A New Ulster issue 93

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF Paul Laughlin, Gavin Bourke, Lourda Delaney, Mark Young, Patrick Agnew, Colette Scarif-Lalor, Rene Greig, Andy Hunter and Michele Vassal-Ring, AND EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 93 July 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

This edition features work by Paul Laughlin, Gavin Bourke, Lourda Delaney, Mark Young, Patrick Agnew, Colette Scarif-Lalor, Rene Greig, Andy Hunter and Michele Vassal-Ring edited by Amos Greig.

CONTENTS Poetry Paul Laughlin

Page 8

Poetry Gavin Bourke

Page 13

Poetry Lourda Delaney

Page 23

Poetry Mark Young

Page 25

Poetry Patrick Agnew

Page 32

Poetry Colette ScariffLalor

Page 38

Poetry Rene Greig

Page 45

Poetry Andy Hunter

Page 47

Poetry Michele Vassal-Ring

Page49

Editor’s Note

Page 53

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Paul Laughlin Paul Laughlin lives in Derry. His most recent collection is 'Conflict Studies, New and Selected Poems' (Lapwing Press). His poems currently appear in The Darg- Poems in tribute to Hamish Henderson and The Children of the Nation, An Anthology of Working People’s Poetry from Contemporary Ireland. Scal, a poem in Irish is forthcoming in The Poets’

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Getting it Done I say this then you say that Back and forth, it’s where we’re at Who’s at fault, who’s to blame?

It’s tiring playing this tiring game If there’s a way to make it work Then somehow you can’t hear Always finding ambiguity When what I ask is clear So on and on the dancing goes Stepping on each other’s toes Helpless in a hopeless trance You won’t retreat I can’t advance We could give it one last try Before it gets too late All it needs is some more time But you say you can’t wait Should we stay or should we go The shrinking list of what we know One day we’re up the next we’re down Are we coming home or leaving town The place we leave, the friends we drop All reinforce the doubts that grow And what might be gained is still not clear But you won’t relent, turn back, stop (Paul Laughlin)

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The Party Leader Gives Evidence Accountable But not responsible Responsible But not liable Liable But not culpable Culpable But not contrite Contrite But not quite Credible (Paul Laughlin)

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RECYCLING RECYCLING Respecting the reports Commending the targets Then enacting the deadline To realise change Building consensus Maintaining momentum And raising awareness To realise change Forming a task force Ring-fencing resources And monitoring progress To realise change Consulting stakeholders Responding responsibly And refining the process To realise change Reviewing resources Reshaping priorities And revising the deadline To realise change Rejecting the reports Suspending the targets Then retracting the deadline To realise change Republic (Paul Laughlin)

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Gavin Bourke Gavin Bourke grew up in the suburb of Tallaght in West Dublin. Married to Annemarie, living in County Meath, he holds a B.A. Degree in Humanities from Dublin City University, an M.A. Degree in Modern Drama Studies and a Higher Diploma in Information Studies from University College Dublin. His work broadly covers nature, time, memory, addiction, mental health, human relationships, politics, contemporary and historical social issues, injustice, the human situation, power and its abuse, as well as urban and rural life. He was shortlisted for The Redline Book Festival Poetry Award in 2016 for A Rural Funeral. His poem Unanswered Call is published in the September 2019 issue of Crossways Literary Magazine. His poem Sword Damocles, Falling is published in the October issue of A New Ulster. He was invited to read at the Siarsceál Literary Festival in October 2019. He has worked in library services for over twenty years. His poem Louisburgh, County Memory was highly commended in the Johnathon Swift Creative Writing Awards 2019. His poems ‘Our Tree’ and ‘Getting On’ are published in the current issue of Qutub Minar Review International Literary Magazine. His first book of poetry (sixty pages) was shortlisted for the International Hedgehog Poetry Press (UK) Full Fat Collection Poetry Competition for 2019. His poems ‘The Power in Abuse’, ‘Beyond Bone, While the Jackdaws Watch On’ and ‘Fair Trade’ are published in the current issue of A New Ulster. His poem Ag Iarraidh a Churam Mo Intinn Bhun Os Cionn was shortlisted for The Manchester Irish Language Group International Poetry Competition 2019. Gavin is the winner of the international Nicely Folded Paper Trois International Poetry Collection Competition for 2020 for his book Toward Human which will be published by Hedgehog Poetry Press (UK) in 2020 and promoted and sold worldwide, beginning with a publishing launch in London. This is one of the most sought-after accolades for a first poetry collection, publication. His poems ‘The Past is Present Tense’, ‘Transcending Mind Movements’, ‘The Breaking Waters of Catharsis’, ‘The Never Heard’ and ‘The Death of The Shepherd’ are published in the decade edition of ‘A New Ulster’. His poems ‘Aloneness’, ‘Underneath A Wicker Cross’, ‘A Life in Our Times’ and ‘At Mercies’, feature in the April 2020 issue of A New Ulster. He begins a PHD in English, in 2020. His work is currently being considered by competitions and awards for both individual poems and numerous collection manuscripts as well as publications worldwide and in particular, Ireland, the UK, The United States and Canada where his work has been well received. His poem ‘Shivered’ is featured in the current issue of A New Ulster. His poetry will feature, in a number of upcoming American literary magazines and journals, which have been confirmed.

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The Mornings After Admission Slow moving clouds, slowing, slower, locked-in, fencing, narrow openings.

In the courtyard, cigarette smoke, screaming seagulls soaring, around steaming, steel chimneys, moving as if suspended, on wiring.

Alarms sounding from a distance, trains running down tracks.

Formations of larks and starlets, moving magnetically in unison, slowly in conjured formations, odd magpies and crows, flying alone.

Wings full span, diving through the bright blue sky, around steel antennae and redbrick chimney stacks.

Viewing the world through beehive grills, for the light to pass, through the soul’s distress, into the sky’s crying eyes.

Planes and white smoke trails, birds flying high or low, depending upon the sun and the blueness of the sky’s kindness.

Worn sills, like pews, warped by sun and sadness, from the past and present tenses.

Letting in the history, scratched wood.

Who were they?

Predecessors?

Friends?

Who knows?

Blessed more than before, they came up against walls, and left etchings, in the old hand-ball alleys.

Panes without windows, seeing through branches, of tall dark trees, to overcast skies, fences and brick walls.

They were here before me, the leaves from our trees, different outcomes, between land and skies, as the seagulls screeched in gatherings overhead.

Uphill, grist to the mill, carried, their arms linked, around yards, walls and trees.

Pigeons on high wooden beams, effortless, the pigeons fell, gliding through the breezeless air, 7

of March sunshine, landing on the cobblestone.

Hierarchies, cliques, groups, like anywhere or nowhere.

March fading away, aerials piercing passing clouds, white thickening to grey.

Sun went down before mid-day, as two starlets flew low, racing across the sky.

Seconds, minutes, hours, morning, evening, night, again and again.

Screams, real, not imaginary, in the dead of night, sounds of trains, faster pulsating sirens, sonic impacts widening.

Time equals change, sinking into history, ghosts among the flies.

They were here before us, brown nails on the first two fingers of five, clutching Churchman’s, bent over, hunched, creased, broken down.

Foetal in suits, took the hits harder in harder times, hiding stigma in tall dark trees, broke hearts, families.

The sun dial moved mid-morning, in the courtyard, coughs and tears, ivy crawled up yellow brick walls.

Walking stiffer with age, reached impasses, crossroads, took to beds with broken hearts, patterns in families, often never acknowledged.

Cascading keys, sounding out the end, of the night’s natural curfew, inside the levelling and the making of me, as I am now, looking back, at the birth, of my recovery.

(Gavin Bourke)

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My New Eyes Water began to drip, flowing into caskets, neither real nor imaginary, but somewhere, in between.

Flowed down from the tops, of the highest walls, into the nearest rivers, of darkest, deepest brown, flowing.

Tributaries and tributes in teardrops and a whiskey-soaked heart, unmasked.

Peering out over chimney pots, into blue cloudless skies.

Nowhere to hide, from the truth of this ride.

No one had their own answers, could have been this, could have been that, if they had done this, that, that, this, if they had not.

Known unknowns at best.

Dealing with consequences, circumstances, no quick fixes.

Grief breaking, through cracking, ribs and bones, releasing drops at intervals, through a strained fist.

The end of my beginning, seeing through new eyes

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slowly forming.

To relearn life, again and again, is to be human.

(Gavin Bourke)

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Turning Corners Trails of passive smoke overhead, circling the blue skies.

Benches made from recycled plastic, identical to black marble.

Phraseologies, not always comprehensible.

Observed, observing, brand new routines, learning, as the seagulls screeched at the highest, of possible pitches.

Pigeons falling, facing the men and women, talking or staring.

In a garden of remembrance, of those who passed through.

A single magpie, visible through the narrow gate grids, of a sentence, for the betterment.

Fenced-in, slowing, time, sound, life, between the intervals of trains.

Walking the block-paved circuit, around the shrubs and plants,

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around the circle of squares, well-trodden over the years, I was not here.

Through the dead and coming to life, again.

In the courtyard in the bay, they walked stiffer with age, around the course.

Hail in April, hit hard, following the most intense sunshine, on another evening, behind the high walls, cut-off from the world.

Sounding bells, wake up calls.

Turning corners, not turned before.

(Gavin Bourke)

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Before and After, Johnathon Swift Was Born Lives beyond control, calling out, from the other side of the door.

Lay down, anywhere, alone in minds, without peace, in previous centuries.

Wings, of times past, eighteen squares, per crumbling sash window.

Blinds half-drawn, half pulled-down, catatonic in chairs, drowning in tranquillity, passing in and out, of the black.

Rusted nails, ignominy, ignorance, sentenced.

Imagining, the unspeakable in shadows, long grey hair, waist-length.

Stepping back from the windows, turning, turning again, possibly gyrating.

Bathed against the will, with no ill-will, ice-cold and warm copper taps, large ceramic baths.

I ran the walls of yesterday, spine-like, dead branches on forty-foot, stone walls.

Too high to climb, hugged frozen bodies, in cold oratories, church-like entrances, hard grey cracked cement and stone floors,

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trapped in unhelpful beliefs and perceptions.

A common thread, running through, all of this.

Were damned by times, systems, and rope-pulled, cold-water cisterns.

Until, the sun streamed through, the stained glass from the past, and Saint Patrick’s Hospital, was established.

For there, to be somewhere to go, where you would be treated, with respect and your dignity upheld.

Where there is an understanding, of what can seem incomprehensible, because Doctor Johnathon Swift, made it possible.

(Gavin Bourke)

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Malaises Passing through, politics of papers and papers of politics.

Diagnoses and readings, impossible, through alcohol’s impasse.

The instant, expectant, demanding, competitive, image-obsessed, constantly stressed, marketing excess.

Queues for cures, for social maladies.

Created by ultra-competitiveness, simulated simulations of realities, to be aspired to.

They studied, the classic, psychological experiments too.

Wizened down by artificial cultures and micro-cultures.

Warped content, encouragement and contentment, in the suffering of others.

Created sociopathy?

Sociopathy created?

Unkindness often rewarded, in modern workplaces.

(Gavin Bourke)

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Lourda Delaney

Lourda Delaney is from Athy in Co. Kildare. She admires Paula Meehan, Eavan Boland and Simon Armitage. She is a student of creative writing at Carlow College, St. Patrick’s. She has read her poetry in Visual Carlow and has featured in the annual Carlow College, St. Patrick’s Literary Awards and Creative Writing Showcase.

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Batty Francie Barry Barney and Francie drift down the old bog roads: Castlemitchell, Grangecon, Kilmead.

Barney’s muscles flex as he pulls the wagon full of oils, ointments and cures.

Folk come from Ballitore, Nurney and Suncroft to watch Batty Francie Barry as she dances her mad dance and sings in the old traditional cant.

Her sweet voice transfixes the sick, and casts a mythical spell on their souls.

Mesmerised, they gape in awe as she hikes up her tatty long brown skirt and sways and spins, whirls and twirls to the tune only she knows.

She cures them of their ailments the young, the old, the infirm.

Nellie’s niggly cough, Jonjo’s gammy leg, Julia Mann, her unfortunate rash.

She cannot read or write, and she knows nothing about the French, the Americans, or the Chinese.

She has never flushed a toilet, dialed a phone, driven a car.

But she shits and speaks and travels.

Children laugh and sing rhymes about her, ‘Batty Francie Barry She’s never in a hurry Batty Francie Barry She’s never had a curry Batty Francie Barry No one will she marry Batty Francie Barry Crafty, trashy, wacky Batty Francie Barry’.

Her burnt-out wagon stands in the bog down near Kilberry, her secrets lost within it.

(Lourda Delaney)

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Mark Young Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry since 1959. He is the author of over fifty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are a collection of visual pieces, The Comedians, from Stale Objects de Press, & turning to drones, from Concrete Mist Press. Due out within the next few months are turpentine from Luna Bisonte Prods, & from, from Ma Press of Finland.

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what life is like with baby Archie in lockdown Gravity-mapping satellites have detected temporal variations in the incontinence of the freshwater zebra mussel which are now attributed to crustal differentiation processes.

Previous studies rarely utilized rabbinic conceptualization in their data collection. Meant that the traditional moral argument had no cognitive significance & so no identity statements or singular thoughts.

Lockdown looms large. Identity is not a relationship between objects, needs a new continent, not incontinence.

(Mark Young)

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Lunch Poem I am attentive to detail, so much so that I have sat at this or one of the other sidewalk tables for two years now, & have only just seen that the small street that borders the cafĂŠ & runs down towards the river has both a signpost & a name.

(Mark Young)

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A line from George Michael I was feeling quite exhausted. As my son observed, even with an emaciated beggar on the street, heavy work has gone into the transfer of energy. I suddenly disappeared. There’s some duality there, analogous to eigenvalues.

Any feasible solution gives a bound on the optimal objective function value in the primal problem. I ran a marathon to help.

(Mark Young)

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The Photographer’s Shadow It might present a surfeit — surf feast? — of binary intercourse — black / white, male / female, sun / shadow, wife / husband — but captured with total decorum, without a hint of hankypanky. It is the thirties, after all.

(Mark Young)

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geographies: Nieuwerkerk aan den Ijssel Later, when howls started coming from the nearby polders, he would consult his local guide book to try & identify who or what was generating the sounds, only to become so confused by the similarity in names of the potential culprits on the relevant page that he became the one howling over aardvarks, advocaat, & advocates, on up to avocados & axolotls.

(Mark Young)

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Out with the old & in with the even older Upstairs time marks time as Bryan Ferry sings John Lennon. The overlap. Out of the same pool but. Taste. Time was. Once was.

Out of the same pool. So easy. Hipness. Coolness. The Loch Ness monsters that are only ever seen in unfocused out of date photos. In another time wake up / wake into them. Now taken from the wardrobe. Put out on sound systems. Plucked, the seams let out. & even then ill fitting though I’ll fit in to them for one more year.

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Patrick Agnew Patrick Agnew lives just outside Lismore in Waterford, Ireland.

He is originally from Dublin and spent many years working overseas as part of his career in Information Technology. He returned to Ireland in 2017.

Patrick is now a full time MA Student, Studying Creative Writing with the Department of English in UCC.

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The Fire Dream

An old friend still young, but a ghost already. eating bonfires, belching booze like sparks of chaos over bike wheels burning as they spin.

A childish figure brooding, staring through flames orange and blue, bruised like an old fruit with a foolish grin.

Tears rinsing the damage off a face that never dries. adolescent, battered, bottle in hand.

Wincing as he walks through shadows like a schoolboy carrying the blueprint 26

of his own demise.

He swigs, ignites like a moth in a dance, jumps on the bike the veins pumping poaching the young life, tender, ripe, consumed.

‘I’m off,’ he said, ‘to where the blind can see.’

(Patrick Agnew)

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Daughter You who were perfect belong to yesterday, parted from youth you succumbed to his politeness, his disguise a mask to hide behind, to set the illicit rendezvous I could not breach.

Rising like a hurricane warmed in far waters, you were aroused, a wild darkness exiled you in your search for unfamiliar paths, took you beyond my reach.

How you sauntered back ear ringed and tatooed, devil may care holding my gaze goading me to ask those questions I had, to swap them for fables from your cat who got the cream grin before it soured.

I tried to mop up the worlds siren songs for you, before you faced the storm.

You scorned me for that because the music moved you, and you ran towards it.

(Patrick Agnew)

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The Oasis

Weary travelers once blessed the shade, gave thanks for a deep oasis while they bowed and prayed.

Heard lonely dogs howling in the empty quarter, drank the curing measure with greed.

Lay damp towels along the nape of women’s necks, bathed the brows of children, who asked did the healing waters truly rise from where the banished dead laboured and cried their lakes of tears.

By the light of fire they savoured the fleshy secrets of dates, crouched beneath promises of stars close enough to stretch for, pretended to touch the sparks of the Heaven dwellers’ torches, the faithful departed who care for nothing, and seldom weep for the lost or the troubled.

Travelers are left to their own devices, to sit in darkness, in a silence

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that calms the restless animals better than any shepherd in the flock.

(Patrick Agnew)

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Colette Scariff-Lalor

Colette is a 30-year-old hotel receptionist originally from Kilkenny but currently living in Cork City. They enjoy reading, writing, pilates and going for long walks around old castles. This is one of her earliest submissions.

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Hope A fool’s game Hopelessly devoted to nothing Waiting for a miracle Wait long enough Everything becomes one A smile Fleeting eye contact Genuine laugh Warmth Vulnerability Disclosure ButDelusional Slight changes Here today Gone tomorrow Sometimes a week or two But ephemeral Seek and you shall find Believe and you shall see Wait and you shall wait forever For nothing.

(Colette Scariff-Lalor)

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Parrot

Parrots make the best of petsDomesticated Intelligent Beautiful Entertaining Malleable

Talk to you Sing to you Flutter to you Rest on your neck Your shoulder Wherever you choose Today.

Praise Flatter Indulge

Tell them your mood They’ll play the scenario One for your colleagues Each of your friends Your family Another twenty for you!

Guess which one it is today?

Don’t guess wrong 33

May be gone before too long.

Be the director Give them feedback.

Why did you say that?

Say it this way But never that!

Repeat it five more times to me.

Make it 20! 30! 40!

That mistake won’t happen again?

Will it? Will it?

Take them out!

They only wear bright colours!

Only sing happy songs...

All for you- only for you!

Parrots make the best of pets Leave the door wide openThey won’t leave!

Ignore them a few daysStarve them almost Abandon them On a windswept cliff In the rain Winter air is good for themToughen them up!

Eradicate anything soft!

Place them in goal 34

Make excellent targets.

Drag them up mountains Through lakes.

They do it all so perfectly!

Do absolutely nothing!

You’ve them well trained.

Blue and yellow hues They always come back to you

Parrots really are the best of pets

(Colette Scariff-Lalor)

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Blue and Yellow

Blue and Yellow are the first to go Inconsequential It isn’t even summer No one will see their departure 11am here Dawn there.

Probably sleeping Probably oblivious Forgotten their departure Forgotten your creation Another painting that didn’t pass the test

The sun shines today Autumnal lushness everywhere Not cold – not warm Neutral.

Kick the leaves away from my favourite walk See something beautiful Tick off a list And have a perfect day Seemingly.

But hollow “26% of women fake an orgasm every time they have sex” Dry as the Sahara Always too fast 36

Blue and yellow at least was real With intention With feeling The only thing you left me Your parting gift Is gone.

(Colette Scariff-Lalor)

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Rene Greig Rene Greig was born and reared in Belfast’s Shankill Road. She continues to live and work in the Greater Shankill Area.

In addition to writing poetry, she has written seven full length plays, her plays have been performed at several venues throughout Ireland including the Abbey/Peacock and at Arts Festivals and the Brighton Arts Festival’s “Out of the West” All her life she has refused to fit any paradigm of what a woman should or should not be or do and this rebellion against dominant cultural precepts comes through in the often magic-realistic touches of her narratives.

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WHAD’ABOUT’YA 21/05/20 Our hugs and squeezes, Not coughs and sneezes now spread diseases Keep your paws to yourself, keep your distance, At least two arm’s length between, You in your small corner and I in mine.

The Belfast greeting: ‘what about ya, how you doing’ Has become the universal salutation, ‘Hope all yous’uns are keeping well’ ‘Me and mine are doin’ fine.’

We’ll have a pint in the pub Reminisce about what we’ve done Think of those who now are gone Lucky now to chaw the bone.

Meanwhile keep well, to end this story Only time will tell.

(Rene Greig)

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ANDREW HUNTER

Andrew is a poet writing in Scotland. He has had work published by the Cinnamon press and Northwords now and the Open Mouse in the past. Andrew has also had worked shared during the pandemic by Mirror Ball here in Scotland.

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Ulster It's generally a solitary activity Often with poor visibility Mostly occurring Around dawn Or at dusk

Out here

Shootings with lead-shot are banned For it can poison Damage the nervous system

Many die After ingesting lead

You'll need certain qualities to be successful Need to be patient Need to keep quiet Remain well camouflaged Ready

Quickly spot if one you mean to shoot Is legal (or not)

For a sustainable harvest of wild geese Is perfectly acceptable

Perfectly Acceptable

(Andrew Hunter) 41

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MICHELLE VASSAL-RING

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GEILT It seemed that he wore his geilt like a feathered cloak Incongruous bird, glimpsed in the liminal evening light Wild man, man of Sin, preening the black feathers of transgressions that pierced his puckered skin, his uncertain talons grasping again at the rain soaked sky, at the brittle branches of ghost trees. Charmed into flight by the curses of a civilised god whose distant altars charged with myrrh and cinnamon crumbled in the relentless heat, he flew. He flew where the wet grass of morning, quenches the raven’s thirst.

He flew into the temporal thresholds of dawns and dusks on bleak wings, willed by an exsanguinated god and a servile cleric, he flew the solitary flight of souls into other worlds worlds of prophecy dark and fleshy, worlds of fractal light.

And the Unholy man, in his divine frenzy, flew back to Source.

(Michele Vassal-Ring)

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FROM THIS SHORE Erased from the memory of sand you embrace the wave as yourself a long kiss, untangled from the ocean’s pursed lips, hemmed in spume.

Gulls white-stitch sky to water fastening you to the apex of breakers to prisms disintegrating into spheres of foamy light, into peals of froth binding you to an ever colder current.

Shoals of silvered half-moons refracted on the amorphous metal of the deep.

Shackled to a diamantĂŠ of fluorescent krill I see you now, treading the stars upstream, blind to all but yourself.

(Michele Vassal-Ring)

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DANCING WITH THE DEAD AT DÚN AN ÓIR North of the Guadalquivir in The Field of the Cutting in The Field of Heads the soles of her feet sang Red the colour of Duende Black the colour of Duende like wind on sand spirits spiral into a pillar of light ascending from the blood soaked ground from the rushes a ladder of rain a ladder of tears yet her fall was always there an unseen sub-text that followed her that preceded her. a narrative of flamenco written in a crackle of steps memories construed never hers to share from under the soaring shadows of the Three Sisters from her watery cathedrals The Sibyl chants the sea’s sean nós in even darker sounds North of the Guadalquivir

(Michele Vassal-Ring)

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EDITOR’S NOTE This has been a truly bizarre year and we are only half way through still at least we have poetry and other artistic outlets to keep us sane in an otherwise disturbia. I applied for and was fortunate to receive a grant from the local arts council. This is to help me develop my skills as an editor, purchase a replacement computer and provide subsistence during lockdown. I am very grateful for that aid.

I find myself sometimes wondering about the events missed because of this the stage hands, set builders and the rest who make such events happen all either Furloughed or if they are lucky on temporary benefits to help them through this time of crisis.

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.

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