A New Ulster 99

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF Patricia Walsh, Kathy D'Arcy, Alison Black, Michael Lee Johnson, George Moore, Ni Ghi, Blaithin Allain, Summer Quinn, Grace Utterdjik, Gavin Bourke and Nicola Geddes edited by Amos Greig

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 99 January/ February 2021

UPATREE PRESS A New Ulster

Copyright © 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 OFPatricia Walsh, Kathy D'Arcy, Alison Black, Michael Lee Johnson, George Moore, Ni Ghi, Blaithin Allain, Summer Quinn, Grace Utterdjik, Gavin Bourke and Nicola Geddes EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.

CONTENTS Poetry Patricia Walsh Poetry Kathy D’Arcy Poetry Alison Black Poetry Micheal Lee Johnson Poetry George Moore Poetry

Ni Ghi

Poetry Blaithin Allain Poetry Summer Quinn Poetry

Grace Utterdiik Gavin Bourke Nicola Geddes Editor’s Note

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Patricia Walsh Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Burnfort, Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International; Third Point Press, Revival Journal; Seventh Quarry; Hesterglock Press; The Quarryman; Unlikely Stories; and Otherwise Engaged. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014. A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in early 2021. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.

1

The Gun Jammed Looking at his wise head, substitute staring Harken back at derision in a solitary goal, Watered and fed to the best of recollection Followed somewhat, tabs on another glory A poster of the opportune goes past attention The satisfied leanings cancel each other out.

Not buying albums, just swoon to highest bidder Paying hand over fist for basic luxuries Thundering down to earth under the radiator's glare Limited form passing time most of the day Kicked into touch by a blunted remark The mystery tours never served its purpose.

The borrowed circuit, more used than mine Paying the usual tax after hours reckoning Music on another time, violating the record player Gone on to fortune despite his glaring sight Look, well, subsidising various foods Feeding through prayer overdue, as known.

Doing everything and anything, through the same attraction Cancelling out the perfected glare, in time, Loving for the birds, the admitted bitch Caffeinated horror of a heartened mistake Foreclosure admitted in the done time, Dreaming of a whiter summer, perhaps.

(Patricia Walsh)

2

Pedestrianised Street Loving the ground where stood, a perfection Borrowing and lending sent to test us, Printing and email now a distant memory Partial apertures frustrating the psyche Walk for survival, cleaning ears for attention.

This solemn wreckage turns its own corner Descended from the white noise, all my heart Chasing the perpetual over flights of fancy Chatting in a strange land under the sun The sourdough redemption and a musical strife.

Learning to speak again, carrying the pandemic The wasted disease cornering all in its path, Faith put on hold, gone through its numbers Should have had more sense, done readily False news in a basket devoured by everyone.

Writing badly, despite efforts, done on a break Moveable situations cauterise the will All but one have died, life but a dream Motoring on borrowed engines into the abyss Eyeballs rolling into a comforting spite.

The foreign language going astray on serious others The adopted hypocrisy still helping matters Ambling forward like a once-cherished fantasy Sucking past mercy and chastisement in their forms Numbered one in heaven, a sober delusion.

(Patricia Walsh)

3

Negative Blood One thing done to wind the punters up, In lieu of which is a glut of punishment A sardonic kiss, no more than required Sleeping at the Catherine wheel as deserved Picking at wounds in a consummate lunchtime Offering hatchets only to be cut and dried.

Bleating for recognition, a hard-won place, Lost like never been, give or take a bullet, Burning unseen mistakes, shuttered obviously The poisoned hand pointing to the open door Nothing to do what's expected, under orders Favoured cyanide over a silver handshake.

Known before time, tearing out skin These premonitions can keep to themselves Published without breaks, skewed to a point Suicidal descendents gone for themselves Outside comfort rebounds, promising nothing Reality permitting, life in the old dog yet.

Patrolling a vacation, grudging a congregation Scathing to heaven for another outcome This problem being scarred, all for show, Fixing to burn in every case of drinking Carving effigies on one single ersatz diamond The lonely destination fulfilled, true.

(Patricia Walsh)

4

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Kathy D’Arcy Kathy D’Arcy is a Cork poet and feminist activist recently relocated to Iceland. Her collections are Encounter (Lapwing 2010) and The Wild Pupil (Bradshaw 2012). She was Chair of the Cork Together for Yes campaign and created the 2018 edited collection Autonomy which raised funds and awareness for that campaign. Kathy has just completed a Creative Writing PhD, for which she received an Irish Research Council Postgraduate Scholarship. She has worked as a doctor, a support worker and a creative writing teacher. Kathy is part of the Fired! and #WakeUpIrishPoetry movements which seek to challenge inequalities in Irish poetry. www.kathydarcy.com

5

Aisling

This is the life of a portrait of the young poet awakes to the (lush white navy white blue white something the room something wakes not

but rather the moon the moon the moon) moon through the curtains someone's hand withdrawn the hand of a thing some thing they part to reveal (use the part about the hand) the sun.

(Kathy D’Arcy)

6

Anniversary

Another year of your love old man, I kiss your skin and cringe.

Let's visit outside, let’s piss ourselves.

Another year of your love.

You use the toilet, spit in the sink.

I kiss your skin and cringe.

Your smell distills on my clothes.

Yes, I said!

Another year of your love.

The rest distills in my dreams, my dreams, I kiss your skin and cringe.

7

Red and despicable, never tired.

Another year of your love, lover.

I kiss your skin and cringe.

(Kathy D’Arcy)

8

Blasket

In the roots of the young poet

(which research suggests have their own abilities to communicate danger)

something stirs; she calls it 'rock-carven', 'craven', uses the word 'caoineadh', rhymes 'survival' with arrival.

(Kathy D’Arcy)

9

Surgery

All she wanted to do was draw attention to his eyes some kind of humanity (waking you felt like a trespass) and then the nurse pulled one open to see for himself (and you woke begging) and she was fucking wet

(Kathy D’Arcy)

10

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Declan Murphy

Declan Murphy is a Belfast based Accountant from Holywood, Co. Down with a passion for poetry and song writing that has gained momentum during the pandemic.

He has written a number of pieces about common ground in Ireland and has more to come. It is Declan’s intention to compile a collection of 7-8 pieces. Please see his Facebook page at www.facebook.com/commongroundireland

11

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲

In bygone days of yore, I used to love this place Men of Ulster side by side, led and drawn by God’s Grace Summertime brought cause for great colourful celebration As we sought to preserve our faith, and our fledgling nation Then 69 saw riots, in an effort to besiege And from there came bomb and bullet pull us to our knees But we’d reserve the right for our nation to defend So our children from such attack would not then have to contend Shook to the core still, from when the times were wild Tired & bitter, but resolute that I want better for my child The good, the bad, the ugly all must be reconciled I wish that they would disappear, the weary lines upon my face In this time, and in this place 'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew I used love this place To swing the ash or kick a ball and then shake off the chase The Ardscoil we would frequent for the Ceili dance Where most would be more focused on finding some romance But our cultural expression was sought to be repressed Yet with those who’d fight our corner we were greatly blessed Park swings tied up on Sunday’s and the vote denied us all We stood up and were counted to answer freedom’s call Shook to the core still, from when the times were wild Tired & bitter, but resolute that I want better for my child The good, the bad, the ugly all must be reconciled I wish that they would disappear, the weary lines upon my face In this time, and in this place

12

Bloody Sundays, Bloody Fridays, the week was painted red We may often sit and wonder what might have been instead Families torn apart and divisions ran true and deep A legacy that steals any hope of quiet sleep A time when everything for everyone was there to lose Fates to be determined by the job or faith you choose In our darkest moments we could see no reason or no rhyme From the nightmare we must wake, there must come a better time Shook to the core still, from when the times were wild Tired & bitter, but resolute that I want better for my child The good, the bad, the ugly all must be reconciled I wish that they would disappear, the weary lines upon my face In this time, and in this place With arms laid down the jail doors opened, a bitter pill for some But what rankles now will disappear as time whence we are from The olive branches touch for which there is no disgrace As all now take some stock and offer up some space We must cherish those we’ve lost but extinguish the hate alone For nothing can be carried that’s etched in heavy stone To reach for the sky we must together shed the load So future generations get the least that they are owed We look to the future, from when the times were wild For we both want what’s better, each for our own child The good, the bad, the ugly will now be reconciled A new course now is what we must, all together chase In this time, and in this place

By O’Murchu (Declan Murphy)

13

14

𝗥𝗲𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗖𝘂́ 𝗖𝗵𝘂𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗻 Two red hands grab the rope and pull from either side For possession of Cú Chulainn is a matter of great pride Thumbs in or out no matter both hold a steadfast grip None likely to release the rope, or relent to any slip Just as a young Setanta drove a sliotar at the hound Later Cú Chulainn drove the Queen of Connacht’s army to the ground Modern Ulaid often sees him dying on his feet But as with every tallest mountain there’s a valley just as deep All across the city Cú Chulainn has been seen Not least where he’s stooped proudly facing north over High Green But a hundred yards away is also his arena As he has shone a light down over Glenalina The image will prevail be the sky blue or grey Just as he once stood down on Boundary Way At the waking of the day, right from early dawn The warrior makes his presence, perched over Glenbawn Also front and centre as a beacon there to rule He stands flanked and centred, elevated in Rathcoole The day fades to night leaving only that seen for the moon As Cú Chulainn rests with comrades on the wall in Lenadoon While high and low both claim him, none can have him solely for their own It’s in mutual regard for Cú Chulainn that seeds of peace are sown And not to doubt where to the raven has now flown For Cú Chulainn could emerge on the hammer or the bone 15

16

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Alison Black Alison is a writer from Belfast and has been published in a past issue of A New Ulster

17

‘MIRROR’

Looking out my rear-view mirror, I see you, A memory gone, I refuse to accept the missed dreams.

By the point of rescue, I never win, I fall silent again, Never meant to hurt you.

Things just got in the way, My actions hurt you, That am sorry for, Am just a number in a crowd.

Ms Alison Black © 2020

18

‘Shattering’

Broken dreams shattering, A step backwards, Two steps forward to happiness, No matter how hard I try.

My efforts are in vain, A divide between us increasing, A move further away, An effort taking place a memory to rather forget.

Ms Alison Black © 2020

19

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Michael Lee Johnson Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1072 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. 214 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717. https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Lee-Johnson/e/B0055HTMBQ%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type= Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/

20

I’m a Riverboat Boy, Poem on Halsted Street (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

As sure as church bells Sunday morning, ringing on Halsted and State Street, Chicago, these memories will be soon forgotten.

I stumble in my life with these words like broken sentences.

I hear and denounce myself in the distance, mumbling chatter off my lips.

Fragments and chips.

Swearing at the parts of me I can’t see; walking away rapidly from the spiritual thoughts of you.

I am disjointed, separated from my Christian belief.

I feel like I’m at the bottom of sin hill playing with my fiddle, flat fisted, and busted.

So you sing in the gospel choir; sang in Holland, sang in Belgium, from top to bottom, the maps, continents, atlas are all yours.

I detach myself from these love affairs drive straight, swiftly, to Hollywood Casino Aurora.

Fragments and chips.

I guess we gamble in different casinos, in different corners of God’s world, you with church bingo, and I’m a riverboat boy.

No matter how spiritual I’m once a week, I can’t take you where my poems don’t follow me.

Church poems don’t cry.

21

Vodka Omelet

By Michael Lee Johnson Make it clear in my mind, Jesus, am I whacked-out on Double Cross Vodka or have I flipped out calling myself Limburger omelet chef?

I hate question marks and angels with crazed wings.

You know the type, John the Baptist toking weed, stoned out of his mind, storyteller, foul smells from poor hygiene, eating habits open mouth, swallowing grasshoppers, so silky, smooth as sweet honey.

Add 3 eggs in a skillet, Parmesan/Romano blend, 2 cheeses add-on, shiitake mushrooms, turmeric, chopped kale, hint hot chili peppers, cheers.

Scramble me, I’m cracked.

I rock faith in jungle music, dance nude.

Everything is a potential poem to me.

My omelet, my life, my booze, master cook, vodka omelet 2:38 a.m.

22

Family Feud

By Michael Lee Johnson Break in the rain, thunderstorms; bolt angular lightning slithers away west.

Walking, nanosecond flash family memories, personal, revert, tautology fault of style acerbic chats daggers in heart these words, confused, dicey dungeon sharp spike.

A labyrinth, ruined passages, secret chambers, cellmates, now for life.

Wind storms move away, young willow trees natter— smallest branches, still snap.

23

I am the Dustman, Clutter Collector (V3)

By Michael Lee Johnson Surreptitiously I am the dustman.

I am this lazy spirit roaming, living within you weaving around your mind, vulture consuming cleaning thoughts, space, your slender body.

I feel it all day, this night alone.

I am your street sweeper, garbage collector of thought the alternator village dweller, walkway partner.

I am key door holder to entrance man, to Summit house.

For years of abuse, I am dust eater.

I hang high outside on lampposts, edged inside on top wall pictures.

I dim your lights yellow inside out, ghost inspector.

Inside I roll the house over.

I am a damp cloth, Mr. Clean, I smooth over, clutter-free, tick-tock clocks, books, antique silverware, pristine future furniture pieces solid state advances fragment mistakes etched in mind.

Investigations exacerbate our relationship unhinged. My snaking gets me kicked out.

I still remember those piled up old newspapers, future books, scattered across your living room floor.

Shake myself, scrape out a new home, cheaper, exasperated.

I am the dustman; dustpan shakes out.

24

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: George Moore

George Moore’s collections include Children's Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015) and Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FurureCycle 2016). Poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, Colorado Review, Orion, Arc, and Stand. A six-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize, and finalist for The National Poetry Series, Moore has recently been shortlisted for the Bailieborough Poetry Prize and long-listed for the Gregory O'Donoghue and Ginkgo Poetry Prizes. He lives on the south shore of Nova Scotia.

25

The Old Days

In the time before this when gravity did its job

and the holes in space were just holes unknown

not filled with dark matters I wished upon a star

and how long that wishing took

but then in my hand was a small green car

and later on the road the cars passed

and the bicycle seemed to balance itself

like part of the cosmos of a young body

I know today as then 26

the cold wind

of the doorless jeep pale green as her eyes

but not her name cold as a borrowed dream

bundled up in my parka It seems knowing

seeps into things yet ties me up in knots

knotted to the land like a spider web

And by the time I drove across the desert

asleep at the wheel a dash-light in the dark

time had threaded itself through me

and I was its anchor 27

would turn around

at the hint of a tune or the drop of a name

and be back in the backyard playing in the dirt

(George Moore)

28

Swimming to Maine

I gave Maine no more thought than maple syrup or wool gloves

until I landed northeast of there in what was thought

the middle of the ocean But it was that mysterious place

Nova Scotia the new Scotland itself north of what is normally named

in this case NYC and the madness drains there

into the same ocean Tides play havoc with my head

and I head out imagine crossing Wilkinson Basin

and Jordan the deep blues turning eventually to black

out passed the Bay of Fundy 29

headed to the inner ear

of Penobscot and Passamaquoddy And by then I’m paddling

like mad or mad and paddling the canoe of my intended

destination a line in the international waters

to reach those fingernail bays and harbour cups

the first Icelandic map with Vinland shaped like a nose

pirates’ coves where Revolutionaries kept the canons loaded

and fishing banks out Flemish Cap and round Stellwagen

with the compass spinning like a clock on the Twilight Zone

before I realize home 30

has changed

the enemies are insane or slowly creeping into their own graves

I turn and head the canoe into the void

to a place that did not exist before a place now marked home

(George Moore)

31

Moline

Driving all night one main vein to a stack of flapjacks eight inches tall

and a pad of butter All You Can Eat drowning in sweet syrup

the perfect state of grace Ohio round on the ends and high in the middle

Crossing the highway from La Quinta seven in the morning on a run

Moline Waste Water Treatment plant Rock River trib frozen in sleep

Denny’s and Greenbriar take-out John Deere and New Mandarin Chinese

down stark prairie farmland streets delta backwater coffee cup rhymes

vocabulary of farmers turning machines the Mississippi like cream through America

32

Kerouac housing track small square and white rows of blind maple streets

four-wheelers rumbling in primordial dawn Motel 6 closed down

Buzzed Driving Is Drunk Driving the great Mona Lisa smile

of the National Guard she’s a full time student!

Friday Night Croatian Chess Club

JC Penny parking lot frosted windshields Interstate Storage for rent

chainlink tumbledown empty houses Quad Cities Postal Credit Union

Bon-Air where there is no air Hollard’s Bar and Grill steakburgers

Black Hawk State Historic site QC Muffler and Brake

Hair loss? I need answers.

Could you have lupus?

33

Moline limits Welcome to the Quad Cities

the Starbuck’s hostess says long-haul traffic refugee city stringer

time traveler prairie schooner

(George Moore)

34

Hurricane Jane

On her ladder no sail but the wind a spear driven along the vinyl siding of the cottage

a hammer in her hand the remnant of a lost one boards creaking beneath their hellish song

she slaps the nails home into the billowed timber frame like sheeting in the main-mast sail

struggles to gain a wing in the unfair equilibrium of stirred up nature

And all along the shore we wait for the day to right itself

While the old girl’s skirts trailing like a flag speak her revolutionary flutter of smoke and blood

and she builds the house again shells bursting in air

as if this were her true weather

(George Moore) 35

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Ni Ghi Ni Ghi is a writer and designer from Leitrim Ireland. Most poems at this time are based on nature, awareness of it and how it mingles with our minds and bodies. There's a sense of spirituality that comes from that.

36

A LEITRIM TALE. Of Bittern cry I nothing know But of black sloe and

full red berry That like poisoned hearts lips can touch Of slash of silver that swells to brimming lake and Grey washed green These things I know Of rolling hills that run on To cresellated peaks and Maeves tomb And all that bright blue that dwells above Of these things too I know

And here, close by where breath draws in cool wash of Mountain air And streams flash and run like liquid gold To disappear and reappear of these things too I something know And here, Where purple flecks the hedge as beauty flecks the soul of things where trees lay out the path among Quiet dwelling places And magic like mists and time make magics possible Of these things I do know And here, indoors

37

Where whiskey flushes out the mountains kiss and Oats melt with cream and warmth I know all these things and more and Know the added warmth that is content

(Ni Ghi)

38

A Field of Chrysalis I woke to a field of chrysalis Not seen Seen Slept thru and woke!

And woke! To a field of chrysalis All about Radiant light Iridescent wing Rapid beating Still yet living ‘life’ Somnolent hubs, pregnant, Perched clinging, dewy On uprushing stalks of green, juicy Half birthed black and fire edged life Unfolding stretching reaching Translucent wings Webs of lattices and lace I woke to a field of dragonflies A plain of endless sight A fiery battlefield Awash with humming and light So I quite faded out wonderstruck Just a glimpse of dragon’s grandeur From the periphery of real life I woke to a field of chrysalis!

39

Fox – a Poem Wintered Fox Soft fur tufted Conversation interrupted Harsh winters slumber pale echo of transitory memory Juicy carcass Lush fruit of frosted morn cracks and bursts In Narrow maw and then Aware in silence turns – steady – stealth of ages Juice dripping, swallows, advances, propelled in mind Soft wet rivers inlaid in white furr’d spindles Fox Looks golden reflection Beyond conjoined though Noiseless, wordless, silent – fox!

(Ni Ghi)

40

RESILIENCE The cold chill of metal gate seeps through sweater to prick chest and mind And bird song unconquered of dawn flies overhead Light as cool breeze that breathes life to hazy Consciousness Aware of healing draught that chisels away and seeks to invade the sway of deadening life And so daily comes to dance the thin knifes edge.

The sound of fur rubbed running against long sheaves of grass brings memories of ice water dripped from oar, moss green and numbed and reddened hands For life is fought in grit not form and so repetition heaves the memory breaking Through of sense of self and sensation weighs in against burdening thought Fear spreads its wings in internal form and breath draws deep against fighting foetal pull And so conjures up that seam of life, being in harmony as key clicks to lock unhindered and steps in Sense seeking still life.

Resilience.

Authors note: A poem about how nature and being aware of it can penetrate our thought filled and frequently burdened minds with an unconscious peaceful form akin to what lies beneath our minds.

(Ni Ghi)

41

The Most Perfect Things The gentlest breeze that thru sentinels whisper The most translucent flower that da Vinci proves trembles Such perfect form in sheaves laid round As dew hangs yet certain on fallen perch And sloes with autumnal fire break through Hard as red kissed berries that next night sisters ready wait So stand I Perched As wind brings cressellated waves to shore no storm But peaceful eddy Yet do ‘feel’ What, if wind rose up to break and waves to overrun Would feathered moss still rise steady and creep loving to resting place How can I peace depart Does all this too ‘feel’ And yet Does night not amorous hues wear, purple, blues and softer Rustlings offer Could I too so delicately balance and yet feel, like here, secure.

(Ni Ghi)

42

WHITE FEATHERS White feathers are lying all about Dropped down Half buried Beneath moss n twig And gatherings of autumn’s first renderings curled n brown ‘pure’ white feathers Gently laid That garland every path and each paths step Little messengers So abundantly strewn the blind could see and feel ‘hope’ has white wings dressed as white feathers That swells gently in well within Not seeds but sweet coverings Not to touch not to ruffle But let float off rocks cool edge White feathers Set out my path Blessed messengers.

(Ni Ghi)

43

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: BLAITHIN ALLAIN

Blaithin Allain is an Irish citizen. She works as an actress and has been living in Brittany, France for a number of years.

She has been writing poetry on and off for many years and then decided to pick up some courage and try to get them in print. Her poems have been published in various reviews. Here is a short list :

“Wall Rhapsody”, Mad Swirl, USA, March 2015 “Shed”, The Sam Smith Journal, UK, December 2014 “Closing Time”, Bareback Magazine, Canada, March 2014 « Renovation », Pulsar Magazine, UK December 2012 « The Emigrant », Unquiet Desperation, UK March 2011 « Mad », Boyne Berries Magazine, Ireland, April 2010 « After », and « The Cave », Poetry, Bretagne et Irlande, CRBC, Rennes 2, France 2009 « November », Boyne Berries Magazine, Meath, Ireland Spring 2007

44

EverGreen

Room 404, the name « Rose » Printed on the door, Pale in pillowed light she lies, Entwined in tubes by antiseptic blinds.

Behind the pane a blackthorn strains, Biting at the hail and beyond the glade Sways the dark of evergreen.

A drip bleeds

And she scarcely breathes When the robin alights on the sill, Fluttering. It pulses to greet her With its beady globes, A rattle tightens in her throat,

And a heart-hum away Sing the glades of evergreen.

A flicker side wards invites her And she replies with eyes that flower like skies on fire, Then up its rise to clouded wreaths, Leaving behind a whisper, 45

And still in glass her smile reflects As the blossoms shiver.

At five past five she dies.

Outside they fell the brambles In knots like unknit bones And a feather floats Fleeced in red,

Fleetingly by room 404.

Black the mirror fades from the door and shadows disarticulate the floor.

Over and over a song still blows Unevenly, and the evergreen echoes.

(Blaithin Allain)

46

The Wake

Even in the darkest spaces There is a pattern that shapes us As you close the lid on luminous chaos And try to trace the fractured face, the lace that stripped at the rib, The pain that cleft the bleeding lips.

You see that shift lift to breezes, Stain its seams and rip to messes, Then faint into an only dress, Hung boneless, so barely thread.

Mother, unbind these wilted fingers Wrap me in your shrunken skin Once the tears have wept.

It’s late. Sew me in a patchwork dream that webs and seals our scars, Close the imploded veins that leak And let the bruise congeal.

Show me limbo where it lights beyond the beaten heart,

These holes that hurt us so, Mother, Help them to be healed.

47

The sole tapestry in memory, Mother Is your first curtain, woven To match the bedcovers, with splashes Of transparent roses catching brightness, Opening to a net of petals On water cast with whiteness.

The one before me now, let me hold it in my sight, The one that finds the child whispering by your side, On this pure and fragrant night And the tremble as it shines.

(Blaithin Allain)

48

China Blue

Remember the dresser, The bone china saucer With a single, slender Cup? The oracle of a dream Poured over and over Into a porcelain scene,

Circling blue skies, Two lovebirds halted in flight, The boat that never arrives, The navy trees flecked off white That ever-weeping reach To the China girl’s blind smile,

Now hold the receptacle in your palm, Remember when it covered both your hands As you bore it’s tremble down the landing

« Take that tea into Father O’Dea Maith an chailín »

Until the day it weighed And you tiptoed as you swayed And your fingertips ached, heart braked 49

until the cup had cracked And the China girl laughed, as she split in half.

« Oh Shame on you » said the black-polished shoes Shifting in the room

Now the lovebirds part, One falls from the sky, The roof of the house tumbles aside, The willows heave as the China girl screams, Fractured forever in her China blue dream

Years later, tucked inside the drawer, You show it to your daughter, Remember the cracks, remember the whispers, Voices flooding down the banister, And how your skin tingles, oh how it blisters, Raw in the air where the sleeve starts to flare.

« Take it in here like a good little girl! »

And you wish the rain to drop To soothe away the sear And drip into the cup Until the splinters disappear.

(Blaithin Allain)

50

Waltz to Solitude

Birds cease their song And a piano air longs To stifle the sound of solitude, Dancers grow dim As smoke circles spin, Immobile in silent inaptitude

And lost to the moon A crow drifts alone, Abandoning stranded branches As Winter tree stands, A cage that has banned This song still unsung of solitude

The sky bleeds to night And wind whispers die In sore rimes of muted sorrow, Crow feathers lie shocked, Wings shattered by rocks, Banished by flock to solitude

And pale as they tremble Blown petals assemble By square and derelict tenement, 51

Lost love words ring wrong As they lilt and they fall to waltz in the dawn to solitude

(Blaithin Allain)

52

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: SUMMER QUINN Originally from Connecticut, Summer Quinn spent the majority of her childhood traveling full-time across the US and parts of Canada with her family. She is currently in her final year of high school, and plans to pursue a Master’s in Education to become an English teacher. She is working towards attending university in Ireland and going on to teach there. She started writing at seven years old and ventured into poetry when she was nine, going on to have a poem published in TeenInk Magazine at the age of sixteen. Her writing ranges from fiction short-stories and nonfiction essays to songs, bilingual poetry, and a novel in progress for 4 years.

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Poem (in Aoi Freislighe style): Mar Dhea Ostensible principles Shrouded as so-called morals Dare to name me Cynical Whilst sing your horrid chorus

Stack high sacred honesty To tip the scales of justice Lest your lies be wobbly For fear of seen as bloodless

Stack high sacred righteousness To balance out the burden Of guilt borne from libelous Contempt’s own rueful surgeon

Stack high sacred jubilance To compensate for sorrow Memories are cumulus Left to look for the morrow

Hide the scales in iron-bolted Sealed vaults of cold, gray darkness Stowed key in veil unfolded Rendering whispers harmless 54

Gather oak and disincline Observe the flames lick, guileful As pain and hope intertwine Into smoke ostensible

(Summer Quinn)

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: GRACE UITTERDIJK

Grace was born in Northern Ireland to Dutch parents spending most of her childhood in Derry. She studied music in University of Ulster but always retained her love of poetry. Her poems often revolve around themes of loneliness or anger at injustices in society. She has never been published however she has a poetry blog and has participated in Open mic poetry sessions in the Verbal Arts Centre in Belfast. She wishes to be able to publish her work to reach a wider audience.

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Sometimes you feel alone in your own body You are there and I am here.

One letter difference and yet Can you see the insurmountable distance between us because I can.

People say we are united, humans are all one.

Open yourself up to being united with everything, everyone.

Yeah, I've had moments like that but can you not hear the story of humanity?

You are there and I am here and here is not there.

There are two different words for it.

I'm trying to be there, with you and yet you don't feel my nearness because the distance between those words remains.

I'll try again.

Talk to me and I won't understand but touch me and I'll know because touch is more visceral than words and wrapped in my arms here and there seem a little closer together.

I know you feel alone.

I feel it when our bodies collide, Slide to the left, away from your body, away from your pain.

You can't bear to remain because you despise being here.

It's ok; I'm alone too.

I'm learning how to be here.

I'll hold you tight until you feel safe again until your body is your own, until my body is my home (Grace Uitterdijk)

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Do you miss me?

Do you miss me the way I miss me?

I opened my eyes and now I’m not sure I even wanna see.

Life was simpler when I was naive.

It was less terrifying when I interchanged believe with deceive.

No one ever told me that freedom is full of fear and faith.

No one said freedom is lonely.

I thought I was free but really I was just a divorcee to honesty.

Fear and faith exist in the same space, interlaced, is this grace?

Do you still love me when my fear chokes my faith?

Do you wish I still had my innocence?

All that’s left is dissonance.

I’m finally more at home with the unknown but I’m still so f**king alone.

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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Here I am Here I am aching for the world.

Aching for what's lost and aching for what's found.

Aching for silence and aching for sound.

Letting your tears run rivulets in my heart cracking it apart with the love that you stole from me.

Sometimes I wonder how do we live with this universe of pain inside.

A sprain that never heals, stain that never washes out.

Chains perpetually linking us to one another.

Never free, but at least we see each other.

I'm not afraid of my body in pieces on the floor.

I'm not afraid anymore.

I'm not afraid of letting pain be the door.

I'll listen to the folklore of your heart until your story is a part of mine.

I won't ignore you any longer, I'll explore you cause I'm not afraid anymore.

This ache asks nothing more of me than to listen, to hold, to breathe, to let go to let it flow until the scars are the valley which hold the gold.

The stars my geometry foretold.

My shape is still unknown but at least I'm not alone in this mess we've built.

Pain is not my enemy, it's my identity and as I taste the ecstasy of empathy, You are beautiful to me.

I see you, and you are beautiful to me.

Even if the throbbing of the world is all I hear.

Even if the throbbing of the world is all I hear.

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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Yours to hers I heard an annoying little squirt on the bus the other day say, 'It's a free world, I can do what I want' I wanted to turn round and say, 'Don't be a c**t. It's not a free world. And if you only do what you want, you die.'

But I didn't. I let out a sigh and kept my mouth shut.

And I thought, is it a free world?

Are you free?

Am I? Or are we just getting by?

If the whole world is in chains except me, am I free?

What about half the world? A third?

See if I apply that logic it becomes fractured.

Maybe my freedom is inextricably connected to yours, yours to her, hers to...

Maybe in fighting for your freedom, I find my own finally find my way home to a place I've never been.

I see your chains but I need you to help me see mine.

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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Nada It was a silken night.

The kind you only dream about With the moon dripping tears of softness On the cool hills.

Light was reluctant to bloom, Reluctant to break the spell.

Emptiness, stubborn like the tide Came in waves and heaped over my head.

Nada It sunk into my body, Tendrils wrapping around my bones.

I was clothed in fullness, enveloped in darkness.

The silence broke the world As pieces of you, pieces of me Covered the nakedness of the grass.

I sat wondering was I left alone.

Was I the only witness to this miracle?

I lay down, soaking the dew into my being, Inhaling eternity.

Time means nothing now In the vacuum of the soul.

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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Empty Space Are you the man you dreamed you'd be?

That's a line from a song my friend wrote.

That night, it was floating round my head like it had nowhere else to go.

I was driving home with loneliness in the passenger seat and I remember thinking, this feels like deja vu, is my life just stuck on repeat?

The country roads were quiet.

It was just a random night.

Who knew space could ever feel this tight.

Tears are a sort of currency but I didn't know what I was buying.

Maybe the desire to live even if just to do more dying.

I had to stop in a car park, the words were clouding my vision.

Alone in a car in an empty space.

I was that space So empty I could just be replaced.

For some reason, I shouted f**k off to a God I wasn't even sure was real.

I felt like my layers of skin were peeled to reveal the shreds of my humanity.

Blood and water, water and blood.

Is that all I am? Water and blood?

I thought you promised there wouldn't be another flood but what if everyday is a flood and I am not the one being saved.

Maybe I'm just enslaved to this loneliness that follows me.

Maybe my whole life is just one long dam fight to be free.

If I'm not alone then why do I feel so f**king alone?

When the noise is gone and I sit there in a car park in the dark.

No longer even sure if I have a watermark to distinguish me from all the other lonely people in other car parks.

So I sat there crying until all the water in my body had seeped out of my eyes.

Now I was only left with blood. Life is in the blood, not the water.

My tears had bought me one more day to live.

Maybe tomorrow I would cry blood.

I started the engine of my car, reversed back out and drove home and got into bed.

I'm not even close to who I dreamed I'd be, but I'm alive.

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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Love. Like You love me but you don't much like me anymore.

I can tell by how you keep score of all the ways I'm not like you.

You hear me, but you don't listen anymore.

Sometimes it seems like more of a chore to explain who I am to you.

You taught me to love truth and now that I do I find that I am fighting you.

You taught me that love is the centre but it turns out you meant more of a vendor where you buy the kinda life you want.

You told me everyone is made in the image of God except of course those who live in Sodom and Gomorrah they're f**ked.

It feels like there's no point in talking to you.

I guess by now we have a different worldview and you wear yours like a tattoo while I hold mine lightly.

You tell me you want the best for me but it sounds like manipulation and if I don't do it your way you've already signed off my damnation.

I thought grey hairs were supposed to denote wisdom.

Seems sometimes they are more like a prison where you are both captor and captive creating your own schism between what you love and your fear of change.

Look, I'm ok that we are diverse.

Life seems more like free verse than a sonnet anyway but watch who you curse cause it mostly comes back at you and there is no button to redo.

I need to remember I'm not angry at you, I'm angry at your ideas that cover the truth.

Cause ideas are more dangerous than a sword in your hand.

You can be weaponless but there's still death in no man's land.

Maybe you think well I'm not doing the killing but ideas kill and I swear this is the hill I am prepared to die on.

Stop trying to make me your clone.

Don't worry I have enough s**t of my own to atone.

This is not an arms race so just give me some space.

Because this hurts to say.

I love you but I don't much like you anymore.

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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You are not mine but you allow me to behold you I will not take what you do not give for my lungs expand in the receiving not the taking.

What you give today is enough.

What you will give tomorrow will be enough.

When you cannot give, it will be enough.

I promise to not colonise your heart.

It is your own.

I do not want it but please let me behold it.

I've found sanctuary in your soft eyes.

Did you know soft is a synonym for courage that drips from the cracks in your skin?

Someday maybe you won't have any skin but for now your eyes are the only crack to see you through.

Don't blind me. We have time.

It is enough

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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This is our resistance She stared at the wall as she told her story of chains That reached through the unspoken generations of abuse And weaved their way into her being, The tentacles of control so strong she was invisible.

This was the story of her mother, The story of her cousin, The story of her sister And the story of her.

Trauma is built upon trauma like corpses are buried above each other.

No one believed her.

This is her resistance.

The boy ran from himself fast and hard.

‘I’m gay’ he shouted, but the one who ran away was not gay.

He threw his bible under the bed and let it rot.

He searched the internet for proof that he was him in the dark of his room.

He tried bleeding away his attraction to the wrong human but his blood was the same as yours.

His blood was the cost of shame And it flowed, river flow Into a waterfall of silence.

Thirty years later, he is still running.

This is his resistance.

‘I didn’t give her what she deserved’ His body forced relax whilst his eyes grasped for a hug.

He didn’t know how to get away from the life that was his.

Hammers and crashing wardrobes, Violence is the voice of pain he chooses to walk away from.

How do you talk when you haven’t been taught to speak?

He drinks his voice into being and asks for one to sit beside, One to offer presence.

He left her because he was hurting her because he was hurting.

This is his resistance.

Resistance is inscribed on the souls of the enslaved.

Resistance is being alive when your world has caved.

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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Lost I'm made of holes Frightening arcs of silence Alone in myself Small and tender in your absence.

The cathedral of my soul is no longer whole and now the pain rattles, bouncing off the walls Screaming hollow, hollow, hollow.

Loss is a paceman eating me from the inside Fear is an acid making me hollow, hollow, hollow.

You are dead and I am here Am I here?

It will be ok you said But it will never be ok again, that much is clear.

Sometimes loss kills the only things worth having And all I feel is hollow, hollow, hollow.

Your cold hands, your cold cold hands I wanted to touch them but I didn't but I did.

And they were so so cold Your cold. cold hands My heart is falling out into your cold, dead hands.

(Grace Uitterdijk)

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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. 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, the inner and outer life, creating meaning and purpose, politics, contemporary and historical social issues, injustice, the human situation, power and its abuse, absurdism, existentialisms, human psychology and behaviour, truth and deception, the sociological imagination, illness, socio-economics, disability, inclusivity, human life, 67

selfishness and its consequences, as well as urban and rural life, personal autonomy, ethics, grand schemes and the technological life, in English and to a lesser extent, in the Irish Language.

He was shortlisted for The Redline Book Festival, Poetry Award in 2016, for A Rural Funeral. His poem Unanswered Call was published, in the September 2019 issue, of Crossways Literary Magazine. His poem Sword Damocles, Falling, was published in the October issue, of A New Ulster, in 2019. He was invited, to read, at the Siarsceál Literary Festival, in October 2019. His poem Louisburgh, County Memory, was highly commended, in The Johnathon Swift, Creative Writing Awards 2019. His poems Our Tree and Getting On, were published in Qutub Minar Review, International Literary Journal in 2019. He has worked in public service, for over twenty years.

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, were published in 2019, in 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 Towards Human, which will be published by Hedgehog Poetry Press (UK) in April 2021. His poems The Past is Present Tense, Transcending Mind Movements, The Breaking Waters of Catharsis, The Never Heard and The Death of The Shepherd were published in the Decade Edition, of A New Ulster in 2019.

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. His poem Shivered, featured in A New Ulster, in Spring 2020. His poem A Rural Funeral, was published in the U.S. literary journal, Writers in the Know, in 2020.

His poems, Before and After, Johnathan Swift Was Born, Malaises, My New Eyes, Turning Corners and The Mornings After Admission, are published, in the current issue, of A New Ulster. His Poem, A Life in A Time, is published, in the U.S. journal Tiny Seed Literary Journal. His Poems, The End of Their Affair, and Beyond Bone, While the Jackdaws Watch On (2020 Version) were published in the July 2020 issue, of Poesis Literary Journal, as well as In the Dead Heat. His poem, Dream of Consciousness, is published in E-Ratio, Postmodern literary Journal.

His poems A Mourning Burial, Through the Rain and several other poems are published in Prachya Review, Bangladesh. The End of Their Affair and The Past Coming Through, to The Present Moment, are published in the current issue, of Qutub Minar Review, International Literary Journal.

His poem Before Love Was Legal, was longlisted for the Ken Saro-Wiwa poetry Competition, in July 2020 and will feature in a university anthology, published, in late 2020. His poem Off Life-Support will be published, in an anthology, created by the Siarscéal Literary Festival, in Late 2020, for former, commended entrants, to the Hanna Greally, International Poetry Award. His third poetry collection, Answered Call (81 Pages) was shortlisted, for The Hedgehog Poetry Press (UK), Selected or Neglected International Poetry Collection Competition, in May 2020.

His poems Dreaming in The Liminal and What If will be published in the next issue of Poesis International Literary Journal. Looking for An Eye in The Sun will be published, in one of the most prestigious and longestablished Literary Journals in North America, in November 2020. His poem Anew, will be published in the next issue of Iris Literary Journal, in Texas, United States. His poems Travelling Community and Eye Opening will be published in the next issue of Qutub Minar Review, International Literary Journal, available worldwide.

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His Poems, In the Dead Heat, The Slowest Walk, Dreaming in The Liminal and Our Child, will be published in Poesis Literary Journal in 2020. His poem Rhapsody for The Future is published in the current edition of Writers in The Know, Minneapolis, Minnesota, United States. Rhapsody for The Future will be published in October Hill Literary Journal in New York City in October 2020. His poem Sea Change will be published in Litterateur Defining World, literary journal, in India, in September 2020. His poem Unremarkable, will be published in Asia, in late, 2020. His poem Aloneness will be published, in American Literary Journal, Brief Wilderness, in September 2020. His poem Rhapsody for The Future, is published in the new issue, of Writers in The Know, Minneapolis, Minnesota, United States.

His poems Cut with Blunt Knaves and Inflow will appear in The Non-Conformist Magazine, in September 2020.

His ninety-page manuscript, Anew, has been accepted for publication, by Atmosphere Press, in North America, for publication in 2021, worldwide. His poems, Towards the Headlights, As the Evening Fell and Dovetailing, will be published in Poesis Journal in 2020.

His poem Eyes Gone Black, is published, in the current issue, of From Whispers to Roars, Literary Journal, An Arts and Literary Magazine. His poem As the Evening Fell, will Appear in the current issue of Tiny Seed Journal, U.S. His poems The Heavy Weight Champion and Crow’s Not Dead, are published in The Non-Conformist, 2020.

He is currently working on his tenth, poetry collection. He begins a PHD, in English, in 2021. Gavin is also a multi-instrumentalist and has been a songwriter and composer, for the past, thirty-five years. He plays Classical/Spanish guitar, acoustic-electric guitar, bass guitar, jazz guitar electric lead guitar, mandolin and ukulele. He has written songs, music and lyrics and albums and has collaborated with many musicians and songwriters and has performed, in venues, all over Dublin.

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Looking Back, Bone Dead and Soon Gone

Burning, like the corner, of a newspaper, in a room, full of total darkness and paper -smoke.

She dispensed, the house, full of nails and Cards, made of razor-blades, opened the door, to a needless death, sexless, genderless, sexuality-less, suffered bone death, bone dead, to poison the garden soil, of moth and dermatitis, left as a pelvis, on the grass, in the garden of aspirations, an awful turn, in his eye, you wouldn’t, know, where to look, dreadful, left like that, poor family, couldn’t afford the money, to fix it, a queen said, just turn, the other one, so they’ll match, that’s that, now, to think for me, when I can’t, the lure for some, of the sick role, for an existential, default position, news and parapraxis, drone footage, of our awe-inspiring, heritage, cot-deaths or murders, in my own, back garden, pigs flew around the moon, in defiance, anti-clockwise, bone depth, tuned to the key and pitch of 70

broken ceramic, OCPhone, dying, spiritless, on bad legs, made pretend friends, with the homeless, grim suburbs, such anger, directed everywhere, barely human, joyless, pale, sickly in appearance, despondent conversations and signs and exclamations, spent week nights and weekends, in bed under a damp duvet, since the 1970s, never ate, but kept, putting on weight, continued, until he took his shirt off, one day, in a shop, they nearly had, a heart-attack, can you imagine, the tits, on him, she said, to them, changes, brought in, by the dawning, of the new world, the world, we can leave, or change, by living, the length of the full, piece of string, we’re offered.

Sure, everyone’s famous, today, The seagull pecking, at the night, on the pillar, wrapped in barbwire, the eyes, cracking and falling off, the level, of output, of pain, visioning in the white light, spectrums of consistent, colours, fullness and variation, searing 71

quietness, humming of creaks, free of authoritarian repression, the pressure-cooker, conscience and consciousness and phenomenological explanations, of past experiences, giving, the sign of peace, to the original substrata, of consciousness, itself, the face, nearly falling off, the bone.

On the blind pension, branded with, the cross, rhythms coursing through, natural brainwaves, in the Baltic, reading, The Fireside Book, of David hope, came around collecting, for the deaf and dumb, again, that evening, for the senses and the soul, blissful in the misting rains, of mid-October freshness, the danger of the unregulated, mind, body and soul, why do we, respond to beauty, capitalism, eugenics, capitalism, capitalism, atmospheric dynamics, we’d be here, right where we are, where else, would we be?

Pushchairs, local schools, vans, Looking around discount stores, 72

not buying, for hours, asking questions, cans and bottles in fields, it all changes, after you’ve spent time, with the dying, impacted, compacted ice, looking forward, to looking back, never a dull moment.

(Gavin Bourke)

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Crossed Lines

Between mid-mid-night and early morn, the beast steps out, of the blackest shadows, red veined, thread-veined, barking wildly, unrestrained savagery, ordered a take way, of sadism and butchery, non-contact, the worst, that could, come out, of a human mouth, well-oiled, by debauchery, hedonism and hatred of beautiful, young women, the realm, between fantasy, reality, crossed, into the darkness, of deviance, the bottomless, ravines of perversion, no one deserves, to play out a fantasy, of being, murdered, by a hatchet, flung around a room, spat and urinated upon, slashed and soaked, in gasoline and burned, 74

at a stake, for a few, gold coins and digits, for an organism, costing, a young life.

(Gavin Bourke)

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A Meeting with ‘The Riverman’

Went down, to the riverbank, to meet ‘the riverman’, one autumn afternoon, I had a few questions, of my own, to ask them, this time.

A dead branch, half-submerged, in the water, on one side, of the still waters, signs hung, high-up, on tree-trunks, above soaked-teddy-bears, precious memories, of lives, taken, too soon, pain, slowly moving, with time.

Under a cobalt-blue sky, under the eye, of the sun, glistening, on the water’s, thin surface.

Why did, the river take them, when they were vulnerable, why did it not, have the compassion, to hand them back, to the bank, when they stopped swimming and started floating, forever?

Needless, to say, the river, did not answer, but then again, the river, is not human, imbued, with the capacity, for reason and pure reason and reasoning and rationality.

Looked up, had to blink twice, a rope, was not, attached, from the neck, of a stationary man, to the branch, of a tree, it was a line, from a rod, being cast, by an earnest fisherman, that day, all was still and silent, apart, from the ducks and drakes, cleaning themselves off, fervently, on a strange day, ‘in a good way’.

Evening began its vespers and canticles and lit its candles, as it saw fit, in the lightest breeze, unsuspecting sounds, of drakes, resembled agony, the water, moving slowly, on the ‘slow day’, the air, coated in cobwebs, static, the chills, of red autumn leaves, vibrant orchestral colours, only to be seen, within, a short window, once yearly, to be treasured, by those, who notice them, as a fleet of birds, flew through the sky, at an exact, right angle, perfectly together, the more, the seemingly merrier, was odd to see, for some strange reason, but signalled possibilities, for unity of meaning and purpose.

(Gavin Bourke)

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EDITOR’S NOTE This has been a truly bizarre year and we are only starting it still at least we have poetry and other artistic outlets to keep us sane in an otherwise disturbia. Last year 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. This funding has been a literal life saver as I haven’t been able to work on any artwork or other projects due to having been in SHIELDING during most of last year as well as a broken thumb which I am getting physio to help learn to use it again.

We’ve had some issues with our internet connection here lately this has been caused by the recent storms and the ongoing upgrading of the local systems so I apologize for the delay in getting this issue out.

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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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE NICOLA GEDDES Originally from Scotland, Nicola Geddes studied Environmental Art at the Glasgow School of Art, and Cello Performance at the London College of Music. Based in County Galway for the past twenty five years, she works as a cellist and tutor. Publications include: The Irish Times, Poetry Ireland Review, Crannog, The Galway Review, Crossways, The Blue Nib, Skylight 47 and Poethead. Her poems can be found in the recent anthologies "Writing Home" (Dedalus Press) and "Children of the Nation" (Culture Matters). Awards include: Special Commendation - Patrick Kavanagh Award 2017, Highly Commended 2018 The Over the Edge New Writer of the Year. In May 2019 she won the Irish Times’ New Irish Writing.

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IX : The Hermit

But for the safety of this sorrow my heart would rejoice at your return My solitude, my soft cloak of grey my stone walls dissolve into the sea.

You arrive bearing fresh strawberries, taste on my lips of what may yet be.

With bare feet on the white earth, I pray how bright my lamp, how fierce it must burn to light the path to our tomorrow.

The Sky This Week

Wednesday’s sky holds drizzle in one hand sunlight in the other weighs them up but never quite commits

From Tuesday’s sky silver-edged butterflies dance and skip the eyes of their wings circle me

On Monday, in mid-air two sparrow hawks battle over a mouse who falls nose first to earth, tail streaming behind Like the comet who called me into the dark weekend nights roaring his silent story hear me now, he warns I cannot return for many lifetimes

Since then he has been hidden each night by a duvet of cloud it snuggles me as I sleep by the shore breaking briefly, low in the south east where Jupiter’s brightness reassures me how small I am how small.