ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of John Doyle, Kevin Griffin, Glenn Donald Hubbard, Stuart Kilmartin, Stephen James Douglas, Salim Mustafa, James O’Connell, Noel King, Nicloas McGaughey, Sean Delaney, David Mc Carthy, Mac Carver, Steven Klepetar, Arsalan Chalabi and Gordon Ferris Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue 64 January 2018
A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Editorial John Doyle;
1. 2. 3. 4. 5.
Glen Ford’s Endless Sepia Cattle Drive English Summertime, Avon I Was Sorry to Hear f His Death Nonetheless Is It Possible to Survive the War of Armageddon? Thomas
Kevin Griffin; 1. That July 2. Genesis 3. Return Visit Glenn Donald Hubbard; 1. Leaf 2. The Swell 3. Corvids in Autumn Stuart Kilmartin; 1. Musings of the Unknowing Subway Traveller 2. The White Forest 3. Untitled 4. Untitled 5. Untitled Stephen James Douglas; 1. Chasing the Light 2. For Prometheus 3. Ilegitimate Ulster Salim Mustafa; 1. Hey You! You Lady! 2. Impatient Souls 3. The Deadlock James O’Connell; 1. Donegal Remembered 2. Colleville-Sur-Mer, Normandy 3. North of Newry
Noel King; 1. Rejuvenate 2. I am Mediator 3. Christmas Desiderata 4. Dark Waters 5. Matriarch Nicolas McGaughey; 1. Think of a Boy Sean Delaney; 1. Spring 2. Standing Just Outside The Lights 3. In the Back Room David Mc Carthy; 1. The Disappeared 2. A Denser Dark 3. Citizen of Nowhere 4. A Second Body 5. Transmigration Marc Carver; 1. Seeing Knowing 2. No Escape 3. Everything Steven Klepetar; 1. Scouring the Floor 2. Playing for Keeps 3. On the Western Road 4. On the Esplanade 5. Snake Dreams Arsalan Chalabi; 1. The Bitch United Nations 2. I was growing up during the protest of the public toilets 3. Selfie with McDonald’s Gordon Ferris; 1. Echo 2. A Strange Dream of night with the goat man’s daughter On The Wall Message from the Alleycats
Round the Back
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 “Echoes� by Amos Greig
“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis. Editorial Welcome to our January issue what better way to start the year than to indulge in some poetry and prose from 13 writers. This issue has pushed our page count to its absolute limit consider it a fresh start for a new year. Throw in some internet connectivity issues and it has been really trying. Still we have plenty of pages of writing ahead and the magazine has no plans to go anywhere anytime soon. There’s one thing I have to say about being a magazine editor there’s no money in it but then I don’t do this money I enjoy the work even when it is difficult. What always gets me is the range and power of the voices we publish; the magazine lives up to its name A New Ulster not just for people from here but from everywhere. We often get caught up in geographical and cultural identities often at the cost of our own individuality. I’m looking forwards to 2018 a blank page in a book yet to be written, only time will tell what happens next.
Onward to creativity!! Amos Greig Editor.
Biographical Note: John Doyle
John Doyle, 40, from County Kildare has recently returned to writing poetry after a considerable absence. He was educated at N.U.I. Maynooth, and is influenced by a diverse range of writers, many of whom do not adhere to canonical peccadilloes.
Glen Ford's Endless Sepia Cattle Drive (John Doyle) Thomastown, County Kilkenny, October 2008 I sat with her, silent as Kilkenny kills its weekends, Sunday to Friday - dusting windy concerto curtains pushed outside, soon bedazzled; she's Delphi's disowned bride, Melbourne, Stockholm wedged between this town I hear wants me dead too, as Saturday dribbles down its drains, and it wipes a napkin across its fattened Don Ciccio chin; and I lay with her, half-naked, a sort of pose, I suppose, something forced, like couples who talk of future children, man bearded, woman most likely called Chloe, or the nearly-lovers that we were, who tried painting starlight on walls last painted in 1972; "I wish this was a wild west saloon", I tell her, "in Eugene, Oregon" where my body last lay alive and I packed my corduroy pants, setting off on Glen Ford's endless sepia cattle drive; I think she listened, I saw her fingertips move - away; Thomastown swallowed by prairie stars, Saturday heaved up from its trash-can lungs
English Summertime, Avon (John Doyle) Run through hip-high corn in shawls, in slow-motion, the amber lights of cities slip on curves of earth ovulating; Listening to Pink Floyd, Grantchester Meadows, the sounds ovulate on the blue amber curves of earth, and her cities
I Was Sorry to Hear of His Death, Nonetheless (John Doyle) (For a Father-In-Law that was not to be...) Son-in-law? prospects dug their graves in doubt as princess and me cavorted like Richard and Liz, she should have been at mass, that morning in Limerick, I'm sure that's what you declared, her mother's pearls so white, there's no way either of you could be equally pure; So, I would not appear in those family snaps, even token faces the not-as-friendly as he appears paparazzi exiles, with behind the scenes consultations in chemist shops in Wicklow - with 2 hour Christmas queues; still, that night, a few days after Christmas, we sank a few his coal-thickened old school stout, my league of nations Weissbräu, and we talked close at least just once, the women's soft-slippered feet in miracles of silence as the hall door clicked shut, moonshine a surrogate lens at last; this photograph I remember, you and me, so real, jowls of doubt less-pronounced, on your lunar-softened face
Is It Possible to Survive the War of Armageddon...? (John Doyle) Watching the stupid fuck right now, and hell, I'm not so sure, if he could even hold that pool cue straight, I'm not sure he could see far enough to take the infidel's eyeball out; he says it's been 3 years since he last drank, apparently he found his religion behind bars, that's the rumour doing the pool-hall toilet gossip rounds, but still I'm not so sure, like last week and the week before when he was throwing shapes like his shadow was Sonny Liston, like he was something special in 1964; Is It Possible to Survive the War of Armageddon...? an evangelist hands out a step by step guide - outside, but he's too busy speaking in tongues to even realise this man with the broken nose on the ground below him was the one guy on his side. Yeah, I guess not.
Thomas (John Doyle) To a future cleric, Maynooth College, a few years ago A face they say speaks its words before the mouth awakens, a softened glen betrayed in crooked smile, a less-brighter brother's ecclesiastical credentials let slip - in those side-street dustbin brawler's eyes. Remember Thomas, my back turned and your motions, though biblical yes, more aligned to Judas, or men blocking light from Christ's pre-resurrection shadow, the sneer that cut the breath from lungs across Samaria; Those acres daddy ploughs every day, Thomas, whether it needs be, or not, stand as idle land, idle minds, chaff that nurtures idle souls, the trope blessed with enough lies to fill the glens for a thousand more. And if I lie in the hail of thunderstorms and crashing rocks will you give me a final rite, Thomas, your crooked crosier straightened on your soft-pink sneer-stuttered face?
Biographical Note: Kevin Griffin Kevin Griffin has had poems published in a number of magazines; Salzburg Review, Riposte, Orbis, The SHOp, Revival, Boyne Berries, Pennine Ink, Crannog and others. He is working towards a first collection.
That July (Kevin Griffin) Time for bed, they said, pointing to the clock, where a bobbing hen pecked out the seconds. It’s half past eight , they asserted, but I, in my blue and white pyjamas can see the big hand at seven, the small hand moving up to eight, twenty-five to. It was unfair, the sun still high in the sky, the wynds of hay bronzing in the acre. I was still awake when the rasping voice of the corn crake came from the high field at the back. His call coming through where a tiny triangle of glass was missing from the top pane of the window. His anthem quite in time with the cluck of the hen on the complicit clock in the kitchen.
Genesis (Kevin Griffin) Come to this place, I invited the thought, that one I first spotted among the gerania before it hid in the flush of the fruit bushes mantling itself in purest nectar. It murmured with the hum of the lawn mower, darted away to the thorny maroon of the berberis, before slipping into the hues of the hydrangea. Who did it think it was, Proteus That evening it chirped in the balm of the herb garden, Finally I caught it near a Manet print in the living room and held on until it succumbed and was frisked into immortality.
Return Visit (Kevin Griffin) Many lips waited for kisses, Many kisses flew by, handshakes equivocal, smiles dubious. Faces like sunflowers in fields with purple loosestrife and willowherb. The old world wobbles. Memory has again deceived. Even the ruin has diminished, mind’s eye again deludes, there’s a path of pure green and the tidy walls all around. What has happened? The hedges cower, cropped close. Can they do anything when spring comes. What can be done. Is winter the answer.
Biographical Note: Glenn Donald Hubbard Glenn Hubbard lives in Madrid and has been writing poems since 2012. Fluent in Spanish, he is poetic only in English. He has had poems published in The Bow-Bow Shop, The Interpreter's House, Snakeskin, Bindweed, Allegro Poetry, The High Window, The Cannon's Mouth, Message in a Bottle, and Algebra of Owls.
Leaf (Glenn Donald Hubbard) It lands at my feet on the pavement, where it won’t amount to mulch. Last winter curled up in a bud, was it a leaf for me at all if hidden thus? Unfurled I knew it as such. Chlorophyll! Love it. Green. A leaf, no longer just potential, theoretically a might have been. But a fully functioning food factory. It transpires. With the cold came death, done out in red and gold. Nature’s technicolor, end-of-summer send-off. I pick it up with due respect. Its final resting place beneath a bush. Worms and time will do the rest.
The Swell (Glenn Hubbard) The tides come in with a will and there’s a swell on, the water full of fish. The gulls are all over it and there’s the one tern gaining height to make space for the dead drop. A cormorant floats by, folds itself into the water. No fisherman on the shore hauling out a weighted net, captive children all eyes.
Corvids in Autumn (Glenn Hubbard) Kyow! Look up. Blown black plastic. Jackdaws and rooks resist and then yield. Carried into the field, they fall to earth like shards of dark meteor. Now behind the house, hunkered in furrows, still as slates, they all face into the wind, wait.
Biographical Note: Stuart Kilmartin .
Stuart Kilmartin is an Irish writer from Co. Galway. He attended
university at NUI Galway where he graduated with a BA in English and History in 2015. In 2016 he graduated with an MA in English Literature from NUI Galway as well. He is a writer of poetry and prose. He also writes for his own website Piping Hot Productions about movies and television. His articles have appeared in the South Korean magazine Sonder, as well as the website ComicBuzz.
Musings of the Unknowing Subway Traveller (Stuart Kilmartin) Through the oceans of faceless beings I make my way to my destination; But, realising I lost my way among the unknown multitudes of phantoms surrounding me, I paused. This place will trap me forever; Confine me to that unspeakable nightmare, where unutterable sounds are the only solace.
The White Forest (Stuart Kilmartin) Wander with me through the white forest. Traverse those colossal paths with me, hand in hand. Reach out and grab those flowers that bloom from untamed pastures. Dance among the virgin daisies, where innocent wishes are cast; And lie where red rose bushes slumber.
Untitled (Stuart Kilmartin) In visions past, I see the truth, Just you and I, both in our youth. That lonely house, perched upon a hill, Weathered by seasons, both warm and chill.
How we laboured, through night and day, While we savoured those moments, of love and play. I worried for times, when he would return, From whence he had travelled, of where? I could not discern.
When he locked you up, away from my eyes, How my heart it broke, by the sounds of your cries. And I would shout out, to you upon high, Singing my soul, to naught but the sky.
When the night grew much darker, that’s when I knew, The birds were gone suddenly, some died and some flew. And earth became filled, with sombre and gloom. While I was left only, alone in our room.
The years they passed slowly, without purpose or why, While I sat in my study, awaiting to die. My only happiness, in a world without solace, Was visiting your tomb, your face – still flawless.
Untitled (Stuart Kilmartin) Light streams breeze and fall slowly in the delicate hue of midnight’s glow. Great beasts of darkness break through the night sky to cast doubt on unsuspecting bystanders. Streets curve and manoeuvre in the most unnatural of ways. Following along, I felt trapped in the belly of some unmerciful beast; Unable to find my way out. Nothing unique; Nothing different. A perpetual sameness rocking back and forth in my mind’s eye.
Untitled (Stuart Kilmartin) Angelic raindrops fall and land delicately on her skin. Her eyes close; her arms are outstretched. She begins to twirl slowly in the moon’s midnight glow. All her worries, fears, and anxieties become naught. She is transfixed by the beauty of falling raindrops. She tries to listen to each one as they softly hit her forehead and streak towards her lips. How is the world filled with destitute suffering and gloom, when there is such beauty in falling raindrops? How can these paradoxical forces exist side by side?
Biographical Note: Stephen James Douglas Poetry by Stephen James Douglas who is a Northern Irish poet based in Scotland. He was educated at the Royal Belfast Academical Institution and graduated from The Queen's University, Belfast with a joint honours degree in English and Film Studies. Having gained a Post Graduate Certificate of Education at Ulster University, he has taught in secondary education for five years and is currently a Teacher of English at Merchiston Castle School in Edinburgh. His work has recently been published for the first time by Automatic Pilot.
Biographical Note: Salim Mustafa
Salim Mustafa is a teacher in his own coaching institute located in New Delhi, India where he teaches literature. Recently his work (Indifferent Life) has appeared in “A New Ulster� April, issue 55 and (The Contemporary Lover) in July, issue 58. Recently, his couple of poems have been accepted in Proost Poetry.
HEY YOU! YOU LADY! (Salim Mustafa)
Hey you! You lady! I have a thing to ask Am I looking worried? Why? If so Let me break my heart Let me leave from myself I’ll laugh, I’ll die, I’ll live, O! I’ll cry That’s all, I have to do Let me, please, do such thing A part of night, a piece of talk And just you Hey you! You lady! I keep remain for you I keep respecting you O, I live for you I’ll lapse while perished in you I die every time you disappear Hey you! You lady! Will I lose my nerve? Will I be mad at you? Why don’t you shut my mouth? Ain’t the color of your wet eye?
It’s falling! My life, I have seen in you Its beating, my heart is beating Isn’t that you? Hey you! You lady! No fear, No hiding Its growing here Knocking me down Like a wave Search for you, living in you Empty nights, traumatic days Tormenting for ages If heartbeats broken, I see your face I see your shadow Yours, only yours I see ya I see ya Hey you! You lady!
IMPATIENT SOULS (Salim Mustafa)
Lost in you for ages, for any of news Senseless in love, feeling lifeless, an impatient Tormenting for her, made me Ranjha in way Shelter less, call me vagrant, C’mon, and murder me! Things aren’t mine, Brutus backstabbing Bless me, spell the doth magic, whole on me The sweetest tongue, discussions and debate Then pain, out of calculus, like poisoned Socrates. I object my Lord! Be it sustains, let hearing proceeds Street to Mecca, search is on, mentioned you? Religious calling! No way the way lovers, are they? Scriptures boasted, lauded God, welcome to destruction. Half done isn’t done, mortals aren’t over yet Grieved graves and abandoned tears for patient souls.
*Ranjha : A male historic lover of the famous tragic romance written by Waris Shah in India.
THE DEADLOCK (Salim Mustafa) Free from fear, the rituals, oh men! Breaking all dignity, from locked doors, oh yours! Now going, I am. Don’t make me wake, died I am, To hell with shame, to hell with name From society, oh yours! Now going, I am.
The dream of a joy, nowhere to buy From those nights, oh yours! Ban O ban, made over smile there From such talks, oh yours! Now going, I am. Never fulfilled, no use demanding; Tolerated enough, you made tough From gifts, oh yours! Now going, I am.
What to wear? Where to go? How to live? From good decisions, oh yours! Of flowers, of thorns, caretaker you are. From sweetest tongue, oh yours! Now going, I am. The fame is yours, you the ruler, have liberty the whole; Like the cages, you constructed From nests, oh yours! Now going, I am.
Mashed me, oppressed me, so disturbed From hell tyrannies, oh yours! Chocking breathes were, in the room. From restless walls, oh yours! Now going, I am. Having precious ways, fearless He, everyone says. But hairs are, now, no gripped, eyes refusing dipped From keepers, oh yours! Now going, I am.
Corpse not, now, enough for sale From buyer less market, oh yours! Eye witness, they were, my mother, rag less I am From naked roads, oh yours! Now going, I am. You are the price maker but guilty I am; Like you, if, brothers are, fathers are From world, oh yours! Now going, I am.
So much needs, chastity at deal From selfishness, oh yours! Shameless crying, robbed body mine From monarchy autocracy, oh yours! Now going, I am. Fatigue breathes, futile face; I am the owner of decaying age. Painless, humorless, oh soulless men From terrorism, oh yours!
Now going, I am.
You all made me nude there With sadist disorder, oh yours! Keep squashing a fun, changing bodies a turn From abusing freedom, oh yours! Now going, I am. May be your sister, I am. Mother and a wife O sure, You address, breed, oh yours! From prosperous population, oh men! Now, Going I am.
Biographical Note: James O’Connell
Jimmy O’Connell was born in Dublin. He has been writing for many years, and has work in The Baltimore Review. He is now working in County Meath, Ireland. He has had a collection of his poetry published and has performed them in many venues in Ireland.
Donegal Remembered (James O’Connell) On a bus tour through the Julian Alps, vertigo-towering, mica-pocked, we swing and twist our way by the Triglav, through cartnarrow roads and pass a single stone cottage tied precariously to an escarpment. It is surely like Donegal in its isolation. When the winter snows come tumbling in how can that woman make it to a shop some twenty miles away, down careening ledges of rock-infested valley? She will be snow-bound, literally hibernating; as house bound as that Donegal widow I once mused would be on a rain-lashed Sunday morning as she might pray her holy picture-stuffed missal instead of making it to Sunday Mass.
Colleville-Sur-Mer, Normandy (James O’Connell) For once the set of a movie and reality Seem the same – white-glinted marble Crucifixes and Stars of David memorialize, As far as the eye can comprehend the waste, The blind commitment to a rallying idea. A group of teenage boys play, avoiding Rugby tackles, dodging and weaving through The mathematical intricacies of serried Row upon row, until appalled and indignant Stares quieten them to embarrassed bravado. It is now dusk. Their names, gold-carved, turn grey And ghost-fettered. I realise a strange reverence Has stilled me to private tears for men deprived Of the hurts and the hopes that we, daily, muddle through.
North to Newry (James O’Connell) As you drove towards the Sprucefield roundabout It always happened – the radio mast Like an aerated rusted skyscraper Was the cause, you were told, an army tower Used to intercept and spy on the IRA the Tagues and their fiendish band But within sight of that tower RTE Radio would begin to crackle and Disappear into the ethered space bleak With blank sound as plummy Auntie Beeb tracked Through with warnings of ‘heavy traffic south Of Mannings Heath…’ and ‘the M60 out Of Manchester going west is clearing, Police advise caution due to flooding…’
Biographical Note: Noel King Noel King was born and lives in Tralee, Co Kerry. His poetry collections are published by Salmon: Prophesying the Past, (2010), The Stern Wave(2013) and Sons (2015). He has edited more than fifty books of work by others (Doghouse Books, 2003 – 2013) and was poetry editor of RevivalLiterary Journal (Limerick Writers’ Centre) in 2012/13. A short story collection, The Key Signature & Other Stories has just been published by Liberties Press in 2017. www.noelking.ie
Rejuvenate Somewhere in you a cell decided to give up, die. That was unusual for you Mr Positive, Mr Well Balanced, Mr A Confident, Mr Perfect Health. It nudged on a neighbour to die too and another and another, until a friendly one figured, uh-oh, we’d better let himself know, out this ‘carry on’. A message to the brain sent down a medical team: opened a little crack, lit a little break, met a little, took a little, then stopped; and you stopped running; buying time to get back over your hill, to live thank God, to live. (Noel King)
I Am Mediator Still you found the time to plant in your busy heart a place for someone, something you didn’t know you were lacking. My solemn head helped, led your delve deeper towards shouldering her heart in waiting. In a miracle of stolen time you merged to her into a stratosphere, joy, sun hitting a union, even amid rain. But soon, losing your grip you stumbled, no until-then fulfilled her, only your frame beside her could. The heart waiting for you to flutter, shoulder a fulfilment, fostering a new care, loving, with my help. I stand away; the friend you both needed, mediator.
(Noel King)
Christmas Desiderata Get me a shoul of fish I can feed in a tank I will garden build. Get me an ice-maker of a magnitude I can do an ice rink and invite my friends around (even in July). Get me a chimpanzee to accompany me and do lots of funny tricks (don’t worry I’ll train him not to shit in the house). Get me an invisibility cloak I can use instead of a hall pass at school (naw, that’s maybe a bit much – magic!). Get me a computer that lets me talk command (you know my typing ain’t too good, man). Get me a train with no tracks, a train of thought that will lead all my wishes to fulfil me. (Noel King)
Dark Waters The puddles we avoid are the ones our child splashes in. You rebuke her but it makes no difference, her little pink wellies stop, and, feet together, she jumps. It is Monday so all the Sunday walkers are gone to work, their footprints washed by night rains. We discuss the ins and outs of business plans, our budgets, cashflow, watch the ground and step around the wet patches. Our child makes sure she makes as big a splash as she can in every puddle and giggles. (Noel King)
Matriarch My oldest was born on the 14th of October, I ring him that day. My second came out on January 4th, I call him every year. My third arrived the last day of December, she’s usually here for New Year. My fourth was a tough one, in heat, July 15th, my sister, their aunt helped, took to the beach with one, two and three. My fifth was a still-birth, 12th February. We called her Valerie, I take her flowers on that date. My other children have children these days, and I must recall their birthdays and sometimes, sometimes but not always, they remember mine on December 25th. Š Noel King
Biographical Note: Nicholas McGaughey
Nicholas is an actor he has work forthcoming in The Dusk Anthology/Poetry Salzburg Review/Popshot Magazine/Sarasvati/Envoi/Here Comes Everyone and The poetry Shed.
Think of a Boy. (Nicholas McGaughey)
Think of a boy In his brother’s jumper; Thirteen, going –on The Number 15 to town. He has taken notes with The surety that ownership Of an album might Give credence to the cause of himself.
There are no girls, yet. He’s dabbling with the idea Of who he thinks he might succumb to. Forget the ignominy of a valentine From his sister… There are rumours of a moustache, American daps, denims Steeled by his mother Into blades of blue.
Don’t arrest him for loitering By the shops, officer! Any crimes are in his head, In his box room, in his bed.
Each painted girl is a passing grief, Then a relief‌they passed on by, Never to meet his eye, read His unversed heart; or try.
Biographical Note: Sean Delaney
Seรกn Delaney is an Irish writer currently studying English in UCD. He is currently working on his first collection of poetry, though he also enjoys writing plays and the odd short story. His work has previously appeared in The Runt and Idler.
Spring Seรกn Delaney Spring will pick Winter from his frozen lake, And thaw him by the warmth the Summer shall make. She will exhibit new life upon forest and knoll, Emancipating river and lake, so that al will be whole. The earth will breed growth, and the air made anew When Spring courts Winter, it is Summer who proves true.
In the Back Room Seรกn Delaney In the back room, where the smoke hugs the ceiling and away from eyes of those unfeeling. Fighting for each other, aggressively running fingers through hair, down grabbing and hoping like drowning men in a sordid act of indiscreet passion. The floor is never washed or swept, but the clientele ensure their space is well kept.
Standing Just Outside the Lights Seรกn Delaney Upon the water light did bounce and play upon his eye and his own heart did know that fine Romance was not for him, this joy would pass. For all around more light did take the many forms it could become and though the night was bright foresaken was the man he had become.
Biographical Note: David Mc Carthy
David Mc Carthy lives in Dublin and is currently working on his first collection, entitled Mute Variations, to which these poems belong.
“The Disappeared� (David Mc Carthy) - after Abraham Feldman
have crossed beyond
the border of speech
after forgetting remembering
before
the eye dispossessing
one’s own
nothing a photograph
cannot explain
invisible light
in visible darkness
the occasion of another
life deferred
unnamed because
nothing happened
what will not be
written remains
silence is
not emptiness
each absence
is an echo
extension of now
into stilled distance
moving toward
but not closer
the unknown
between nowhere
genealogy of loss
made tangible
mute witness to
unending memory
each face waits
for a listener
to bequeath to
the silent
a language that speaks
“A Denser Dark� (David Mc Carthy) after Catherine Corless
Within what is said you keep silence, possessing nothing, where names are inscribed, forgotten before they were spoken, each marking a moment of atonement, extending toward and beyond us, who listen for the syllables from this other side, an otherwise, never present or contemporary to itself.
Memory needs a more tangible grammar, a gesture, part of the part that was the beginning, but only the word for flesh will be found there, a figure, replacing the metaphor for digging, filling the hole in the sound we have kept for them.
A denser dark surrounds us, confirmed by its contrary, without which no one disappears, stones echo speech, inert verbs for now – here, everything else remains immovable, except this mass of nothing, remembering what we forgot to.
“Citizen of Nowhere� (David Mc Carthy)
In this impossible place, returning away from of
the
exile, a border
home
last
between nowhere. Only one
of
us
is you, echo of myself not spoken,
yet
beginning of nothing other.
I
wanted
always to
return,
where it is was and never here
will
be,
by not being here, a
silent
insisting nothing.
sound
Now you are here, waiting alone
before
in
tactile
words,
distance
none
precede, where the many voice
cohere,
remembered other.
a
not
Staying nowhere,
is
no one here now, I
speaks
saying naming only,
always, nothing,
the
name
first language loss.
“A Second Body” (David Mc Carthy) “it is myself that I remake” - W.B. Yeats
Beginning without choice, the hand traces the etymology of voice, being nothing where once there was not, speaking to be as it happens. Only a second body remembers, here by not being here, surrounded by tactile distance, writing what has never been written without writing. I pronounce the syllable of your name in the past tense, a voice not mine, the memory of sound taking shape, its shadow still an ellipsis, the word already missing to say it. Now is waiting recurring, the possible never of tomorrow, its instant unlikeness, silence between echoes, a breathturn, inaudibly ours, the recitation of forgetting.
“Transmigration� (David Mc Carthy) the page exists only to be displaced
by writing, made migrant, equivalent
to glass and its impossibilities, meaning
only the distance appearing within it,
eyes without shadows, transparent to
the touch, a gesture of speech simply.
----------------------------------------------------
the page takes place in absence, a
returning foreigner erased by occurring,
equivalent to writing nothing and the
inevitable disappearance, visible for an
instant, a shadow without its precedent,
uninhabited now, you pronounced eyes.
Biographical Note: Marc Carver Marc 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 saying they enjoy his work.
SEEING KNOWING (Marc Carver) What do you see look again what do you see now you think it is the same but it isn't. Some times I look and other times I don't. The looking is the hard part the seeing easy. So in the end you don't want to look because you know what you will see.
NO ESCAPE (Marc Carver) I stared into the Pissaro painting as I sat there I thought if I looked for long enough I might be able to walk past those pink flowers touch my hand lightly along their tips walk past the people on the path then walk around the corner and disappear into those woods. After awhile I could even smell the flowers as people kept walking in front of the painting and taking pictures of it. But I knew the painting would not let me in it could not be that easy there was no escape.
EVERYTHING (Marc Carver) Welcome to the cleverest idiot who ever lived I am clever because I know what you want and an idiot because I give it to you so come on tell me what you want and I will tell you what you really want altogether everything
Biographical Note: Steven Klepetar
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared worldwide, in such journals as A New Ulster, Boston Literary Magazine, Deep Water, Expound, The Muse: India, 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 three in 2015). Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press). His new chapbook, The Li Bo Poems, is forthcoming from Flutter Press
Scouring the Floor (Steven Klepetar) It seemed so ordinary when I was young, a task we hardly mentioned among ourselves. Once a week she would scour the floor, first sweeping, then swishing the surface with rags before scrubbing with a rough brush as if the devil had left radioactive droppings over everything. We never tried to help or intrude. Her eyes swam with ammonia tears. Wisps of hair snuck from her blue kerchief as her hands pulled at them without effect. Then she sat and smoked awhile, sometimes singing beneath her breath as the world turned slowly toward sleep. Later she would descend rickety steps to the damp cellar, lit by a single bulb. Shadows stretched across the floor and climbed up walls, their starving arms writhing or signaling or sending greetings to new-fallen night. And there, below decks, she watched as brooms curtsied to mops, which bowed and swayed as buckets swirled in their rotund joy, wild dervishes riding strains of melody torn from the throats of mice and frogs.
Playing for Keeps (Steven Klepetar) Round and around we go, our blankets tossed every which way, sheets half torn from the bed. Tonight we are playing for keeps. Our hands vanish, then return, fingers and wrists and palms radiant in the dark. You murmur and I no longer feel my toes. Is this what they mean when they say that mass becomes energy times the speed of light squared? Your hair is soaked and fragrant with oils. I breathe and struggle to breathe again, half afraid this bed will rise into the night sky, an ark carrying us, one mating pair, deep into the black heart of a boundless sea.
On the Western Road (Steven Klepetar) A boy wakes and raises his arm. He points to the treetops, where crows perch, watching. His smile is heavy as a mountain, mysterious as the sea. They fly, dragging darkness with them. To the boy they seem like the mouths of many caves. He is drawn to the shadow of their open wings. Even as they swoop and caw he follows the light to where it ends in each feathered breast. Sun tickles his nose and he sneezes three times. And now the crows are gone with their secrets and their yellow beaks. Though the morning sky remains clear, the mountains tremble, a distant mirage. All day his ears fill with harsh calls, his mind with black feathers swooping above sand and scrub and silent stones.
On the Esplanade (Steven Klepetar) Far from here, refugees gather where land ends. What they have are bundles and rags. How quietly they wait, as wave after wave ravages the beach. All they hear are sirens wailing in broken cities, glass, brick and concrete crushed. On the TV news a man talks, a woman cries. Everywhere gulls circle, scream, and dive. Another day ends in exhaustion and pain. Let’s leave it to the courts to decide. In the esplanade, statues of men on horseback glint awhile in setting sun, then darken into jagged shapes, long shadows vanishing beneath pines.
Snake Dreams (Steven Klepetar) Snake dreams of moist, black earth, of feathers and clouds. Snake dreams of rain glistening on smooth skin, a new body for a new year. Snake dreams of light. When stars emerge from the belly of darkness, snake dreams a serpent god, uncoiling through the sky, its fiery tongue tasting spices and blood. Snake dreams an ocean and a handful of mud, a raven with the sun disk burning in its beak. In Snake’s vivid dream, a woman tends a garden of trees and vines, while a man builds a vessel from peeling bark. They sing as they work. Snake dreams their flesh, which makes another song imprinted on the wind. Its sleeping body becomes a wave with twelve valleys falling away and twelve high peaks. A canoe rises and dips in the moving stream. Snake dreams the pool where two will sleep, silent gray waters mingling above their floating hair.
Biographical Note: Arsalan Chalabi Arsalan Chalabi is a Kurdish poet whose work has been translated by Saman Sharifi
I
Poems by: Arsalan Chalabi Translated from Kurdish to English: Saman Sharifi
(The bitch United Nations!)
It seems the sea waves became crazy, to be a menace to the Sky and assassinate the Moon like that, the sun which rejects the forest and enslaves the world's grass. like that, the rain stimulates the cemetery and snow cachinnates happiness! like that, a passenger who calls sadness, holding back laughter preventing the smile’s attack, which destroys his bed and finds no ruin to getting rest!
like that, the secret is to be disclosed; no light is able to make your corpse happy and no one finds an address to lay you; like that, there's no injury which gets worse and no blood which can protect you! oh you, our keen and passion of sterile rebellion, where can we attack? And ravage a land and bring back a martyr to his warm bed?! or like that, a putrid aorta takes a gun and shoots at the UN tribunal, starting a new rebellion and the tight white ass of Donald Trump's daughter getting in trouble, The white house undresses and our childhood ejaculates!
like that, a power suddenly tosses us into a cozy and warm valley, to show us in revenge from all the kicks which our ass’s received!
Or like that, consuming one another and not returning to our heart's address to our Mom's heart,
And we don't know how to entrust the Emails to our Mothers, and which exhibition will show their tears!
____ 2. (I was growing up during the protest of the public toilets)
I get to know a person in the toilet who showed limits on love! I felt, she‘s alone, In a place, abandoned. Bitter and bitter with her complicated addresses, I’ll continue my letter, forced me in my dream, her flirtatious !
Her bed begins to bloom in the winter. She erases a poet footprints, And eat the factories pollution! I’m aware and my fellow said; "I'm not a bastard" What a grief(sorrow) I felt!
after work time, I was thinking Migrate to another factory doesn't help, For sure they warn me; "I'm not a bastard" It's better to ceil my thought and I kill the matrimony, The killer will understand, their heart is a piece of meat, And they like the workers! surely they never fire me, I'll kill such a thought and I don't think of killing. It's happened once, but maybe it's not a big deal. but no...!? I'll count as killer twice! No matter, my socks are so far from the cemetery. I call the winter on the street, to execute cold weather! In the toilet, I fell in love, When for a rest I escaped the work time, one to twenty minutes I was smelling love, And I cleaned up love behind myself...!!! An odor date place, I love you crazily, but maybe she love another one, Alas, what a bitch truth, Is it true?
May it’s not so and I’m jealous! If it is true, no matter we are all same. The factories accompany nobody, we all are alone and a lustful toilet! So I don't fear, And I adapted myself with winter and extra work time! Love for her has an extent and always is available! I'm a depress worker belong to the tired drills! I'm not a bastard belong to the killers. I fell in love, in a public place belong to the winter! I have nobody and I'm so lonely, Nobody approaches me, And doesn't believe me; That I was growing up during the protest of public toilets!
3. (Selfie with McDonald’s) Your eyes seem teeming with fear Why assume the sunset is just for you? There is not even a Cockroach in this country which you don’t resent. The countryside is barren of your smile! Come on! Take a picture with the blood as it drops on the earth The earth where Sony owns all cameras and BBC covets after you, The earth where CNN ejaculates and Rudaw rubs his penis during the war! ⨳⨳⨳ Your blood dropping down like Ketchup on a McDonald’s Burger; And it will become Dollar, Euro and sometimes Ruble; Washington, Paris, Berlin and Moscow vomiting on top of your blood! ⨳⨳⨳ Of whom are you suspicious? And to which brigand do your weapons belong? You! The one who sacrificed his blood! That earth which is fucked every day by the cameras and ejaculates on our land! ⨳⨳⨳ Watch out! Do not be tempted by the Dollar, Euro and Ruble Keep calm by the signs of worms, which caress your corpse and kiss your forehead They rob your brain, report your heart’s grave, and go deep through your gut; Getting into your testicles, they create a queue as McDonalds queue to become semen on any European weekend.
Biographical Note: Gordon Ferris
Gordon Ferris is a 60 year old Dublin writer and poet living in Ballyshannon Co. Donegal for the last thirty odd years. He has had poems and short fiction published in A New Ulster, the Galway Review and Hidden Channel..
Echo. (Gordon Ferris) There was a slight drizzle as Desi and I left the pub with clouds darkening the tree lined avenue. You could smell the freshly cut grass as we made our way, talking nonsense, the few pints taking their effect. Before long we were heading up the path to the double door made of the newly invented unbreakable glass, that on a previous occasion was proven to be very breakable by a patron who didn't notice the clear transparent door and walked straight through it. We both made special efforts to straighten up as we approached along the curved path from the road to the queue at the door, which was manned by two off duty Garda as bouncers. We chewed cloves to kill the smell of drink, a trick I’d learned from my uncle Ned, a seasoned drinker. The head bouncer, flanked by his almost seven-foottall right-hand man was stopping everybody asking for Membership. We approached him, he stopped us, “Membership” he said authoritatively. We produced our wellworn cards, he waved us on, we were in without any commotion. Don’t know why I always expect the worst. The first place both of us urgently had to go was to the loo. One thing this new drinking experience does is go right through the system like lighting. Relieved and refreshed by water splashed on the face and dried with the roller towel that sticks, the trick is a little tug in the opposite direction to free it. Out of the loo now I could see our other pals had arrived. They consisted of a group of fellow students from the tech in Finglas, Desi was the exception, he left school at 13 to avoid being expelled. The rest of our group were from the other side of the city, students from Drimagh. We all met in St Michael’s and become good friends over the years. In all there were about twenty of us, rarely were we all there at the same time. Maybe at Christmas or other holidays when the committee would have a special night. This was one of those nights, the end of term night, last dance till September. They always had good bands playing, mostly rock music. Tonight’s band were called Alyce, one of the most popular that played there. They played heavy rock music, Deep Purple, Free, Led Zeppelin with a sprinkling of their own songs thrown in. They hadn’t started yet; DJ Dave was playing some tunes and talking gibberish. Nobody understood a word he said except when he introduced the Slow set, these were the
only two words that could be understood by the crowd, particularly by the young men in attendance, chauvinist pigs even at that age. Some of our gang were just inside the entrance to the dance floor, “There they are over there” I said to Desi, pointing to them. “Where, I don’t see them” Desi replied, irritated, he’s always irritated, even when he’s having great crack, He’s irritated. “over there by the door, ya blind fuck, if you’d just wear the glasses you have, you’d see them no problem.” I said. “You must be joking, I’d never attract the women with those prescription yokes on me,” Desi replied in mock seriousness. “Makes no difference, you’re an ugly bastard anyway”. I answered. This kind of chatter kept going as we walked the twenty or so steps to where our mates were, excusing ourselves to some, and letting others pass us, pushing our way past others who just stood there ignoring us, hate that. Looking down on people as if they were something they had just trod in. I once saw a blind woman excusing herself and being ignored by such a person, he turned aggressively on the poor women when she tapped his shin with her cane, he was mortified when he realised she was blind. If he had more regard for people around him, this wouldn’t have happened. Manners are a light load to carry. Four of the lads from Finglas and six of the girls from Drimagh-Crumlin, including the girl I was to meet were there. Anna was the girls name; she was engrossed in excited chatter with her pals and didn’t notice us at first. I was always surprised by her being interested in me, always felt as if I wasn’t good enough for her. She was so beautiful in my eyes. The fact now that her face lit up when she caught sight of me and headed instantly in my direction, leaving her friend talking to herself, amazed me. As she approached me getting closer, I could get the whiff of her distinctive scent. I could almost feel the touch of her hair before she was in my radius. She wore a thigh length dress made from a cheesecloth type of material, flowery lilac in colour suggesting a lavender fragrance. She reached me, we embraced, her arms around my waist, kissing me softly, whispering how she had missed me, I told her blushing how I missed her too and had her in my thoughts all week. It’s strange the effect she had on me. I always was shy with girls, had to plan what I was going to say to them, build up the courage to make an approach and talk, I don’t know how many times I would make that approach, and keep walking past, or made the embarrassing retreat with the words
stuck in my mouth. I have a slight speech impediment when I get nervous, which made it harder. With Anna, there was no nerves, we just seemed to fit together easily. Conversation just happened, we made each other laugh, liked the same things. We could talk of our secret passions like, poetry, art, things our other friends had no interest in, some even sneered at such interests. We also had similar taste in music. As soon as the band started we were out there going mad, not dancing just reacting to the music until we had to fall in chairs at the side of the floor from exhaustion, getting our breath back and starting again. I suppose that is one definition of dancing, maybe. This is exactly what happened as soon as the band started. When the bands set was finished, we sat down and we kissed. We spoke of family, exams, how we felt out of place, different to our peers because we didn’t need to get drunk or cause hurt to other people. All this spaced out with interludes of embrace and kissing passionately. We talked nonsense of how our parents didn’t understand us, two generations vastly different from each other with big changes taking place in every way. The night was over too quick; it was time for me to walk Anna out for her lift home. She was to be collected by the mini bus or her dad, mostly it was the mini bus. Occasionally her Dad turned up un-expected to pick her and her friends up. The cloak room had a few people gathering forming a queue. Anna had her coat to collect, I had none, just a denim jacket which I was wearing. She leaned in to me as we queued. “What are you doing tomorrow, we’re going into town for a ramble around, might go to the dandelion market to see what it’s all about, I was never there, were you?” She asked me. “Ye I was there a few times.” I lied. Why do I have to lie about such silly things? What difference does it make if I have never been there? “I can be there, what time.” I added. “We plan to go around ten so we’ll be there around eleven, is that all right, will your Mammy have you breakfasted and your hair combed by then.” She joked. She was always slagging me about being a typical Irishman.
“You boys can do nothing for yourselves.” She would say. “This attitude you have is because you’re the only girl in your family. While I on the other hand have three sisters and three brothers, three older and three younger, right in the middle the hinge in my family.” I said. “Ye I’ll be there before you arrive with your hair undone, after rushing to get the bus, your mates gone on before you.” She said, referring to the last time we met, when I was dead late. “That was just a once off “I replied. “Sure we only met up twice so far this summer.” She said as I handed in the ticket for her jacket. I retrieved her fur lined denim jacket. “A once off” she remarked mimicking my accent, or so she was told when she bought it in O Conner’s of Capel street. I called it her badger jacket and got a dig in the ribs for my trouble. I held the jacket for her, touching her soft silken hair with the back of my fingers as she slipped her arms into it. Her aroma surrounded me as we walked towards the exit, I loved her scent, it reminded me of lilacs and roses. Somehow Anna’s essence always ushered in a light purple colour in my head. I always seem to do crazy things like this, associating colours with scents, or colour with sound. Out now into the cool eyes wide open night air, just what we needed after the hectic sweaty night of frantic jumping around, I’ll call it that because it certainly wasn’t dancing. Anna moved closer to me as we walked down the path I put my arm around her shoulders. There was great heat from her fur coat, I was thinking to myself how we seemed to fit together, like two parts of a jigsaw. Even more so when she slipped her arm under my denim jacket, I could feel her slender body under her soft dress press into my ribcage, her fingers caressed my body through my t-shirt. We eventually got to the front gate not noticing the hustle and bustle of people leaving, some in groups of girls or boys, some couples, at arm’s length or holding hands. There were a few skinheads hanging around at the gate, they gave us dirty looks but said nothing. We walked on towards the next corner to be alone. We had a half hour to spare. Against a three-foot-high wall with a ten-foot hedge growing above it, we settled and embraced, me half sitting on the wall. I loved the way her soft perfumed hair brushed against my cheek as she leaned in against me. I noticed how we were about the same height. I wondered if this was how I imagined my romantic life was to play out based the images created in films, stories and poetry that formed in my head.
I was about to say something, she stopped me with her index finger to my lips, moving her head in to kiss me passionately, our tongues entwined like snakes wriggling in a pit of pleasure. I moved my hands up to caress the back of her head, the fingers of both hands moving through her long blonde flowing silken hair. We moved apart, just enough to talk, both speaking at the same time, I could feel my cheeks blush. “You’re embarrassed, you mustn’t be used to close contact.” She said with a gentle smile. “I am a bit, not so used to close contact, why don’t we practice some more” I said. Kissing her neck. She responded by moving her body in tight to mine, getting me excited. I caressed her back and moved my hands all over her, resting one hand on the base of her spine, while moving the other hand inside her jacket feeling the outline of her smooth body under the soft blouse she wore. We pressed our bodies together, getting more carried away, but as soon as I put my hand on her breast, she pulled away, saying. “That’s far enough, for now anyway, let’s not get carried away “Kissing me now gently, “You don’t mind, do you” she said softly. “No, don’t know what I was thinking. What could we have done here anyway “I said pointing to the hedge and houses around us. “Yeah, and I have to be going, my lift will be here soon” She said as we pulled apart and headed slowly back towards the gate of St Michaels. “I hope you’re not too upset.” She said, cuddling in to me as we walked. “Not at all, I thought you were annoyed with me for trying it on.” I said in reply. We reached the gates and sure enough, her dad was there, sitting in the driving seat of his red Cortina. We pulled apart, I was hoping he didn’t notice our being wrapped up in each other. When he caught sight of us, he stuck his head out the window, shouted in a thick, mock posh Dublin accent. “Who Is this young man then, aren’t you going to introduce me. “ No avoiding this I thought, so I headed straight to him, hand outstretched to shake his gigantic hand, more like a ham than a hand. “I’m so glad to make you acquaintance, Sir.” I Said, as nervous as fuck.
“I hope you’ve been treating my little girl with respect young man.” He said, trying and succeeding to be intimidating. “Oh for sure, your little girl wouldn’t let me away with anything, she has some left hook on her.” I had said without thinking, words gone before I could retrieve them. Hope he didn’t pick that up the wrong way ‘I thought to myself. To make matters worse, when Anna was saying goodnight to me, she put her arms around me and kissed me full on the lips in plain view of him, “Ten in the morning don’t forget “She said, getting into the car. I could feel his dagger-like eyes digging into me, mouth wide open in shock. She got into the car and blew me a kiss from the seat, a sarcastic smile on her face. I was left standing there, stunned. Desi appeared from nowhere, suddenly standing beside me, no visible approach from any direction, just materialised from empty space. “Where the fuck did you come from” I said to him, amazed. ” Sure, you’d notice nothing around you with your wan ating the face of ya, I could have got off a space ship and you wouldn’t notice, are you ready now or what” he said. The red Cortina was departing, I waved to Anna noticing her dad’s eyes glancing menacingly in my direction.
A Strange dream of night with the goat man’s daughter. (Gordon Ferris) One Sunday morning in an unfamiliar place with a strange beautiful face sleeping beside me. Blank space following me that I can’t seem to fill. I throw my clothes on silently, go outside for air to see where I am. Car pulls up with a goat in the passenger seat, bearded driver tips his hat and says, “Welcome to this townland, what part do you hail from”? I wipe my eyes, “is this real, why is there a goat in your car”, I wondered out loud. “Because it’s too far for him to walk, why else” he said as if nothing was out of place. “So, what townland do you hail from, I would like to know the seed, breed and generation of the man who lays with my daughter in my home”. Had I defied space and time, he spoke like one from a different time, Was I somehow still in a deep sleep, unable to wake, will I come around now dripping sweat?
Retrieved words. (Gordon Ferris)
Aged crooked cobblestone streets. Pleasing to the eye, Uneven on the aged feet. Damp misty night air invades every crevice. Fingers touch, senses awaken. All people about fade. Lost in senseless chatter, Lives barely lived, just beginning anew.
In the heat of passion (Gordon Ferris) when someone utters the words, “I love you� Is this the truth, Or something being cast out. A truth hidden. Even from the person who utters these very words, or just words caught up, in the hands touching body on body.
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January 2018’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
Here we are another year and the work keeps getting better with each issue 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 https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_women_s_anthology_2017