A New Ulster 98

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF Patricia Kamradt, Ciaran Mc Dermott, Stephen James Douglas, Megha Anne Wilson, Noel King, Sterling Smith, Ross Hussey, Edward Lee , Dan Murphy AND EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 98 December 2020

UPATREE PRESS A New Ulster

Copyright Š 2020 A New Ulster – All Rights Reserved.

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

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF Patricia Kamradt, Ciaran Mc Dermott, Stephen James Douglas, Megha Anne Wilson, Noel King, Sterling Smith, Ross Hussey, Edward Lee and Dan Murphy EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.

CONTENTS Poetry Patricia Kamradt

Page 8

Poetry Ciaran Mc Dermott

Page 13

Poetry Stephen Douglas

Page 23

Poetry Megha Anne Wilson

Page 25

Poetry Noel King

Page 32

Poetry Palmer Smith

Page 38

Poetry Ross Hoey

Page 45

Poetry Edward Lee

Page 47

Poetry Dan Murphy

Page49

Editor’s Note

Page 53

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 Patricia’s ancestors came from Co. Monaghan Ireland. She loved learning of her Irish heritage and enjoy writing short stories and poetry. Patricia’s brother Jimmy passed recently to cancer.

1

Take me back to simpler times Imagining faces in the clouds Catching amber glowing fireflies in a jar Gazing up at a bright twinkling star Living in the moment without a care Experiences would soon color the way I see the world But for now all of that can just wait For I am way too busy enjoying my life to be bothered by anything more Just for a while let me see life through the eyes of a child The beauty of nature The call of the wild The warmth of the sun resting on my face The colorful beauty of a flower Playing baseball on our street Running around in circles in bare feet Mesmerized by the leaves gently blowing in the trees Watching as bees fly from one flower buzzing to another Please don’t take this all away too soon I am still busy looking at the man in the moon

(Patricia Kamradt)

2

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Ciaran Mc Dermott Ciaran has recently started writing poems and these are his first in publication.

3

48- Ballot box

Those perfunctory demands, forever held in question.

You kept those wretched numbers down, by virtue of your tweaking, alterations and manipulation.

Those giant monoliths.

You gracefully bowed to their power.

Though we placed an X in the box, we did it so begrudgingly.

The choices we make, not ones of our making, the votaries for those not easily outthought or outfoxed.

4

The time has come, the river has overflown.

Tears from the sky, has dampened your reign.

For what’s left of us now, when abruptly the current, it changes.

Crooked transparency in your willingness to feign.

What festers within, bequeaths you to be our noble servants.

But, far beyond that raucous din, the outcome will be for you, nor I, not so very pleasant.

(Ciaran Mc Dermott)

5

78- Fallacy

Relations evolve, but never from the heart.

Those incomprehensible vocalisations, the allegory that confused your wounded ways.

You struggled there, with that complex of the philistines.

Contrasted there in your uniformity and the reluctance to interplay.

The passive and austere, the active and libidinal.

Conniving by myself, absolutely self-contained, elucidated by my obedience.

You conjured up my self-abnegation and my ignorance of reality, in a self-sacrificing downward spiral.

My idiosyncrasies coupled with a worldly mind, the rationale behind my clarity of thought.

For my degeneration at your hands and the rebirth of my composure is not a fallacy.

(Ciaran Mc Dermott)

6

117- The grand design ‘Twixt the trees, and the blowing wind, the seascapes of my mind.

The awakening heralds that which has arisen.

Arise, for the curse of negativity, bringing you down and hanging you out, ventured to purge.

That cavernous, fathomless, latent verbal dexterity, heaving.

Embryonic fluid laced with comforting notions.

Feeble, in the construct of my stolid foundation.

Effusive with forbearance, governed by self-restraint, for I know not of what’s to come, of the possibilities, progressing ad-infinitum.

Adding credence, to that revered reverie, with consummate ease.

Probing for those needles.

Unearthing, with that inherent audible detection.

Deliverance, on that solemn vow.

Not confined to conjecture, but open to the realm of dreams and grand design.

(Ciaran Mc Dermott)

7

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Stephen Delaney

8

Takabuti Takabuti lies wrapped in her sarcophagus like a gift for the Gods, scundered.

Crowned with a wig of burnt curls, her fellow mammies from Belfast say she’s as black as your boot.

Suffering a 3000-year hangover, hauled from her tomb by an ashen grave digger, her parched eyeballs protrude from the dusty hollows of her head like burst corks.

Yet her blackthorn fingers point to no inhibitions (the way she flaunts a naked leather foot, comma-toed, really gets the living going).

In the background, an expert explains how her heart was left in her body as her ticket to the afterlife, or better still, Belfast in the pissing rain.

S.J. Douglas 9

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Megha Anne

10

Beyond Beyond the darkness of the night, the sky lies open Beyond the darkness of the mind, flickers its vast pale light.

Beyond the greed and the murder Beyond the Church and the Temple Beyond the Hijab and the Turban The blue sky lies open.

Beyond our smartphones or whatever they might say Beyond running here to there Beyond having a car and a house and a job Or having none at all Beyond words and letters Beyond jealousy and anger Beyond your past , present or future Entwined with another’s or rather, entangled Beyond faking it or being myself Beyond this life we lead Beyond just you and I Beyond all seeds of thoughts that grow into thorny trees The sky is open.

Beyond all that sadness which cripples me Beyond waiting and expecting Beyond expecting and not happening Beyond not happening and suffering Beyond all this suffering, Patiently, the sky lies open.

Beyond tremors of guilt And waves of incompetency Canvassing Like violent brushstrokes painting the turbulent sea.

Beyond having no hope And really hurting 11

Hurting in hunger Hurting in disease Hurting in despair Hurting in hate Beyond all the hurting and the loving Lies the open Open sky Beyond fear and surveillance Beyond being a man or a woman Beyond a number Beyond clothes Beyond faces Beyond the flesh and meat of it all Beyond being right or wrong Beyond cutting trees for building a bomb Beyond chanting “Ram� and slaying our own Beyond war and guns and salutations Beyond all ideas of civilisations lies the blue sky.

Beyond remembering Beyond knowledge Beyond quest Beyond the urge and Beyond the rest lies the open blue sky

(Megha Anne)

12

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Noel King

Noel King was born and lives in Tralee, Co Kerry. His poetry collections are published by Salmon: Prophesying the Past, (2010), The Stern Wave (2013) and Sons (2015). He has edited more than fifty books of work by others (Doghouse Books, 2003 – 2013) and was poetry editor of Revival Literary Journal (Limerick Writers’ Centre) in 2012/13. A short story collection, The Key Signature & Other Stories was published by Liberties Press in 2017. www.noelking.ie

13

Fresh Ice Cubes At the housewarming drinks party the conversation came to quality of Ice Cubes, how they should be freshly made.

The hostess gulped, knew hers had been fridged for weeks, We freeze, vegtables, she says, and meats, are they no longer fresh then after freezing?’

She got silence, ‘yes dear’ sort of looks.

The man of the house gulped something, then another woman saved the situation talking about these new contraptions they have, reusable ice cubes – you wash and freeze them after drinks and re-use again and again; the idea being they don’t dilute your drink.

© Noel King

14

Pneumonia

The smell of the sticking rain on his trench-coat on the banister.

His dog – having shaken himself – drying by the kitchen fire.

My father lay wounded on his bed.

My sister made quick tea,

a drop of whiskey added by me, but the melt of the rain

was through his head, shoulders, chest, legs, soaking a way to make his end. © Noel King

15

School Run

We walked, a lot, got the bus when Ma had the penny to give us; no family car or Daddy to drive but we got home safe: wet or cold or sweat.

And were spoiled too just like you two are.

Š Noel King

16

Snap I don’t know why they called him that, maybe he snapped at someone when he was pup?; which would be hard to believe as he was the most placid old creature when I knew him.

Maybe they were playing the card game SNAP, the day he arrived in the household or maybe there were another two in the litter, called ‘Crackle’ and ‘Pop’.

Snap was a hunting dog, a fishing dog, a hay-saving dog and a guard dog; my uncle’s dog who touched the lives of all who came near him.

© Noel King

17

The Wife as a Visual Artist

After the late night videos the Saturday sports the pub the mood swings the fishing gear in the kitchen cupboard

she decides to make a statement takes his dirty socks cheap striped boxers tissues from his flu unread yellow newspapers from the bathroom

submits them to an Open Exhibition themed marriage

(Noel King)

18

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Palmer Smith

Palmer is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College and an incoming MFA and MA student. She has worked as a paralegal since 2018. She has written for Refresh Magazine, The Online Journal for PersonCentered Dermatology, Sea Maven Magazine, Calm Down Magazine,The French Press Zine and level:deepsouth, with work forthcoming in The Remington Review.

19

Forgetting The other day you asked what my middle name was.

"Maria? Sophia?"

I said you were so close.

Today you ate cupcakes— lemon-vanilla crumbs fell off your reddened lips.

You said you remembered the taste nostalgically, but the flour was dry.

Next time I'll bring ice cream.

Golden Girls is playing and I read you Shakespeare. “I remember Macbeth... there was a lot of blood."

I'll remember this day.

A blanket covers you.

The warmth, I hope, brings you another, another another memory.

(Palmer Smith)

20

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Ross Hoey Ross is 26 and grew up in Newcastle, County Down. After attending medical school and then drama school, and working as an actor for a few years, he has settled into his life as a writer. Ross is currently working on his first novel and first collection of poetry. He has lived in London for the past four years but has been back in Newcastle recently due to the pandemic.

21

Bluebells.

the bluebells looked sad in the wood tonight as they stood slouched with heads drooping down looking into sad soil in this twilight like forlorn and scorned lovers sadly sucking on the moon’s sweet glow

they do not attempt to hide their sorrow as I pass by but instead they share it through melancholy scent in this cool and dwindling grove now enveloped entirely by mystic glow of moon reflected by hue of sentimental blue, blue blue like a crying river

and in their air I saw the future for all hopeful romantics rooted only and forever in their space in their patch of earth and understanding oh how love will make us all of these bluebells

22

truly seen now without the cover of sunlight and birdsong alone again and lonely in holy commune with the earth to which so soon they shall return granted only this brief moment flowering perhaps to glance their old love once more

for aren’t we all the briefly flowering bluebells and to our soil must we not all return alone?

(Ross Hoey)

23

Peacefire

I’m a survivor of a war Still raging on, Still crashing down on lives, Breaking and clearing, Robbing of identity, Inhumanity begotten by our rival, Our brother, Sister sat stone-faced stoically stoned Psychotically pushing that message home, Us versus you, You and we and me and they are all the same.

Blasphemy, Cast out, The whip breaks over my back before a firm boot In the centre of my ass Sends me on my way, I’m off, A refugee of sorts Of a hidden war, Hidden guerrilla, Escape, escape, escape, It’s not possible for most of us, 24

I got out cause there’s something in me, Bursting and calling, I was born already on the run, Run, run, run, Weaponless, And so I shall stay.

My birth was in the ceasefire, The ceasefire ceasing for no one, Bellows of smoke still promulgate a harsh divide, Stone barriers persist, More relevant now than ever maybe.

There aren’t shots fired But I’ve been hit, I’m holey, unholy, Satanic beast going against the grain, Injustice, misery and pain, That’s our democracy, Run away from the peace, Peace ignoble, Peace illegitimate, Peace resented, Peace decimated, Faux peace,

25

Peaceful sedation, Ceasefire, Peacefire.

Flames still lick The centre of a city, Where the heart has never stopped burning, Never recovered From the deep scars and scorch’s, Anger and hatred are the pulse of this city, This country, It’s heartbeat Beating and beating, It’s people Beating and beaten, Civil war, Humane war, Ain’t nothing civil about this place.

//

A black cloud of thick, heavy smoke rises from the extinguished fire pit Anguish laments it’s smoke signalled messages To another people To another place

26

Beckoning in the dawn of a new peace

Peace personified by the rising of a new Sun In place of the blood red moon that presided for so long Held us like wolves Brutal animalistic beasts Left alone to our own instincts To kill and maim and turn our backs To anyone outside our pacts.

(Ross Hoey)

27

Loughinisland Graveyard

The water was invisibly still You’d think it was land Reflecting the green surroundings

The grass wet with dew Soaked my feet And brought me to the earth

What’s physically left of you We let settle there In this peaceful place

Between the ancient ruinous graveyard And the quiet lake

With one proud swan Sailing through

Wings outstretched Ready to fly far away

(Ross Hoey)

28

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: EDWARD LEE

Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, A New Ulster, The Blue Nib and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection "Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge" was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

29

HEART(S) Woke from a long night with a different heart beating in my chest and an unfamiliar smile on my face.

I questioned myself, seeking answers I didn't need but wanted, this change within distressing in its comforting unfamiliarity.

A thousand questions composed of a few words, until finally my own heart was returned, something like a sigh on the cold wind, my smile wiped clean.

Normal service resumed, and as the first tear fell from my tired eye, I wished I'd kept my natural self silent for a warm moment longer, my familiar heart a stranger to me now.

(Edward Lee)

30

BULLY Speaking as the boy who was bullied, mercilessly, for years, in the indifferent playground and the darkened school hallways, the boy you don’t quite remember, there are memories that never leave nor heal; there is knowledge too, that those who bullied never give another thought to the scars they made in others, and if questioned might reply with a decisive explanation of just being kids, children, not knowing any better, as though cruelty must be taught out of the body, out of the mind.

It doesn’t seem fair, does it, this distance they allow themselves, while we, the one’s bullied, those forgotten yet doomed to always remember, can never get far away enough from what we eventually believe worthy of ridicule in ourselves.

(Edward Lee)

31

TWO COUNTRIES In the country that lives in the marrow of my bones I am a free man, prone to daydreams and gentle lies, while in the country that beats beneath my steps, I am a man bound by all the tales I have told, and the tales to come, those that I must tell for their ancestral untruths to remain alive and true.

(Edward Lee)

32

(UN)SEEN The glass which reflects only what you wish to see will usually shatter, its shining shreds slicing your mirrored face deep down to the bone of your fantasy.

(Edward Lee)

33

EDITOR’S NOTE Thanks to a number of issues, I’ve found myself having to read through a lot of updated legalese due to the issues caused by Brexit. What is worse is the ongoing medical crisis shows little sign of abating meaning that many like myself ae essentially locked in until such time as the vaccine program reaches at least 80% of the population.

I’ve heard from several sources that the arts community is suffering heavily due to the pressures of the Pandemic and several outlets for people’s work have since decided to close their doors permanently, this is harrowing news especially considering how long I’ve been involved in the arts in various formats.

Hopefully we will all recover from this collective madness and can embrace our loved ones again.

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.

34

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MICHELLE VASSAL-RING

Dan Murphy is an educator, author, and poet who lives in Newfoundland and Labrador. His poetry has appeared in journals, anthologies and online in Canada, the United States of America, Ireland and Great Britain. Including Quills: Canadian Poetry Magazine; Rabbit Tales; Paragon IV, V, VI; Red River Review; The Tilting Expatriate; Fieldstone Review; The Scaldy Detail 2013: Collection of new Irish writers, (Scallta Media, Enniscorthy, Co. Wexford); Crannog 28 (Galway Ireland); The Newfoundland Quarterly; QWERTY; Juxtaprose Literary Magazine; The Mackinac; Vallum: Contemporary Poetry Magazine; The Dalhousie Review and A New Ulster (Belfast, Northern Ireland) to name a few. An anthology of his early work appeared in Humber Mouths 2 released during the 2010 April Rabbit and in 2011 he received a Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters award for poetry and a runner-up in the Sparks Literary Festival poetry contest in 2016. He is presently working on two collections of poetry, Ground-truthed: Poems of Place and Mining Town and is seeking publishers.

Dan Murphy › WANL

35

TODAY I STACKED FIREWOOD I have carried you in my arms.

Pieces of all of you. Your heart Sawed into a hundred chunks.

As if drawn and quartered. Then sent To the four corners of the kingdom.

Head on a stake. Trunk left to the birds.

All those days I walked under you.

Light through you brushing my face.

Wind’s poetry against your leaves carrying me.

Some think it is cruel, the fate You will meet in my fire. I read once Your kind has feelings. Fishnets Of invisible fungi and root hairs Carrying threads of electricity From one heart to another.

You have a voice. You have spoken.

Your last words the crackling of sparks As your soul curls like Hestia’s into darkness. *Hestia: Greek God of the hearth and its fires

FOG HAS A CERTAIN PURITY Fog has a certain purity.

Tangible bones of ghosts Scrubbing hillsides perfectly white Until granite feels cold as silk.

Hesitant when driven through quickly; Slowing the corners. Linden trees Reappearing then disappearing Like the stalkers in Central Park.

Only the compass can defeat fog’s bag of tricks.

Sound twisted like lickerish in the coves.

Its gray palette draped like warmed butter Smoothing the knife-edges of killer rocks.

Ships have foundered in fog’s embrace.

Kissed to death by its wet lips of silence.

Then impaled on the rocks as if they were lambs And offered to sea from which fog came.

FINALITY Four corner stones Squared the meadow Into a home. Birth And death lived there Amongst the laughter And the tears. Now, Daisies bow to the wind.

Grass rolls in shimmering oceans To where the turf was once cut.

As far as the eye can see Waves swell against the clouds.

A piece of blue bottle glass catches the light Like the eyes of children once did.

A stark reminder the fragility of happiness And the finality of all things beautiful.

IN QUARANTINE My parents spent their whole lives “locked down�. Father in the coal mines.

Mother in the kitchen bottling jams and jellies.

Father longed to visit Ireland and whistled Galway Bay when he fried eggs and bacon.

Mother dreamed of leaving him But found solace in her flower garden.

No one travelled then. No big trips To Daisy Land or Spain. No dreams Of Caribbean beaches at Easter.

Once we drove to the Pacific.

Saw mountains scrape the sky And the sunset burn orange over China.

Surrounded by bush we were always In quarantine. No viruses then.

Only broken backs and bank accounts.

And encyclopaedias full of far away places Locked down behind glass-doored bookcases.

FULL MOON OBSERVATIONS The moon Is as pockmarked As a toad.

Cratered skin Pulled from one pole To another.

An acne drum Stretched tight And left untreated.

No limits of gray Found there.

From black to white Dust as fine As mustard seed.

Windless As the lily pond Monet had painted.

Seas of light Fishless and round As glass bowls.

Blinding bright When observed Through a lens. And Able to make hearts pound When kissed under it.