

The rabbi flailed his arms and coughed.

“You see,” said Benjamin, pointing to the falling, scented cloud, “that’s my problem. My body contains a misting of a soul—a spritz of cosmic energy.”

“Your eternal atman is fine,” sputtered Marisa, her eyes watering.

The rabbi and priest found a fan and plugged it in, then began chatting about the cost of upkeep and taxes.

“Are you going to help me?” Benjamin snapped.

“Patience, young man,” said the priest.

“Not to rush the meeting, but you indicated on your invitation that there would be a miracle,” said the rabbi. “That’s hot stuff.” He sat down across from Benjamin and began to stroke his grey beard.

Benjamin glanced down at his seating plan, his lips pursed with emotion. The rabbi had randomly selected the seat Benjamin had assigned him. This could only mean one thing—the celestial Big Guy was in the building.

The nun sat beside the rabbi, the priest sat at the head of the table. More validation.

“Is this everyone?” asked the rabbi.

Benjamin’s euphoria dissipated. “Last minute cancellations,” he muttered, unable to hide his disappointment.

“I take it we all know Benjamin,” said the priest. The attendees nodded.

“Father Connor, may I lead the discussion?” asked Benjamin, wiggling his pen between his fingers.

The rabbi sighed and tapped his watch.

“I promise this won’t take long,” said Benjamin.

He pulled some index cards from his coat pocket and began to read in a confident voice.

“Honoured Religious Leaders, Emissaries and Sages. Thank you for attending today. I’m grateful for the time you’ve spent with me over the months and years.

We’ve had many discussions about what the soul, atman and cosmic energy are made of. I don’t want to waste your time today.” He paused and glared at the rabbi. “So I’ll cut straight to it.”

Benjamin shuffled to his next card.

“We are gathered, Tuesday, April 14, 2016, at the Church of the Sacred Heart for a miracle. Today, you will witness the eviction of Benjamin Tovey’s defective soul.”

“What?” said Father Connor.

“Evict your soul?” said the rabbi.

“That’s suicide, Benjamin!” said Marisa.

“It’s not suicide.” Benjamin was shouting. “I don’t want to die. I want to exchange my soul.”

“Ben, you’re mentally ill and need professional help,” said the rabbi.

“I’m not crazy. On advice from all of you, I sought out psychologists and psychiatrists to evaluate my mental health. These are my results.”

He distributed a flurry of paper to the attendees.

“I’m obsessive compulsive,” he said, “but I’m not crazy.”

Father Connor, the Buddhist nun and the rabbi gathered up the papers and flipped through them.

“You’re a healthy young man,” said the nun.

The rabbi tugged on his beard before slamming his fist onto the table.

“So you’re not crazy. But what you’re contemplating is a serious act against God.” “I’ve told you, all of you, my soul is defective. I don’t blame God. Okay, a little. My soul isn’t right. Look at my list of defects.”

Benjamin waved his journal in the emissaries’ faces.

“I’m telling you I got a used soul, an older model. It doesn’t fit in my body.”

“Physical defects are not manifestations of your soul,” said the rabbi. “Your body and soul are two separate things.”

“Well, I would argue that point,” said the nun.

The rabbi leaned over the table and jabbed his finger into a pile of paper. “Son, we have no control over our souls. You get what you get, and you don’t get upset.”

“I refuse to accept an ill-fitting soul. It makes me feel discombobulated, lost, without true purpose. There are times when I act evil, and I don’t believe I’m an evil

person. I will not get to Heaven or Nirvana or the astral plane in a used or misshapen soul. I want a new one.”

“You have an acceptable soul,” said Father Connor. “It’s a blessing to be alive.”

With those words, the priest leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Are you saying you were born different? The world accepts people with differences. We live in a tolerant society, except if you’re a Buddhist woman living in Thailand. A woman can’t enter the sangha unless she is invited by a woman already in the sangha. Of course, there are no women in the sangha and never will be.” The nun cracked her pencil in half.

“I don’t have sangha issues,” said Benjamin.

“What I meant to say,” said the nun after a deep, cleansing breath, “is that you can be different.”

“Do you think it is possible you have religious confusion?” asked the rabbi.

“Look,” said Benjamin, sitting up and pulling his journal towards him. “I’m acutely aware of my deficiencies. I’ve kept records.”

Benjamin’s black leather journal was tight and crisp. It was labelled, “B Tovey, Journal 9, 2018–2019.” He carefully opened it so as not to break the spine and read aloud.

March 15, 2016: It is the Ides of March. Physical manifestations of my irregular soul include: Waking with the sun on my face yet feeling gutted.

Abdomen hurts, heart beat is irregular. Having dark thoughts about flushing the goldfish down the toilet.

“The goldfish wasn’t even sick or dead. I just wanted to flush it! I murdered a fish!”

The rabbi batted the air.

Benjamin snapped the journal shut. “My damaged soul makes it impossible for the specialists to identify any mental health problems. They think I’m balanced, normal.”

“What’s wrong with normal?” asked the nun.

“Nothing. Except I’m not.”

“Have you tried accepting yourself, son?” asked Father Connor. “Just accept who you are.”

“I can’t.”

“God has blessed you with free will,” said the rabbi. “It’s your choice how you will live your life. It’s your choice to accept yourself.”

Benjamin pulled the four white pills from his pocket and gulped them down.

He shoved a box, wrapped in shiny silver paper with a ribbon, into the middle of the table.

“You say I have free will. Then I’m exercising it. My body has a disagreeable tenant—a malfunctioning soul. I am evicting it and getting a new one.”

“You can’t make your soul homeless,” said the rabbi. “That’s suicide talk, Benjamin. We’ll have to call the authorities if you have plans to harm yourself.”

“How long does it take for the body to separate from the soul?” asked Benjamin.

“I’m not answering that,” said Father Connor.

“Fine. I invited you today to witness a miracle. I have taken an overdose.”

His words were starting to slur.

The guests gasped. Father Connor pulled out his cell phone and dialled for help.

“To save me, medicine is in the box. . .”

Thud.

Benjamin woke with a gasp. He had survived. The paramedics had taken him to the hospital.

The next day, he had visitors. He had been moved to a psychiatric assessment ward.

“I’m happy to see you alive, young man,” said Rabbi Lieberman.

“Thanks,” said Benjamin. “And thanks to all of you for saving my life.”

“No problem,” said the nun and priest almost in unison.

The rabbi was more honest. “It was a pain in the tuckus. I hurt my back doing CPR.” “How are you feeling inside?” asked Marisa, pointing to Benjamin’s heart.

“Terrified.”

“Why’s that, Ben?” asked the priest.

“According to paramedics and doctors, I was dead over three minutes. My blood work confirms I had an overdose. The CT scan indicated I had no brain damage.”

“That’s a blessing. A million mitzvahs to your health,” said the rabbi, patting Benjamin’s shoulder.

“You’re alive,” said Marisa. “You’ve been given a second chance.”

“Yes. I appreciate the sentiment, but . . .”

“But what?” said the nun.

“My research into soul and body separation indicates it should have occurred after death. Conclusion, I was dead long enough to get a new soul.”

“Still with the soul thing!” exclaimed the rabbi. “What? You think you can return a soul like a pair of shoes?”

Benjamin frowned. “I got a replacement.”

The priest choked. “You did?”

“God accepted He made a mistake and gave me the one I was supposed to have. Now, I have to stay alive as long as possible.”

“What? Why?” The trio asked.

There was a knock on the door.

“Lunch is here.” A woman in a flowered uniform entered and placed a paper plate with a sandwich on Benjamin’s tray table.

Benjamin sniffed. “This smells just like Hell,” he said, jamming the food in his mouth.

Biographical Note: Greg Huteson

Greg’s poems have appeared in various US literary journals and the Singaporean online poetry journal, SOFTBLOW. For the past twenty years, he has resided in China and Taiwan.

End of Debate (Greg Huteson) “It’s this!” – as Griffin, growling, gnaws the rib.

And he would grind his molars as he played, this inheritance from a man that fibbed and kicked his dogs to gain their fear and prey.

Like other terriers, this dog holds and shakes his catch – small foxes, wood rats, this curved bone.

His rumbling soon ruptures our debate.

With him when fierce, it’s silence, done.

By then our talk of breakages and kings, of arms and the exile, fated man, has broken into sparring fragments, spitting small bits of foam and caustic damns.

As Griffin’s fierceness gives us pause, we lock our words within wide jaws.

Peace Like That (Greg Huteson) “Peace like that…,” the stippled teacher dins while pacing manically along the board – an old board, chalk and dust, the slate worn thin.

“Ah…peace like that will soften tongues and swords, will bind the braggarts and enfence the bores!

“So, first we’ll tell the children all are good.

While some are miscreant or harsh or foe, it’s true, these – pipers, bullies, thieves, the rude – are shaped by aberrations hard to know.

Minorities, they’re easy to ignore.

“Once the children trust that all are kind, and when they grow and chalk their mark in life and governance and that, the spats, we’ll find, will swiftly dissipate. The tiffs and strife will end with jigs and ale and so much more!”

A burly student, stiff and churlish, shakes, unbends, and deftly squatting jumps his chair.

Then striding to the dusty front, he takes the podium and grunting lays it fair across the teacher’s head. Strides through the door.

Watches of the Night (Greg Huteson) And grimly flog the dark and its slate clouds.

And sore and sweaty crease the feathered pillow.

Then, panting, swing the hip with pain and loud sore croak and settle deftly on the right, the swayback mattress’ side that’s near the wall.

A barrier to blank the street’s orbed lights.

Sighing, hum brief and begging prayers.

Mutter lists of courteous words for God while interjecting “please” and “damn not fair.”

The spoor of rams soon litter half the mind.

A sure reminder you can’t count on sheep to quiet or be stilled despite a line of darting, nipping prayers. Then thin-mouthed, stare at wall, at ceiling, set on waiting out the black, the lack of mercy. Cupboards bare.

The Willow River (Greg Huteson) If in fact it is a river, this water I cross once or twice each day. Willows are rare here.

Once they anchored the banks.

Or is it a metaphor for sorrow?

The botanical name alludes to Babylon, but there are no wonders.

Only sparrows and a crane.

The water’s boxed in by a ditch – concrete shallows.

Along the ditch are hard banks, a stage for the plum rain floods and a sanctum for seagulls, mynas, tree sparrows, and others.

The outer walls are gray-green with seven decades of moisture.

Mousy river rocks still line them.

The faded white bridge I cross by is on the Road of Favored Journeys.

Would that they were so!

At night the black-framed water mirrors its hot halogen lights.

Quilts hang from its rails.

The river switches crisscross through the district, severing streets and even homes.

Next to the bridge is a willow.

Its grave, cambered twigs trail pale leaves while its roots rive the walk, felling walkers.

It holds and withholds relief.

Its mercy is constrained.

If you fancy submitting something but haven’t done so yet, or if you would like to send us some further examples of your work, here are our submission guidelines: SUBMISSIONS NB – All artwork must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not be published, and anyone found to be in breach of this will be reported to the police.

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Biographical Note: Fabrice Poussin

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

Careful By Fabrice Poussin

Charm By Fabrice Poussin

Evening by Fabrice Poussin

Hostile Lands by Fabrice Poussin

Passage by Fabrice Poussin

Wealth by Fabrice Poussin

October’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

We had to take down the issue twice health issues caused delays and then one of the Alleycats wiped the file typical really.

Where does the time fly? It seems like it was only last week when we were busy making the January issue meow!!.

Well, that’s just about it from us for this edition everyone.

Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.

We continue to provide a platform for poets and artists around the world we want to offer our thanks to the following for their financial support Richard Halperin, John Grady, P.W. Bridgman, Bridie Breen, John Byrne, Arthur Broomfield, Silva Merjanin, Orla McAlinden, Michael Whelan, Sharon Donnell, Damien Smyth, Arthur Harrier, Maire Morrissey Cummins, Alistair Graham, Strider Marcus Jones Our anthologies https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_present_voices_for_peace https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_poetry_anthology_-april

Biographical Note: Connor Foley

Connor Foley is a fiction writer

Something moves as I walk down the busied street. I knew it was an irreversible wound in the belt buckle. My waist line was becoming an untrammeled irritation.

In this country, weight loss if it is not calculated is a concern. In all honesty, it was as inconsequential as the weather.

I don’t dress for the weather either. I am far too deep in my conditioning to need to. Dubliners in their self-depreciating gratin still see some sort of pathetic fallacy in the rain. Especially now as the dial of the European summer turns. But we from the north westerly homeward regions are rain worn. My coat is resistant in the erosion; my slacks are as industrial as Dublin’s declamatory brick. But this belt situation is becoming a bit of the worry. The slack in my trousers is borderline hazardous as I dash across the road. I was probably indecent but thankfully on Henry Street no one would have noticed the difference.

The hum of the train engine is a breath of exaltation. I can feel the sweat sodden lower third of my back stick to my fleece as I sit. Internal combustion is a forlorn song singing on borrowed time. It is antiquarian, the plumes are pollutants but it's as familiar and predictable in its comfort as a cup of tea; or the Derry rain for that matter.

It occurred to me as well, this belt served me longer than any other item of clothing I still persist with in rotation. I won’t buy a new one until the situation becomes untenable; we’ll wait to see after Brexit. The trip home could prove prudent to get a proper belt. The Brits know far more about constriction.

A toddler erupts down the end of the carriage. The engine kicks in mercilessly.

These three hours on the train offer serious time for reflection. The Japanese call it Ma. Usually other passengers avoid sharing the four-seater with me. I’m a little unapproachable. My ginger hairs spiral and fragment from each other. My hair furrows and seemingly grows exponentially more on the sides than on the top.

Easily three to one. But this is nature’s course. And rather than interfere in its course I let it grow. That is what mother Earth would want. The toddler wails again and in the reflection of the window I spot myself. Maybe I should go to the barber.

We pick up the pace and the buildings begin to fall behind. Civilization tumbles.

The greenery winds, lumps, unfurls. The Wifi is appalling. I fiddle with the wounded and arthritic leather of my belt and purposely let the absence in my mind ferment. Time moves.

At Kilcock a young woman trundles on. The beads behind her oval spectacles scan the carriage for availability as her Mulberry suitcase in the other hand swings like a ballast. She moves towards the quartet of seats across from me, occupied only by discarded coffee cups and sandwich packets. As she dithers into her seat she promptly picks up the detritus, places it delicately on my table and politely smiles.

For the rest of the journey she scans the screen of her Ipad, quietly I know she is also in a losing battle with the Wifi. I might have the rubbish on my table now, but we are still in this together.

I felt compelled to come home to offer some sort of silent appreciation to little Chester: Our recently deceased miniature Yorkshire Terrier. He was a dog with enough social anxiety disorders to fill an entire university lecture hall. Purebreds die younger and he was never a ‘live, laugh, love’ type of creature. His old age only hastened his neurosis and xenophobia. Strangers were usually greeted with the diligent aggression of a hateful, dyspeptic, and mostly confused elderly relation. Friends brought round by me or my sister encountered growls and general unpleasantness, humorously, as they fawned over him. He was beautifully adorned with brown silk hair that curled delicately over his deep brown hourglass eyes. He had immense character. But he meant more to my mother. When we got him, my Grandfather still lived with us. As a joke we called the dog after him. Obviously, the dog saw something kindred in the openly sectarian septuagenarian. When his strength withered and the cells began to multiply inexorably, Chester would often be found hidden beneath the folds at the end of Grandad’s bed. They say Dogs can smell cancer. It never put Chester off Grandad anyways. He never really loved anyone else in the family the way he loved Grandad. Still, Chester begrudgingly outlived him by 13 years.

Tickets please.

I feel like my family has shrunk to a suffocatingly small circumference now.

Parents from different posts of the Bogside is always an awkward situation. Even in these largely peaceful periods, the family get togethers can be a little bit fractious. First communions with your uncles crowding outside the church desperately hoping their pub mates don’t see them. In the same regard, I have kept my love for cricket closeted from my GAA teammates for years. They can never know.

The time passes painlessly and we crawl into Ceannt station. Dad awaits in the regular spot across the road, ingeniously placed beyond all the traffic. Along with

all the other ‘ould fellas. Now it’s only a few hours drive in the car. The small chat is the typical emotionless patter exchanged between father and son.

Mum and dad are going with the Sis to Belfast for last minute supplies before it becomes 1989 again. Before the backstop-less, bordered, unpatrolled, definitely unimposing checks but not a simple separation but also not a union is placed. Or reinstated? Imposed? Who knows. The conflict can be predicted. That’s about it.

So I was charged with safeguarding the house Friday night before they come back.

Mum left Chester’s bed still in the kitchen. Its dusty and with the characteristic groove robustly forged over the years.

When you’re are in Belfast, get me a belt up in the Zara on Donegall Place will ya?

We aren’t going North.

Where are ye going.

South.

But I was just South. Wait, why are ye going South?

Well, obviously Mairead is going to NUIG. And the house is awfully big for the pair of us. Plus your mother with Chester gone... We don’t have much of a relationship with Derry anymore. So, we are going to find a place in Galway. Your mum can see your aunt more and with Brexit and the pound, it makes sense. We’ll all be south...

Ye are mov... I mean, WE are moving?

What? Well, you in fairness won’t be moving. Isn’t it a shame about poor little Chester...

You can’t move.

We mentioned we were thinking of getting somewhere smaller...

Smaller, not a different country!

The silence simmered the rest of the way home.

How could they make decisions that affect their own offspring so profoundly without OUR consent. WE are the ones that have to live with the decision the longest. When I was younger, I always hated when Grandad would insist on a

certain movie, because it would always be something we had seen before and then he’d just fall asleep 45 minutes in. But this was a little different. I felt this uncharacteristic pulsating emotion. There was a sense of anger, antipathy, theft.

That’s it. This is un-consensual selling. I have been violated.

Before we go off to Connacht make sure to put aside the clothes, toys, crap you want to keep. Not crap. And throw out the crap ya don’t need. Can’t get over Chester though.

Derry is my Home. It’s not simply where I keep my stuff. ‘Off to Connacht.’ To Hell with Connacht.

Plus, you’re moving to London soon. What’s the problem?

Silence The walls of Derry. Homes have walls. As do prisons I suppose. The gravel cracks on the driveway. Straight up to my-soon-to-be-vacant room. Mum calls for me before I hear Dad’s dulcet tones murmur through the floorboards. An hour later they shout up that they’re leaving for the drive South, and may be sometime.

We’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. You sure you won’t come with us to see the house?

Bye...

Nice for me to come house sit for a dog that isn’t even still alive, see my family that aren’t even here, and come home to a house that won’t even be mine for much longer. No, I don’t want to go. Me and Chester’s ghost will stay here. He would be so angry to hear this.

8 O’ clock. Frozen pizza O’ clock. Self-pity is an underappreciated past time. I managed to spend hours sentimentalising about something I didn’t even think I cared about. I couldn’t believe how petty they were being selling the house to complete strangers. We all grew up here. Grandad died in this place. They built the house themselves. Chester died in the house and is buried in the back garden. And they’ll just sell up once there is a bit of extra space. Is this all about Brexit?

Seriously? I couldn’t believe the pettiness. Then I started thinking about the woman who moved all that rubbish to my table so she could study on the train.

People are so self-interested nowadays.

One of the last weekends in my childhood home. Spending it mostly alone and annoyed. Friends won’t be free until tomorrow, so I play the few Playstation2 games that can still get past the loading screens. Really should have kept better care of my CDs. Its 1 am. The rain has lifted and the moonlight hovers in the clear air outside. I wander to the back garden and kick the football indifferently against the wall. The bounce creates a lone gunshot of sound echoing through the estate. I watch the moths dance about the amber street light. I wish we could stay for at least another Christmas.

Chester used to hate it when you’d touch his bowl. I remember in a more rambunctious youth, him skulking behind the living room door to the side waiting for a trailing toe to grace the steel of the rim. He would explode in a fury of barking, and bite the apostate defiling what was his. Even as he aged and atrophied, we knew better than to kick the bowl. We could pick him up without his behest free of reprisal. We could pet him as he slept, an act that once would have resulted in a lost limb. But somehow, even through dense fog of his cataracts, the bowl was sacred.

I amble back inside. Then the weight of the grief finally hit. He was my dog.

Angry, impetuous, stolid but mine. And this house cramped, narrow, damp, quite ugly, with woeful pluming, cracked dry wall, and creaking wood panels was mine too. When you move from your childhood home something else moves with it.

As I pace the kitchen I bellow: ‘Well Chester, Mum and Dad are selling the house.

I tried to stop them.’ In the freewheeling drive of my emotions I kicked the bowl across the tilled floored to the door. It felt cathartic. The clamor and rattle of the bowl filled the empty house with a chilling silence.

Then came a noise so familiar it nearly didn’t register. The scattered flourish of paws on the wood floor from the hall. The ring of Chester’s collar bell. A lone pallid wale. Then stillness. Aware, deep, and powerful.

I bouldered through the kitchen door to the hall. My eyes couldn’t attach a figure to the deep web of shadows tangling beneath the stair. I turn on the light. Nothing.

I called for Chester. Placed the bowl back to its resting place. Poured some of his food into it. Shook his bed. Nothing. The moment had passed. Even in his death, he was an infuriatingly frustrating and totally disobedient creature.

I retired eventually and slept through the night. When I awoke and brewed a coffee, the petals of the morning began open. I marched about the house analysing the night’s events. I had to tell everyone about what happened. I primed to regal my incredible experience. I couldn’t wait to astound them.

When they arrived in, slightly ahead of schedule, I sauntered nonchalantly towards the door like a Bengal cat.

Feeling better? How was your night?

I began to explain the experience. My performance was extraordinary. I took one of Dad’s hats off the coat rack to illustrate the exact velocity and impact the bowl had on the door. I replicated the crash and tapped the wood with my uncut fingernails to create the desired effect. Tension, suspense, attention to detail. It had it all.

Rather than applause, I was met with a slurry of vacant disinterest. Not shock, appraisement, grief. Not even a node of interest. But indifference. Can you believe that. Somehow having the secular foundations of our modern society torn asunder and the ineffable foundry of life and death being revealed in a moment of incredible absolute truth wasn’t simply uneventful, but banal.

Needless to say. We can’t possibly sell the house if one of us still lives here.

Laughter wasn’t the response I was looking for.

This is not a joke. Chester is still here. It makes so much sense. He hated being outside. He was the only dog that ever hated going for walks. Remember the time the cousins came over and Sophie tried to walk him. The near sight of the leash afterwards would induce that demonic growling thing he did. He hated change and death is a big change.

On the rare occasions we persisted to walk him he would often try a daring escape.

I don’t think he ever really grasped what a walk was. He didn’t know you couldn’t ‘runaway’ from a walk. You would just end up being on an exponentially longer and more complicated walk.

We came home early to tell you. We have already put in an offer. We are using the money we get in selling this house to pay for it. It’s done. We can’t call off selling the house because you think you heard a bell.

Honestly, I was stunned. They didn’t believe me.

I don’t think anything. I know what I heard. So, I'm either a liar or insane, huh. If you heard him or saw him you would know not to sell the house. That’s why he reacted. I said out loud ‘mum and dad are selling the house Chester’ and kicked the bowl. He was saying don’t let that happen.

How do you know it was him and not the sound of the bowl falling or something else. Plus, how do you know he was saying that. He’s attached to us not the house.

He hated us!

Silence.

Ok, if I can get him to make a noise will you consider not selling the house.

You won’t be able to...

I beckon the others into the kitchen and timidly gather his bowl from the floor.

Lining up my kick I take aim, trying my best to replicate the night before. Chester was a creature of habit, I think.

Clearing my throat I shout: ‘Chester, stop mum and dad from selling the house.’

The kick is too clean, and the bowl flies out of the kitchen door to the hall.

The metallic frame screeches and begins to spiral. Slowly silence descends.

Here, nothing we can now do anyway Shhhhhhhh Silence.

We sold the...

Shhhhhhhhhh Chester!

This house isn’t ours anymore Shhhhhhh. CHESTER! Silence. Emphatic Silence.

I make defeated eye contact with Mum. The house is not ours to keep anymore.

And when the echo of mum’s words settle, we hear it. The light touch of something shuffle on the stair.

We inhale a collective breath and the chime of a familiar bell escapes up into the hidden corners to an altered state.

Biographical Note: Patricia Kamradt

Patricia is an adoptee who has written Digging into my Irish Roots, He Waited For Me, Navigating Our Way Through The Labyrinth An Adoptees Journey with Chrystal Kamradt and Birds Butterflies and Wildflowers: Beauty in Nature.

The road to St. Tierney Down the long winding dirt road A road Michael Malone traveled thousands of times As a boy with his father Patrick sitting by his side Riding in the old wooden cart pulled by the grey haired mare Whistling many a tune without a care Michael now passing his boyhood home Patrick’s farm in the valley where fields of flax were grown Where he labored the soil year upon year Where his hands turned from smooth to rough Where the love of his family was always enough Where the pride of his country was never in doubt Where he danced many a jig and drank Irish stout Where he met Annie and made her his wife Where he fought hard in rebellion against political strife Where many a tear his kind mother would cry Where the love of her son you could not deny A fine mist now fell as they rode passed the stream Where on his grandfather’s rod he caught his first bream Where the sweet smell of peat would fill the air Where he’d skip many a stone on the water there Past the flock of white sheep grazing in verdent field The sheep dogs running at their heel

Passed the golden thatched roofed cottage on Frank McNamara’s plot Where during the dreadful famine potatoes would rot Where the Great Hunger caused many to flee in despair Across the Atlantic Lady of Liberty proudly stood there In County Monaghan the Malone’s home they did stay Located in Ulster across from the bay Only through the grace of God they survived another day Where many a session was held year after year The sound of tin whistles and fiddles he always held dear On the cobble stone bridge he would now cross over Passing a field covered in heather and clover Little St. Tierney church now in view Where he said many a prayer on the old wooden pew A single white dove on the steeple would perch Young Michael’s baptism was blessed in this church Where he held Annie’s hand during their marriage mass Where light filtered onto the saints through stained glass Now old Michael Malone was laid to rest His faith in the Almighty now put to the test Where Father Duffy would say a final prayer Over his grave now he stood bible in hand Michael at peace now in his beloved Irish land.

In the distance the sound of a bagpipes low drone Playing one last time now for Michael Malone