FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF. Rory Milhench, Cliff Wedgebury, Richard Halperin, Trevor Conway, James Miller, Antony Owen and Collette McAndrew EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.
A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 113 April 2022
UPATREE PRESS
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 Upatree Press Prepared for Publication by Upatree Press
CONTRIBUTORS
This edition features work by Rory Milhench, Cliff Wedgebury, Richard Halperin, Trevor Conway, James Miller, Antony Owen and Collette McAndrew
CONTENTS Prose Rory Milhench Poetry
Page 1
Cliff Wedgebury
Page 5
Poetry Richard Halperin
Page 9
Poetry Trevor Conway
Page 11
Translation/ Poetry James Miller Poetry Antony Owen
Page 16 Page 21
Poetry Collette McAndrew Page 23 Editor’s Note
Page 27
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Rory Milhench Rory grew up in Belfast but moved to Dublin to pursue his Ph.D in History at Trinity College. He graduated in 2015 and has spent much of the subsequent period travelling in Asia, South America and Europe. Rory is currently working on a collection of short stories.
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The Shaman
In the desert of a faraway land, between the ridges of arid coast, there were many turquoise bays. It was common for the adults to reach the cliff edges and dive to the bottom of the water, searching for pearls. The children grew up on stories of mystic powers and seers who could delve into the elements and extract profound wisdom. One common practice of this area was to seek counsel with a learned one, who could help you understand the universe more deeply. It was especially common to visit this Shaman when you turned fifteen. In this society, fifteen was when you were considered an adult, and ready to prepare your mind for more complex endeavours. Girls and boys of this age were sent to the Shaman to learn of their “death day”. This was the time, predicted to the specific day of a month and year, when you would breathe your last breath and the life would pass from your body. It was seen a positive thing to know; if your death day was imminent, it would encourage you to live your life fully with the time you had left. If the Shaman gave you a day that was a long way off, you would feel relaxed, knowing you had ample time to live your life in the way you wished, and your fear of death would vanish. Many teenagers, with still some trepidation, approached the quiet hut of the Shaman and sat for an audience with him. Some left the hut stunned, afraid of the coming months. Others were soothed, understanding then that they would live to an old age, sad perhaps that their own father had managed only fifty years of colourful living. But always the Shaman was able to deliver an accurate prediction, with the later deaths of these adolescents corresponding to the day, month and year he had foreseen. Many people wondered if the Shaman knew his own death day. But there was one special girl whose visit marked an unusual and revolutionary change in the Shaman. She had come from another village, after hearing of his powers of insight. This girl, named Freya, came to the Shaman and sat before him. His eyes trembled a little, as he tried to gauge the quality of her face. It was a calm face, but it had known much sadness. Freya was trying hard to open herself up to him, so that he could deliver an answer. The Shaman busied his hands with the liquids at his feet. They shared a dark concoction with a sharp taste. He lit the sacred wood and chanted a series of mantras. He rubbed his fingers on the rings of feathers. But no answer came to him. He was like an animal swimming through cloudy waters; he knew that he could continue moving forward, but that he would not see anything. He did not panic. Instead, he took an unusual decision. He asked Freya to tell him the story of where she had come from. This was quite unusual for the Shaman, as normally the teens remained silent in his company. But he could tell she was different; she smelt slightly of the roots that were found over the Great Mountains, and her clothes were swarthier, as if they had been dyed. Freya cleared her throat, steadied her frame and said: “Where I come from there are many people, who live to enjoy the land. We are not in the city, but live away from it, so that it cannot see us. But a darkness has befallen my people lately. The rivers are empty of fish. The skies above are blackening. The crops have infestations. No more babies are being born. What we once considered permanent is now obviously passing. And so I have come to you, in the hope that I might be delivered an answer.” 2
The Shaman reclined slightly at her speech and asked her: “You have come to know if your life too shall pass, so that you would know if your community will also perish?” “Yes”, the girl Freya answered. Still the Shaman felt that he could not deliver an answer; out of the mud he could see no light. He pondered for a moment before asking her “Where is this community of yours?” Freya replied “A day and a half away, maybe a day if we catch the light.” The Shaman looked at Freya with a resolute expression and announced to her “I will return to this place with you, and I will deliver my prediction there, so that all the villagers can know it.” And so it was that the Shaman and the girl Freya travelled the distance over the Great Mountains which flanked the ocean desert. As they approached nightfall they readied a small camp for the night under an escarpment peppered with cedar trees. They resumed their trek early the next morning and as they were approaching Freya’s village a Marshall spotted them and cried to the others “Ring the bells, as if to say, they’re coming.” The Shaman spent one day and one night at the village and dispensed of his usual airs. Normally he made an effort to seem otherworldly, withdrawn and untouchable to his native villagers, but here he was more of a normal man again, keen to find answers, and happy for himself to be less of a mystery than usual. After spending some time inspecting the area and speaking with the people he summoned Freya for a private audience. He told her: “Your rivers are empty because every man tries to find as much fish as he can for himself, without considering that his neighbour is also hungry. The skies blacken because some of you do not dispose of your waste; you burn it at sundown behind the ridge. The crops fail because you overwork the land, with all your vegetables grown in the same place. There are no more babies being born because the people have lost confidence that this could be a beautiful place, so they have stopped trying to conceive. They have become cautious with life. You have come this way to be apart from the city, but you have kept its competition alive.” Freya took a moment to absorb the Shaman’s words, before probing a little further. “What are we to do then?” The Shaman replied “You must learn to work together, for the common good of the village. You cannot have one man reign as king of a certain area, with the others below him as subjects.” “But”, Freya countered, “won’t I continually be called upon to help with this or that project, always working, never idle? I am busy enough as it is, working to help my father with his crops, his ailments, the repair of his house.” “The reason”, the Shaman continued in a quiet tone, “that these things damage us is that they are personal trifles. Important as they are for you to do, as his beloved daughter, but wouldn’t it be grander if others wished to involve themselves in these matters too, voluntarily and with keen hearts? Then life might feel different, and not as it does now, when each person hears a different ticking sound in their ear, motoring ahead without looking at the others. Otherwise, to continue in the old way, there are too many items on the list, there is too much to think about. That’s why the small things are such a burden to you. Because they are eternally individual. You must learn a new way.” And so it was that Freya and her village began a new way of working, with their focus on cooperating on the land they shared. For the Shaman, this episode was a major event in his life. It made him think about his own village and how they lived. Indeed, how he had lived all these years. Wasn’t he to blame, for all those predictions he made about the villagers’ death days? Wasn’t it natural that after they knew this day, they retreated away to protect the time they had left, and no more reached out to the others? And wasn’t it probable that his own village could fall victim to the 3
same extinctions that threatened Freya’s people? These questions opened a new well of thought in the Shaman’s mind, and important things began to happen as a result. When he returned to his own village he looked upon its inhabitants differently. He could see this truth about them; each person wanted to feel good in his yard, that he was both beside and away from the others. Also, that each person was performing tasks, but without a meaningful end. The Shaman was alarmed as he traversed through the village on his airy walks. He noticed the amount of activity that took place to disguise the fact that nothing was happening. Why is nothing happening wondered the Shaman? He thought long and hard about this difficult question and his thinking reached a shocking finale. He realised that his people had never been taught to create or build anything as more than individuals. There had never been a shared human imagination, built as a great fire, to which all added kindling. Indeed, purpose in his society was established by one’s particular skill, which you were then known by. So the butcher was one who had talent with the cleaver, the hunter the man who could stalk the animals on long prairies and the Shaman himself rose to prominence because he could lay out his nightdreams on the floor and dance his way through them. Social networks became organised around who it was useful to know. “You should speak with such and such” was the common response to the voicing of a problem or gripe. Never had they considered that their defining characteristic could be to be a member of a community that believed X or designed X or adopted X or endorsed X. It meant each person rose and fell like a wave in the ocean: doomed to action that had no greater consequence than to keep an engine running, without a destination in mind. This, the Shaman, realised, would have to end. He gathered before the village and proclaimed the founding of a new way, so that all could hear. “There is too much outside of us- we are the subject of too many appointments and tests. It is nature that overturns this sacking; we realise that the only object that exists is us. This is what we feel when we stare along the mountain peak. That I must be restored to this, to feel it, as the only thing that could feel it, the sensual being. Once we have all felt this, then we can form a society; full of unique members, who are rid of their disgust for others.” Soon enough the people in the Shaman’s village began to work together more, and no one came to him to ask of the day he expected them to die. “So,” the Shaman said to himself out loud, “we are thinking on the eyes of our brothers and sisters, and not just our own.” And so it was that this encounter with a spirited girl from a neighbouring village led to the prosperity of two unique and charming countryside communities, which were able to live in a way that sustained themselves with laughter and bountiful joy. But, I hear you ask, were these communities real, or do they only find sovereignty within an imagination? This is the very question that the next citizen will come to you with, so you may prepare your answer to this conundrum now.
(Rory Milhench)
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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Cliff Wedgebury Cliff Wedgbury is a Cork based writer, born in London in 1946. His last collection was entitled, “A Lingering Adolescence,” published by Belfast/Lapwing in 2007. In the same year his poem “Revolutionary Newspapers,” was included in the anthology, “Che in Verse,” Aflame Books London to acknowledge the 40th Anniversary Of the death of Ernesto “Che” Guevara.
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War Poet “Let me take you back there!” He said. As I sat next to his wooden leg, In 1952. A six year old, With a toffee to chew, And a route march to the trenches, Thirty eight years before. Learning how to die, Under the cannon’s roar. Enduring mud as thunder-flashes burst, And ever since then, Scribbling painful verse, As he patiently awaited, His own approaching hearse. (Cliff Wedgebury)
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Detonations Bomber Harris confiscated, Willie Adrian’s fags, Just before dinner break! Clipped him around the ear, Scorned his sudden tear and, Marched towards the staff-room. He flew Wellingtons over Berlin in 1944. Now he opens the staff-room door, Sits in his favourite chair, Blows smoke rings into fetid air, Remembering detonations, Everywhere. (Cliff Wedgebury)
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Sunday Tea 1956 Sticks of celery on a Sunday evening, Fresh from the garden and wet from the sink, Dipped into small pyramids of salt. Dad poured the cider and winked! I drank the golden liquid thirstily. Ten years old and tipsy, At those childhood Sunday teas. Fresh fruit salad to come, As jokes and laughter rang, In a suburban dining room. Then Nana went home to Woolwich, On the passing 99 bus, With a bulging bag of vegetables, And a loving wave from each of us. Cliff Wedgbury
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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Richard Halperin Richard W. Halperin's poetry collections are published by Salmon and Lapwing
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A Sweet-faced Man A few years ago a sweet-faced man wrote a poem which I found very meaningful, which helped me a lot during a tough time. To-night there is an ugly war going on. I tried finding the poem, but I could not. I couldn’t even remember the title or how it had gone. But I could remember the effect it had had on me. Just now, I have stopped looking. Remembering his sweet face is more helpful. In fact, it was more helpful back then. I do not think that any of our poems have weight. They blow around, they blow away. But a sweet face does not blow away. No one cares if its owner writes or not. No one in an ugly war cares if its owner writes or not. (Richard Halperin)
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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Trevor Conway Trevor is a writer of mainly poetry, fiction and songs, from Sligo, Ireland. He’s published two poetry collections (Evidence of Freewheeling and Breeding Monsters), and is currently writing a fairly experimental novel
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The Hunt In the toilet, I dreamed of my daughter as something other, a starved beast that would hunt me from this room if only she could smell me. In recent months, her teeth had broken through her gums in readiness for the act, and she had been tiring me, waking at night, so I’d have no fight to give. Her slow, light, predator steps stopped at the door. I twisted the key, submitted to her open arms, the gentlest killing I could ever imagine.
(Trevor Conway)
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Labour I saw green till diggers came and scraped it away, soil and stone revealed, cement swept in thick currents, heavy pipes hoisted down, and stubborn slabs sandwiched all to a subterranean fate. Walls rose from cinder blocks. The second floor flourished with a deluge of timber, and slanted tiles clung to wood like reptile skin. There were men who threaded wire through holes, upholstering walls with electric current, while others laboured on plain frescoes of damp plaster. Garden soil was ruffled, rolled, raked and seeded, raked again. Vans arrived, disgorging beds, wardrobes, tables, a well-fed couch. And one day, when all was quiet, a car’s doors flung open. Children spewed with quick steps and spiky cries that coloured the afternoon. Curious neighbours emerged at windows, reliving a time when their gardens were yet to green. (Tervor Conway)
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After the Pandemic Those who survived – and there were many – waded deep into plans, having emerged from a kind of hibernation with the veiny marks of face masks traced about their ears. They still were inclined to keep their distance as they watched the cranes swing back into life and heard the drills and hammers cackling through the morning. Thieves lamented at being unable to approach without arousing suspicion, and everyone hoped the next pandemic would be a distant problem endured by some other generation. In quieter moments, when freedom felt normal again and homes were for sovereign thoughts, some reflected on those who hadn’t survived. (Trevor Conway)
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Family Affair Certain words have been spoken. There is no retreat. We all know that old wounds have been exposed, that they will scar longer and simpler than any word. Our younger selves have returned in subtle ways, peppering the hail of thoughts, the camouflage of time revealed. If we were to abandon the quick fastening of misinterpretation, of ego whispering like Iago, there might be hope, softening to understanding. We are all creatures of imperfection, slower now than we used to be, with grey streaks in our hair, bellies that draw attention to themselves, no longer playing in the back garden. Fights were lesser things then. Now, their weight is harder to shift. Sitting on a train that cradles me further from the epicentre, the blur of bushes reminds me of years (Trevor Conway)
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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: James Miller From America, James Miller is the author of Shell Songs. His most recent pub lications have been in The Lyric and the Martha's Vineyard Times. He is also a songwriter, and much of his poetry and music are available at jamesmilerarts.com .
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The Sea Rocks at Dawn
There is a silence to my thought of the sea rocks that stretch for miles. For they are never caught by tides or winds, the storms that pile time forth on memory’s shore. My thought is from a dream before I knew of sound except for waves. And if put to words, it would say be easy now, the sea is calm. So, I breathe deeply here at dawn walking among the quiet rocks. For be it the sun’s gift, time stops and for an hour or so I’m free to imagine I am the sea where water is a balm that flows to soothe the scars of a sore earth. The more I walk, the more I know I was these rocks before my birth.
(James Miller)
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Unknown
With gray across the morning sky, I look out now for the blind bird who flies on days when mothers sigh for children who cannot be heard. Why did I leave? What was my dream? I should have known as I do now that we do better on a team, that love is better with a vow. But, no, the bird who seeks the sun, the bird of praise, the bird of fame— how I flew off to be that one, and how I now have lost my name. Oh family, the sky is filled with dumb, blind birds so strong and willed.
(James Miller)
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The Monarch Trails of Martha’s Vineyard
On sandy paths where sea-winds pass with wings from the soft South and songs from the North’s waves; here, through these island dunes, the small are kings of what a thankful mind prays for and saves. For they are small just as my hair is light to touch, to spin among the drifting blue, on days when breath is sky, and sky is sight of gentle butterflies and all things new. And how I dream here, watching their sweet truths which fly away because they cannot stay, just as I lose the season of my youth to reason, the thought that death will steal their day. But not right now, for thoughts here are still dreams. To watch them is birth. Their way like rainbow streams.
(James Miller)
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Explaining Night to a Young Friend
The depth of night is out beneath the sea. Out there below those boats where fish are free to swim as deeply as their gills dare go. There must be secrets only they can know about the undertow of sailors’ dreams. Those ancient sailors who saw moonbeams in bright, blown ways I cannot fully grasp. Like how such beauty might so quickly gasp for air if clouds called out a perfect storm. Or how the stars could lose their sacred form if the wise captain fell too ill and died. All those dark currents where fast death would hide. They force my open eyes to shake with awe. For what’s seen from here is not it at all.
(James Miller)
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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Antony Owen
Antony Owen is from Coventry, England with eight collections of poetry published since 2009 largely focusing on conflict and mental health. His work has been well received internationally and in 2017 was shortlisted for The Ted Hughes Award for his account of survivors from the atomic bombing of Hiroshima.
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Little things to be thankful of
Above the crimes a pylon can redeem us through birdsong necklaces tied around the slit throat dusk.
Above the white world night can wind a tannoy of wolves even in the city their lights can be seen one wove between cars in Toronto like a silver ribbon.
Above the new man born a girl everything is changing in the sky Covid has cleaned the Boeing traces of man a flock of geese breaks formation for an Argos drone.
Below all this is me and you at night I hang my skins over the ottoman turn into a blur when I am creature like and loving sometimes but less so now our shapes converge into one.
(Antony Owen)
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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Collette McAndrew Colette McAndrew writes poetry and short fiction. She has been published in Boyne Berries and her work has been broadcast on Lyric FM. She graduated from T.C.D in 2017 with an M.Phil. in creative writing. Poetry:
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EILISH and SLEMISH
On her death bed Aunt Eilish remembered the day we climbed Slemish. Going up was easy even for Mother in her kitten heels. We ran up like mountain goats my Father said.
At the top the world swirled round like the skirts on Eilish's ball gown. Lakes of watered silk, emerald fields edged with dark hedges hay stook tassels, marooned blue islands appliquéd to a sequinned sea.
Sliding down the mountain in a lightning storm slick wet hair, squelching over saturated tussocks and laughing laughing.
My sister threw a bucket of water over Eilish a down pour as she dressed for the ball on her death bed we couldn't remember why.
(Collette McAndrew)
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THE ONLY PHOTOGRAPH
Fragmented shards, kaleidoscopic, crystalline, silvered irises, stare out.
With the team that day for the Feis na Gleann photograph, in shorts and a striped geansai, a fashionable moustache shinty at your knee kin to every family in the glen, you knew your place.
A barrel, full of old letters, mouldering away in the byre. Your own mother didn't know you in your linen suit and panama hat.
(Collette McAndrew)
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Patrick at Slemish.
Grafted on to a white church gable your stony gaze fixed on that mountain as the heavens open. A big gulpin. Deep as bog water, out of step out of kilter. Offering it up Because you knew God helps them that help themselves. So after the rain stopped and the wind dropped, sitting on top of the world even the sheep were quiet when God whispered to you 'Hey boy, don’t mind them this is the promised land.'
(Collette McAndrew)
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EDITOR’S NOTE This very late issue is the April edition the reason it is late? I forgot my passwords and misplaced the little red book I keep my notes in. For the past four weeks I’ve been struggling to recall what they were for my email, for the website heck even for online banking. Just when I thought I was doomed to never remember they all came back to me the other day while doing the dishes. Full caveat this issue is an ongoing one and a well-known side effect of one of my medications I’m learning to live with it as I need that medication to live. So, I have the odd memory loss issues which are generally only short term but that was the longest it has lasted for. Setting that aside we have an interesting range of work and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did. Happy reading, good health, and keep creating, Amos Greig (Editor)
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LAPWING PUBLICATIONS ‘IN A CHANGED WORLD’ Over the past number of years technology has transformed poetry publishing: shop closures due to increasing operational costs has had an impact, to put it mildly, shops are releuctant to take ‘slow moving’ genre such as poetry and play-scripts among other minority interest genre. The figures given a few years ago were: we had 5000 bookshops in the UK-Ireland and at the time of the research that number had dropped to 900 and falling: there was a period when bookshops had the highest rate of ‘High Street’ shop closures. Lapwing, being a not-for-profit poetry publisher has likewise had to adjust to the new regime. We had a Google-Books presence until that entity ended its ‘open door’ policy in favour of becoming a publisher itself. During that time with Google, Lapwing attracted hundreds of thousands of sample page ‘hits’. Amazon also has changed the ‘game’ with its own policies and strategies for publishers and authors. There are no doubt other on-line factors over which we have no control. Poetry publishers can also fall foul of ‘on consignment’ practice, which means we supply a seller but don’t get paid until books have been sold and we can expect unsold books to be returned, thus ‘remaindered’ and maybe not sellable, years can pass! Distributors can also seek as much as 51% of cover-price IF.they choose to handle a poetry book at all, shops too can require say 35% of the cover price, which is ok given floor space can be thousands of £0000s per square foot per annum..In terms of ‘hidden’ costs: preparing a work for publication can cost a few thousand UK £-stg. Lapwing does it as part of our sevice to our suthors. It has been a well-known fact that many poets will sell more of their own work than the bookshops, Peter Finch of the Welsh Academi noted fact that over forty years ago and Lapwing poets have done so for years. Due to cost factors Lapwing cannot offered authors ‘complimentary’ copies. What we do offer is to supply authors with copies at cost price. We hold very few copies in the knowledge that requests for hard copies are rarely received. Another important element is our Lapwing Legacy Library which holds all our retained titles since 1988 in PDF at £4.00 per title: the format being ‘front cover page - full content pages - back cover page’. This format is printable as single pages: either the whole book or a favourite page. I thank Adam Rudden for the great work he has done over the years creating and managing this web-site. Thanks also to our authors from ‘home’ and around the world for entrusting Lapwing with their valuable contributions to civilisation. If you wish to seek publication please send you submission in MW Word docx format. LAPWING PUBLICATIONS
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POETRY TITLES 2021 All titles are £10.00 stg. plus postage from the authors via their email address. PDF versions are available from Lapwing at £4.00 a copy, they are printable for private, review and educational purposes. 9781838439804_Halperin Richard W. DALLOWAY IN WISCONSIN Mr.Halperin lives in Paris France Email: halperin8@wanadoo.fr 9781838439811_Halperin Richard W. SUMMER NIGHT 1948 9781838439859_Halperin Richard W. GIRL IN THE RED CAPE 9781838439828_Lennon Finbar NOW Mr Lennon lives in the Republic of Ireland Email: lennonfinbar@hotmail.com 9781838439835_Dillon Paul T WHISPER Mr Dillon lives in the Republic of Ireland Email: ptjdillon@gmail.com 9781838439842_ Brooks Richard WOOD FOR THE TREES Mr Brooks lives in England UK Email:richard.brooks3@btinternet.com 9781838439866_Garvey Alan IN THE WAKE OF HER LIGHT 9781838439873_McManus Kevin THE HAWTHORN TREE Mr McManus lives in the Republic of Ireland Email: kevinmcmanus1@hotmail.com 9781838439880_Dwan Berni ONLY LOOKIN’ Berni Dwan lives in the Republic of Ireland Email: bernidwan@gmail.com 9781838439897_Murbach Esther VIEW ASKEW Esther Murbach lives in Switzerland though she also spends time in Galway Email: esther.murbach@gmx.ch 9781916345751_McGrath Niall SHED Mr McGrath lives in County Antrim Northern Ireland, UK Email: mcgrath.niall@hotmail.com 9781916345775_Somerville-Large GILLIAN LAZY BEDS 9781916345782_Gohorry & Lane COVENTRY CRUCIBLE Mr Lane lives in England-UK and due to the recent death of Mr Gohorry Mr Lane will be the contact for this publication: Email: johnslane@btinternet.com
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