A New Ulster 96 by Amos Greig

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF; Tara O'Neill, Caroline McAvoy, Patricia Kamradt, Alison McCrossan, Don Stoll, Frank Dullaghan, Niamh Finlay, Breda Joyce, Bernard Pearson, Stephen Kingsnorth and Keith Woodhouse. EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 96 October 2020

UPATREE PRESS A New Ulster

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 Amos Greig Prepared for Publication by Amos Greig

CONTRIBUTORS

This edition features work by Tara O'Neill, Caroline McAvoy, Patricia Kamradt, Alison McCrossan, Don Stoll, Frank Dullaghan, Niamh Finlay, Breda Joyce, Bernard Pearson, Stephen Kingsnorth and Keith Woodhouse. edited by Amos Greig.

CONTENTS Poetry Short Story

Tara Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill Caroline McAvoy

Poetry

Patricia Kamradt

Poetry

Alison McCrossan

Prose Poetry Poetry Poetry Prose Poetry Poetry

Don Stoll Frank Dullaghan Breda Joyce Bernard Pearson Stephen Kinsgnorth Keith Woodhouse Niamh Finlay

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill was born in 2002, to two wonderful parents. Although she grew up in Ireland, her heritage is also comprised of Hungarian roots; which has enabled her perspective in her work to see the world in a light that is not conformed to only one viewpoint. She has recently graduated from secondary school and is hoping to further her education in college. From a young age, Tara has had a natural flair for writing and expressing herself with words. However, she did not harness this ability until a few years ago by striving to publish her first poetry collection; which she hopes to complete very soon. She has a passion to tell the stories of others and the wonder of life through her work, to ultimately share the beauty of poetry and all it can be!

And So It Goes Life always seems To hit the bottom Right before we climb Once more But furthermore We cannot give it all up now For the best moments wait beyond Our mere comprehension The past was sweet Maybe even wonderful But I beg you dear To not allow what was Compare to what is Have you not learnt While we try our best To keep our minds at bay We still listen To the rain that falls outside Wondering what it would be like To dance in it With you But now My sweet anxious heart Close your eyes and inhale Once more For everything is coming Just not as you expect The past will make its rounds In new ways And your dull days Will again spark joy So here I leave with you A beautiful glimmer Of what once was And what will be again (Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

Far More But who she was Mattered far above The opinion they all had

It was only the few Who saw the courage it took The influence it made All the impact never understood To simply be true And so she did With everything she could For she knew one day It would produce fruits Then the ground broke And she now understood why Everything before this was so Because even in the silence She went where she knew She must go (Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

Underrated Every day we tread On quiet waters The moments we claim Will not matter Days Disregarded and misused Words Fleeting and hearts are broken But all For what? They have contribution potential And will never return void It is here This life This love That we put emphasis On exactly what we need to So she placed it On that which made her Purposeful and fully alive Beyond a moment Or mere action (Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

A Matter Just as we Have reached our end Something appears On the line of nothing We look A few meters further And find everything For when we came to our end And had nothing left to give We knew there was more And for more we sought Had we not found it here We would have found it elsewhere And elsewhere would not mean here So in our searching We realised: What we need What we want Is always found A little further than the end (Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

A Day What’s in a day? The good The bad So many different variations But neither of them ever alike

The small elements Drastic factors Mixed flavours Combine and form What we label ‘A day’ From the moments our eyes Witness sunlight Until we wonder back Into intentional unconsciousness But the days That take the gold And make our dreams sweet Are the ones which we do not Want to fall asleep from As we are unsure If we will ever experience A day as good As this one (Tara Grace O’Neill)

Caught In The Fleeting Throw your arms Above your head Cry until You run dry Laugh until Your sides are stiff With joy Appreciate the smiles That drift around you For your youth is fleeting You deny it at times For it brings unwanted growth But you look back Thanking the blurry snapshots As they brought you that Which is worthwhile (Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

Validation Drained In the act of refreshing Completely disheartened By the hearts Numb To the numbers Here is where the map led It seemed so genuine That I was intrigued But above all else The substance it gleamed But the glistening layer I cut through was hollow And I fell ever deep Into a world of people That were paralysed by it also And so could not escape “Wake up”, I tell myself, “From this dream That everything before your eyes Is true. For this vicious cycle Of dissatisfaction Can easily catch you In its endless cycle too.”

(Tara Grace O’Neill)

Take It To Heart Not to simply listen But to change I want my presence to reflect The wise Golden words Poured into me Not merely to agree But to change The words that do this Should not be simply Of any type Instead, they must contain Experience and credibility Lining up With His word For I want my eyes to glow With the radiance of past women Who have fought a brave fight This gold in my eyes are Their tears shed So that mine could be spared (Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

Evenings My favourite part Of the twenty-four chapters Are the last few It keeps me grounded Knowing that guaranteed I have them to withhold The temperature simmers And my heart stands at ease For everyone around me Has done all they can

They return home Droopy eyed For they are tired Glances of smiles are rare The sunsets features As an expected factor As the anticipation begins For the next page to turn Some fearing Others expecting But I know I leave the day Not synonyms as I was That morning For I have done All I can

(Tara Grace Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Caroline McEvoy

Caroline writes short stories, plays, creative and academic non-fiction. Her work has been published with Poetry Now, Flash Fiction Magazine and the Guardian. Her stories have been long listed in the Fish Flash Fiction Prize and the Online Writing Tips Fiction Prize. A draft of her first novel (in progress) won a date with an agent with the ILF Dublin. She has a PhD in Political Science from Trinity College Dublin and has won several awards for her academic writing.

The Gravedigger

It was her face, the cold blank slate of it. He couldn’t get it out of his head. Neither the feed of pints nor the bitter walk home was enough to scrub her from his thoughts. Or maybe it was the smell of her. He’d spent a good ten minutes washing his hands after he’d got to the pub. He’d scrubbed all the way up to the elbows but here she was, the bang of her wafting up his nostrils as he staggered back to number twenty. He’d read in the paper that she was barely five feet but when he picked her up out of the ground it was shocking how small she was - little bigger than a child. It was good all the same. She was easy to hide. You have to understand. He didn’t want to do it but money was needed. For Ma. Decent nursing homes are expensive. He was going away but she would be looked after first. No question. There was no chance he’d leave her with Sandra. He stuffed his thick hands into his hoodie and braced himself for the walk up the dark street. A stew of dead leaves in the gutters at number five. A faded plastic tricycle that no one bothered their hole to bring in from the garden in number twelve. It was stupid to feel sad about leaving a place he hated but the sting was there anyways. Not that it hurt him enough to want to stay. He was thirty six and long overdue. He did try to get the money legit. He worked four days a week at the cemetery and topped up his wages with nixers that John Joe threw his way. Still, it would take a hundred years to save for his escape. I’ve no choice, he thought, as if saying it were enough to wipe away his guilt. Her matted blonde hair and blue blotched skin were a far cry from the tits and teeth he’d seen on TV. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the funds didn’t come through. They would pay him, surely. Who wouldn’t pay for the return of their daughter? It hardly mattered that she was dead. It was John Joe who gave him the idea one lunchtime. He spouted an awful lot of shite but

every so often hit upon something good. ‘You know Charlie Chaplin,’ he’d said through a mouthful of chicken fillet roll. ‘Two young fellas stole his body once. Eastern Europeans. They hid him in a field and asked his missus for a million to give him back. The Guards caught them at a phone box when they tried to make a ransom call.’ ‘Poor gobshites. It’s not like they killed anyone’ ‘Exactly. Victimless crime.’ ‘Those lads are the victims. System ground them down and chewed them up.’ ‘Mmm,’ John Joe said, wiping crumbs from his pants. ‘If it were me, I’d bury the body in an old grave that no one bothers to visit. And I wouldn’t be calling anyone. Not with satellites following your every fucking move. No way Jose. Ransom notes cut from newspaper is the way to go. Old School, like.’ So an idea was planted in Damo’s head and he waited for this chance. He buried beloved nannas. He buried cancer victims taken too soon. He buried boy racers and their collateral damage. Until he found her during his shift. Rich socialite that she was, she’d taken a fatal dose of cocaine. It helped that her father was that irritating bollocks off the telly. Damo didn’t feel too bad for him, but he did feel sorry for her. No one gets to choose their family. He turned up the driveway to number twenty and fished the keys from his pockets. The front grass was getting out of hand. It would only take a few minutes to cut the square patch, but he kept forgetting to do it. The bitch would be at him to do it and he’d nod and say ‘yep’ and then not do it and wonder to himself why it seemed so hard when it was such a small thing. He’d get angry at her for not cutting it herself but wouldn’t say anything to her because you could never win with Sandra. You never think. A selfish, selfish yoke, ye are.

You’re bold, d’you hear me? Bold. Her words rattled in his head. Years of lessons learned from the times she announced his badness and punished him for his crimes with a suffocating silence. Getting a girlfriend. Losing a job in the recession. Ma’s dementia. Not being the brother she wanted him to be. He suffered his heartbreak with the forbearance of a person unable to love his family the right way. He was done with trying. He was going to bury his feelings with the girl, take her family’s money and never think about any of them ever again. Soon he’d be on the boat to Hollyhead and then to anywhere but here. ‘I need a refill,’ Sandra squawked as he locked the front door behind him. ‘Sorry?’ He peered into the front room. Her large frame was sprawled across the threadbare settee. ‘A. RE. FILL,’ she waggled an empty wine glass at him, her eyes fixed on the telly. He took the glass by the stem, nauseated by her greasy fingerprints smeared across it. ‘Spritzer?’ ‘Na. 7-UP’s gone. Go check on the vegetable while you’re at it. After being out with your loser friends all night it’s the least you can do.’ ‘It’s only ten.’ ‘Forget it so. I suppose it was too much to expect you to take an interest in your own family. Always looking out for number one.’ ‘Christ, I never said I wouldn’t do it. And don’t call her that.’ ‘I didn’t call her anything.’ 14

‘You called her a vegetable.’ ‘I did not.’ ‘You said go check on the vegetable.’ ‘Well that’s what you heard but it’s not what I said. Says more about you but then you’re never here are you. I’m the only one who cares. It’s just me and her. I knew it’d end up that way. You’re far too selfish.” At least he wouldn’t have to listen to this shit for much longer. ‘Are you getting my drink or what?’ He nodded and went into the kitchen. A thick layer of grease coated everything. Fossilised dirt lay between the tiles. Ma had kept the place in good nick before her mind started to go but now the house was falling apart. Sandra didn’t lift a finger unless her friends were there to witness her martyrdom. Damo hated the mess but left it as long as he could tolerate. It was a matter of pride. He was not the bitch’s servant. He gave the wine glass a rinse and boiled a kettle for tea. The mug was stained a deep brown on the inside. The color of the dirt under his fingernails. The color of decay. The smell of the girl in the early stages of rot. He wondered if they had found the ransom note yet and how long he would have to wait until they called with his money. The girl’s parents had chosen a concrete angel for her tombstone and he’d perched the letter between its wings. Would they call the guards right away? Dust the paper for fingerprints? Or would they just give him what he wanted? That would be the easiest. There was no sense in dragging these things out. The leftover newspaper clippings were on the kitchen table. He swept them up and into the bin. ‘Fucking bastard,’ he shouted as a sliver of paper cut his thumb. He pressed the wound to his lips and sucked hard. Fearful that Ma would wake up he listened at the kitchen door. The TV in the front room muttered fuzzily but otherwise the house was quiet. Relaxing, he poured the dregs of the wine into Sandra’s glass and took a second bottle from the 15

fridge. He took some small pleasure from the fact he would no longer be around to buy it for her. Maybe she’d finally see how much suav blanc she put away each night. He took the wine in one hand, his tea in the other and a packet of hobnobs under his armpit and walked with the concentration of a tightrope walker. ‘Don’t be giving me biscuits. I’m on a diet,’ Sandra said as he pushed open the door with his back and dropped his cargo on the coffee table. ‘You don’t have to eat them.’ ‘No need to be smart.’ She reached over and took two from the pack. The sound of her open-mouthed chewing filled him with rage. He thought about how it would feel to kill her. Poisoning her spritzers. Pinning her to the ground and filling her mouth with bleach. Holding her nose until she was forced to swallow it. He longed to be free of her. The sound came from the ceiling, like tap-dancing elephants, and he realized that Ma was out of bed. Sandra’s lips pursed tight. She faced the TV but stared into middle distance. The floorboards creaked above them. She curled her fists and twitched as if she barely containing the storm within. Damo felt it coming. Let it happen, he thought. What could she do to him now? ‘You said you were going to check on her.’ ‘I did.’ The lie barely escaped his lips. ‘Wanking around in the kitchen. You really care about nothing except your own hole, don’t you?’ She slammed the wine glass onto the table so hard that it slopped over the rim. Heaving herself off the settee she stormed upstairs. He followed her, two steps at a time. ‘I listened for her. She was asleep. I was going to check on her again after my tea. I’m sure she’s fine.’ Sandra ignored him. She spread her arms out between the bannister and wall and blocked him 16

from the upstairs landing. ‘Ma. Get back into bed,’ she barked. ‘Sandra, come on, go back downstairs. Let me do it. I was going to anyway,’ he said. Sandra held firm. Despite himself, Damo was ashamed. He could have seen to Ma before he made the tea. If not for the pints or for the girl or for his stupid, stupid ideas, he might’ve done. ‘Damien,’ Ma called from the landing. ‘Ma. Bed. Now,’ Sandra said. Damo leaned around her shoulders. Looking up and over the bannister he tried to catch Ma’s eye. She wore a long sleeve nighty with ‘sleep squad’ written across the front and had a confused gaze. ‘Have you seen my little boy,’ she asked. ‘I’m right here Ma, it’s alright.’ He put his hands around the bitch’s shoulders, pushing her arms downwards so he could get past. ‘Would you get out of the way? Ma wants me to put her back.’ She was rigid. ‘Bed. Now.’ ‘Don’t talk to her like that. She’s not a child.’ ‘He was supposed to put the cat out,’ Ma said. Sandra struggled against him, but he was stronger. How different she felt to the girl in the cemetery. Large and warm and fighting for life. He pushed her onto the landing and moved towards Ma.

‘Puss puss. pshpshpshpsh. Here puss,’ Ma said. Taking her by the arm, he guided her back to her room. She lived in a different reality, a past life where he was a good son and the cat was still alive. The guilt of leaving her was crippling. The choice that had been forced on him more so. Ma or Damo. Damo or Ma. ‘The cat’s dead Ma. I buried him in the garden.’ Sandra pushed past them both. She fluffed the pillows on Ma’s bed, pummeling them into submission. She swiped at the duvet, steamrolling over the creases. He settled Ma down under the covers and fought with Sandra to tuck her in, each pulling at opposite sides of the blanket. ‘You’re a good boy Damien,’ Ma said, ‘when you want to be.’ ‘Get out,’ Sandra snarled at him. Her eyes were a pure fury. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before but it wasn’t easy to take. ‘Get out.’ ‘Sleep well Ma. I’ll check on you in a bit.’ ‘He doesn’t give a fuck about you Ma. It was only ever you and me. But don’t worry. I won’t let him do anything to you.’ She pushed him towards the door. ‘Get out.’ ‘This is my house too,’ he said, but stepped out of the room all the same. The bitch followed behind. He was on the landing when he heard the click. ‘Did you just lock her in?’ ‘I do what’s best for her. I’m her carer.’ ‘Collecting the carer’s allowance once a week doesn’t mean anything. You have to actually look after her. Give me the key.’ 18

Sandra stuck the key inside her bra. She was clumsy with it, her coordination dulled by the wine. ‘I want you out of my house right now.’ ‘I’m not going anywhere until you give me that key.’ ‘So you can send her to die in some dump and take the inheritance?’ He was a shard of shame. He’d been careless, forgetting to delete his browser history. Sandra had been snooping. Of course she had. You couldn’t keep secrets from her. ‘I know what you’re planning. I’d see her dead rather than in a nursing home. You will not do this. Leave. Now. You’re disgusting. We don’t want you. Get out. Get out.’ She waved her hands at him as if she were shooing away a rat. He could’ve walked away. He wanted to go and never come back. But there was Ma. There was always Ma. He couldn’t leave without knowing she was safe. He lunged at Sandra. He pulled at the front of her shirt. She screamed. She pushed at him. Fingers that smelled of stale biscuits clawed at his face. He pulled her in. Made a grab for the key. A rip. A bang. A thump. Silence. Had he pushed her? He didn’t know. The key was in his hand. Part of her t-shirt was in the other. His sister lay dead on the bottom step. Freedom was different than he’d imagined. He should’ve been happy but it felt like he was 19

fucked. Maybe he’d been fucked since the day he was born and that was just the way of it. Maybe he’d been wrong, and freedom had nothing to do with it. He put the key in his back pocket and walked downstairs. He stepped over Sandra and into the front room. He took a sip of tea. It was cold but would do to help him think. He could call the guards. He could bury Sandra in the cemetery although there was the question of how to get her there without being seen. She was bigger than the other girl. Harder to hide. And there was Ma. There was always Ma. He heard footsteps coming up the driveway seconds before the doorbell rang. John Joe grinned at him as Damo opened the door just a crack. ‘I can’t believe you did it, you sneaky bastard,’ Damo tensed. ‘Were you even going to tell me?’ John Joe held up the ransom note with his fingers, waggling it from side to side. ‘It’s alright bud,’ he said. ‘I’m not angry but we do have to talk about my cut.’

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Patricia Kamradt

Born In Chicago Il. Patricia and her brother Jimmy were both adopted. She did not find out her true Irish heritage until well into their forties. Came to find out Patriciaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ancestors came from Co. Monaghan Ireland. She loved learning of her Irish heritage and enjoy writing short stories and poetry. Patriciaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brother Jimmy passed recently to cancer.

Our Pandemic Heroes

They enter the battlefield without a sword or shield Afraid of the creature but not turning to yield Disregarding their own fate for the safety of others Like the soldier outnumbered in the arena of war Like the lioness defending her cubs at deaths door The unsung heroes fighting day in and day out They are the brave and courageous woman and men We are grateful and salute you again and again May God protect you and shield you throughout your relentless day Put his arms around you and keep you out of harmsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; way

(Patricia Kamradt)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Alison McCrossan

Alison McCrossan completed a Masters in Creative Writing at University College Cork in 2019. Journals/online platforms where she has had work published/upcoming include HeadStuff, Poethead, and Crannog Magazine.

Geographical

She envies the sight of birds migrating; Sees them in rivers, distorted versions of themselves, holding visions of the future: a sea of bluebells in a shaded wood, golden flower meadows, the sing song of a mate gliding down from the hills.

She flies over the hills. Far and further again. Was she ever wanted here? This housing estate on the edge of urban, sitting pretty in the valley of the Lee.

Fields, slopes, ruins and gates merge into the past. She's beset with buildings that scratch at the sky, a buzz of street and city light, so many people she can be anything she likes.

What is she?

A percentage of the percentage of the norm? She flies over the celebration of light and noise. Far and further again, for the blaze and the cacophony is a droning insect

that won't be caught but sucks her grievances dry.

She flies back to the town in the valley of the Lee, to rivers and rippled images gazing back at her, only learned enough to know

she must be she.

Where Ravens Land

They spill from rooftops, gather at the gate, rowdy and indifferent to this reunion. She envied them their wings. Her tendency to invert the sun, think in shadows,

wasn’t talked about back then. Now it’s a common medical condition, not like her desire for another woman. Now she knows the trouble she was in.

They scan the area and swoop for scraps, father’s left-overs from yesterday’s dinner. It’s as good as she could have hoped for. She longed to belong, one amongst the roost

but walked the other way. She dreamed of dreams not hers. Where else would she have strayed, London’s crammed with walkers on the edge.

She sits in her old room as evening settles. Birds chatter and sing, bewitched 26

by the mating call, the gates of paradise that open at the end of spring, enticing her in.

To Feel Again

This house where the sun's inverted and my thinking is in shadows reminds me of the keep, ruins in fields where youngsters gather with beers.

I climb the crumbling stairway that twists to the fourth floor, stare out the open window, not down at the rocky ground where I'll smash my bones. Sky paints the landscape iridescent blue;

hills roll off somewhere else.

Beyond, gates open to a beach, the sea, a vast heave, breathes white waves; 27

my body tosses to the pulse. This is where feeling lies. I know by dreams.

Once a moat circled these castle walls. Was filled by time, by seed by grass by weed by tree by falling leaf by rot. I haven't taken anything, not a drop.

From this house, beyond the exhale of river, the hills lift and fall; I open the window and scream, scream,

let them roll off somewhere else.

I've Waited All My Life For This:

glimpsed it in violin airs, honeysuckle scented days, river mud caressing my toes, mist that shrouds the valley of the ruins and birch, hazel, ash; dreams where desire overcomes fear. Waited all my life for you to swim dandelion meadows with me, half colouring-book-yellow, half delicate spheres of air and seed, wisps, a wish. All my life, verdant hills roll a million miles away, gas-flame sky. Now from the blue a force descends in waves to ripple at my feet, lift me from the ground, take me away.

(Alison McCrossan)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Don Stoll Don Stoll is a Pushcart-nominated writer, living in Southern California, whose fiction often appears in Ireland- and UK-based publications including A NEW ULSTER, THE HONEST ULSTERMAN (forthcoming), THE GALWAY REVIEW (tinyurl.com/y6nxt9nv, tinyurl.com/y4vdsqhe), HORLA (tinyurl.com/y3k6eewx, tinyurl.com/u49noaq), and EROTIC REVIEW (tinyurl.com/y8nkc73z, tinyurl.com/y36zcvut, tinyurl.com/y9w9qfcp). In 2008, Don and his wife founded their nonprofit (karimufoundation.org) to bring new schools, clean water, and clinics emphasizing women's and children's health to three contiguous Tanzanian villages.

Suckers by Don Stoll

Queued up in a curry shop, Umar watched two yobs giving bovver to the Paki counter lad. “You fancy the little girls like Mohammed did, Osama?” Umar worked behind the counter in an electronics shop. He had an easier time of it than this lad did, but he’d heard the same insults. Scary blokes they were: yellow-stitched Doc Martens, shaved heads, swastika tattoos. He imagined striking from behind, smashing the tall yob’s head into the counter so only the shorter one was left to fight. He tried to decide what the line in the sand would be to justify going after them. They’d been nasty, but not crossed the line yet. He didn’t need them to tell the coppers they was only having a bit of fun, then out of nowhere this bloke starts beating on them. But he felt his heart pounding harder. He thought he might have to let the chips fall wherever with the coppers. Then the yobs’ curry came. They were all smiles, telling the counter lad he was all right. They turned to leave. Umar relaxed, but not for long. Now he was Osama, and which did he fancy more, little girls or goats? Couldn’t strike from behind now. And he was outnumbered. “Oy: my question’s whether you fancy little girls or goats more?” The question had come from the back of the queue. A chap stepped forward who was a head shorter than the tall yob. Umar wondered if he was daft. He took another step forward, got in the yob’s chest. Yob took a step back, but Umar could see he was surprised, not scared. He saw that even the shorter yob was taller than the daft chap. “Question’s whether you only fancy the lads,” tall yob said. Daft chap smiled. Stared up into the tall yob’s eyes. Tall yob stared back. Umar had time to admire the daft chap’s looks. He saw a bit of David Beckham there. But Beckham wasn’t a wee chap like this lad.

“Pity Osama here’s not a bird,” tall yob finally said, glancing at Umar. “Lovely brown babies you two could make.” Umar realized that the daft chap’s looks had put him into a sort of trance. He needed to help out since the daft chap had stepped up for him. He thought he might raise a knee into the tall yob’s crotch. But the daft chap had the idea first, and when the yobbo’s head came down as he reached too late to protect himself the daft chap head-butted him and the yobbo collapsed. Before the short yob could react, the daft chap had pulled a knife. Umar was led out as the entire queue and the Paki counter lad applauded. Umar looked down at his hand in the grasp of the daft chap’s and wondered if it meant what he thought it meant and as the daft chap said, “I’m Leslie, you fancy fish and chips?” Umar’s parents had never been strict in their observance of Islam. But they’d taught him that drinking alcohol diminished your faculties. The night he met Leslie, Umar got drunk for the first time. He told Leslie, gently because he wasn’t sure of Leslie’s intentions and even if they were what he thought they were he didn’t want to sound judgmental, that he’d only been with women. Leslie found the brown boy not only beautiful but likable. Without changing his mind about desiring the brown boy’s body, Leslie decided that he also wanted his friendship. Therefore, once the alcohol had stripped Umar of his inhibitions, Leslie made sure that the sex was as much as possible like sex with a woman. # “We have enough room?” Leslie said, laughing soft and sweet. Umar, trying to climb onto Leslie’s lap, had known he wouldn’t fit. He was playing. “Steering wheel’s in the way,” Umar said. “Need a back seat,” Leslie said.

“Stop moaning. Bloody F-Type and you’re moaning about no back seat.” “I get to moan. Not like it’s free. Got to walk his sodding dogs.” “How’s sodding a bad thing to you?” Umar smiled. Truth was, Leslie enjoyed the Dobermans, the property along with the F-Type of Jimmy Carnes, barrister, on holiday in Majorca. Dobermans, F-Type, and holiday with enough cocaine to power a flight to the moon sans rocket ship all paid for by keeping the nastiest crime bosses in London out of the nick. That included Leslie’s employer, Eddie Ward. “Next three weeks Jimmy gone and me with this car,” Leslie said, “best three weeks of my life. Got the F-Type, have sex with whoever I want. So you watch out, Paki.” “That why we came here? So you could have at the mums in the museum?” “Not out of the question. Any group of mums, bound to include some right ravers.” Leslie winked. “So not going to stop moaning, and don’t want you to stop either.” “You want me to moan,” Umar smiled, “put your face down here.” Afterward, when Umar woke up, Leslie’s jaws were hard at work again. Umar touched the door handle, saying, “Need to pee.” Leslie pulled away. “Your prostate already prostrate and defenseless?” Leslie said. “Should be able to keep the floodgate securely shut for this.” Leslie went back to work. Ultimately, he produced in Umar the false sensation of being lifted out of his seat. He threw his hands up so his head wouldn’t collide with the roof. He went to pee. 33

“Take it out again,” Leslie said when Umar returned. Umar complied. Leslie took hold and played idly. Umar put his hand on Leslie’s to show that he wanted a tighter grip. Instead, Leslie let go. “Don’t think it’s about the grip. Think it’s about expecting you to be Superman.” “I come close enough,” Umar said. “Thanks to you being my Robin.” “Robin is Batman’s sidekick.” “I knew that. Superman’s so super he doesn’t need a sidekick.” Leslie tucked Umar back into his trousers. “But says something that you called me your Robin,” Leslie said. “Way we have sex, anybody’d think I’m the sidekick.” Umar looked out the window. Pretty countryside, it was. They’d taken Jimmy Carnes’ F-Type northwest out of the city to the Chilterns. They were parked on an isolated country road. “Funny idea you had, the Ronald Dahl Museum.” “It’s Roald,” Leslie said. “Roald? Roald. What sort of name is that? It’s not English.” “Dunno. Not Paki either, or you’d know it.” “Anyway,” Umar laughed, “two of us in a kiddies’ museum, attracted loads of suspicious looks.” “Not fair, is it?” Leslie said. “Wouldn’t touch a hair on a child or an animal’s head. Not like the blokes I work with.” Umar turned away from the window to look at Leslie. “And all those good mums and dads in there looking at us,” Leslie said. “Shooting death stares our way like you

two don’t belong, piss off. Then going home, reading Roald Dahl to the kiddies at night like he was Mr. Wholesome Pureheart. Was anything but.” “What you talking about?” “Your mum ever read you Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—or you see the film?” Umar shrugged. “All about child murder right off the bat: fatty boy Augustus Gloop falling into the chocolate river and getting sucked up by a pipe. . . can’t see how he’d survive that.” Leslie sighed. “Those good mums and dads pissing themselves, terrified what blokes like us might do to the kiddies. And no clue what ideas they’re putting in the kiddies’ heads with their bedtime stories.” Umar looked out the window again. “I dunno,” he said. “You say you wouldn’t touch a hair on a child’s head, and I believe you. But where’d the ideas in this chap’s books go when you read them?” Leslie put his hand on Umar’s shoulder. “Maybe into picturing Eddie and his mates sucked up by a pipe,” he said. Umar rested a hand on Leslie’s hand. “It take me making something like that happen before you’d let our relationship be more equal?” Leslie said. Umar looked into Leslie’s eyes. Green or hazel. That was part of his David Beckham look. “Leslie, what you talking about?” “Sidekick—servant, more like it—that’s what I’m like. That seem right to you? It take me doing something big, like making twats of Eddie Ward and his mates, to take a step up in your view?”

Umar stroked Leslie’s hand. “Just not ready for what you want yet, Leslie.” # Leslie had kept his frustration with Umar in check by focusing on his resentment of Eddie Ward and that lot. That Umar was coming along so slowly was disappointing, of course. But Leslie believed Umar would get there if he continued to show kindness. And his frustration with Umar couldn’t compare to what he felt around Eddie and his mates. Umar’s resistance didn’t eat at him like Eddie telling Jimmy Carnes that Leslie, bit of poof muscle, he’ll walk your dogs while you’re on holiday. Problem was that being poof muscle was always going to be less about being muscle than about being the other for a bloke like Eddie. Leslie knew he could prove himself time and again but that what he did would never count for as much as what he was. Being stuck in “the service industry” he was no better off than a counter lad like Umar, earning rubbish wages, or like that other Paki chap, the one those yobs had been abusing the night he met Umar. In the service of Eddie, in the service of Jimmy, always in someone’s bloody service. Eddie volunteering him to be Jimmy’s dog boy for scraps while him and the other boss blokes and Jimmy, they might as well be at a banquet: weekly poker game at Eddie’s, three hundred thousand, four hundred thousand, sometimes half a million quid on the table. Jimmy’d said it was at the poker game that Eddie’d said, Talk to Leslie, he’ll walk your dogs. Half a million quid in front of them and all Leslie’s good for is walking the dogs, his payment in scraps the privilege of using Jimmy’s F-Type for a few weeks. Leslie wasn’t sure that Umar understood what it was like for him to be under Eddie’s thumb. Leslie had mentioned it more than once, but Umar had shown no interest. So, parked in Jimmy Carnes’ F-Type in the lovely countryside of the Chilterns, his stewing over Eddie finally come to a boil, Leslie decided to press the issue. “You’ve no clue what it’s like being held back by who you are instead of what you can do.” The second the words had left his lips, Leslie wanted them back. Umar flamed up. “Can’t believe you,” he said. “You forget the night we met?” Leslie took Umar’s hands. 36

“I can’t forget, and what I just said was bloody stupid.” Umar was deliberating about whether he should forgive Leslie when Leslie spoke again. “Although I’m who I am wherever I go. You go back to Pakistan, you’re safe.” Leslie knew he’d put his foot in it again. “I know you’re not from Pakistan. I just meant—” Umar yanked his hands free. “My color’s with me wherever I go, but you could go somewhere new and act different. At least for a bit, you could pass for someone you’re not.” Leslie showed his palms like he was on the wrong end of a stickup. “Look, mate, I’m in the wrong here. Spouting one stupid thing after another and I’m sorry. But if you’ll just listen so I can make it right. Got a way to get back at all the bastards.” “Pathetic to argue over who’s the biggest victim,” Umar said, steam appearing to pour out of his nostrils. “Or over who’s got the most reason to do something about it. And that’s what you were doing.” “I’m sorry. But you’ll listen?” The steam abated. Umar nodded. Leslie took a deep breath. Half a million quid for the taking, he thought. He didn’t know if Umar would want in. Only way to find out was to ask. The last thing Leslie expected was Umar’s swift agreement. “Don’t know why you’re surprised,” Umar said. “Not afraid of a bit of rough and tumble. That night in the curry shop was going after the tall bloke, except you beat me to it.” Leslie raised an eyebrow. “I was. Though I admit you seemed more keen.”

“Only care that you’re keen about this,” Leslie said, lowering his eyebrow. “Bastards think they’re untouchable. Scariest crime bosses in London, nothing to fear, so they post a single gorilla at the front door.” “What’s he like?” Umar said. “Never calls me by name, only ‘Ponce.’ Likes to reach for my jewels, laugh when I skip away from him. But this time I’ll let him get a handful, pretend I’m all right with it so he can squeeze and laugh. He’ll drop his guard, then die laughing when I cut his throat.” Umar’s eyes opened wide. “Relax,” Leslie said. “Get past the gorilla and we’re in the clear. No one else dies. Crash the party in our balaclavas. No need to talk. They see the guns, they’ll know what to do.” He watched Umar carefully. He seemed focused rather than shocked. “But if there is need to talk let’s make sure it comes from you,” Leslie said. “None of those blokes know you and they don’t know your voice.” He paused. “You still up for this?” “Long as only the gorilla dies,” Umar said. “This sort not an endangered species,” Leslie grinned. “Loads more where he comes from.” He thought Umar seemed all right. “I’ll do the tying up,” he said. “You just keep your gun pointed at them. Ever held one?” Umar shook his head. “Game’s in two days, so we’ll get you trained tomorrow. Teach you to outdraw flipping Matt Dillon.” Leslie’s voice became buttery.

“Thousand-to-one you’ll need to drill one of the bastards. It’s a precaution. Useful to know how to shoot, anyway.” Umar thought for a minute before nodding. “Then we piss off out of London with the money.” “Here’s the genius bit,” Leslie said. “I disappear straight off, Eddie knows I pulled the job, knows who to send the hounds after. But Jimmy Carnes is gone three more weeks. So stow the money in this ancient Mini he took in payment from some wanker he lawyered for before going on holiday. Bloke had nothing else to pay with. Mate of Jimmy’s cousin, big man Jimmy doing a favor. Only lawyers for the high-stakes lads, as you know.” He could see Umar’s mind working. “Can’t keep it at my place since everyone who knows about the poker game’s a suspect,” Leslie said. “Can’t keep it at your place, have your mum stumble across it while she’s cleaning. Can’t keep it in Jimmy’s house because of his cleaning lady. I asked if she was from Pakistan and she wanted nothing to do with that. Bangladesh, she said. Don’t know what she finds to clean with him gone, but Jimmy’s a bit of a fanatic: she told me her instructions are twice a week, top to bottom.” “But not including the garage? Mini parked there?” “Made that abundantly clear,” Leslie smiled. “Nice lady, but chatty. Seemed prepared to write a book about why she won’t touch garages.” He thought Umar looked satisfied. “I act normal-like, arouse no suspicion, we piss off before Jimmy comes back.” “And your gaffer Eddie, he’s Gustavus Gloop.” “Augustus,” Leslie said. #

In Majorca, a drunken Scotsman had behaved toward a woman sat next to Jimmy Carnes at the bar as if Jimmy hadn’t already bought and paid for her services for the night. In fairness to the Scotsman, the woman wasn’t wearing a “Sold” sign around her neck like a house just taken off the market. Jimmy might also have taken into account the Scotsman’s advanced state of inebriation, but the level of cocaine in his system didn’t encourage a conciliatory stance. He left the Scotsman bleeding in the street. The woman said they should call an ambulance and Jimmy said well and good for you, but what if the bloke should die? He caught the next flight home. Jimmy was undressing in his top-floor bedroom in his four-story home in Twickenham when outside his F-Type pulled up. He thought the lads would be happy, Leslie taking them for a stroll. Jimmy’s return had got them all worked up and now they’d want the exercise. Passenger door opens. Jimmy sees Leslie’s got a mate: dark-skinned chap carrying a valise, probably a visitor from out of town. Exotic tastes Leslie’s got, Jimmy thought. Jimmy approved. Leslie kissed the dark chap on the mouth. Jimmy squirmed, but only a little. Who was he to judge? Never thought in law school that one day his comfortable lifestyle would be dependent on the likes of Eddie Ward. Funny old thing, life, could lead you down some peculiar paths. Should probably fight the impulse to squirm until he’d tried it himself, Jimmy thought. He watched the couple go into the garage. He thought Leslie must have left the leashes there. A change out of his traveling clothes into an ensemble befitting London’s climate rather than that of his recent sojourn, then Jimmy’s down to the kitchen. Feeling a bit grimy but needing a shower less than a bite. Lads not gone, not being walked by Leslie and the dark chap. Leashes same place as always. Jimmy looked outside: F-Type nowhere to be seen. He went into the garage not knowing what he was looking for. Everything seemed in order. Peered into the Mini. Something black on the rubbishy black carpeting tucked in behind the rubbishy black vinyl of the driver’s seat. Dark chap’s valise. His boiling pasta neglected and, with the water a mere memory, now sticking to the saucepan, Jimmy rang his best client, Eddie Ward, to check in and, more to the point, to ask whether Leslie’s proximity to a valise stuffed with large

bills—and moreover one in need of concealment—on the very day of Eddie’s weekly poker game might be something other than a coincidence. Eddie didn’t ask about Jimmy’s holiday. Nor did he mention his dead gorilla, who’d shown himself unfit for the job anyway. He emphasized that he and his mates, who’d just managed to untie themselves, would in due course retrieve their money, which Jimmy if he knew what was good for him would present as a sum that aroused no suspicion of having been skimmed. But first they would need to pay a visit to Leslie and his mysterious dark-skinned fancy man. Headed to Leslie’s flat Eddie and his mates speculated creatively, or at least colorfully, about whether Leslie and his fancy man would be there and, if so, how they ought to be punished for their cheek. Eddie’s opinion was the most creative, or at least colorful. “Going to be sucking each other,” he laughed. “And going to be left that way forever.” He laughed again. “Least I can do to reward past good service is send the ponce straight to Hell in a state that makes him happy. Owe him that much.” # Meanwhile, Umar, having initially bowed to Leslie’s presumed authority in all things criminal and with much to absorb, had subsequently done his absorbing and dared to question Leslie’s authority. After stowing their haul in the Mini they’d traveled not two blocks in Jimmy Carnes’ F-Type when he insisted that Leslie should pull over and listen. “Whether you disappear now or in two or three weeks, that gives the game away and Eddie’s wise to who to send the hounds after. But you stick around, that gives you time to slip up, put him on to you.” Umar caressed Leslie’s soft hair. He’d washed it for him in the shower that morning. He gazed into Leslie’s David Beckham eyes. “You’re afraid to run because that’s like saying you done it. But can’t avoid saying you done it, so the sooner the better.” 41

Their panic upon discovering that the Mini had been raided would subside when they found the valise on the butcher-block surface of Jimmy’s posh kitchen island. Their concern about how to deal with Jimmy would evaporate when they realized based on the unmelodic warbling of “We Are the Champions” escaping through the open door of the ground-floor bathroom that the lord of the manor had decided on a shower to wash off the trail dust. Jimmy’s second attempt to cook pasta was in peril of going awry as had the first. As a courtesy, Leslie lowered the flame. To suggest that Leslie and Umar’s financial windfall would necessarily have occasioned lives lived happily ever after might be naïve. But if you must take flight from those who wish you ill, better to do so with half a million quid in your possession than without. So there was the money to lighten their mood. There was also Umar’s declaration that he was ready for the more equal relationship that Leslie wanted. To which Leslie rejoined that Umar would learn to enjoy it, especially if he were to bear in mind that, however much contempt might be reserved for Eddie Ward’s former employee and his unidentified consort by Eddie and his mates— Umar broke in: “Twats sucked up by Ronald—Roald—Dahl’s sodding pipe.” “Yeah,” Leslie continued. “It’s Eddie and his mates who are the real suckers.” END

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Frank Dullaghan

Frank Dullaghan is an Irish writer with four collections published by Cinnamon Press. His most recent collection is Lifting the Latch (2018). Frankâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work is widely published, including in Cyphers, London Magazine, Magma, Nimrod, Poetry Review, and Rattle

Morning at Another Window From how many windows in how many cities have I stood gazing out? Now it’s Kuala Lumper, Malaysia. I seem to travel further each time. Ireland is still asleep. I’ve gone eight hours ahead of myself. The first one I remember looking from is my boyhood bedroom window. Winter. The glass frosted and the lino riveted to the floorboards. The corners of the pane were all silver stars and geometry. It seemed like a map out, a journey. And the call of it entered me. First Dublin, then Birmingham. Later it was Dubai, then Kuala Lumper. I had no idea. Now a longing to close the circle. When I was studying Judo, I learned that the highest belt is not black but white – the same colour you start out with but wider to signify that your Judo is no longer a learned response but part of you. Yourself. Perhaps journeys are the same. Perhaps all windows return you to your first window. (Frank Dullaghan)

Getting the Coal In Dundalk 1960s

It was all of a sudden, the rain slicing off the clothesline, hornpiping the black-current bush. It hopped and skipped across what had been a dusty yard but was now a dark pool dancing. I had the coal to get in from the shed, had delayed it until the last possible moment, and now that moment was filled with this opening of the heavens. I calculated the time it would take to run across the yard with my galvanised bucket, but neglected to figure in the time to coax out the stiff bolt that kept the shed door shut. I was sleeked, drenched, the bucket quarter filled as I stood at that door like a beggar, my wet fingers jiggling and tugging at the shaft, my shirt sleeves sodden, my bent back drumming under the unrelenting downpour; learning that one should do oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chores when the circumstances are, if not favourable, at least not malevolent. (Frank Dullaghan)

Christmas Carols (i) I suppose it had a kind of magic all its own: my cousins, siblings and I belting out against the choir-trained voices of our fathers and uncles. We were all arranged on the first turn of the stairs from the small living room to the bedrooms and faced in on our grandmother, the sole audience to our impromptu concert. There was a rap on the door. The neighbours. Both sides. My grandmother was mortified, apoligised. But, no, they had not come to complain but to come in. And could we start again. (ii) The fingers were cut off me, strumming my steel string in the cold, door-to-door, accompaniment for Choirwood, a childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s choir, on their traditional Christmas Eve tour of the town. The reward was the mulled wine later at the choirmasterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s place, the kids buzzing about with their cold bright faces, the adults cupping that harbinger of the season, a kind of opening of the festivities, anticipated joy. (Frank Dullaghan)

New Reality

For Tommy – June 7th 2020

For a moment, he was a shadow of his former self, cigarette butt for a navel, the 25A Merrion Square bus waiting for him, lights on, the sky lost in its own thoughts. This was dream time and sacrifice, a night shift, a shift of night from a bedroom window’s blackness to the quiet fairytale of streetlights and neon glow. Way to go. A far cry from his army days - border control, tech maintenance – now picking up essential workers, doing his bit, little brother, older now as he walks his shadow down, steps over the butt on the tarmac, climbs aboard to sit behind the big wheel and pull out into Dublin city’s new reality.

Rain (2) Raindrops last the moment of their fall or the while of their wind-flurry through air. They seek to bury themselves, to hammer into earth, find a way to the sun through root and stem. This is how they pray – going down deep into the dark, becoming drunk, filling themselves with all they can eat, before lifting their faces to the light. Surely this is right: we must sin before we can be saved. When rain head-butts the earth, you can see that momentary bounce and shudder as it holds back its longing, then the penetration – consuming, being consumed. It’s an act of worship. I knew a woman who enjoyed walking in a downpour. She said she had more freedom to be herself in rain than in shine, she said, Some people become invisible in light. She said, You won’t love me forever.

(Frank Dullaghan)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Breda Joyce Breda Joyce lives near Cahir, Co. Tipperary and holds an MA in Creative Writing from U.C.C. Her poem Visiting Rites has been shortlisted for the Fish Lockdown prize 2020. Her poems, A Bunch of Lilac and The Guardian of the Wheel were shortlisted for the Anthony Cronin 2020 and 2019 and The Guardian of the Wheel was longlisted for the Over the Edge Awards 2019. The Bee-Smoker and Murmuration above the Peace Line were shortlisted for the Hennessy Award 2019. Slรกn leis an Airc was shortlisted for The Kinsale Literary Festival 2019. Free Fall won the Judith Aronson Likeness competition, 2018. Breda has poems published in Crannรณg, Crossways, Skylight 47, Galway Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Bangor Literary Journal, Dodging The Rain, The Quarryman and the Kilkenny Broadsheet 2020.

Murmuration i.m. Seamus Heaney As we left Bellaghy that March evening, a slim light threaded the sky before it thickened into a stream of starlings that plunged and rose just above the Moyola river. They meandered in rippling syllables, swapped stray letters, rearranged themselves like some new phrase in one of your poems; words weaving possibilities out of the shadows, demented wings reshaping the light. Like an unresolved chord, they drew close then broke apart again, twisting and tumbling into the twilight, until wanting repose, safe from raptors, they collapsed into the trembling of trees and quieter wings beat softer chimes where hope and history rhyme.

Undertow after Paddy Campbellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Spirit of Love sculpture, Bantry

She plunges, hair wave-fanned behind her tumbling limbs; the tendons of her fingers strain to take him back to her, stretched tautly like a prayer.

Down so long, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sprouted sea wings. When he hears her call his name he rises, gazes at her face, but slips like seaweed from her clasp. .

He cannot accept her open-handed offering and his fingers lock inwards. She searches for him still, heedless of the strength of the undertow.

Time Signature

Telegraph wires are all a twitter.

Swallows perch

wings

to carry them across

and lifts

staves of sky

beneath their breasts

heat

like semi-

a crescendo

quavers;

The desert raises

their tail notes trampoline from A

and sharp sea,

the music of flight an uncertain melody;

diminuendo to

to higher

their home

to C, then up

key.

The Clutch of Grief after The Grieving Parents, sculpture by Käthe Kollwitz at Vladslo war cemetery, Belgium

Käthe’s grip tightens on the chisel, finds relief in the rhythm of the mallet as she scores on stone the imprint of her furrowed brow, the lines of regret

that she provided fodder for the Fatherland relented when her son insisted he was needed, her guilt that she became his advocate, persuaded Karl to allow him go.

Now she begs her son’s forgiveness, the son whom she named Peter, the rock that she depended upon. It took her eighteen years to sculpt

her anguish into granite that folds beneath the weight of grief, collapses into a cloak that will not keep her warm as she clutches at its hem.

Before her on a beech hedge torpedo-shaped buds explode out of gold but Käthe searches the darkness that snatched her son, 53

the son she thought Hades could not overcome. *

*You are Peter and on this rock I shall build my church and the gates of Hades shall not overcome. Matthew 16:18

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: BERNARD PEARSON BERNARD PEARSON: His work appears in many publications, including; Aesthetica Magazine , The Edinburgh Review, Crossways, The Gentian, The Poetry Village In 2017 a selection of his poetry ‘In Free Fall’ was published by Leaf by Leaf Press. In 2019 he won second prize in The Aurora Prize for Writing for his poem Manor Farm

Domestic Science

He would beat his wife Like an egg, Mixing her white With her yolk, Cracking her shell First of course, In that easy way He cracked a joke.

ÂŠ Bernard Pearson

London

Half life city, Fruiting for all its worth Fermented by the river’s rind, Where as if fastened to Some unseen gauge Within each other’s footfall Commuters cross The minefield of the morning. Pitter patter What’s the matter, Eye avoids eye, But there is A strange intimacy of souls. It is almost ,as if people, Know what they Are about to say. As the wind Slaloms between the quick and the dead Old Samuel puts his Hand up another blind alley.

Divorce

Straight laced Silver birch trees Stripped by The season’s cycle, Mark out the street That love forgot And by a painted yellow gate A man and woman Clumsily In sightless pain Exchange their baby’s Well used travel cot.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: STEPHEN KINGSNORTH Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had over 100 pieces accepted by some thirty on-line poetry sites; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines, Vita Brevis Anthology ‘Pain & Renewal’ & Fly on the Wall Press ‘Identity’. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/

The Snicket I walked hedged in, the uniform, longed for school grounds, too long for run; inviting thump, in chest, on ribs, caged in, the strain for flight not fight, adrenaline, hormone within but all about. Face front, two privet edge, alone, onward, knew paired, voices behind, told sniggers dare not look or turn. I heard cleared scouring mouth for spit, and knew the score, gob land in hand, its filter, fingers, slow to land. Steadfast unaltered gaze and pace, slight swing of arms, chain necklace chime, aware its drip, strings to the slabs, that snicket path, where dawdled fast. (Stephen Kingsnorth)

Arcadia The gulf known when she spoke of golf but I heard middle eastern seas; the more so, she watched open-eyed where we had, green, ball bunkered down, address correctly, failed again, feeding the cove so many times, another gulf I failed to breach. Portrush, sea she had bathed from wee, where now we came grandchildren’s day. Her uncle told me quick in five how over brow I find the flag, on Ballyreagh, the public course. I recall wonder that did such, the tranquil bay, a rarity, where I, hand-guided landed ball beyond the grassy knoll before like moon landing and JFK; yet truly though, through, round the rough, not knowing where I was or why. At Barry’s we spent father’s cash, the only price, to be regaled how, Arcadia, Dad met Mum. I called them so, though she had asked her daughter why she could not find an Ulster boy, Young Farmers’ man; a Frosses friend with own peat bog, or better still, from glacial Glen a field to feed less alien kids, protection for familial plant. They danced beside those Skerry seas which often roared their Forties own, where forty on, and reaching for court Dunluce and Portballintrae, the rory gales, of laughter, turned to tears when putts had missed the pot. Dad’s face aglow with Bushmills shots, first tasted, two more, fire by fire; some game debate around the flame, a florid flush, domestic shrine, thus sacred turf the site for pitch, that like the peat, the team was sweet.

Sebastopol Terrace Sinking towers erupt, leave dust high-rise landmarks of the town, bitten groundwork soon to pass, Babel chatter downcast now. Drizzle vapours billow clouds, turning lemon as they fall, bitter at the sentence served, as some sodden crying gods. Silent raised though living massed, flattened terrace, speaking razed, lampposts felled when gutters grew, polished steps now drained of blood. Stray dog, owner five doors down, children scrapped, one gang by tea, larded crust that built strong legs, grew them to the boxing ring. Milkman, their bank messenger, serving vital news at doors, postman twice delivered, told number six of midnight birth. Messy hair, turbaned by scarf, covered, so could clean elsewhere, small home space, expansive airs, hope-dares risked by talking wives. Up the stairs, next mountain climb, no graffiti wicket chalk, balaclava goals had moved, Terrace of Sebastopol.

(Stephen Kingsnorth)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: KEITH WOODHOUSE

Keith Woodhouse is an up and coming writer and several of his pieces have been published in A New Ulster

WHEN THE WORLD CRIES It rains when the world cries, Those poison lips and broken skies, The universal shift of mainstream thought, But thought was caught, And tried in court, Dad's on the mantle piece, My hair is the flaming yellow of the sun, And watched in fire by everyone, Time's tight bun has come undone, Eyeballs goggling, melons bobbling, Ships on the water, Lambs to the slaughter, What you bloody ought'er, Have a son and a daughter, By now, the holy cow, The apple tree, the apple bow, The muscling tendons of a worried brow.

LUCY I'll call you when I wake up You'll be putting on your make up We'll talk about what we can see, But you and I will never be Never dead, never free, In this age of dark uncertainty. I wanted her so badly I couldn't move, She said: "It's right, we've got nothing to prove."

CORNISH MEMORIES The wind scattered moor in which the engine houses stand, Testament to the once central industry of this Cornish land, With bracken and heather and gorse the moor is thick, And Madron chisselled into the hill side, granite not brick, A black hooded mare stands in a fields, surrouded by its own shit, Tractor loudly ploughing at Gulval, the whole rural bit, The fields and lanes and roads, all travelling in the sun, Photographs of onions coming and buttons being undone, A layman's land, the statues in mid horizon, set square furniture, The house where the rag dolls live, all naked vaginas in the future.

MENTAL HOSPITAL 2. I am still mentally ill because of the pills, I spend my time thinking of film stills and staring at window sills, The planets are moving round, In each universe of sound, It is the half an hour build up to tea, Never a borrower or a lender be, Old Nessie's crashed out on the lithium, The clock ticks by the sterile tedium, There's no parole we're on the dole, An exocist, a medium, Two psychoes and a manic, A car mechanic, somewhat hispanic, All doing life, For acting out of character Drama queen, failed Actor Stick a needle in your arse and call it love. To solve the riddle of God above, The nature of sin, Thought or deed? Or too much weed? Is it innate or LSD induced? You've got to admit there's something wrong somewhere, Five doctors the diagnosis deduced, Hosed him down and shaved his hair, A Lion in a Lion's lair,

He overdid the whacky backey, A tragedy tantamount to Nagasaki, Altercations inevitable in institutions, Rudely obstructed morning ablutions, Bored patients constantly torturing eachother, Provoking violence from a brother.

NO ONE HIT

Eyes all shot to shit, Trying to get a number one hit, No CD's till Capella gets here, No cast iron shed of a tear, Cascading from rage to fear, Desperate for a pint of beer.

Great iron bird in sky, Sing me a lullaby, Under grazing blue-blood sky, A tear to break a lie, This is how we say goodbye, More than usually laden sigh.

IMAGES 3.

East coast river, Fried onions and liver, Girl with blue eyes, Parched yellow skies, Disgracefull faces, Ultimate places, Nightmare in the alley, Orange trees in the valley, One man drinking, Toad frog thinking, Jack of hearts, Senile old farts, Reams of material, Forgettable, ethereal, CD in the shops. Finally beat the cops.

EDITOR’S NOTE Trying to be upbeat and enthusiastic can be difficult this year, more so than usual due in part to the unique nature of the environment we now live in. Pandemic the word itself suggests a doomsday narrative and yet? We have faced many such things over the years Edith Wilson took over the Presidency of the United States of America during a global pandemic and introduced several policies including the wearing of face masks technically she should be rightfully recognized as the first female President of the US especially as she was sworn into office and handled the nation for 15 months. Still historical and cultural narratives in that time period and honestly still to this day often downplay the role women played in politics, sciences, art and literature. Which leads me to highlight the work that people like Chris Murray does with her Poethead and other initiatives designed to give voice to female writers especially in Ireland. I like to think that we ourselves help fill some of those gaps. It pains me to say it but we lost several poets this week including Derek Mahon whose work tackled the Troubles and grew beyond the scope of that conflict and pain, a name often held in the same scope as Heaney, Longley, Simmons and many more. Another loss was Kevin Griffith his work was well regarded and he was very active in the literary and cultural scene in Ireland up until his passing everyone here sends our deepest sympathies to their friends and families. Finally

I’d

mention

new

publication

offered

through

the

Lapwing

Website:

https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/pestilence-edited-by-peter-pegnall-andgerard-noyau?fbclid=IwAR1FYPLn8eFXv5VlIgsapCWwe4BCG5QXeQh7G_9npgMgIi3PRPGnrHA_aw0

Pestilence - An anthology of poems and images written/produced as a response to the Covid virus disaster. Is a collection of poetry and art curated and edited by Peter Pegnall and Gerard Noyau. It features contributions from Peter Pegnall, Moyra Donaldson, Naomi Foyle, Heidi Joffe, Jane Draycott, Joseph Woods, Damian Smyth, Sue Burge, Andrea Holland, Lesley Saunders, David Cristal, Charles Baudelaire, Matthew Caley, Julia Webb, Manuel Portela, Guillaume Apollinaire, Jules Supervielle and Rene Noya. They use paintings to split the poems into separate sections in essence giving each their themed structure mirroring the many steps we’ve all gone through in the recent months. I’ll do a more detailed review for next months issue in the meantime I can highly recommend it. Happy reading, good health, and keep creating, Amos Greig (Editor) BA Hons Ancient History and English recipient of the Artists Emergency Grant provided by the Arts Council Northern Ireland.

In the end â&#x20AC;&#x2039;-Niamh Finlay

In the end will I clutch dusty rosaries

In the end will I wish Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been different

The beads tangled around my withered hands

Ignoring the truths of a Brotherhood adored

Hungry for the hope of a life after this one

Riding the Irish bandwagon, taking the wheel myself

Fear of the blackness, the empty space

A loyal servant

Trembling

A sheep with her shepherd

A draft of cold sea air at my neck, the tide going out This time for good In the end will I return to faith In the end will I pray

Or close my eyes

An unfamiliar prayer fumbling over forgotten words

A smile on my face

Seeking forgiveness for my youthful negligence

Of a job well done

My stubborn beliefs

And a life lived well

That there are no beliefs

In my way, my morals mine

No golden gates

A lost woman

No second chance at our laps around the sun

Found long ago

By herself.

Sunburn -Niamh Finlay “The worst spots to get burnt are your creases!!” An Irish Mammy’s warning as clear as any pink sky in the morning My own pink face evidence of my “selective hearing” She was right, and always is, mind.

Her forehead knotted, wringing her worked hands in concern Teenage me’s silly mistake; Out of fear of looking uncool in front of de boyz, went suncream-less on my jaunt to the beach Leaving me burnt, and even better; a sermon from my mother waiting at home Her bark worse But bite not recommended either And as I began to settle in for the scolding ahead An early memory of a younger me in a teal T-shirt springs to mind;

The Algarve, home of pale Irish children Just delighted to be on their holliers High on the half glass of coke allowed at lunch Pale skin thirsty for some sun, after months deprived of real warmth Darting for the first dip in the wonder that is the holiday swimming pool My 8 year old self truly skilled in the art of Le Cannon Ball But as a result of countless cannoning one faithful day, suncream seemed to drip slowly from my shoulders Leaving my vulnerable freckled skin well and truly raw And then of course my penance; Wearing a tacky teal T-shirt in the pool for the rest of the holiday

To make matters worse, not only was I the only child in the pool wearing clothes When said T-shirt got wet it proceeded to stick like glue to my blistered shoulders Which resulted in my mother having to peal the cloth away when getting out of the pool The pain blinding, cheeks stained with embarrassed, sore tears

But after you prised that fecking T-shirt off You put your hand on my cheek tenderly, full of love and sympathy A smile etching on your lips, a glisten in your eye and said-

The worst places to get burnt are your creases. Your elbows and armpits, or the little bit behind your knees Sometimes life will burn you badly, your pain so horrible you think you’ll never recover You might want to give up all together, no end to this hurt in sight But even burns on your creases heal, your skin stronger than you know And one day you’ll look back and think; I can do anything I even healed after burning my creases

And I can’t help but smile, and take your sermon on the chin Overwhelmed with the love I have for you Knowing my burnt skin will heal, and if and when I burn my creases in life; I’ll get through it Stronger than I know, strong because of you.

My mate Anxiety -Niamh Finlay

I’ve attempted many times to write it down But everytime I cover the reality in a sugary coating Or manage to make it sound almost cutesy? Sickly sweet My little quirk But to be frank it’s quite shit.

It engulfs me without warning Intrusive thoughts that stab me from the inside out It leaves my once fashionable fringe soaking wet Clinging to my forehead with sweat My heartbeat so fast I wait for it to leap right out of my chest Running away, leaving me sticky in shame.

It ruins good moments and happy times By simply popping its ugly head around the doorframe Just to weigh in on my temperament Somehow upset it didn’t get a say on my mood A ginormous bull in an already too delicate china shop.

I don’t give it a name, or laugh about it over a vino It’s fucking hard and sometimes so overbearing it makes me blind It strips me of sense, leaving me naked Hoses me down like a prison guard I’m an inmate in my own mind.

It ruins relationships A voice that tells you your overactive brain deserves nothing but this drenching of dread The rug yanked from beneath me But I’m the one who pulled it My struggle by my own hand Helpless in its grip.

I don’t talk about it with friends I don’t shake it off after a strong tea It’s tough, and tells you you can’t beat it I tried for a long time.

But maybe that’s where I went wrong Actively trying to BEAT, IGNORE, HIDE Ashamed of my pathetic existence This over-feeling, over-thinking mess ridden with worry Ringing my bell, warning others- UNCLEAN Unloveable Undermined from day dot by my own judgement My life long sentence served accordingly, guilty as charged Never thinking that maybe I’m not just anxiety Though a little part of me, not all of me A part of me that also allows me to feel the way others can’t To think the way others won’t To cry out at injustice To feel every friend’s heartbreak as though it’s my own To connect, empathise and realise with open eyes this shared human reality that is

Life Feeling truthfully, thinking deeply Feeling Thinking But also living And maybe that’s ok That it can be Dare I say, sometimes a beautiful thing A thing that I don’t have to beat, but get to know Maybe I can be friends with my anxiety

That might be too strong a word, mates with it?

On good terms like, but they’re not gonna be one of me Bridesmaids. That kind of mate.

BIO- Niamh Finlay is an actor and poet from Dublin. Niamh graduated from drama school in 2017, and has been working towards her first poetry collection in the midst of her stage and screen work. She hopes her work speaks to young people, their worries, fears and joys.