A New Ulster issue 56 / ANU May edition by Amos Greig

ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of Gary Beck, Paul Laughlin, James Anthony Rooney, Edgar Rider, K.L. Freebird, Edward Lee, Niall McGrath, Deirdre Dowling, Marc Carver, Dave Schwartz, Gregory Arena, Steve Klepetar, Bob Eager, Davey Macmanus, Catherine Kullman and Nancy Quinn. Hard copies can be

purchased from our website.

Issue 56 May 2017

A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website Editorial

Contents

Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden

Gary Beck;

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Short Duration Abundant Tears Record Keeping Business As Usual The More Decieved

Paul Laughlin; 1. Conflict Studies James Anthony Rooney; 1. Spirit 2. Louâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pet was a sausage dog 3. Is Cubism a Metaphor of a Compartmentalised Existence? Bob Eager; 1. Conundrum of Confabulation K.L. Freebyrd; 1. Hunting Edward Lee; 1. Yes 2. Parasite 3. Truth On The Small Screen As Doubt Is Stretched Wide 4. Educational To Say The Least Niall McGrath; 1. Anathema 2. Black Goddess 3. Job Done 4. The Boulevardier Deirdre Dowling; 1. The Dance 2. The Last Stand 3. The Watch 4. Sliding Down 5. Pipe-Dreams 2

6. 7. 8. 9.

Socrates A Love Song The Dance Landscape

Marc Carver; 1. The Big Question 2. Lost 3. Lonely Man Dave Schwartz; 1. Cold Cold 2. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve Never Write Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve Never Wrote 3. Where Was I Standing When I Lost My Balance 4. I Got Lost in The Desert Gregory Arena; 1. The Sorrows Stephen F Klepetar; 1. Pawning My Guitars 2. Dancing on the Road 3. Marcel Marceau 4. God of Winds 5. The Woman Who Read the Signs Davey Macmanus; 1. The Mermaids with Wings 2. Starlings of the Galaxies 3. The Scarecrow Assassins 4. Death of a patient On The Wall Message from the Alleycats Round the Back 1. Catherine Kullman Interview 2. Nancy Quinn Interview

Poetry, prose, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Or via PEECHO Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://anuanewulster.wixsite.com/anewulster Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland. All rights reserved The artists 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) Cover Image â&#x20AC;&#x153;Stalkerâ&#x20AC;? by Amos Greig

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis. Editorial You never know where your journey will take you I never thought that I would ever be an editor of a literary magazine especially a monthly based one which has such a global following. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without your support and I hope to keep delivering a service for new and established writers. We bring to you an issue full of poetry and prose presenting a slice of verse and voices from around the world. Each issue continues to amaze me with the talent that is out there. Of course A New Ulster wouldn’t be what it is without the poets and artists who submit their work each month and this issue features some very strong material as well as some first time writers we also have some established names for you. We have prose and traditional poetry formats for you to explore I am just a gatekeeper and today the door is open once more. Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

2017 has started off with something of a whimper rather than a bang political change, false news and false flag attacks make poetry more important now than ever before each poet can use their work to address social issues or fan the flames of hope.

Amos Greig Editor.

Biographical Note: Gary Beck Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks and 3 more accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines & Tremors (Winter Goose Publishing). Perturbations, Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response(Nazar Look). Resonance (Dreaming Big Publications). Virtual Living will be published by Thurston Howl Publications. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press), Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing) and Call to Valor (Gnome on Pigs Productions). Sudden Conflicts will be published by Lillicat Publishers and State of Rage by Rainy Day Reads Publishing. His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

Short Duration (Gary Beck) Unless we are fortunate, inflictions visit regularly, affecting the search for joy often neglected in the search for subsistence, easy for some a tribulation for many, ingested in a world of plenty, so divided, so chaotic, that few prosper, must do without, while the comfortable never notice the suffering of the multitudes.

Abundant Tears (Gary Beck) Confined on a tiny sphere in a vast universe, humanity seethes with anger, hatred, greed, driving the engine of war, terror, acquisition, acts of destruction on a battered globe not large enough to shelter us from violent assault on daily efforts to endure encroachment.

Record Keeping (Gary Beck) Across the world wars rage, so many I did not know there were so many ways, so many reasons to kill each other.

But we are consistent in never allowing peace to last very long, always ready to respond to the call for battle, death and destruction our heritage, our recurring gift to our children to continue violence, more savage then our forbears who could not conceive of the power we created to eradicate our enemies. 10

Business As Usual (Gary Beck) A corporation markets its product, car, medication, whatever, and later we discover itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s defective, and lose life, limb, tranquility, permanently disrupted because in the lust for gain, profit more important than the public well-being.

The More Deceived (Gary Beck) Yearning for the past is the thermometer of the present, measuring dissatisfaction, a common phenomenon afflicting many, who believed the promises of elected leaders that all will be well.

Biographical Note: Paul Laughlin Paul Laughlin lives in Derry. He has published two collections with Lapwing Press, Narratives (2010) and The New Accord (2013). His poetry has appeared in anthologies and journals including Cyphers, Field Day Review, Prairie Schooner and the Stony Thursday Book..

Conflict Studies (PAUL LAUGHLIN) You watched them preen for the press Emerging from conflict With no show of remorse To scurry to the studios Pledging peace with those they hate In a new accommodation You wondered what it was for All that clamour for war To defend or destroy a state Build a better dispensation Or for nothing at all You saw them lean on one another To hold themselves in place Heard them call it common ground When it was a circle of disgrace You studied how it came to a close And what at length crept from it But you knew all along how history shows That truth becomes debased by belief When belief is divorced from all basis in truth

Biographical Note: Jim Rooney

Jim Rooney lives in Skerries, despite it being a place sadly abused as a location for mobile phone and fast food adverts. He sees poetry as being a section of the media too, after all it is a form of communication; but regrets that it is widely regarded as being somewhat â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;pansyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. This pains him, because in certain parts of the world poets are incarcerated, or even executed, because of their work. He feels poetry can be more serious than a lot of people think. His collection of poems called Molly awaits publication.

Spirit

It was a bad Christmas, having a coronary malfunction Halfway through the Christmas pudding. He grabbed at a red cracker as if onto a rope But then fell back anyway. Lou blamed the stress of the situation, As the heart monitor was going berserk The Dodo walked into the cardiac theatre Right through the wall, noiselessly through a medication trolley Over to where Lou was standing Anxiously waiting for medical care for his father. When the doctor picked up the electric pads Ready to do a jump start The Dodo pecked Lou in the thigh, And with spicks and spacks quacked out “Is this the way to Mauritius?” It was irritating being distracted at this critical moment. Without thinking Lou told him to, “Go buy a sat-nav.” As his father jumped on the gurney it occurred to Lou, Where had he learned to speak Dodo? Satisfied the heart was bleeping correctly The doctors left and Lou’s father came to. “Did you see a damn Dodo?” he asked.

James Rooney

Louâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pet was a sausage dog Inappropriately named Rasher. She was bowed in the centre As if an invisible rider pushed her down Or she got bent like a wire and was never straightened. He loved Rasher, She comforted him through his divorce, The sudden death of his father, When he got smashed by larger louts, And the time Revenue sequestrated his innards. After going broke Lou used the dog as a pillow Other times a hot water bottle A draught extruder And an emotional punch bag. As part of Louâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s elaborate courting ritual, egged on Rasher was specially trained to tangle in other dogs leads. A Disneyesque ruse, until one day An Alsatian bit half her ear off. Lou cut up bad about this, but preserving He fitted him with a dog-head designed rugby cap. Rasher wore it with magnanimity But being a proper sausage She never felt used. James Rooney

Is Cubism a Metaphor of a Compartmentalised Existence Lo Lou

James Rooney

Biographical Note: Bob Eager Bob Eager hangs out In the Old Town Artistic District gazing at the multitude of Scottsdale Galleries. Bob has been published in Tuck Magazine, Stray Branch, Vision With Voices and Oddball Magazine. He recites poetry on video channel called Charisma Corner.

Conundrum of Confabulation By Bob Eager Distorted beyond conscious intentionAnother thought, Lost in Fabrication; Attributed to a possible Memory loss, And more likely a Disturbance in surrounding energy. Riddle me this confusion saysâ&#x20AC;Ś Kayfabe spelled backwards is To (Be fake), Who knew.. Concerning a Story that serves your purpose. Future problem possibly speaking. Misinterpreted memories swept under the proverbial rug; Puts it in a peculiar position.. And in turn discombobulated and yet again, Left with a bad pun indeed.

Biographical Note: K.L. Freebyrd

K.L. Freebyrd is a freelance Christian poetry and prose writer, and keystyle artist. She has been published in several collaborative books as well as ezines and blogs. Her poetry is deeply emotional and insightful to the many seasons of one's life.

Hunting (K.L. Freebyrd)

You’ve been staring at my photograph Wishing it was me But it’s just a twisted fragment Of what you’d like me to be So you string it right up next to All the memories you like best The lonely lies you swallow And the lovers you collect Then you sell me that we’re soul mates That you just can’t live without As you dissect the splayed out image With every empty word that escapes your mouth I long for you to see the truth As it tenderly unfolds My hope rises and dies again for you Lost and waiting in the cold

Biographical Note: Edward Lee

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

YES Inside you, after the moment, we are both silent, still, our ragged breath held in our throats; this is a heaven I can offer eager thanks to, this moment of silent pleasure, our skin alive, our hearts hammering in our sweat painted chests.

Edward Lee

PARASITE Lying on the dying grass I notice the bare bulb of the sun is gathering dust and cobwebs, proof, if proof were needed, of our neglect of its place above us, our place beneath it, as we colour our skins with cancers and dead ink, and think this world will never continue to spin without us.

Edward Lee

TRUTH ON THE SMALL SCREEN AS DOUBT IS STRETCHED WIDE Crying rape in a crowded movie theatre, the buttered popcorn brigade kept chewing, their glazed eyes never leaving the screen as it flashed its oversized lifeless lies. While the girl with the now broken voice covered herself and wished to disappear before the credits rolled and the movie-goers rose from their seats, least their sutured, sugared minds turn to her and find fault in the pain in her eyes.

Edward Lee

EDUCATIONAL TO SAY THE LEAST It wasn't until she was born that I realised she would be an individual, her own self, unique, carrying her own opinion, even if that opinion at the beginning was I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm cold. And as she grew, she only became more her self, more unique, more capable of elaborating her opinion with her developing voice, more unlike any uneducated and archaic notions I might have attached to her in her embryonic state. She is me, she is her mother, she is herself, and woe betide the man or woman who thinks to dampen her roar, (I know of what I speak!) for her roar will never be silenced, and all shall know its sound, all shall know that someone is coming to leave their mark on the world.

Edward Lee

Biographical Note: Niall McGrath Niall McGrath was the editor of Belfastâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Black Mountain Review (1999-2006) and has been published in numerous journals internationally and has read across Ireland and Britain. Niall has several collections published by Lapwing Publications including Clay, Treasures of the Unconcious and The Way It Is

Niall McGrath ANATHEMA (i.m John Tyndall)

Forget advances in alpinism and glacier motion - those in Chile and Colorado named for me, mountains in Tasmania and California the contributions on magnetism, radiation and sterilization, forget everything about me: not that I sought glory, was content to share credit with fellow scientists â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and how I enjoyed youthful perambles in my native Ireland, assisting with ordnance surveying of the country. I was in my prime, married at fifty-five, on lecture tours across the globe, no reason to expect such a swift downfall: am I vindicated, to have believed a priest-ridden society would be a recipe for disaster? Where other physicists feared to tread I followed Huxley and Darwin, asserted at a Science Association meeting in the Black North of the virtues of the separation of reason and faith. The church, in implacable, infallible wisdom, denounced me, declared me anathematised. Although I made Surrey home, 29

cartoonists caricatured me as if I were some Old Testament prophet. Book sales kept me, despite the stress, the long, slow deterioration, eased by draughts of chloral hydrate until poor Louisa administered a drop too much. My widow was keen to defend my standing, laboured over my papers intimately, as only a lover may caress, yet so unwilling to let go forty years later at her own passing the biography remained undone. And so I was erased as much through an act of love as the shunning detractors wished upon me. A sacrificial offering, I was diamagnetic to my milieu. Perhaps a time for consecration may still come.

Niall McGrath BLACK GODDESS

I should have sympathy for you. But I have none. You are indifferent to the devastation you wreak on others. You are vicious in your fragility, as brutal as an animal in your predation.

I should have forgiveness in my heart but I would not feign it. Forgiveness is God’s business, not mine. It might unravel this knot, unscroll the vortex of fractured, twisted layers, this blemished, distended onion my soul has become. Because I cannot, like you, be false – though your pretence is so unconscious it is utterly credible, the white goddess is actually black as coal, that transfers darkness to whatever, whomever is within reach – because I cannot like you and so many fictionalise, I join the wolves in the night that howl. Their cries may be derision for they hunt – the pack cares not what creature is ripped by their teeth, what creature is torn 31

by their selfish hunger. But I care; like some few; as the white goddess would care; as the geniuses of the forest would whine like cock-headed spaniels desiring affection, desiring the authentic.

As white witches devour souls in bonfires of hatred when mortals disappoint, betray, so you have transformed my life to ash.

If only you had the courage of a white witch to consume Germanic air, stifle those sour-milked lungs that spew out lies.

But you are black, black as the boot on the foot of the marching hoards, black as the sheen of the feathers on the back of the big fat crow that looms on the branch spying, waiting, watching for a moment of distraction, a moment of weakness, to whizz like an arrow.

You get what you want and are never satisfied.

And you know the cost of nothing. And the value of nothing. Waste is all you wreak. Waste and destruction.

Here comes the black cat, with her seductive mewls, ready to punish in a fantasia of untruth. Click the key, abuse the door until she wheedles in. But let the dream unfold as the cat curls on the couch, let the myth reel regardless. Forget that a world collapses unseen, out in the black night of the universe – just one star slipping into a black hole – out in the centre of the lawn, as the mower circles, circles, the fugitive gardener on its dark green back, eyes blurring, heart breaking unseen.

Are we not one being but a bundle of unfinished lives entwined as a cable of energy? Carrying a spark from one point to another. Carrying a pulse that may transmit a useful power, that provides for others and, as it does so, throbs with the bright aura shared with enticing, beautiful energies, the shining stars of our heavens – 33

the beautiful great aunts and their sons who died of brain haemorrhages at sixteen, the lovely girls who committed suicide in frustration at their adulterous husbands, the gallant fellows who dared to leave home to defend home by facing thunderous artillery, the resilient folk who plod on, with the plough, at the computer screen, along the wards and corridors of the theatres of their undream-like existences;

or may dissipate and, as it does so, it spits like some purgatorial gargoyle, unaware of its own ugliness, its own capacity to wreak inestimable havoc.

Before the beginning is the legendary couple, whose own paradise was rent by impurity and deception. And did that serpent slip into a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bed only to curl up like a black cat and sleep, or did the scaly reptile entice and enforce unearthly heat beneath sheets and blankets?

Was that the progenitor of secrets and lies?

The attraction of multi-colourful cottons and silks, the exotic tastes and sounds swirling with the freedom 34

to explore concepts of mind and spirit liberated from the tight-bowed laces and drab browns and slate greys of rainy Irish streets, as the black goddess strays to the island in the lough. Where once saints dwelt, now the disaffected, the disturbed and disturbing seek solitude and association. But there is always the necessity to provide, so others venture to the market town to barter and beg, leaving two behind. Knowledge now points to which enticed which, who seduced whom: the bronze god, the black goddess.

Where there is sin, there is always need to confess or gloat. When it comes, there are the hurt and the excusing. And the excusing may absolve sin with a ritual shower like a stroll in spring rain. But the hurt nurse their bruises such a long time, with such an enormity of grief. Like relatives returning to a grave every year on cemetery Sunday to tend the bruise that marks their loss, so the hurt must abide this infliction eternally. It squats on their lives like a black cat leaping onto the lap just when you want to go do a chore, go greet a new friend, go get on with something, anything else.

The western god was offspring of another of the serpentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s victims. Was that some unconscious, karmic revenge? 35

We use one another, mutually, sometimes often, we are altruistic though we do not chose to be, it is forced on us by circumstance - we are not always altruistic, sometimes we chose a break from serving others, mammon, chose to indulge our own desires, find a willing accomplice.

The god of silver may be a refuge in a hostile world, a mistakenly sympathetic voice amidst a cacophony of scorn in a lonely existence, in a terrifying place where simply existing is not sufficient and survival always comes at a high cost. Despite which, we betray those who care about us: the black goddess sets the god of silver tingling and jingling like a chaotic purseful of coin, scatters his dreams into gutter silt, pearls in pig muck, shatters another life. Holds his head as he drowns. When he resurfaces, gasping for air, she is gone.

It should have been another wore the crown. This black princess stole the laurel wreath. Though she was unworthy, she stole time itself.

With false words and the pretty words of others she wore him down, until the god of the north 36

believed. Was deceived. Was able to maintain the illusion for so, so long.

It was beyond the end of time that reality was revealed: like drifting from the blue planet in a metal orb, only when orbiting the moon is the real shape of the world before us truly seen.

Reports reveal hidden secrets. Past secrets. Uncover lies.

Pain prevents reflection on so much â&#x20AC;&#x201C; deceptions, intimidations, so much agony conveying the causes would reopen scars like fissures erupting, the lava of hell escaping, to burn, choke, turn everything to unbearable fire.

I am not responsible for your sin. I am a victim of your sin, do not include me as an accomplice in your sinning.

But one great sin has to be countenanced: it dares speak its name â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the embracing to the bosom of the soul 37

a demon thine equal â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the black god. The false idol, with the hair of gold, the golden calf with the golden calves and limbs of alabaster, devourer of the innocent and their innocence, enjoyer of the surprised, like lamped rabbits rooted to the spot as he cavorts in Priapic wildness, enjoyed against their will and against the nature of this world or any other plane of existence except those pure evil inhabit.

The devil is strong, his power is vast, hence the attraction, hence the explanation that so many submit. But I will not submit to the black devils, I make my stand, I stand to protect my innocents.

As I stand, I face derision, ridicule, incredulity, defamation. But I face it all, and face it down. For I have looked upon the face of the black goddess and I will protect the innocent from that beguiling.

And, one day, the shadows will evaporate; pure sunlight will comfort and nourish. When that day comes, I know the reign of the black goddess will be at an end. 38

And life will once again be not just a matter of survival, but a chance of living.

Niall McGrath JOB DONE (7th May 1945)

Jackboots echoed from hall tiles; their heels clicked when they whisked in and saluted. Then, gone. They’d already signed. Under his desk, as Ike spoke sternly, his Scottie growled. Cameras flashed, capturing the conqueror. Forlornly, he asked his staff to accompany him in those wee hours to the chateau at Reims where a dozen of them sipped champagne till dawn. No shows of elation; unspoken acknowledgement of how hard they’d campaigned, of those who had not cheated fate’s ruthlessness. One by one, they crashed in their armchairs. The clock ticked.

Niall McGrath THE BOULEVARDIER

haunts Fountain Place like a whiff from the drains; always has time to sip an Americano to while away an hour or two in the afternoon, to amuse like a parochial gigolo

while others are earning an honest buck. He blogs, venting spleen; He tweets about those down on their luck. He catches out politicians

He considers uncultured, uncouth. The prejudices of his own youth Are de rigueur to him even if Othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; are the ultimate source of grief.

He always leaves dregs in the cup, Just as he leaves lovers Unfulfilled or friends to leave the tip And with a tab to cover.

Just as he left several college degrees A mere graduand; Living off an inheritance in rented digs; Slithers away, a phantasm.

Biographical Note: Dierdre Dowling Dierdre lived near the Navan Road in Dublin 7. She went to the Dominican Convent, Cabra, Dublin and Loreto Convent Balbriggan. Went to University College Dublin in her mid 30s with three children in school and received a B.A. Hons in History and the History of Art. Dierdre worked free lance for RTE radio as a scriptwriter. Worked with her then husband in small film company making documentaries. Moved to New York in 2006 and .met and married Art Brown. Art died in January 2014. During last eight years she has written plays and poetry/ One play performed in off off Broadway 'Dray Horse'; Other plays performed readings at Kingston, NY,Beacon NY, Poughkeepsie NY. Poetry published in the ASK Poetry Book and on a number of occasions in Chronogram Magazine..

The Dance (Dierdre Dowling) He smiled and she Longing to be sipped Passed his white picket-fence and Leapt to the place of the beat. Ebony and ivory played sweetly Swaying gently with the melody Until the sound ground to a hum and whistle And a chill slowed her step. Tango, Tap or Rhumba Nothing could stay the Fates The music ended with a clash of cymbals As the last strains faded out the open door. The Last Stand Wearing a pale green suit She stands beside her battered bag Forefinger across thin lips An image flits to her boy's bony knee. Freeing a foot from narrow shoe She placed it on the cold stone floor And feeling the chill seep through she said: 'My son has gone to park the car'. Two hours passed like the fluttering of bats No one saw a slip dip A run climb softly up her leg Or how the candles lit his face when he was four.

The Watch (Dierdre Dowling) He wore it on his right When illness frayed his interest No longer left beside the bed Where we lay tightly buckled. Now, resting the face on my left And closing the worn strap I see how taut his time Until our tie was all that mattered. 2013 Sliding Down The looking glass talks back To a white headed map Hold tight it says, for a final slide Down, down to the end with a mighty bump. Pipe-dreams A man lay scratching As though his life was on the line Waking He rose From his rock And walked away. 2010 Socrates A girl waits Among sharp shapes For a chance To dance And twist and twirl Like the child she was Her father led her To the question Without an answer.

A Love Song (Dierdre Dowling) She lay with dusty thoughts As day turned to gloaming. Wild hair fanned her pillow Spider fingers played an old tune Flakes of tired cells floated "I think you do", she said To a song sung long ago But never heard before.

The Dance He smiled and she Longing to be sipped Passed his white picket-fence and Leapt to the place of the beat. Ebony and ivory played sweetly Swaying gently with melody Until the sound ground to a hum and whistle And a chill slowed her step. Tango, Tap or Rhumba Nothing could stay the Fates The music ended with a clash of cymbals As the last strains faded out the open door.

Landscape A ruin where once a mansio stood Peered through two openings At a changed view Her story throngs every crease and line Of the old landscape.

Biographical Note: Marc Carver Marc Carver has had ten collections of poetry published and over two thousand poems published on the net but all that really matters to him is that people send him emails telling him they enjoyed his work.

THE BIG QUESTION (Marc Carver) I walked in the wind and rain. "Marc what do you really want?" I said. Before I could answer the wind had taken the words away. But the question still remained.

LOST As I lay in the garden naked I see a flock of birds heading south I think they are migrating for the winter then I realize it is not winter. Five seconds later they come back the other way. stupid birds are lost. A bit like me.

LONELY MAN (Marc Carver) A young woman came and sat by me as I sat in the town centre staring out into space. It made me feel better less alone. As time went on she even moved down the seat and got closer to me as she stared into her phone. It made me feel warm inside. I could smell her perfume and a little sweat too but the sweat could have been mine. She must have sat there for twenty minutes before she got up to leave. I almost thanked her when she left what for I don't know making me feel better I suppose.

Biographical Note: Dave Schwartz

Dave Schwartz was the former President of "Seed House", an online, interfaith community forum. He has also published three books - " A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue" (1994), "Midrash and Working Out Of The Book" ( 2004), and most recently "Shards and Stanzas" (2011). When not writing Dave spends time volunteering in the community with Meals on Wheels.

Cold Cold (David Schwartz)

I am glad when spring occurs We get to see the happy birds The robin and the lark and pawn But I'm most happy the cold is gone The sun is close to the earth And then and there we shan't get burnt and I'm glassed it dozens not hurt Like the cold, cold winter brunt

I've Never Write I've Never Wrote (David Schwartz)

I've never write I've never wrote A letter to Santa,that old goat No post card, no email either Not him, nor eager even and either never did I wright to him Nor not will I never at least till it stops being August or September

Where Was I Standing When I Lost my Balance (David Schwartz)

Where was I standing when I lost my balance Over by the railway shop' Or over my the palace And why o why was the king Out there yelling in my ear And where were you when I did fall Not like Dumpy off the wall But such as a child who climbs And plays within magic Instead of the rhymes

I Got Lost In THe Desert (David Schwartz)

I got lost in the desert so I lost my thoughts Lost my hair and lost my bons I kept looking around Listening for any sound To pick me up and turn me around But then it just turned to be winter and like I always always winter Where did all my thoughts go

Biographical Note: Gregory Arena

Gregory Arena is 54 and lives in Bergamo in Northern Italy. When not writing or teaching he spends time with his wife and daughter or goes trekking, mountain-biking, and cross-country skiing. He has published a fair amount of short stories and poems in Small Press publications.

The Sorrows by Gregory Santo Arena

‘I saw (dimly relieved upon the dark background of my dreams) the imperfect lineaments of the awful sisters. Theses sisters – by what name shall we call them? If I say simply, “The Sorrows”, there will be a chance of mistaking the term; it might be understood of individual sorrow, - separate cases of sorrow, - whereas I want a term expressing the mighty abstractions that incarnate themselves in all individual sufferings of man’s heart; and I wish to have these abstractions presented as impersonations, that is, as clothed with human attributes of life, and with functions pointing to flesh. Let us call them, therefore, Our Ladies of Sorrow. I know them thoroughly, and have walked in all their kingdoms. Three sisters they are, of one mysterious household.’ Thomas De Quincey

prologue

‘Allo! I’m Vanessa Feltz and welcome to the best bits of my show. Today we have Peter Sands with us. Allo Peter and welcome to our show. So, tell me about your horrible, heartbreaking experiences...’ ‘Well firstly, I must say I’m tired, cold, and weak and I love you.’ ‘Oh, thank you Gregory, I mean Peter. Spare me my blushes. But why do you use this daft pseudonym “Peter Sands”...obviously your surname Arena means sand and— ‘Stupidity, mostly.’ ‘And is it true that you had an ex that you refer to as the “iena” -- which is Italian for jackal -- that actually said that when you held your daughter’s hand occasionally that you looked like a paedophile and she looked like a young prostitute?’ ‘Well. Yes, actually.’ ‘What a bitch. Divorced fathers are really treated terribly...’ 53

Unum

Sands had been thinking about Vanessa Feltz all morning. But now he decided it was time to stop thinking and go to the gym. He needed to hurry because Lulu was expecting him that evening and he did not want to be late. Like Ryan Air he always accumulated delays in the late afternoon and evening notwithstanding his best efforts to the contrary. Unfortunately, he kept on thinking about Lulu, or rather one of the first things she had ever told him. She was referring to Sand’s daughter, Mary: ‘she’d be the same age as Mary. I still remember seeing the scan...’ Sands had almost certainly imagined the “she” part, but not the rest. Sands quickly got his gym kit together, dashed out the door, and said hello to the jobsworth, perpetually smiling, foreign concierge. Then he walked out of his gaudy Gaudiesque 1960s block of flats, the lodge and gate of which looked like the entrance to a kitsch swimming lido. A few seconds later he was crossing the small park above the underground multi-storey whilst scratching his shaven head. He had given his bonce the coup de grace a few years back when a mortgage and his ex wife had already made most of his hair fall out -- sadly and in a most undignified manner at the back of his head and not the temples. The poor park was either overgrown in near-yard high vibrant weeds or razored, scorched brown, and full of dog pooh as now in the month of August. Sands squinted his brown eyes against the fierce summer sun. Fifty years ago the whole surrounding area had been fields, downs, and streams that surrounded the 17th century outskirts of the historical centre of this North Italian city Borgo Vecchio where Sands lived. Sands was coming out of the park now and crossing the road to the pizzeria opposite. The gym was another fifty yards further down the road and a total of one hundred from his front door. Since his social life was a disaster -- not in the sense of soul mate e romance since he considered that a done deal some time back -- the gym made up for things. At least he felt in shape. But he considered this cold compensation for his saddo social life. It seemed every sort of person he came across was incredibly selfish, opportunist, 54

and superficial. Part of that was due to his living in Italy. But only part. Usually Italians were quite forthcoming and approachable -- but not as of late and certainly not with Sands. So he decided to concentrate on his 13-year-old daughter --who his nasty exwife had decided to spirit 300 miles away, his writing, and the silly old gym. ‘Hello Peter,’ Elena said. She had appeared like Morgan le Fay right in front of him and in his road. She was a barrier between him and salvation: the gym, that lovely man cave with only fabricated sex stories and no ‘I-mean-the-opposite-of-what-I’msaying’ femininity. ‘Allo,’ Peter Sands said trying to sound resigned, self-assured, and self-confident all at once in a brave-faced facade. ‘But when are we going to see each other?’ she purred her gorgeous brown eyes flickering whilst she fingered her jet black hair that fell about her beautiful swarthy Mediterranean face. She always went on like this and when they had first met at a happy hour weeks ago she had declared herself single and then about a quarter of an hour later modified and elaborated saying she had been going out with the same geezer for five years. ‘Oh,’ Sands had replied. He had already felt silly enough frequenting a happy hour, but he could get a non-alcoholic fruity cocktail and all the yummy nosh he wanted for four euro -- which was less than buying bits at the supermarket. Ten minutes later Sands had broken away from Elena and was in the sanctity of the changing room sans the campy gays who always complimented him on his attire. And now Sands was trying to negotiate the bench press with Matteo’s help. Matteo was one of the trainer’s in the gym and one of the most cheerful and approachable people Sands had ever known in his entire life. Sands was stretched out on the bench with 100 kilos above him: the bar weighed twenty and the four red Lego-like discs on either side were ten a piece. Sands concentrated and cleared his head. Even the horrible pop music bouncing about the gym disappeared. Sands thought about Filippo an old trainer who no longer worked there and who had sorted out a programme for him. He also thought about what he had always said to psych Sands up: ‘canone!’. ‘Canon’ in the sense of explode, push for all you’re worth...

Sands had just got up ninety kilos and it seemed nearly easy. He was convinced Matteo was helping him pulling up with his spindly arms. Or maybe Sands’ dehydration drink was really a magic Asterix potion... Sands took three deep breaths and thought Filippo, canone swiping all his thoughts. Then one almighty push and grunt after the bar had come down slowly and controlled and after Sands had heard Matteo’s ‘via!’, Push! Go! And Sands had. Up, up it went: there was only the darkness. Sands always kept his eyes closed and did not think. No bills, no debts, psychotic girlfriend, bitchy ex wife, bitchy ex girlfriend who lived one hundred yards away. Just the darkness and his chest and arms exploding... Then there was a thud as the bar settled down brusquely on the bench press’ hooks having just barely made its slow upward journey up there. Sands was breathless and nearly weeping. Matteo kept on saying ‘da solo, da solo’, ‘on your own, by yourself...’

Duo

Sands was tonning down an A road with Vivaldi blaring. Lulu always became agitated when he was even twenty minutes late. Granted it was basically his fault. He had only wanted to do a proper complete workout today as he had just returned last night from his fortnightly 300 mile troll down to Central Italy to visit his daughter. It was all a pleasant little gift from his vindictive ex wife. ‘I really needed to let off some steam after being cramped up in the car for six hours and then I got a translation at the last minute that needs to be done by...’ Sands rehearsed in the rear mirror as the second allegro of RV 107 had just reached its culmination. It was not going to be a pleasant encounter. The last few days had been wonderful though. Lulu was feeling upbeat and had texted him with some topless pics. She tended to do this sort of thing when she was in a good mood. Yes, Sands realised it was pathetic of him to be indulging in such goings-on. He was nearly 51. She was 45.

She’s so beautiful, besotted Sands thought. Brown as a nut, even her small breasts (as she always sunbathed topless). And she’s got almond eyes and jet black hair. Looks like a little Thai goddess, petite, sweet, delicate. Loves me to pieces... She always called him daddy and loved it when the two of them were together with Mary, Sands 13-year-old daughter. ‘Daddy!’ was what Sands was hoping to hear, but when he opened the door Lulu was pottering at the kitchen worktop. She did not leap into his arms and squeal ‘daddy!’ as was her wont. ‘Ciao,’ she taciturnly said dicing something up. ‘I’ve got a translation now.’ Sands started walking over to her after having closed the door. ‘It’ll give us a little bit of extra money so we can go to the lake this weekend.’ He caressed her shoulders and kissed the back of her neck. No response whatsoever. ‘...and then the bloody plumber stopped in...’ He knew he was only making things worse. He shut up and tried to prepare himself psychically for the evening that was coming. It was a quarter to eight now. This would go on all evening in the torrid little bungalow there in the hot Lombardy lowlands (south of Borgo Vecchio) which were always scorching, humid, and infested by mosquitoes. Sands lived north of the city centre just beneath the cool downs. Not even messing about with his laptop or kindle would make the clock move any faster. Bedfordshire time at 11 would never come. tres

Sands was dreaming about the ‘iena’ (the jackal). He was dreaming about what had really happened about a year ago. The three of them were on holiday, he, Mary, and iena. They were in their little hotel room at the sea. 12-year-old Mary was in her single bed beside their double listening to One Direction on her mp3 player with her earplugs in. Iena wanted to make love. ‘She’s 12 now and not sleeping,’ Sands carefully explained to her whilst Mary was totally oblivious to their conversation for the earplugs. ‘she’ll understand what we’re on about.’ ‘So why doesn’t she piss off?’ Sands woke up in a cold sweat. 57

He looked at the time and pulled himself upright in his double IKEA loft bunk bed. He clambered down the wooden ladder and pulled up the Italian roller shutter by its canvas belt that was embedded in the wall. It was an amazing da Vinci-like system. The funny belt was flat against the casement window’s vertical lintel and spring-loaded. It snaked out of two slits. You pulled it down to get the roller shutter up and let out the spring-loaded slack to get it back down. It was like hoisting a sail. Very Wallace and Gromit. Very Thunderbirds. Sands mobile went off. ‘Ciao Paul!’ came the maternal voice from the other end. ‘The two of you have really got to finish this. The neighbours are all talking...’ It was Lidia, Lulu’s neighbour. Sands had not thought her so tabby. She had seemed much more pleasant. Sands had left her and her husband Ambrogio a goodbye note in their letterbox. Sands had run away from Lulu for the umpteenth time. He had also tried for the umpteenth time to accept and tolerate her Jekyll-Hyde personality (just as he had with iena). He was very glad Lidia had phoned though. He wanted to be sure that Lulu had not gone back to using psychotherapeutic drugs again. She had been seeing a new psychologist and had stopped seeing her old one because she wanted to stop using psychotherapeutic drugs. ‘You’re both adults. If Lulu doesn’t know what she wants, you can’t keep on waiting about for her...’ Lidia went on for quite a bit and Sands listened to every word. She might be gossipy, Sands thought, but she was right. Sands knew he could not save Lulu. He knew he could not save the baby she had aborted thirteen years ago when Mary was born. No one was able to save Lulu’s baby, not even her boyfriend of the time whom she had been together with for 11 years. That was why Lulu was so attracted to Mary. The baby she had aborted would have had the same age as Mary. Just as he had rung off with Lidia and had been rifling through some notes on his round Tardis console-like white IKEA desk and admiring the lovely view of the convent’s small wood opposite his sitting room window afforded, his mobile rang again. ‘Hello Daddy. How are you? I’ve got all my bits ready for our London trip next week. Now get yourself sorted and stop making believe your Peter Sands. Get your ducks in a row and stop philosophising about these silly females...’

Biographical Note: Stephen F. Klepetar

Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has appeared worldwide in such journals as Boston Literary Magazine, Chiron, Deep Water, Expound, Phenomenal Literature, Red River Review, Snakeskin, Voices Israel, Ygdrasil, and many others. Several of his poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize (including four in 2016). New collections include A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), Family Reunion (Big Table Publishing), and â&#x20AC;&#x153;How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps).

Pawning My Guitars (Stephen F. Klepetar) I tried to pawn my guitars, but the clerk rejected them; their necks were bent. Arthritic old things, goodbye! I’m taking you to the river, to white stones and reeds and mud. Now you can sing to the ducks and geese. I have wound your broken strings around fingers and wrists. That way I’ll recall your voices when mists rise in fall and shadows spread in the yard. I’ll remember scraping along your frets, calluses burned into my fingertips. You’re boats now, burial ships drifting from shore, weighed down by weapons and gold, blazing as night swallows frog songs, and bats loop above the flames.

Dancing on the Road (Stephen F Klepetar) Out on the road, someone is dancing to music you cannot hear. She’s no ballerina, no chorus hoofer, but still quite good, energetic and graceful in the way of women who hum to themselves as they read. Her hair is auburn, or maybe blond in the sunlight, though sometimes it appears gray as the surface of a lake on a morning of clouds and sprinkling rain. She keeps the beat, and no cars drive past to interrupt the fluid motion of her limbs. Your coffee trembles in the mug, its steam rises like a rope, snaking toward the ceiling. Already the day is badly misaligned. Somewhere a chain has slipped its cog; the air feels different, viscous and dense as summer, but cold as late October. Maybe you too want to dance, maybe not. But now it’s impossible to keep still. When you step outside to speak to her, the sky seems to open. There is something frightening about this, but you don’t need to be alarmed. Somewhere a wave is gathering strength, and though it may be years from now, everything is about to change.

Marcel Marceau (Stephen F Klepetar) Out of the silence came a star and a voice you could only see, slim man in whiteface mask, fingers delicate as birds, gesturing â&#x20AC;&#x153;noâ&#x20AC;? to boot and gun and whip. Stiff men in creased uniforms heard in that silence nothing but the drone of planes and ceaseless bombs, sirens wailing from across the town. In silence, he danced their fear, tiptoed behind a tree. He peeked, made his mouth a chipmunk hole, shifted from leg to leg, hands flapping at the side of his head in merry pantomime. Even then the soldiers laughed, as sweat ran from their necks and their guts clenched. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s harder than you might think to kill a clown. Where could they put their burning faces, their hands still warm, ringed with murder and debt even their bodies could never repay?

God of Winds (Stephen F Klepetar) “but here things are different – life smashes religions and only the God of the Winds inhabits this island.” Neruda Pray if you want, to the night sky or hills rising from turbulent sea. Pray to the moon, or to velvet darkness or hissing sounds rising from the west in a squall of rain. Pray to the broad face that blots out clouds. Pray to the island that shivers and bows; unmoored, it launches itself into the flaming sea. Pray to the god of the winds, who carves patterns on sand, labyrinths that end where they began. Pray to the voice that howls and says nothing. Pray to whirlwind and the undertow’s fatal drag and the wave with a fist clenched like a naked bomb, immune to the pleading of human tongues. Pray to the god implacable, whose beaches hide tunnels and caves; who answers with tongues of flame; whose teeth gnaw on rocks and shells and skulls of seabirds broken on the shore.

The Woman Who Read the Signs (Stephen F Klepetar) It was a night like this the ashes were made Before that Was always the fire W. S. Merwin It was always the fire, and before that the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s song brazen in her lungs. Streetlights blurry on rainy nights, the pounding of many feet. Here was the past come roaring back, horses clopping up and down cobblestones, fish mongers crying through ice, sawdust bars and wagons loaded with barrels and bales. Through smoke she could read words floating in air like black ash, her dangerous eyes red in places where it all went wrong. Women lay dying in the street, blisters and torn flesh. She smashed her fist through a storefront window, stepped into ringing darkness where rain boots lay scattered on the floor like fish gasping on a shattered shore. Her bleeding hands shone like liquid flame, her hair sparked and blazed. So many trapped in outer boroughs with tracks ripped out and waves rushing in and her feet clogged in the sucking sand. At this time of night the traders had all gone home. Her sisters laid the tables and swept the floors, the children inconsolable in their beds until small mouths opened into little holes, wheezing breaths grinding into hidden spots as the old house settled, time bending toward implacable day.

Biographical Note: Davey Macmanus Davey Macmanus spent 17 years in the music industry where he achieved considerable success. Macmanus suffered from an Eating disorder and Heroin addiction which saw him hospitalised many times, and sectioned in the UK. In 2010 Macmanus began a Nursing degree. This was followed by 8 months living and Nursing in a small children clinic in the slum of Diepsloot in South Africa. Macmanus currently works as a Nurse in Dublin

the Mermaids with wings (Davey Macmanus) - you can have the way I say "aks" - you can have my Adidas - and you can have my smile Last seen: searching for the mermaids with wings Floating up to heaven ~ with just: .a balloon .a piece of string .and a safety pin

Starlings of the Galaxies (Davey Macmanus) Do starlings just exist - Feeling-less - like psychopaths - like dentists Or Do they smile? Have hurt feelings? Dress up as bats for Halloween?

Are their hearts bruised? - when they exit summers last throes - leaving the old and weak behind

- Or do they just taxi Inanely? - hoping to bump into a daddy long legs, blinded by a streetlight Ever - Starving Like a bushfire - like a 100 year storm

On the eve of natural disasters - Starlings vanish - How do they know this? When starlings mimic mobile phones Who is mocking who?

When they synchronise wings - blackening our skies like arrows of the great Khan -

is this: just so we can win the BBC amateur photographer of the year?

Do they realise they have a purpose on this planet? - More than just being protein for cats. Do they know what that purpose is?

Do starlings ever search for an ending? - Tie Lego bricks to their feet - Fly high over the ocean - till they can see three continents. And just turn off their wings

Becoming Starlings of the galaxies forever shipwrecked in the deep blue sky

Their Last request - to be laid gently to rest - as the honeysuckle sun sets

- in a straw lined shoebox - by children of the sepia years - beneath the old holly tree - covered by red berries - daisies And buttercup tears

~ The Scarecrow Assassins (Davey Macmanus) In my earliest memories ~ You were there Smiling ~ but deadly I knew I'd found ~ my mothership ~ my zeppelin burning Saw our future ~ jagged in your appendix scars ~ demanding every beat of my heart I counted ~ the steps to our eternity ~ and it dazzled me You came creeping ~ in Primark flats that were once Egyptian blue ~ like a tiger cub stalking a butterfly in the falling down barn as fat drops beat time on corrugated iron ~ we carved each other's names: into our silver birch skin ~ bread knife smuggled ~ stitches stumbling ~ chicory eyes ~ never flinching the girl with the Elephant memory ~ Jackson Island queen ~ of the thistles and the nettles in our bloodshot Eden ~ screaming into emptiness when everyone's asleep ~ kicking down the scarecrow in old Tom's field

death of a patient (Davey Macmanus) This was extra-ordinary He was really young And handsome, like a pilot, or a ships captain Like Imran Khan The family, at lunchtime said Please keep an eye on him, he’s short of breath He only speaks gujati eats vegetarian allergic to penicillin 2 sugars in tea I made a note He ate his lunch and then turned grey About three, I bleeped the doctor cause his BP was very low And he was getting greyer Staring intently out the window confused terrified Will of the wisp watching his soul vanish into black puffs of smoke from the hospital furnace Don’t worry Sir we’re just doing a few tests I’m just going to shine a torch in your eyes Can you squeeze my hand This might be a bit cold, ok, good man ECG, BM, Temp, Sats, GCS Its ok, take deep breaths I showed him how in the universal language of deep breaths But his breaths remained fast and staggered Like jumps on a racetrack The doctor arrived Giving orders, fluids, bloods, heart monitoring, Can you update his family by phone, And they said “but we only just left and he was fine” I was doing five minute observations for 2 hours 70

shouting out figures like a Wall street trader to no-one but the patients in the surrounding bays As he grew more and more petrified As his condition deteriorated Till his Blood Pressure went so low, It was off the chart 42/26 Then the machine went blank I checked to see if the plug was in I was that fucking naive The crash team gave up CPR after about half an hour And went home for dinner, coronation street, to play squash, to See their children There’s only so much you can do to save a life They tried shocking him Adrenaline They done what they were trained to do It didn’t work The crazy fool had died on me And now what was I going to say to his family “He went peacefully” When he went in cold-blooded terror That “he looked contented” When he looked like he was sharing the bed with Margaret Thatcher That “it was quick” When it was slow Did he say anything? “No” The questions were short-circuiting my mind I felt like I was on Mastermind for the deaf, dumb and blind I just said I’m sorry Many, many times I explained how I and then the crash team really fucking tried As tears ran like escaped prisoners from my eyes I never said it was his time Like they say in the movies Because it wasn’t his time And it wasn’t a movie 71

When me and the Bank nurse gave the last offices I found twenty pence, Tightly clenched in his fist.

If you fancy submitting something but haven’t done so yet, or if you would like to send us some further examples of your work, here are our submission guidelines: SUBMISSIONS NB – All artwork must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not be published, and anyone found to be in breach of this will be reported to the police. Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Please include your name, contact details, and a short biography. You are welcome to include a photograph of yourself – this may be in colour or black and white. We cannot be responsible for the loss of or damage to any material that is sent to us, so please send copies as opposed to originals. Images may be resized in order to fit “On the Wall”. This is purely for practicality. E-mail all submissions to: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to “A New Ulster” (name of writer/artist here); or for younger contributors: “Letters to the Alley Cats” (name of contributor/parent or guardian here). Letters, reviews and other communications such as Tweets will be published in “Round the Back”. Please note that submissions may be edited. All copyright remains with the original author/artist, and no infringement is intended. These guidelines make sorting through all of our submissions a much simpler task, allowing us to spend more of our time working on getting each new edition out!

May 2017’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

May is here as is this issue. We’re a day late sorry about that we ran out of cream. Where does the time fly? It seems like it was only last week when we were busy making the January issue meow!!. Well, that’s just about it from us for this edition everyone. Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.

We continue to provide a platform for poets and artists around the world we want to offer our thanks to the following for their financial support Richard Halperin, John Grady, P.W. Bridgman, Bridie Breen, John Byrne, Arthur Broomfield, Silva Merjanin, Orla McAlinden, Michael Whelan, Sharon Donnell, Damien Smyth, Arthur Harrier, Maire Morrissey Cummins, Alistair Graham, Strider Marcus Jones Our anthologies https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_present_voices_for_peace https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_poetry_anthology_-april

Biographical Note: Catherine Kullman Catherine Kullmann was born and educated in Dublin. Following a three-year courtship conducted mostly by letter, she moved to Germany where she lived for twenty-six years before returning to Ireland. She has worked in the Irish and New Zealand public services and in the private sector. After taking early retirement Catherine was finally able to fulfil her life-long ambition to write. Her debut novel, The Murmur of Masks, published in 2016, is a warm and engaging story of a young woman’s struggle to survive and find love in an era of violence and uncertainty. It takes us from the ballrooms of the Regency to the battlefield of Waterloo. In November 2016, it was honoured with a Chill with a Book Readers Award. In Perception & Illusion published in March 2017, Lallie Grey, cast out by her father for refusing the suitor of his choice, accepts Hugo Tamrisk’s proposal, confident that he loves her as she loves him. But Hugo’s past throws long shadows as does his recent liaison with Sabina Albright. All too soon, Lallie must question Hugo’s reasons for marriage and wonder what he really wants of his bride. You can find out more about Catherine at her website www.catherinekullmann.com/ or her Facebook page. fb.me/catherinekullmannauthor

ANU Author Interview – Catherine Kullmann

1. You’ve lived and worked in several countries. Which parts of travelling the world did you enjoy the most, and which were the most challenging? I have visited many countries but have lived and worked in two, Ireland and Germany. In Germany I worked at the New Zealand Embassy in Bonn. This was an interesting bicultural, bilingual position where my responsibilities included the day to day running of the embassy which meant dealing with all the local service providers as well as managing the complete budgetary cycle from estimates to internal control which was, of course, New Zealand driven. The biggest professional challenge I faced was planning and arranging the relocation of the embassy from Bonn to Berlin following the decision of the German Government to move the capital after reunification. I was a stay at home mother for twelve years before I went to work for the Embassy. We lived between Bonn and Cologne in a market-gardening village (my commute took me almost an hour) and my biggest personal challenge was adapting to the isolation of life there in the 1970s, a time when airfares were horrendously expensive, as were international telephone calls so that you were dependent on letters for news from home. Having and bringing up children without the support of friends and family in a foreign country was not always easy. My own mother died the year after I married and I used envy my neighbours whose mothers could pop in and out so frequently. Eventually, largely through the children, I built up a new circle of friends, most of whom were also blow-ins, and we created our own support network. My favourite country as a holiday destination is Greece. We have visited it countless times and driven thousands of kilometres there. On our first visit, our guide led us down from the Acropolis to the Areopagus, a big outcrop of rock nearby. “Here,” she said, “is where Orestes, pursued by the furies, came to be tried for killing his mother, Clytemnestra and her lover. But that perhaps is myth. Coming to modern times, here is where St. Paul preached to the Athenians of the unknown God.” This sums up for me the mystery and the magic of Greece. As well as thousands of years of history and culture you will find friendly and welcoming people, stunning landscapes, idyllic islands, and excellent, local food and wine. 2. What, to you, defines a good story? A good story will absorb me; make me care about the characters and their journey. A really good story will remain with me in some way after I have finished reading it.

3. You clearly value remaining true to your characters and their environment. Have you ever felt pressured to compromise on this authenticity in order to placate your intended audience? Not directly, no. I decided to publish independently after receiving several ‘warm rejections’ from traditional publishers who said my books fell between the stools of historical romance and historical fiction. I could, I suppose, have tried to adapt my books accordingly, but I prefer to write well-founded and well-grounded novels that both entertain and open a window on the past. 4. Your novels explore life during the extended Regency period. What made you decide on this particular era, and what has been the most challenging aspect of it so far? The first quarter of the nineteenth century was one of the most significant periods of European and American history whose events still resonate after two hundred years. The Act of Union between Great Britain and Ireland of 1800, the Anglo-American war of 1812 and the final defeat of Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 all still shape our modern world. The Napoleonic wars lasted twelve years. Unlike the other combatants, the UK was spared the havoc wrought by an invading army and did not suffer under an army of occupation. The war happened elsewhere, far away. People were generally unaware of its progress—the only available news was that provided in official dispatches published in The Gazette and the odd private letter that reached home. But the war had to be paid for. The unpopular income tax, which was introduced for the first time in 1798 and abolished in 1802 after conclusion of the Peace of Amiens was reintroduced in 1803 as a ‘contribution of the profits arising from property, professions, trades and offices’. Trade was depressed by Napoleon’s continental blockade. This led both to increased unemployment and rising food prices. Then there was the human cost, bitterly felt by families whose menfolk were fighting abroad but otherwise accepted as the price of victory. Over three hundred thousand British and Irish men did not return from the Napoleonic wars, dead of wounds or disease. What did this mean for their families, especially the women? My novels are set against this backdrop of an off-stage war in a patriarchal world where women had few or no rights or opportunities and were open to abuse and exploitation by those whom society expected to protect them. The most challenging aspect so far was when Luke Fitzmaurice in The Murmur of Masks decided to join Wellington’s army after Napoleon escaped from Elba in 1815. For me, this meant he would have to fight at the battle of Waterloo. I am not a military historian and so I had to delve into contemporary accounts of the battle and pour over 78

maps of the battlefield. Rather than attempt a bird’s eye view, I based Luke’s experience largely on that of William Leeke who went out to Brussels in May 2015 as an Ensign in the 1st/52nd, although I left William the honour of carrying the regimental colours so that Luke could play a more varied part. 5. As an historian, how far do you feel that humanity has really come since the events that helped to inspire your novels? First, I make no claim to be an historian but would rather describe myself as someone who is fascinated by history. In many ways, humanity has come very far. Two hundred years ago, the concept of human rights was only in its infancy and in practice applied, if at all, to white males. The recognition of ‘the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family’ without exception in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights proclaimed by the United Nations General Assembly in 1948 was a milestone in the history of humanity and sets a standard that applies to all without distinction. Progress in achieving that standard varies but it is something to which we all must aspire and must be a touchstone in our dealing with others, whether individually or collectively. Worldwide, I think more people receive an education of some sort today than ever before and there has certainly been enormous technological progress in the past two hundred years. In the western world at least, the overall standard of living has risen considerably and there is an awareness that less-developed countries should be helped rather than exploited. Sadly, where humanity has gone backwards since the Regency is in waging war. Here modern technology has been a curse and man’s inhumanity to man gets worse day by day. 6. What would be your advice to aspiring writers of Historical Fiction and Romance? Know your period. You must be able to step into your world as easily and as naturally as you step outside your front door. Visit physical sites—buildings, towns, battlefields, open-air museums. Be aware of your environment. Look up—in many old towns, only the ground floors of buildings have been modernised and you will find the original facades over the shopfronts. Read primary sources—memoirs, journals, autobiographies, novels, poetry, plays, magazines and journals—whatever you can get your hands on. Look for contemporary illustrations; not only formal portraits but cartoons, caricatures, engravings, carvings, even tombstones. Find out what people wore and what they ate. Try out some recipes. Learn their dances. How did people travel then? Search out old maps, newspaper reports, advertisements, books of etiquette, children’s books, letter-writing manuals—all are grist to your mill. If you are travelling, see if you can stay in an old inn. If there is a vintage train, ideally 79

drawn by a steam engine, go for it, or take a carriage ride. Keep a travel journal and jot down your experiences, especially anything quirky. When it comes to historical romance, you have to be able to get into your characterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hearts and heads. Very often, less is more. Remember that in a society where everyone wears gloves, even the touch of a bare hand can be exciting. You must be aware of the social customs, mores and ethics of the time in which you set your book. Depending on your period, questions you might ask yourself include: did people use first names or a more formal address? What about chaperons? What was the attitude to sex before marriage? Could a woman ask a man to dance? Was there any form of contraception in common use? Was divorce possible? If so, was it easy to obtain? Did a double standard operate? Was there a disreputable pleasure world? Who had access to it and who could cross to and fro from it? What happened to those who broke the rules? The Historical Novel Society and the Romantic Novelistsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Association both have Irish chapters that meet three to four times a year, alternating between Dublin and Belfast. New members, including aspiring writers, are always welcome in both chapters. Writing is a solitary occupation and it helps to exchange views and experiences with other writers. The best way to contact the chapters is via their Facebook Groups: https://www.facebook.com/groups/169428223430539/ (RNA) and https://www.facebook.com/groups/353552434699198/ (HNS).

Biographical Note: Nancy Quinn

Nancy has always been interested in art and nature. She was born in Southfield, Michigan, and later moved to Florida, working her way through college in Jacksonville. After graduation, she worked in conservation law enforcement as a Duty Officer for the Florida Game and Freshwater Fish Commission. Her interests in painting and nature eventually led to a career in wildlife art. Lacking extensive formal training, she believes her artistic ability was an inborn gift from her father, the noted artist Boyd A. Zimmer II. Early in her career Nancy was presented with 2nd and 3rd place awards in the World Wildlife Art Championships. Her work is internationally known and found in galleries, state museums, and private collections. Education efforts are important to Nancy. She created T-shirt and jewelry designs for the Florida Wildlife Federation. She was commissioned by the State of New Jersey to create the limited edition art print Nature's Legacy. The print commemorates the centennial celebration of the State's Division of Fish, Game, and Wildlife. The funds raised from the sale of the prints act as tuition grants for college students interested in biology or conservation law enforcement. Nancy strives for accuracy and realism in her work and continues to strengthen her commitment to furthering conservation awareness. After spending over six years in the capitol region while her husband served at the Pentagon, Nancy and her family now joyfully reside in rural Montana where she continues to create new works.

ANU Author Interview – Nancy Quinn

1. Your journey has taken you from Michigan through Florida and Washington D.C, all the way to Montana. What are your defining memories of each of these places? 2. I was born in Michigan, so it will always hold my earliest childhood memories. Since my father, the noted artist Boyd A Zimmer, died there when I was 6, it is the most defining memory of my life and it shaped my future. One of my strongest memories was shortly before his death, when he carried me out of our house one night after it had caught fire from a lightning strike during a violent storm. Some of my happier memories from the Great Lakes State include sitting in a Sanders Ice Cream Shop enjoying a hot fudge sundae, and spending summers in Traverse City where I played at the lake and picked cherries from the local orchards. A favourite memory is playing board games with my maternal grandmother, “Gram”. Regrettably, a couple of years after my father’s death, my mother remarried, and we moved to Florida. It would be many years before I was able to reconnect with my family in Michigan. Living in Florida was much different from life in Michigan. The intense cold of winter and the overcast days were replaced by sunshine and very warm, humid weather. The extra time spent outdoors provided me ample opportunities to pursue activities that engaged my love of both wildlife and art. By age 19 I was working in conservation law enforcement as a Duty Officer covering a third of the state, where I monitored and controlled the movements and communications of state wildlife officers responding to both routine calls and emergencies. In my spare time l handled all kinds of birds and mammals as a volunteer for the Audubon Society. This included taking many different species of birds into the schools and teaching the children about them. Seeing their faces light up is a memory I hold dear. Eventually, I gave up the security of my law enforcement post to pursue my passion for art. Perhaps it was my bond with my late father, but I always felt that my true calling was drawing, painting, and sculpting wildlife. It was a struggle at first, but eventually I established a reputation for myself and was managing fairly well. A few years later, after I had married and started a family, another pivotal moment occurred in my life. My husband had been recalled to active duty as a United States Air Force Officer, and was stationed at the Pentagon when the terrorist attack took place. My husband, fortunately, survived, but the next six years dramatically changed our daily lives. The demands of a military at war meant precious little quality time spent together, so I put my art on hold and focused on raising our two daughters. When he retired in 2007, we moved as far away from Washington, D.C., as we thought practical, preferring rural Montana and an opportunity to begin a new kind of life. We eagerly embraced the wide open spaces and breath-taking 82

scenery. Designing and building our western home was our first big challenge and the beginning of our new adventure, and that’s really where this story starts. 3. As a mother, what is your view of the world that your girls have grown up in, especially when compared to your own childhood and adolescence? Without going into upsetting details, I will admit my experiences growing up were unpleasant. Therefore, my first priority has been to give my children a happy and safe family life, filled with fun and loving memories. Country life has advantages that I wanted them to experience, and regardless of where we lived, I wanted to raise them with a sense of hope. Stepping into the outside world will have its difficulties, so my goal for my daughters is to have them prepared to face life’s realities while still achieving their dreams. 4. You successfully made the leap from law enforcement to art: a massive change in career path. Was it daunting to take that decision, and if so, what gave you the courage to try? The most daunting aspect was giving up a regular pay check! The transition itself was rather smooth. I had been supplementing my income from my animal and nature drawings. Officers or biologists often asked me for wildlife illustrations and I sold some commissioned artworks as well. When I started to feel the deleterious health effects of years of erratic hours and midnight shifts, I decided to change my life and “retired” at age 23. Most of the people I knew thought it was a huge mistake and I would pay for my error in judgement. But those who knew me well were encouraging. In the end I decided I had developed a well-planned and calculated risk which was worth investing in, and so the next chapter in my life began. 5. Your debut book Go West, Young Woman! marks the start of another chapter in your creative life. How would you describe your writing process? I am fortunate that I can write from my own recollections and perceptions of our family experiences. Sometimes I struggle to find the best way to present a story, but usually it flows from my mind to my keyboard. Whenever possible, I look for the humour in most experiences, and list a few notes in an outline, which makes my writing style very fluid. I prefer to write when it is quiet, but I often find myself challenged to block out the fray around me. Having a cup of tea nearby helps. 6. Which species is your absolute favourite subject from an artistic point of view amongst the various creatures that you have encountered? I find that a very difficult question to answer. I love the birds of prey, with their singlemindedness and focus on the hunt. The colorations in their feathers have always fascinated me and challenged my ability to capture them realistically in my work. I have also spent countless hours with some of the larger cats – Bengal Tigers, Florida Panthers, Western Cougars, and Clouded Leopards. They have so many dimensions to their personalities, but since I now see cougars here in my own backyard, I have 83

grown to appreciate them even more. As an artist, I love to capture that certain look in their eye that portrays their individual spirit. 7.

What would be your advice to aspiring conservationists?

I would suggest that aspiring conservationists find the area they are most interested in and explore the possibilities. There are many opportunities in the career field: education, law enforcement, biology, marine studies, wildlife rehabilitation, forestry, and of course, art. As an example of the last option, the proceeds from one of my limited edition art prints was used to provide college tuition grants for students in New Jersey who studied conservation. Having a love and respect for nature and wildlife can be a part of your life, but doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t necessarily mean you have to make it a career. I recommend they explore groups and clubs that focus on conservation and find one that appeals to their ideals. Volunteer opportunities abound for all ages, but finding that spark of interest and dedication that reaches you somewhere inside is the beginning of a true conservationist.

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