A New Ulster 115 by Amos Greig

FEATURING THE TALENTS OF Michael Boyle, Ailbhe Curran, Gary Beck, Terri Metcalfe, Terry Brinkman, Jack Stewart, Heather Sager, Madeleine White, Niamh Murray, Oonah V Joslin and Saeed Salimi Babamiri EDITED BY AMOS GREIG

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 115 June/July 2022

UPATREE PRESS

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 Michael Boyle, Ailbhe Curran, Gary Beck, Terri Metcalfe, Terry Brinkman, Jack Stewart, Heather Sager, Madeleine White, Niamh Murray, Oonah V Joslin and Saeed Salimi Babamiri

CONTENTS Prose Michael Boyle

Page 1

Poetry Ailbhe Curran

Page 4

Poetry Gary Beck

Page 15

Poetry Terri Metcalfe

Page 24

Painting Terry Brinkman

Page 28

Poetry Jack Stewart

Page 30

Poetry Heather Sager

Page 41

Poetry Madeleine White

Page 46

Poetry/Prose Niamh Murray

Page 58

Poetry Oonah V Joslin

Page 65

Poetry Saeed Salimi Babamiri Page 69 Editor’s Note

Page 71

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MICHAEL BOYLE

Michael Boyle is a native of Lavey, Derry, Ireland. His poems have appeared in the “The Antigonish Review”. “Dalhousie Review.” “Tinteain” and “New Ulster Writing.” He was awarded “The Arts and Letters” prize for poetry in 2014 by the government of Newfoundland and Labrador. Michael has also written articles for the Irish language magazine “An t-Ultach. He is currently completing his first poetry collection “Whin Bushes from Drummuck.” In June 2017 he presented a paper in Magee College, Derry, on the Irish poet Seamus Heaney. In 2018 he gave a talk entitled “Echoes from the Barn Barrel.” to The North American Celtic Language Teachers Conference in St. John’s, NL. He currently lives in St John’s NL where he conducts a historical walking tour. www.boyletours.com

Advice from the Master.

In May 1993 the future Nobel Poet Laureate Seamus Heaney gave the Pratt lecture at Memorial University of Newfoundland and later in the cozy confines of The Ship Inn he signed one of his books with the inscription, “From one South Derry man to another.” Then, he explained to me that his sister Anne told him not to go back home if I didn’t say hello to Mickey Boyle away out in Newfoundland. Like Heaney I grew up on a small farm in County Derry and a highlight of our summer was when with my brothers and I walked our cattle four miles to Bellaghy fair. After the animals were sold my father along with Paddy Heaney (Seamus’ father) had a bottle of stout in Breslin’s Bar on Main street. I went to St Joseph’s Teacher Training College Belfast to major in Physical Education However, I didn’t make the cut and I had to transfer to a three-year course. English was now my major and for the next three years I had Heaney as my teacher. The first thing I observed was Heaney’s enthusiasm and love that he had for language. Aftermy G.C.E. A levels I was convinced that I was finished with poetry forever. It seemed that poetry meant taking notes from the blackboard and parroting them back for exams. In the first term I had teaching practice in a West Belfast school and Heaney was my observer. I jumped into my lesson with ‘great gusto’ and without waiting for the class to settle. Six students in the front row were keyed into my entire art lesson, but for the thirty other students it was like a circus. Afterwards I expected some tough words from Heaney. I don’t remember all his exact words. But one sentence I do remember. “Mickey.” He said and then he paused. “You must always make the silence speak.” This advice I have cherished from that day on.

The young Seamus Heaney that I knew- was willing to experiment with teaching approaches to literature .I vividly remembering one Easter he introduced us to Elizabethan drama as he directed 2

us in an “Everyman” passion play. We performed it for the all the students in the College. Heaney tried “to do drama in the round” and so as well as using the stage he had actors around the hall. There were no props, costumes or music and the focus was on the spoken word.

One outstanding skill that Heaney had with was his relaxed manner in which he could both introduce and read his poems to make them come alive. Listening to Eliot and Yeats read their word you could fall asleep. Back in my desk at College Heaney’s voice made poems hypnotic as he was relating everyday experiences. You only can really understand poetry if it is well read. Heaney didn’t tell us how to read but being the real teacher he showed us by example.

Back at school students had endless compositions on “How to make a fire or fix a puncture?” However Heaney emphasized creative writing over compositions. He encouraged us to write on mundane topics like on a Sunday evening when people want to use the bathroom. At the same time a teenage daughter is taking her time getting make on up for a dance that night.

I will never forget the day Heaney brought a large red record player and some L.P.s. He put on a vinyl record and asked us to write expressively. At first we were confused, but later we loved this novel experience. Heaney in the poem “The Play Way” describes the reaction of a class of pupils in Belfast to this exercise. Heaney used improvisation to break the sterility of the classroom. He experimented in drama, creativity, sound poetry and the music of what happens. Finally, I have my poetry collection about the same county Derry rural landscape where Heaney grew up. So many decades later and many miles away I can now reflect as a ‘callow youth’ I was once -truly in the presence of the Master.

(Michael Boyle)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Ailbhe Curran Ailbhe Curran is a teacher, researcher and writer from Co. Tipperary, Ireland. Ailbhe has been writing poetry since her teenage years and was a prize-winner in the Cavan Crystal/Windows Publications National Student Poetry Awards in 2008. As well as writing poetry, Ailbhe also writes short stories and will have some of her stories published in the short fiction journal, Literally Stories, in August 2022. Ailbhe is heavily involved in researching and promoting arts education in Irish schools and has written and presented on the subject nationally and internationally. She has a particular interest in how arts education can be used as a vehicle for social change and her most recent academic article on the topic was published in the Routledge Companion to Drama in Education in May 2022.

Dear Saturn

I met you last year when you were but a passing star in the night, A flicker, a wink, after summer evening’s delight. Back then you were a stranger for the Earth was my world And you, a distant traveller with a silent prophecy unheard.

But alas merriment’s blindness hid the tales I was once told About the time-travelling goddesses who at night dress in gold, Shining a light down on our follies from way up above, Their blinks coding the scripts of our futures in hope, pain and love.

Oh I do wish I knew then of what I now know So that I could have built a ladder to the skies from suffocation below, Leaving behind the crumbs of memories, all our friends and our foes, And flying off with the space discs we feared once ago.

But now, on Earth, we hide wilting in the shadows As we all try to shoot ourselves Off to Saturn afar

Where on the comforts of its concentric rings we could lay And travel in the predictable lapping of waves, Just like a sailor steering a ship upon the sea Guided by stars’ pathways to a world that still could be.

For he knows the next morn where the sun will be rising, Where the wind will be blowing and where the birds will be flying, And he knows how to navigate his ship safely out to the ocean Until sunlight settles to slumber amongst all the commotion And we hear our ancestors’ murmurings as their dust begins to rise With Saturn – the brightest – like Olympia’s torch to the sky.

Every night I try to sit with this sailor beneath my Saturn the free, Stuffing my fingers like corks in my eardrums from the relentless swells of the sea So that all that is seen is the ever-expanding blackness of fate, And all that is heard is the rhythmic, celestial humming of some other-worldly place. (Ailbhe Curran)

At the Graveside

This is a place I see all strangers, pretenders that know me, My hands drooping like droughted lilies withered through shaky sympathies. We stand outside where life is beckoning and I see trees and birds and bees, But inside I wonder why darkened hollows are scripture of eternity.

We marched here through the stone-white village straight from the body-poachers, Who took her some moons ago and saw fit to lay her like all the others. Without hearing spirit’s grumblings, they just do their duty as gold dictates, And after their package’s delivered, they too will stroll away.

They set her down next to the empty and where the doom doth lie, But still the chatter, it continues, shrugs and suspicious smiles. A cloak of mock regality is tossed upon her pre-made tomb, But I know it cannot protect her now from fear, from rot, from ruin.

Covers shaded with the Holy Ghost thrown upon her simple treasures, A dresser filled of queen’s finery that would protect her through all weather; A lamp that once glowed gold of hope casting light on tomorrow’s horizon; A chiming clock with cuckoo calling for the Angelus to enlighten. 7

The indiscriminate digs of theirs knocked nature from its perch, And now all I see are her caressed garden roses dying in lonely dust. The roses lame upon the soil, they speak no omnipresence, Weeds choking them right to the flower, petals lost to time and predator.

A single one is thrown upon the coffin of silent chaos, The snipping done so blindly of another life they caused to leave us. I almost see her hand emerging to take it back to place of birth, But she misses as she starts to float a little deeper back to earth.

Jesus broke the bread and shared it the night before his death, But the nourishment proved futile until He rose once again. But my tears I fear won’t recreate the time of Jerusalem, That’s been lost to wars and ravages that scraped the world so thin.

They’ll swear that Mary sold the crib rather than to leave the spirits lying still, To stay and stray amongst season’s changings, to dance and roam at will. I’ll nod my head and let them steal my keys back into her world, Because grief squeezes chords of clarity into an unvoiced hold.

They’ll come and divide the takings, her years of personal gems, Faded letters from young lovers, storied artefacts that mean nothing to them. Shutting the door, they’ll leave a barren shell hollowed of its stories, Shining paint and carpet grass smothering the roses.

They’ll talk there for a while and say this all was for the best, To strip a house of memories, to snatch eggs right from her nest. They’ll tell themselves that her ornate angels will always remind them of her, But they’ll drift into Ago’s attic and fall behind the stolen drawers.

The forbidden sign nailed through once-ripe foliage prices a palace never known, A cost that doesn’t befit the numbers on the new gravestone. Mother and father accept the stinging rain that now strikes upon the landscape, And I don’t know why I still dream of sunshine when it always lies in wait.

The priest pontificates on everlasting and all we thought we knew, The book of Genesis to resurrection, rainbows of His promises to you. But with grief-glazed eyes we wonder if still there is that one Truth, Amongst the whisperings of her wilting prayers with dreams still left to root.

We stand now by her side and where she forever lays,

The ground rumbling on as if her passing was just order of the day. Then the only Truths, they came to reach me and with me they did stay, The final moments, left to linger on in memory’s cave.

Poisonous murmurings of will and probate, Christ’s poinsettias singing on a sinking grave, Bracing hands we know to kneel and pray, But still, the world, It takes away. Still the world, It takes away. (Ailbhe Curran)

Fish’s Final Feast

I can’t believe after all these years that those periwinkles are still stuck on the rocks, Clinging to stability, to what they know and remember is always comforting.

I wonder how long they have been there and what they have seen. They were there so many years ago when our feet Were dancing with merriment around them And they are still there now in the stony silence, Their hardened shells holding the memories of mine.

Boiling the picked periwinkles in the pot, Carrying them along the wind-beaten sandy beach, Salty from the seashore.

Wet feet leaving prints of children’s pitter patter, Marks of innocence spread defining all the family’s branches As if you could carve the tree from them Alone.

We raced together to the house 11

Falling over and through the face, feet, and arms of each other As we charged through the door. Our parents did not turn to see who was there or who was theirs as we were enmeshed, Children tangled together in webs of giggles, one leading into the other. We inhaled the salted life of the sea as we rushed to the table, Exhaling with the shared hope and happiness of One moment’s joy to behold.

My brother and I gutted the mackerel together with father, Our rolling laughter like the waves of the Western sea Which once harboured the fish we plundered As it swam with life. Lips wrenched open and gaping, Eyes round with alarm, Like he was straining to mouth a warning but When I tried to hear it, it was gone.

We finished preparing the family’s summer feast, Forgiving ourselves for the life we had stolen so that we all could eat. Together afterward, each single bite, we savoured with delight But I feel forgot the definition of its end.

The whole fish’s fleshed out memories flying down our throats And never to see the sea again.

When we left, I thought we were next day returning. But we stayed away. Time passed like the tides then, comforts on the surface but crushing pain beneath the crests, And I, not realising until much later of all that was left on the shores In their wake.

When we went out again there was no fish, No sign of life’s breath or love’s warmth on the beach where we once played with our cousins, The rocky fields I once wandered, hands clutched, with my own siblings. When the reel carried empty each time, I thought again of that fish Through the pain moulded on the creased lines of my father’s face. Gutted, its life lining our stomachs and Never to be regurgitated again, Never to swim in the ocean where my father and his siblings once swam.

Only this time, not gutted together between a proud father and son and daughter But gutted ruthlessly Between brother and sister and brother,

Each carving out a pound of flesh for each other.

Its taste was no longer delicious, but Burning, stinging poison.

(Ailbhe Curran)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: GARY BECK Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced OffCl Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 34 poetry collections, 14 novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 7 books of plays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order, Contusions, Desperate Seeker, Learning Curve and : State of the Union (Winter Goose Publishing). Earth Links, Too Harsh For Pastels, Severance, Redemption Value, Fractional Disorder, Disruptions, Ignition Point, Resonance, Turbulence and Lacerations (Cyberwit Publishing. Forthcoming: Double Envelopment). Motifs (Adelaide Books). His novels include Extreme Change (Winter Goose Publishing). State of Rage, Wavelength, Protective Agency, Obsess, Flawed Connections and Still Obsessed (Cyberwit Publishing. Forthcoming: Call to Valor). His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing). Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). Collected Essays of Gary Beck (Cyberwit Publishing). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume 1 and Plays of Aristophanes translated, then directed by Gary Beck, Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume II, Four Plays by Moliere translated then directed by Gary Beck and Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume III (Cyberwit Publishing). Gary lives in New York City.

Men At Arms For thousands of years men fought with shield, spear, sword. Gunpowder did away with shields, but for hundreds of years men shot at each other up close, butchering by proximity, nerve or losses deciding battles. Then the leveling machine gun sang its song of welcoming death.

Most Generals were still fighting 15

the wars of spear and shield with little thought for the common soldier, still considered a peasant levy, lives decided by commanders.

Then the tools of war advanced, death delivered more remotely, except when Generals remembered the good old days of clashing armor, the dead and wounded punishment for modern war.

Vehicles joined the ranks still piloted by humans and big battles were obsolete, though massive invasions occurred.

So the nature of war was changing, at least for those who notice. Too many still anchored in the past too willing to expend the lives of men and women entrusted to them.

If modern warfare evolves

it may become bloodless for some, but there will always be unreconstructed monsters eager for destruction of life and property. (Gary Beck)

Disintegration When an individual dies, except if he/she is valued, families, friends, fellow workers, hurt for the loss of a loved one. With the passing of time they will be forgotten, life will continue, which brings stability to human existence.

When a civilization falls, like the Roman Empire, great disturbances take place. Neighboring societies grow or contract, gain or lose as those who maintained order in the surrounding chaos no longer prevent the eruptions of violence that devastates tribes, small nations, once regulated by the power of a mighty colossus that once controlled much of the world, 18

then declined, crumbled, collapsed, leaving behind uncertainty, mourned by some, forgotten by most. (Gary Beck)

Class Dismissed Liberal arts graduates are pleased with their educations, assuming they’ve learned a lot in four years of study. But a capitalist society of rapid innovation, incrementing technology initiated by A.I. makes most liberal grads superfluous to the system requiring specialtys to nurture the wealthy. (Gary Beck)

Cannon Fodder The German soldiers in World War I were trained for war, beaten if they didn’t obey, marched, fought, died for the Kaiser.

The Japanese soldiers, in World War II were trained for war, beaten if they didn’t obey, marched, fought, died for the Emperor.

The Vietnamese, Afghani’s all grew up with endless war, poor diet, poor future, never stopped fighting

The American soldier, just out of high school, worried about 21

clothes, social media, a date for the prom, completely unprepared for the rigors of war. Many return home with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, courtesy of hardened enemies unaccustomed to comforts.

(Gary Beck)

Lapse Solemn promises are meant to convey the deepest commitments often meant sincerely, but passage of time, erosion of feelings, so many causes change the nature of earlier intentions, leading to abandonment.

(Gary Beck)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: TERRI METCALFE Cumbria native Terri Metcalfe moved to Ireland with her Mayo born partner and two children in 2019. Considering herself a working class northerner, and from a very down to earth, tools of the practical trade family, she never thought it acceptable that she might be a serious poet, although she’d written since the age of about 15, “Living near Westport, such a hot bed of creative talent, really opened my eyes to the possibilities, and also I realised I was stereotyping all working class northerners by assuming they weren’t interested in poetry, which was exactly the kind of judgement I was trying to avoid!”

Goddess

I am neutral in these clouds of womb comfort.

I am the felt, ovulating moon and I rise to meet the earth’s fabric, piece by soft quilted piece.

I am umbilical cotton spires standing tall above the horizon.

I stand beside the planets, a fixed point of elemental grey counting the remaining druids.

As I enter the world’s lagoon I am osmosis blue, a tidal embryo.

I cry high decibels of red lipped wolves, ripping the night to shreds, desire like galaxies, breaking into threads.

I love through the eyes of a kaleidoscope, a child of love’s burden. 25

I am fearsome as the sun burning energy whale-like as I give life to life, death to life, ashes to the ground.

And when I lie laden with soil I am the grassy knolls of headstones, reborn.

I am goddess and I survive.

(Teri Metcalfe)

Goliath

Mostly I am small as a droplet, the ocean falls away as I become part of the blue swell, breaking to white foam.

I am common as sheep, penned in with the near-static herd I become a faceless number, tagged like livestock for market.

I live in the distances that collide with moons, an empty show and tell, pried by telescopes.

I am muted by rainbows parading themselves with their golden fables. Lies! You are blank skies.

And at times I am desert-vast I cannot see past my own giant, My Goliath roams free.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: TERRY BRINKMAN Terry Brinkman started painting in junior high school. He has had painting shows at the Eccles Art Center and paintings published in the Literary home girl volume 9 & 10, Healing Muse volume 19, (2019), SLCC Anthology (2020), and in the book Wingless Dreamer: Love of Art. Detour and meat for tea; The Bangor literary journal Issue 13 and 15, Barzakh 2022, Cacosa Magazine and The New Ulster.

Terry Brinkman

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JACK STEWART Jack Stewart was educated at the University of Alabama and Emory University. From 1992-95 he was a Brittain Fellow at The Georgia Institute of Technology. His first book, No Reason, was published by the Poeima Poetry Series in 2020, and Jack’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Poetry, The American Literary Review, Nimrod, Image, and others.

Lots Frau by Anselm Kiefer, oil paint, ash, stucco, chalk, linseed oil, polymer emulsion, salt and applied elements (e.g., copper heating coil), on canvas, attached to lead foil, on plywood panels

Lot went out of the door to the men, shut the door after him, and said, “I beg you, my brothers, do not act so wickedly. Look, I have two daughters who have not known a man; let me bring them out to you, and do to them as you please; only do nothing to these men, for they have come under the shelter of my roof.”

Genesis 19:6-8

The sky, stripped bare as a medieval fresco emptied of its saints. No halos anywhere, not even tossed onto the thick ash and oil and emulsion that dominate the plain that stretches toward a point of no return, something beyond the evil of the horizon.

Eventually, the ash and salt will flake onto the marble

of the gallery floor, the stucco chip. Eventually, the title in the foreground— Lots Frau in a childlike hand—will be absorbed into whiteness like she was.

I want to know her name. How her eyes saddened when she packed their belongings, the beds broken down, the robes she made for their daughters. Was she Rivkah? Tamara? Were they Chagit and Tova, celebration and goodness, their wrists dusted with grain from grinding wheat that morning? Were their heads still bowed from the night before when their father offered them to the crowd of men outside? These grays are so desolate. Lot’s wife’s stomach clenched when her husband proposed the girls’ rape.

The plywood this is painted on is as ragged as her cry must have been when she looked back at the destruction, just before she felt the salt hardening her blood white as her scream.

Barely a day later, the girls carried loaves of bread to their father and nodded when he expected them to. In the kitchen, they prodded the ashes back to life and smelled burning houses. For three weeks they did not speak, understanding the viciousness of angels.

(Jack Stewart)

Litany

The litany of parents' deaths Almost at an end, In my 60s, I am still too young To have my friends start dying. Just this year, John, who Left Chicago dawns To their own cold solutions. Then Gregory, gray-bearded as if All of the cigarette smoke Settled there when he gave them up. And now Matthew, who did not agree With me on anything but urgently Offered to drive my mother In the onset of her blindness. Names of popes or saints Or simply a WASP generation Of fathers, they are mine, And is it anger or love That follows them to the edge Of the grave and stands There crushing the rose heads In its fist, refusing to toss

The petals in? The earth stains My fingers like a nicotine Obsession. I won't let words Soften like the cushions I knelt on in yet another church. Once more, clouds Of chrysanthemums Billow on a cross; The scent of fern strengthens. I can't read music To stay on key for any hymn, And what am I to say To the shouldered wood As it passes again?

(Jack Stewart)

Degas’ David and Goliath

Not the usual ballerinas, But, like them, the boy believes In a beyond he does

Not look at in his concentration, Muscles focused more than eyes. His arm is up, like a whip,

And the giant’s head is smudged With red, the bursting blood That runs into his beard.

The entire painting is smudges, From the bright earth To the clouds drifting in

Over the hills behind Goliath, Who stands spread-eagled, His arms stretched out

As if tied to air. The stone that “sunk in his forehead”

Is the rough jewel

Of death’s dark diadem, Balance and grace reclaiming The plain in this moment,

The enemy troops About to crumble Into the distance

like crops in drought. This is the distance created When no one imagined

Wind would spin sand Into pirouettes again. Is it a story about faith

or lack of faith? David stands with knees bent, The scene a tableau

Of confidence that has Vanquished both arrogance And despair,

The birds and sheep still silent As the sliding cello-notes Of the death-groan fade.

(Jack Stewart)

Charcuterie

We’re eating a still life for dinner.

I watched my daughter construct it, Measuring the angles of each Wedge of cheese, each width, Delicately crumbling the edge of the bleu. Then folding the overlapping slices Of the meats, the veined prosciutto A pink river curving between The brie and Manchego, The disks of salami like a ruffled hem.

She chose moon grapes this time And placed them in opposite corners, The stems barely visible, Settled cups of honey and jam Next to the cheeses. A scattering Of pecans and cashews. Ramekins Of green olives. Dried figs. Three kinds Of crackers and toasted slices of a baguette. (My role is the wine, pouring To the right level, making sure

It is cold enough to mist the glass.)

A meal fit for a monogram,

And arranged to be ravaged— Plates stained, crumbs scattered, The butt-ends of bitten figs here and there. A meal that celebrates desire for perfection And hunger for destruction, The residue of emptiness, of fulfillment The same. A slip of wine left in the bottle, Flakes of crust on the tablecloth, A cloudy lip-print on crystal. Cheese and jam smear the blades Of the still-shining knives.

(Jack Stewart)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Heather Sager Heather Sager lives in Illinois, USA. Her most recent poetry appears in Five Willows, The Bluebird Word, Otoliths, Poetry Pacific, Version (9), The Orchards, Red Eft, Magma, Bluepepper, Poets' Espresso, ActiveMuse, Ygdrasil, Shabd Aaweg, The Bosphorus Review of Books, Lothlorien, and more. Heather also writes fiction, most recently for The Fabulist, The Stray Branch, and others.

The Day Trip

When traveling in California, my grandfather and I saw a drive-through redwood tree. An ancient living sequoia had been turned into a tourist attraction —tunneled through so cars can drive through the tree’s ancient core.

Grandfather and I didn’t speak, and I was left to wonder all my life what he thought of this chained, sad redwood. Soon after, Grandfather died, and it was too late.

A landscape painter, silent, brooding, he didn’t often say what was on his mind. If I would have asked him, would he have told me?

I didn’t ask, because on that day we stood together, before that abomination of a sight, my breath caught in distraction amid the shady glade of greens and browns, the otherwise healthy vegetation that surrounded the sickly tree. All these impressions flooded me and, confused, I stayed quiet.

Years later, the single question, the question meant to be asked, arose.

Now, I have a word for how the victimized tree has looked in my memory.

I think it looked embalmed, this hollowed-out tree, even though it was still living.

The bark, that day, a too-gray shade of brown-red-orange,

as SUVs and sedans drove through. Perhaps this color explained why, upon seeing this tree, my breath felt extinguished, my body gray.

The tree not radiant like those other, glistening redwoods I saw when traveling through those many places, free, in California. No strings attached to us, no cars.

(Heather Sager)

West coast wedding

A gin and tonic on the deck sunset on the bay the geoduck hides eyeless in marshy reeds imagine an orca spout a killer whale a keg’s being tapped foamy amber beer smell wrappers and plates left on the floor from the wedding band People mill in suits flower dresses someone dear sobs in the shadows of a tree

(Heather Sager)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MADELINE WHITE Madeline White is a writer and artist who has previously published (Mother of Floods and who has also runs Write On Since its launch in 2019, Write On! Has gone from strength to strength and the online Write On! Extra, launched at the start of the pandemic, has complemented this strong, authentic voice, with Write On! Audio the podcast coming online a year ago. The Write On! Suite of publications showcases writing talent by combining emerging and professional writers and adding and sponsors – literary partners and local businesses – into the mix. Insight into writers lives and voices, along with advice and the latest releases remains at the heart of publications that are passionate about quality and equality, in equal measure. • • • •

See the latest edition here Write On Together shares how you can get involved as partners, sponsors, creatives and writers. The Editor’s Introduction gives up-to-the-minute information around themes and submissions. The Write On! Audio Podcast

Her latest book of poetry is Horse and the Girl published by Lapwing Publications.

Dawn

8th May 2020 (lockdown)

This morning as I ran towards the sea A blooded teardrop hung there, Regarding me reproachfully.

I ran on, my feet pounding empty streets. Their rhythm echoing the heartbeat tracking my progress And the crimson glow pulsed across an endless horizon.

As I turned back, I saw a disk blazing brightly Burning away the yesterdays From a sky willing to light up my today.

(Madeline White)

Reflections 15th May 2020 (lockdown)

As I ran out this morning The cloud-fractured blue Reflected the hue of the dappled sea.

A honeyed warmth spread over me as I looked towards light unfurling, Chasing peaks and troughs of the curling whitecaps.

Then I looked up. But, finding the source too bright I came back to those waves.

It came to me then, that it was equally brave To seek my light there. Its mirrored reflection a safer connection To my reality.

(Madeline White)

Different eyes need different views. 16th May 2020 (lockdown)

I ran out later on today And took a different path Here the horizons weren’t as stark.

But to my surprise, I could look with different eyes: Tasting birdsong on leaves which nodded at my passing Feeling the dappled green boughs whispering over my skin As they formed a victory arch under which I passed.

Even the discarded cardboard fish and chip box had its place.

Its fecund roadside bower making it seem As if the earth had given birth And was now restaking a claim on its making

With seagulls quibbling over contents And the grass nibbling away sharp edges This detritus from human gain. Became Life renewed.

Different eyes need different views. (Madeline White)

The Fighting Seagulls 9th June 2020

As I ran out just after noon My head screamed, ‘NO, it’s far too soon!’ My soul said, ‘open that front door, Put aside what went before.’

Despite the fear and quiet despair that wanted me to stay right there. With feet of clay and veins of lead I followed what the second said.

But I was Blind to the sea, Deaf to the wind, Cold to the sun Until two fighting seagulls interrupted my run.

Posturing pride over territories spied, The life held in angry cries spilling from pavement to road But even so, when a van hit them, they died. Gone in an instant: Outstretched wings, and razored beaks seeking out weakness And remaining: Grey bleakness covered in the redness of death.

Before I could reach to see A car came and did the same. All that was left was a bloody mess. White feathers that had danced in currents of air Forever trapped by the anger that put them there.

(Madeline White)

White Shadows In Memory of Shiloh, RIP July 12th,2020

Go find a white hebe Hold it close Stroke it with fingertips It will feel like my nose.

Next Spring find a catkin Hold it near Touch your lips to the furry down You’ll be nuzzling my ears.

Go catch a white feather Then let it fly And as white shadows the green, green grass You’ll hear my hooves thunder by

Go watch a raindrop It will reflect your blue eyes In them you’ll see mine. Dark rings, azure skies.

I am the cloud that passes I am the breath that lingers I am the white shadow That flits through your mind. 52

I didn’t leave you behind.

Where I have gone you will come Where I am now you will be We’ll rest together, you and I Under an apple tree.

(Madeleine White)

“The Horse And The Girl is a sustained sequence of conversations between Madeleine White and the ‘Horse’ who is her confessor, her comforter and her one true friend. ‘What do you do to look after yourself?’ is taken from the poem ‘Age’: an example of the exquisite relevance the collection has for everyone trying to survive the vicissitudes of life in our times.White shows a considerable ability as a storyteller and poet now and in the future.” Dennis Greig, Publisher

THE SOUND OF SILENCE (Taken from The Girl and the Pony) “Be still,” says the Girl, “I want to listen to the wind making ice-christened branches clatter in the hard frost Squirrel chasing along them after the nut he lost.” So they ride on. hushed stillness following them swallowing them. And the twig cracks and the saddle creaks and the kestrel cries and the Earth sighs. Heavily, moistly, the laden Sky hangs over a hard earthen crust. Violence masked. Eat or be eaten, roots twisting mice nesting, moles digging genesis of life in the sound of silence. And the branch breaks and the saddle creaks and the kestrel cries and the Horse breathes. Listen to the darkness. Clanging against the hazy grey of the Road 56

heavy tyres masking the vastness of what lies beneath. And the stream seeps and the saddle creaks and the rook rattles and the jackdaw cackles. Life is formed in darkness and like the shiny toys of a magpie light can be just noise sometimes shining so brightly it hides the truth. A distant dog barks, an icicle cracks. Horse’s hooves clatter as it shatters

(Madeline White)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: NIAMH MURRAY A recent Communications university graduate, Niamh Murray has always had an interest in and desire to write. From multiple two-page novel attempts and a poetry book in primary school, to blogging and a communications role today, writing is something that Niamh is passionate about and is luckily able to do regularly. She lives in Belfast with her thirty-five houseplants, which she loves (and names) dearly.

Gan teanga, gan anam (Poem) I always was a beautiful speaker You would hear me for miles around I could use my words and tones To paint images only with sound Sentences long and descriptive Vocabulary extensive in range I could convey any thought, hope or message With my words and the way they're arranged I was never a lazy speaker And I was never short for words I could describe precisely what I wanted No vagueness or ambiguity would be heard My language was a thing of beauty One of my finest possessions It made me who I was, really My identity, my pride, a blessing Then I began to lose it No, that's not fair - it was taken I was silenced and my words erased My sense of self, my identity was shaken I was told no one could understand me I was insulted, mocked, and ignored 59

I was threatened, undermined and spoken over Until I almost couldn't take any more But still I longed to speak And I'd do so every now and then It wasn't my memory or skill that I lost But my chances, my opportunities, my permission I never forgot how to shape my tongue or my lips How to move them to create sheer beauty But anytime I made a sound or a peep They'd make an effort to try and mute me I still had my voice, my beautiful voice, I remembered every single sweet word I could try all I wanted I could speak but I wouldn't be heard At first I put up a fight But my resistance gradually grew weaker You would hear me speaking less often A voice once loud, had now become meeker But a part of me never gave up And a part of me will always resist A part of me will always hold on and fight back And trust me, I will persist I mightn't speak as much, but I speak I'm not understood all the time but who cares? The point is I'm being acknowledged

The point is once more, I am heard They can't take my speech away from me They can't silence me anymore I used to mutter, utter and murmur Now I speak and one day I will roar I have hope and I have faith And I know that the day will come When I can say, no - when I can shout the words That are ready to come off my tongue Labhróidh mé, béicfidh mé, éistfidh tú Ní bheidh mé i mo thost Is í seo mo theanga agus maireann sí i gcónaí agus go deo

(Niamh Murray)

Taken

You’re born into a family. A poor family. They struggle to make ends meet, but they get by. A rich family from another town come along and decide that they want to adopt you. They want you, not your brother or sister, just you. They don’t really care about you or want to help you, it’s about power. They want to show that they’re better than your family. It’s what they do. They go to different towns and do the same to other children. They want to show that they can take what they want because they have the power. Money always has the power. Your family don’t want to give you up, but the rich family come with lawyers and papers and a legal battle that your family can’t afford to win. They aren’t able to fight them off and keep you. So, you grow up in the rich family. But you’re never really a part of it. Your adopted parents don’t pay you much attention, and God knows your new brother doesn’t like you. He doesn’t want you in his house, you’re a burden. You should go home. Where you belong. But that’s where you were when they took you. You were home and you were happy. They adopted you but didn’t want you. They treat you with hostility and disdain. You get money, yes. You get clothes, yes. You get things your own family couldn’t give you. But it’s still not “home”. You talk like them, you dress like them. But you’re still not one of them. When they take you home they rename you, to take away your identity and ties to your real family. They can do this, you see. They have the power to do so. You’re called by this name, but you don’t answer to it. You correct people when they say it. Because it’s not your name. It never will be.

As you grow up, you revisit your old town. You see your family and friends. You’re happy to see them, you missed them, you want to be with them. But for some reason they don’t feel the same. You’re not one of them anymore. You don’t dress like them, or talk like them. You’re an outsider. What are you doing here? You’re a traitor. You’re one of “them” now, so go be with them. But you didn’t choose to be one of “them”. They took you. You had no choice. Your adopted family couldn’t be bothered with you anymore, all you do is cost them money and you don’t give them much in return. You were a waste of an investment really. Your real family could try to get you back now, it’s been a long time and they have more money. But it seems like they don’t really want you back now. It seems like they’ve moved on. They’ve learned to live without you. They can sustain themselves. Your old town is different than it was, you see. People are no longer poor. They’re wealthier and happier and the rich families don’t come around anymore, thank God. They haven’t been around in a while. The rich families aren’t nice. So you aren’t nice. So, what do you do? You’re living with a family who don’t like you. They mock people like you, like your real family and from your old town. They make jokes, dress up, they attack people like them. You hate it. You try to stop them, tell them it’s wrong. But, if you don’t like it, go home, you’re told. Go back with these families because it’s where you belong. But where do you belong? You’re not happy with the rich and they’re not happy with you. But you can’t go back to your real family because you’re not welcome there either. It’s too late now to go back. You tried and tried when you were younger, put up numerous fights. But what’s the point if don’t want you anyway? You spend your whole life trying to make them see that you want to be with them, you never wanted to be taken away, you had no choice. But one day they’ll see. One day they’ll realise how desperately you fight and have fought to be back with them. The rich have less control now, they can’t own you forever. Maybe in a few years, when you’re 18. There’s a court case then. Your family can decide if they want you back.

You’ll always be one of them at heart. You never changed. You dress differently, you talk differently, but you act the same. You’re still the you that was taken away. Your old family may not know who you are, and your new family may not either. But you do. You know where you belong and that’s home. Home is Ireland, and you are the north. Niamh Murray

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: OONAH V JOSLIN

Oonah V Joslin (nee Kyle) was born in Ballymena. She was a teacher by profession and has won prizes for both poetry and micro-fiction and served as Poetry Editor in Every Day Poets and The Linnet’s Wings. Her book “Three Pounds of Cells” ISBN: 13: 978-1535486491 is available from https://www.amazon.co.uk/Three-Pounds-Cells-Oonah-Joslin/dp/0993049370 and you can see and hear Oonah read in this National Trust video. The first part of her novella A Genie in a Jam is serialised at Bewildering Stories, along with over 100 other pieces of writing. You can follow Oonah on Facebook.

My Mother Taught me Birdsongs (Deconstructed Birdsong Pantoum) the blackbird and the dove repeat repeat repeat their choruses of love coo hoohoo - I’m a pretty bird - clean yer feet repeat repeat repeat throughout the spring coohoo hoo - what a pretty bird I am - toreador tweet tweet ‘cos it has a nice ring singing throughout the spring the same varied choruses of love all the pretty birds doing their own thing the blackbird and the dove (Oonah V Joslin)

Cheviot Dream (an Aisling) Spring arrives here -- in the proper North real men show no respect -- for changes in climate here -- Summer's a variant of winter darkness abolished -- light dominates loving the zing -- the tingle of May mists southerners are soft -- the penalty an overcoat Mother Cheviot -- feet of solid stone cards wool -- calling her babies home her voice lilting -- lost in coastal frets she greets me – as I were a sister's son wraps me about – in her cloak asks my name (Oonah V Joslin) From Vindolanda My dearest sister, know that I am well here in this most northern garrison. No vines grow here but meat we have and oil and this new road brings regular provision. My wants are few. The local folk have skill in making, doing, mending. My vision of the future is happy but one day I hope we will embrace again. Do write me soon and tell me news from home. (Vindolanda is a Roman fort and museum on Hadrian’s Wall, famous for its letters.) (Oonah V Joslin)

All Our Stuff (a Duplex sonnet) What happens to all our stuff when we’re gone? This last will takes a great deal of discussion. At some stage we must deal with that discussion. Death can deal a sudden blow to any one. It’s always sudden and always a blow. That’s the wind of change that drives us. Stand against it or use it as a propeller. See me flying high for a while but don’t envy my brief moment in the sky. Soon enough the wind will bring me crashing, crashing to earth, all twisted wings and feathers, like so many notes of birdsong, scattered to the breeze, remnants, ashes of a little life. Nobody will care what happens to all our stuff when we’re gone. (Oonah V Joslin)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: SAEED SALIMI BABAMIRI Saeed Salimi Babamiri: Kurdish translator and poet. His published books in Iran are Kurdish translations of “Half an Apple” and “The Mouse's Wedding” a play and a story in verse, both for children. He has many other translations waiting to be published. His major long translation from Kurdish into English verse is “Mam and Zeen” by Ahmad Xanee. It is known as “Kurdish Romeo and Juliet” which is ready to be published

How did you find it in your heart to fill deer dreams full of knives?! To throw stones at peace pigeons and disturb their flying lives! You bloodthirsty magistrates in many years! May you never enjoy a house or any home, because you forbade laughing and made us burst into tears. How on earth can you be from earth, when you throw dough and dust on a rose ring, when you put some dying snakes on the path of growing and rising. Shame on you! You by cement spoiled springs and hopes, You were only men of devil when you became a lullaby song and made hanging loops out of baby cradle ropes. May you be wiped off the face of the earth, when you scatter seeds of darkness and cut off bright words and my mirth. (Saeed Salimi Babamiri)

EDITOR’S NOTE I apologize for the delay in this issue there’s been a lot going on lately and time seems incredibly short, it hasn’t helped that my eye sight has been playing up. It turns out that one of the medications has been causing issues with my vision I’ve Glaucoma, its manageable and there’s no permanent damage which is a relief but it has impacted on my ability to work as either an editor, a publisher or as an artist so a lot of things ended up delayed. We’re no where near finished with the journal and will continue to produce for as long as I’m able, I’m going to need to do a lot of work on the website in the near future and that’s going to be a time-consuming process as I need to transfer all of the issues from the old website over as it no longer works properly and many of the issues that were on it have disappeared leaving nothing but broken links. I’m also afraid that the hard copy edition saw its price go up due to costs by the printers and supply chain woes and that we cannot currently be read in a number of countries either online or in paperback that’s a shame and completely out of my hands right now. Happy reading, good health, and keep creating, Amos Greig (Editor)

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 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: 73

The Horse And The Girl Madeleine White

Launching June 27th: “Uplifting, joyful, thought-provoking and wonderful." Madeleine’s debut collection, The Horse And The Girl is a series of 30 linked narrative poems, conversations between the ‘Horse And The Girl,’ looking at issues such as relationships, climate change, growing older, life, death and change in general. It offers a wry, poignant look at the world around us, with a strong environmental slant. The collection has been written from the perspective of a woman in middle age and the relationship she has with her horse and is based along the coast and marshlands of east Kent. Although not strictly ‘ballad’ form, they form a ‘contemporary ballad.’ Says Madeleine: “I wrote the first poem on a day where I was feeling quite down and put it on my Facebook page. I had a flurry of responses: significantly more than usual, in fact. There were a number of comments, including one that they could see this as the start of a series. Evidently, so could I… as the rest of the work, based on my own experiences with my mare Lucie, came pouring out in a relatively short space of time.”

Paperback £10

Digital £4

ISBN 978-1-7396447-3-4 Page Count 56

As well as being original and authentic, the voices in The Horse And The Girl are relevant. They call on us to embrace life and the world we live in, the message being that if we notice the small things, we have a better chance of seeing the big picture. The Horse And The Girl is currently being serialised on BBC Radio Kent, playing every Tuesday between 9-10pm until early July. You can hear People from the collection on this link: https://bit.ly/people-poem-horse-and-girl . Selected ARC reader comments: Mary Walsh, Leader Barking Foxes, Poetry Stanza “The collection explores many of the environmental issues we face today and also the joy and tranquillity of wandering through the wild places that remain in the countryside. Uplifting, joyful, thought-provoking and wonderful." An office worker in her early forties: “My friend’s parents died fairly recently, and her horse has been her coping strategy. I think she would love The Horse And The Girl.” A dog owner in her early fifties: “I love them, I feel like I've been on an adventure with you. The Gift Horse brought tears to my eyes and the ending with the boy is just perfect. Can't wait for them to be published.” An accountant in her forties: “I particularly like the use of a horse and the girl sharing their journey. You cleverly link the literal sense of a hack, with the journey of life (and death). I can hear your voice in them, from your early first experience on a horse to how connected you feel to them and how grounded they keep you. I do see your target market being women of a similar age to us. However, I also see a market within positive mindfulness. The grounding nature of your work was very uplifting and very mindful; all particularly apt at the present time when our mental health needs more TLC.” An equestrian ‘influencer’ in her thirties. Once a competition ride, now an instructor: “It's a great read Madeleine! Particularly appealing to me is the references to age and time and mindfulness. It really strikes a chord with me personally and I can relate to the need to enjoy the moment and your surroundings. I felt like I was there with you and the horse. It made me consider my work/ life balance.” Corporate mediator in her fifties: “Fabulously relatable on a number of different levels, as well as transporting the reader with their beauty. Really love how your humour comes through too!”

Madeleine White was born in Germany, with roots in Canada and the UK. Having produced a number of national and international web and print magazines, over the last three years she has focussed on being founder/editor of the Write On! suite of publications. As well as being published in a number of magazines and journals, Madeleine also the authored the 2020 speculative debut novel Mother Of Floods and, audio drama, The Ark, reached the top 50 in the Apple podcast charts.

Madeleine White is available for interviews in support of The Horse And The Girl.

For Trade Enquiries, Digital ARC review copies or to book a speaking event for your creative writing group, university faculty or book group, contact: madeleinefwhite@hotmail.com +44 (0) 790 483 5188 You can also buy copies directly from the website: www.lapwingpoeety.com Publisher: Lapwing Publications Postal Address: Lapwing Publications 1 Ballysillan Drive Belfast BT14 8HQ

A New Ulster 115

Articles inside

Prose Michael Boyle

Editor’s Note

Poetry Saeed Salimi Babamiri

Poetry Oonah V Joslin

Painting Terry Brinkman