A New Ulster 71

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

Featuring the works of Steve Klepetar, Clifton Redmond, Marie Bashford Synnott, Peter O’Neill, Sean Maguire, Amy J Huffman, Deirdre Gallagher, Paul Roche, Mark Conway and Michela Zanarella. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue 71 August 2018

A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website

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

Editorial Steve Klepetar;

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

Clouds When you disappeared No Answer Recovery The Undertow

Clifton Redmond; 1. Hand Writing 2. The Saxophone Man 3. The Fates 4. The Ferret Marie Bashford Synnott; 1. A Lunar Memento Peter O’Neill; 1. The Commuter 2. Hammer – Klavier 3. Nike 4. La Bete Humaine Sean Maguire; 1. Pawn Shop Deals 2. Missing Poem 3. Semantic Battles Amy Huffman; 1. Blood in the Water 2. Eisoptrophiliac 3. I Dream in Technicolor 4. He Knew She Would Deirdre Gallagher; 1. An Evening Offertory Paul Roche; 1. Getting Good Again

Mark Conway; 1. In the driftless 2. In the rear-view Michela Zanarella; 1. My Growing Woman

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 “Summertime� by Amos Greig

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis.

Editorial 2018 has been a particularly trying year so far, we’ve had pets pass away, health scares power and internet cuts and while they have resolved the internet issue the power problem continues with regular outages. They know what the cause is but don’t know where exactly the fault lies, worse they can’t get permission to dig down to fix it due to lack of officials to sign off on it.

Other issues include my permanent and persistent back injury I’ve attended the Pain Clinic this year and had several tests done on circulation etc the end result is there’s nothing further they can do for me and I’m limited on the pain relief due to having reactions to anything stronger than Codine.

Health problems continue to plague us, my wife, my father and of course myself. I hope that there won’t be any more hospital visits this year and that things start to pick up.

I apologise if this editorial has been all doom and gloom but there’s a silver lining pages and pages of prose, poetry and even an essay we hope you enjoy the work contained within and as always, the work remains the Intellectual property of the artists who produced it...

Onward to creativity!!

Amos Greig Editor.

Biographical Note: Steve Klepetar Steve Klepetar has recently relocated to the Berkshires in Massachusetts after 36 years in Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), and Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence Chaps).

Clouds (Steve Klepetar) I am haunted by the clouds that hang above my house with their ridiculous forms breaking up the curve of sky.

In the first grade, I invented a terrible god, a whale made of cloud, and the stories I told of him had the whole bus weeping in fear and despair. My mother got several calls and after that, no one was allowed to play with me. So that was that, cloud trauma at six, and now they hover so close, I can smell rain before it soaks the grass and trees. Another time I pranced the stage, pretending to be a cloud. Again, mothers complained and I was left outside the theatre on a hard bench, listening to the groan of ropes and wheels.

Still, clouds opened me, forced their way through my blood. I’ve learned to speak in wisps when there is any danger of being overheard. If need be, I can rumble or caw. Last night clouds parted, as if we had finally made peace. I stood on a single leg, singing to the visible moon. She perched at my window, a silver bird starved for songs of flesh.

When you disappeared (Steve Klepetar) behind the hills, I still saw a trace of you – just shreds caught in a branch of a huge pine near the beach. A woman was playing there with her black-spotted dog, hurling something with a sling that he would chase, leaping through the grass, almost in flight, tearing away from gravity’s awful pull. We talked awhile, she with her thick Scott’s accent, r’s dropping from her lips like rough little pine cones, and my ng click jabbing at the bark of trees.

Then she whistled and her dog bounded around her calves, and they headed away through the park. Shadows followed.

In the darkness, in the space your absence left, I gathered wisps of you, unwrapping each strand carefully, then letting them waft away, one by one, in the April breeze.

No Answer (Steve Klepetar) And by giving no answers I have kept my heart yellow.

Neruda My father always used to say “No answer is also an answer,” though actually he’d say it in German: “Keine Antwort ist auch eine Antwort, but I only want to say this: I stopped answering questions not to give myself an air of mystery nor to disdain the choices offered nor to disappoint.

Forgive me my silences; they are well meant, and come from deep within, springing from some aquifer I have vowed to keep pure.

I simply never knew the answers, and preferred silence to the sound of my voice grinding over the pebbles of my ignorance.

Recovery (Steve Klepetar) Confined to my chair, I sit here reading with my one good eye and soon some part of me wanders out in the cool, blue air hiking toward the mountain behind my new house.

The mountain is green and brown, so close it seems to hang from the sky, hooked and lowered into place. I lean on my stick and sing into the wind. All the way up, my legs ache with the joy of effort, my body stretching into itself.

Everywhere I look there are ferns, feathery shapes, like the green shadows of breath.

There by a rotting log, an orange newt burns in its own tiny space.

Soon I will reach the top, look out over a valley striped with roads, dotted with houses and farms.

Here is where dreams end, swallowed whole at the gateway of stars.

The Undertow (Steve Klepetar) I put my house up for sale, and turned it into a boat.

I lived in a little cabin on the deck, and at night I stared up at the stars. They swam in a black river of sky. When the winds came, my boat tossed on the waves. I held on to the railings, remembering a song my mother used to sing about two girls who were lost at sea.

One had green hair. She sank to the ocean floor.

There she married a merman and lived in palace of coral and ice.

But her sister faded into mist.

They say her tears wet the sands near the town where she was born. It makes me weep to recall this now, but her name was lost in the undertow.

Biographical Note: Clifton Redmond Clifton Redmond. Lives in Carlow, Ireland with his wife, Johanna, and their eight-yearold son, Diarmuid. He is a member of the Carlow Writer's Co-operative and a student at Carlow College Saint Patrick’s. Clifton has had work published in various print and online journals in Ireland, Britain and America. He has been long listed for the Over The Edge Poetry Contest and Shortlisted for the Fermoy International Poetry Prize, Rush Poetry Prize and won Carlow College Literary Award. Last year Clifton was shortlisted for Fool for Poetry International Competition. He was also chosen to take part in W.I.S.P.A. (Welsh, Irish Spoken Word Alliance) where he was the featured reader at various open mic events and gave talks on figurative language with BA and MA creative writing students in Trinity Saint David’s Lampeter Campus.

Hand Writing (Clifton Redmond) Your print-squiggle scratches on a copy-book are ineligible, strokes of HB pencil dance haphazard between thin-blue parallel lines. You press on the page like it’s torture.

The teacher’s sentence, ‘good children follow the rules’ are a biro-masterpiece in striking red, and you follow the best you can, unfurling the charcoal ribbon of vowels and consonants, space out the words with your index finger. You dream the longhand loops of a Calligrapher: the slices, flicks and strokes of perfect ligature, in the hopes of an elegant star, the sleek slide of a “correct” but all you have is the scrubbed debris of an eraser – a cursive-failure.

The Saxophone Man (Clifton Redmond) He pays his dues, bargains with Jah on Parnell Street.

The saxophone man with Caribbean skin; jamming to the rhythm of sinking drops; toes tap in puddle splashes; the grey giving way to the blues before the black.

Between high-street boutiques and Fair Trade Coffee shops, I listen as he confesses sins, pleads forgiveness, bids farewell to yesterday’s lovers.

His long dreads trashing against the drip, bursting from a crochet Rasta tam heavy and soaked.

Eyes tight, lips pressed, fingers caress brass, forges codes, a secret language to Haile Selassie.

The Fates (Clifton Redmond)

You cry at her polished porcelain feet with moss and gravel for a bed and grieve the un-lived life.

Her frozen stare outstaring yours, knowing somehow the pain of secret-silence - crucifixion.

You wonder why Clotho bothers to spin the loom, Lachesis with no span to measure stands as idle as the blessed idol, and Atropos ready with the shears to cut the threads that never were.

Sorrow is kept for the elegies, the reembrace mass, the church collection, the prayers for the faithful, the hell-bent journos, the outraged singers.

Her faith is a sentence, standing back as you swell, spin an eight-month-lie. while the blinds are pulled she keeps her silent vigil.

You call her mother.

The Ferret (Clifton Redmond) Farrell pays you to save his field from the affliction so you run a cultured eye along the ditches, in the margins, for hollows and brown beads of shit, the obvious symptoms; piss-circles and Y-tracks lead you to the labyrinth.

You collar Theseus, your finest polecat and send her deep into poisoned pores to cure this distorted breast of earthen-tumor.

You pierce the infected ground with a spiked-bar, a doe’s sacrificial-scream is the released malady – When the sharp pings grow to a frenzied squeal against the pawed earth’s drum, you cut into the frozen clay with a spade, lift your champion from the bloody scene, clean the grit from her coat, the scruff and flesh from her claws.

Biographical Note: Marie Bashford Synnott Marie has read at events in Skerries and had work published in previous publications including A New Ulster

A Lunar Memento (Marie Bashford Synnott)

PHASES

NEW MOON

Moisture

(Mare Humorum)

Serenity.

(Mare Serenitates)

FIRST QUARTER

Knowledge

(Mare Cognitum)

Fertility

(Mare Fecunditates)

FULL MOON

Storms

(Oceanum Procellarum)

Crisis

(Mare Crisium)

SECOND QUARTER

Showers

(Mare Ibrium)

Tranquillity

(Mare Tranquilitatis)

NEW MOON

Mare Humorum (Moisture)

warm wind from the sea.

from the .

from.

And a few whitetopped quiet waves. and. sand.

Godwit – no – curlew.

“the curlews beak particularly suited

to searching for lug-worms beneath the sand”

M-a-a-m !

mantra

white in a red haze

mantra

on red - blooming

in slow motion

perfect controlled flight, just moving by a

feather's breath, wheeling and soaring over the

water like...... like itself! lifted on air, then

swooping down, inches from the Quay wall. “ I'd love

to be a seagull!” Always shouts “Jump!” when she

sees them sitting on chimney pots.

“Jump!”

Lunatic!

THE OBSERVERS VIEW OF THE HEAVENS IS BOUNDED

BY THE

THE CELESTIAL

HORIZON, THE GREAT CIRCLE THAT MARKS WHERE OBSERVER'S HORIZONTAL PLANE MEETS THE SPHERE.

Are your feet wet?

Hurry, Hurry!

*

After the storms of the last few weeks, it's different.

*

Grey day

rain

children cold and wet but soon toast, tea, smiles.

I remember the fire, and bread and jam

There are forces at work.

Round white table.

shining.

yellow walls, cupboard doors a good match.

red saucepans, graduated to save space

evening

the islands smudged

grey mist on the sea

the eye moving

over the water

towards the horizon

one minute watching the low waves

then

realising it's the sky!

It's an ill wind. If it doesn't rain couple of hours anyway.

Hang them back out tomorrow hopefully

part of the world. contact.

always ready to overflow.

Sing it! *

Stretches of small stones littered over the beach

and sand covering some of the huge boulders piled

against the Sea Wall to absorb the force of the waves.

*

flowers.

white. Blooming

through a red mist

bursting open, blooming

Red.

Do not step onto the platform until

the rain stops

brown and beige

twin arrows of seagull's feet

sea

muffled foghorn

a bird's wings in the fading light

little girl in a turquoise coat collecting

seashells. Not as small as she used to be -

suddenly.

sky at sunset

roofs black against pale blue, pink, lemon

street light by the sea wall shining on wet rocks

in pools of sea-water

fog-horn silent

mist under the low cliff

time to get the dinner on *

in

and

feathery

no

particular pattern

dotted

a few yards

auburn seaweed

over the beach

from

the low tide

*

MANY ASTRONOMERS THINK THAT THE EARTH-MOON SHOULD BE CONSIDERED

A DOUBLE PLANETARY SYSTEM.

that solitary drive through the dark

the sense of the sea always on the left

line of lights showing the curve of the harbour

sparkling in the distance

about three miles

the night blue-black

leafless trees in the headlights

pink

stands for what ?

passion

-

red

purity

-

white

marriage?

*

the pull of the sea has smoothed the sand

*

Lady in red

at her first dance

IT WAS ONCE THOUGHT THAT THE MOON WAS TORN FROM THE EARTH,

BUT THIS SEEMS HIGHLY UNLIKELY.

*

Serenity ( Mare Serenitatis )

ripple

no

discernible

patterns

*

today

Gold and blue Autumn day

mild

no wind

and the sea calm

content

in spite of

and in the grey light of a rainy evening -

crazy to go for a walk then

but the freedom of it

coal crackling

cinder dropping

dog barking

car engine

pen squeaking

birds chirping

hoover next door

sea - faintly

radiator popping

*

anybody can do it

in beautiful weather

only us real

nature lovers

enjoy all her aspects -

*

in, around, back, off, in, around, back, off, in, around, back, off

in, around, back, off, in, around, back, off, in, around, back, off.

first two lines.

for a doll.

until it's finished.

to keep her neck warm!

children at school fire lit. washing machine whirring house clean. warm.

it all helps

wash hair

dry jumper

life

to be visible

*

there's a thing !

Why 'her ?

Why am I paying lip-service hah! thats good lip service I like it !

*

don't get carried away ........

*

ciunas quiet

sky through water islands, birds

fields through trees through hills, grass

one, two, one two

moving trees houses

when you can berely see it that's the

oh the first quarter so,

moon?

I suppose ?

( pint-sized professor of astronomy! )

*

Why Nature as the feminine?

How should I define nature ?

*

Where to start

seeing the moon through glass and going out leaving the kitchen all of it

just to look acknowledge

the moon the blue sky not day blue evening now

car lights street dog barking

and the moon

the man in the

or the woman?

moon over the sea

drawn out

pulled from

children laughing

come in soon

not yet !

silence

enjoy it

*

and another thing........

*

not yet!

Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill .

Peter O’Neill is the author of several books, most recently More Micks Than Dicks, a hybrid Beckettian novella in 3 genres currently out of print, and The Dublin Trilogy: Poems & Transversions 1992-2017, a singular engagement with a 19th century French Master; launched in Paris in November last year to commemorate the 150th anniversary of Baudelaire’s death. He recently presented je la dis comme elle vientThe Appearance of the Homeric Muse in Beckett’s Comment c’est/How It Is at the How It Is Symposium organised by Gare Saint Lazare Players Ireland at the Centre Culturel Irlandais in Paris. He teaches EFL and resides in Dublin. His writing (be it poetry, translation, critical reviews or academic presentation) has been published widely, being translated into French, Italian and German. O’Neill has also edited two anthologies of poetry; And Agamemnon Dead ( mgv2>publishing, 2015) and The Gladstone Readings ( Famous Seamus, 2017). He set up Donkey Shots, an avant -garde literary festival, in his hometown of Skerries, North County Dublin, and currently hosts The Gladstone Readings.

https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/peter-o-neill-on-andagamemnon-dead-an-alternative-collection-of-irish-poetry-1.2209523

https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/donkey-shots-2-poetrycomes-to-skerries-1.2652260

The Commuter (Peter O’Neill) I am becoming like one of those wizened Middle-aged journey-women or men From out of the past, more expert in my strategy, Knowing almost to the centimeter where to stand On the quay, anticipating the door To the carriage, which I shall climb aboard.

I watch my raincoat-draped features Reflected back to me on the windows, Appreciating the cinematic quality Of the imagery, embracing the Daily film of my life, its microCosmic wonder. Investing hourly in The self before each minute struggle, and By such investiture appreciating the effort of the other.

Hammer – Klavier (Peter O’Neill) The first noun reads more like a verb; imperative!

Such is the Anglo-Saxon emphasis.

“Hammer the Klavier”, not the effeminised Clavier. Remember, they are warlike Nations. Look at their histories, Filled to the brim with both war and peace.

Hence Beethoven! Picture him sitting In a tavern, the year is 1802.

Hegel and Napoleon are all around, And he is playing the Eroica Variations On the beer stained instrument.

Allegro molto…he is straining at the Keyboards, the notes at times barely perceptible to him.

Yet to the collective assembled… what a din.

Nike (Peter O’Neill)

Reconfiguring spatialization, Upending form to further engage Her displacement admonished. This voice Then an earthly censor. Cherry pick

A subject… the muse, for example!

After the initial excavation, Hoisting the winged block on chains, Placing her strategically upon the stairwell,

Far from the original setting.

Samothrace. To be headless then Inside the Louvre, and named in but one

Stroke upon an athlete’s foot, powering Up, on air, an entire generation, Releasing the elemental lightness of the soul.

La Bête Humaine (Peter O’Neill)

Apparently, she had done a trial run Some days before the actual event.

A signalman had found her walking down Along the tracks, quite early one morning.

She was a retired teacher. Well liked Too, by all accounts. Chatty, all the railWay personnel knew her. She would Sometimes bring them biscuits and cake.

Then, one morning, she climbed down onto the tracks, Sat down with her back facing the oncoming Train. A man called out to her.

There was not much of her left after it passed.

Just a lot of blood and some body parts.

Now, there is just all trauma and shock.

Biographical Note: Sean Maguire Sean Maguire is 58 years old and has been writing poetry, short fiction and non fiction for roughly 30 years. He grew up in the Lower Falls area of Belfast before moving to Newry in the mid 1970s.

Sean has had a collection of poems called, ‘Harvest Soul’ published by Sessyu Press in 1998. Since then he has self published various works. In July last year, with help from Orla Kelly Publishing Services he released a collection of poetry called, ‘For Those Left behind’ which focused on 30 years of violent conflict in the north of Ireland.

Sean previously ran a Writers Group in Newry for 15 years and delivered workshops touching on all genres of writing. In January this year he was accepted for professional membership of the Irish Writers Centre.

He is currently working on a new poetry collection and a compilation of short stories.

Pawn Shop Deals (Sean Maguire)

We arrived for the game, a bunch of scrawny school boys, shorts inches below our knees.

There were no changing rooms.

We togged out, behind the old chestnut trees.

The school pride was at, stake.

Minutes, after the whistle blew, teeming rain turned the pitch into a man-made lake.

My boots were way too small, I could barely walk, never mind run or kick a ball.

No protests were made, they were the pawn shop’s best deals, with a communion dress

and pink coloured pram, sporting baby blue wheels.

Missing Poem (Sean Maguire)

I searched high and low, for a poem, that vanished like melted snow.

I was afraid to show, my face, at the weekly writing place.

The poem was penned with creative zest, worthy of any critic’s test.

I retraced my steps a dozen times.

The words, lines and rhymes were nurtured, for free-flowing verse.

I reread crumbled pages, just in case, the poem was rejected at birth.

I rang the poetry police,

a very helpful Captain MacNeice made public appeals, posted flyers in arty places, where writers, bury their faces, in pages of Heaney and Yeats.

I suddenly remembered replying to publishers invitations. I was totally smitten about cultural recognition, the damn poem had not been written.

Semantic Battles (Sean Maguire)

It was time, to rally the troops, for a war of words, in pursuit of lingual truth.

A clean fight was in sight, to help migrating verbs, with their maiden flight.

Before leaving, the ‘action words ‘ delivered deadly blows to boring nouns, deemed unfit to run with the hounds, or write reviews for Channel Four news.

Biographical Note: Amy Huffman A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, fourteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, The Pyre On Which Tomorrow Burns (Scars Publications), Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2600 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. You can find more of her personal work here: https://ajhuffmanpoetryspot.blogspot.com/

Blood in the Water (Amy Huffman)

and my world swims like a moon.

I have no idea how I cut my finger on a spoon. I howl, drop another tea bag in the pot, hope there is enough sugar to erase the metallic taste of night from my mouth.

Eisoptrophiliac (Amy Huffman)

Mirror, mirror on the wall, you are the loveliest one of all . . .

The intricate curves, the gild of your casing resonates erotic. Sleek surface, designated silver by blind men, ripples with shadows of every color, highlighted with hues of the unknown. You are every face and none. A ghost of pieces, past, present and future, you are a pool of possibilities – promised and pissed away. A chrysalistic cauldron, you bubble, sometimes cause trouble, then resign to silent sentient post.

You guard the empty hallways of tomorrow. You are Echo, reincarnated, waiting for the next Narcissus to fill your frame.

I Dream in Technicolor (Amy Huffman)

Retro rainbows and hand-painted curtains dangle from mechanical strings above my head. I am puppet master, the wizard behind this wall of midnight. I conjure monkeys and maniacs to keep me company, dye my hair blue to match tonight’s mood, throw my voice in the abyss of a world that will never see me, even if I made myself glow in this dark.

He Knew She Would (Amy Huffman)

Watching her had been tricky, a random assignment that put him so close he could breathe her scent—the one beneath her perfume. It was intoxicating to be so close and still such a long distance apart.

He wanted her, but he had to bide his time.

He knew that good things came to those who planned carefully.

That was the secret: Darkness waited patiently. All things came to the dark.

Eventually. He followed her until he was empty. In a way he felt like a guardian angel, a silent escort who would be with her until they reached some ephemeral final destination. He walked carefully, glancing back at her. He was not worried about the pain. His heart was a baby, kicking under an invisible blanket. She had her head down, reading. He recognized the title.

The Poet. She was reading about him.

He admired himself for all the preparation he had taken. By the end of the night, she would know the depths of his darkness. She would pay for what she had yet to do to him.

Biographical Note: Deirdre Gallagher . Deirdre Gallagher is a graduate of NUI Galway and Hibernia College. She

speaks three languages and relishes travelling. These passions and her strong attachment to family ignited the writing spark and ever since she has been slowly tending the flame. She hopes to stir, uplift and summon emotions to the surface with her words. She has taught in France for a period and currently teaches in Ireland. Her work has been published in the popular online blog Poethead. Herself and her husband reside in the beautiful Irish countryside.

Ar scĂĄth a chĂŠile a mhaireann na daoine

An Evening Offertory Deirdre Gallagher)

Sun sets in Western sky as hands of pearl mould and sculpt homemade bread Artistry of midland country kitchen Ritual of an evening offertory

On backwall Sheltered from summertime draping of balmy heat Palms and fingers knead and weave in a shadow dance to Shannon swansong

The final cadence Sealed with a cross.

Biographical Note: Paul Roche

Paul Roche is a Dublin writer and a student of English and History at UCD. His horror fiction has appeared in Schlock! magazine and at schlock.co.uk. His vampire tale "Playing With God" will feature in the October issue of Underbelly Magazine at underbellyzine.blogspot.com.

Getting Good Again

by Paul Roche

Two grand. Sure, tha's nothin'.

Dom sat on the couch in his tracksuit bottoms with his Air Max kicked up on the coffee table. He had a cup of tea in one hand and a fag in the other. He was trying to think what to do. What the hell was he going to do? But really, he was trying to let Jeremy Kyle distract him from the whole bloody mess.

The front door slammed as Cliona came in from the school run. She blustered into the TV room, handbag swinging. Her hair was wet and wind-swept. Her wind-cheater dripped on the shag. She was surprised to find Dom there.

"You no' goin' t'work?" she asked.

"No," he said, glancing out the window. "Y'can't lay foundations in tha' rain."

She seemed satisfied with his excuse. "Didya make a pot or a cup?"

"A pot, love."

She hung her wind-cheater on the end of the stairs, and tied her hair into a bun in the hall mirror. She sat in an armchair across from the couch, and lit a smoke to go with her tea.

"You go' any shifts today, hun?" he asked. Cliona worked part-time as a carer.

"Takin' BrĂ­d up to mass at eleven. Runnin' her messages in the afternoon," she said, and took another drag. "Seein' as yer home, will ya put the Christmas decorations in the attic?"

"Will do, love, will do."

They watched Jeremy Kyle berate a young wan who wanted to find out which of her three boyfriends was the father of her child. "Boyfriend" was a loose term in this case. Cliona stood up once she'd finished her tea.

"I've a few bits t'do meself before I head to BrĂ­d's. I'll haveta leave ya." She kissed Dom's shaved head before she left.

When the door slammed shut again, Dom rested his fag on the ash tray and put his head in his hands. He hated to lie to Cliona.

Two bloody grand.

Just the day before, it had felt like nothing. He was going to pay back the first chunk out of his next pay packet. But now that his next pay packet would be his last pay packet, two grand seemed like a hell of a lot more than nothing. How could he pay back any of it, not knowing where next week's money was coming from? With two kids and a wife working part-time, tell me how?

Tell me how, he thought, his palms at his temples, Christ, tell me how?

He rubbed his head and slapped his knees. He couldn't stomach thinking anymore. He went into the hall and grabbed the big box with the artificial Christmas tree in it and carried it upstairs. He got up on a chair and slid the cover of the trap-door to the attic aside. He pulled down the ladder by the old belt wrapped round one of the rungs. As he stepped onto the ladder, he shuddered.

The day before, he'd turned up to work still amped from the night before. Coke sharpened the senses, it didn't dull them. It had never been a problem before. It had been his best mate's impromptu engagement party, he couldn't have missed it.

Everything was fine until he set up the ladder for the roofer. The roofer climbed up as he held the ladder steady. In his agitated state, he had set the ladder on the edge of the tiles skirting a flower bed. The feet of the ladder straddled the edge. He held the ladder steady, but as the roofer reached the top, he felt his job was done. He let go. The ladder slipped, and the roofer came tumbling down.

Dom stood there shaking as the poor bastard lay screaming on the ground. When his boss, Tony, ran out of the house, he took one look at Dom's eyes and saw the root of the problem.

"Two grand? Sure, tha's nothin'" That's what his dealer, Paul, had said when Dom called him the night of the party. His mate wanted to celebrate with a bang. He'd been reluctant to call Paul. He knew he already owed a lot, but the sum total came as a shock. A night out here, a weekend away there. Sometimes he paid, but sometimes the ATM was too far or his next pay day too close. When he really thought about it, it all added up.

"I know yer good fer i'," Paul had said. "How much d'ya need?"

It seemed strange to Dom. Two grand definitely wasn't nothing to him. And Paul was only a small fish, it wasn't nothing to him either. But that's what Paul said. Dom wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he took a bag off him.

When he'd brought the last of the decorations up to the attic, Dom leaned back, cracking his joints. His eyes caught the high beam running along the roof. He glanced down at the belt wrapped round the rung at the foot of the ladder.

No, it was too soon to be thinking about that.

He went down to the couch and took out his phone. A fella from Tony's crew had left six months ago to start his own construction firm. As the phone rang, he heard what he didn't know was an international dial-tone.

"Hello?" Tommy answered.

"Ahright, Tommy? It's Dom, remember, from Tony's crew?"

"Ah, howiya, Dom? What's crackin'?"

"Not much, bud, not much. Look, I'm after fallin' out wi' Tony. Tings are gettin' good again an' he's tryina' make us work mad hours. I was wunderin' if y've any work y'could throw my way?"

"Not unless you fancy comin' ou' to Dubai."

"Dubai?!"

"Yeah, man, this is where d'money is. I'll be se' to retire in five years. Good money if yer willin' t'move."

The prospect was tempting, very tempting. But it wasn't like he could pack up his family tomorrow and fly. There'd be a run-up. If Paul got a sniff that he was planning on running, he wouldn't be left with legs to run on.

"No, man. I need work quick. Never mind, glad t'hear yer doin' well, bud. Are ya sportin' one o' dem dish-cloths yet?"

"Am I, fook!" They both laughed. "Well, the offers der if ya change yer mind. It'd be nice t'have a few faces from home, ya know?"

"I'll think abou'rit alrigh'. Tanks anyway, Tommy. Take care o' yerself."

"Seeya, buddy."

Dom only knew the boys from Tony's crew, who he'd been with since things got good again. He'd worked in a Tesco when times were bad. He tried to think of who he'd worked with as an apprentice in the boom times. As he scanned his memory, his phone rang in his hand.

"Paul" sat dead centre in the screen.

He sat there, staring at it, letting it ring. He answered.

"A'righ', Paul, what's the craic?" he said.

"Nommuch. Was just thinkin' it's abou' time to collect a little o' what y'owe me."

"Look, Paul, I had a chunk o' me next pay packet set aside for ya but, bud, Tony's only gone and sacked me--" He was about to go on a diatribe about how it would be better for Paul to wait until he got another job, to ensure Paul would get paid in full. He was going to

allude to the fact that physical repercussions would only hinder him, as a builder, from earning the money to pay him. But he didn't have to.

"Yer no' serious, man? Jaysus, I t'ough' tings were goin' good again? T'ough' der was too much work for yiz?" The sympathy in his voice was disturbing. "Look, buddy, I like you.

Y've never given me an ounce o' trouble. When y'have i', y'll have i', and when y'have i', y'll give i' t'me. Righ'?"

"Righ', Paul, too righ'. I will, y'know I will. Just can't leave me family starvin' while I find i', y'know?"

"I know, Dom, I know. Like I said, I'll be in touch."

Dom hung up the phone and leaned back into the couch. He felt like passing out with relief. He felt like a man reborn or, rather, resurrected. It was uncanny, but it was a gift.

Renewed, he busied himself around the house. He folded clothes and hoovered the place. He checked the fridge. He had all the ingredients for a spaghetti carbonara. It was his speciality, and the only thing he could cook. Then he texted Cliona to let her know he'd collect the kids from school.

Ive the car though, she replied.

Id enjoy the walk. The weathers cleared up, he texted back.

He waited at the school gates, the only fella there. They seemed two sides of the same coin to him. Him in his trackie bottoms, them in their yoga pants. Not that any of them looked like they had done any yoga or exercise in years--himself included.

Ten year old Michael was surprised to see him. Eight year old Olivia was delighted.

She squealed as her arms sprang wide and she ran into his arms.

"Daddy!" she squealed in ear as he held her.

"Howiya, baba?" he said.

"Didya see me pigtails?" she asked when he set her down. She spun around, letting her pigtails fly. They were plaited and tied with a pink ribbon on each end.

"Wow," he said in feigned amazement. "They're beautiful. Who did those for ya?"

"Jessica," she said. "Her mammy taugh' her."

"They're lovely. We'll have t'get mammy t'teach you. Howiya doin', buddy?" he said, mussing Michael's hair. Michael squirmed out from under his hand.

"A'righ'," Michael said with a shrug. He had grown stroppy recently. Dom wasn't sure if he were becoming a problem-child or a child with problems. But it wasn't a day for that kind of thinking.

"Will we have a little FIFA tournament when we ge' home, Mikey?" Dom asked.

"I'd rather play with me mates," he replied.

"Didya invite yer mates over?" Dom asked, as they began to walk.

Michael rolled his eyes. "No, Da, online."

Michael went up to his room when they got home.

"Make sure y'do yer homework first, Mikey!" Dom shouted after him.

Dom cooked his famous carbonara, and they ate as a family. Dom broke the news to Cliona about his job. He left out the bit about the coke. He'd find another job in no time, he told her. There was plenty of work to go around these days. And she believed him, because there was.

Dom let Cliona have a lie-in the next day, and brought the kids to school. She had gone to a client's house by the time he got back. He sat on the couch with a cup of tea and a fag, and called people he used to know from the trade.

A few numbers were out of service. They had probably left the country when things got bad. The first two that did answer had done what Dom had done, found new jobs and left the trade altogether.

After a couple of hours, Dom had his head in his hand again, racking his brain as he stared at his own reflection shrouded in the blackness of his phone screen.

Two grand. Sure, tha's nothin'.

When y'have i', y'll have i'.

That's what he'd said, but Dom was having trouble believing it.

The doorbell rang then. Dom went into the hall, and his heart froze in his chest. The window in the door was frosted, but Dom recognized Paul's gangly, edgy gait. He was as lean and twitchy as a cheetah, as if every muscle in his body was tensed and waiting to strike at any moment. Dom was twice Paul's size, but he was still terrified of him. Dom opened the door.

Paul was wearing a two-piece, black Adidas tracksuit and Gucci trainers. He had a black gym bag in one hand.

"Paul, I thought y'said y'd gimme some time. I don' have yer money yet," Dom said.

"I did, an' I meant i' too," Paul said. "I jus' wan'ed t'talk t'ya bou' sumtin' real quick.

Can I come in? I'd murder a cuppa tea."

Dom didn't want to let him in, but how could he refuse? He stepped aside and let him in. Paul sat in the armchair while Dom went to the kitchen and got them each a cup of tea.

Dom handed Paul the cup, eyeing the gym bag next to the chair. He sat down on the couch and lit a much needed fag.

"So, wha' didya wanna talk t'me abou'?" Dom asked.

"Well, I know yer goin' t'rough a tough time, owin' wha' y'do and losin' yer job an' all.

So when me boss tol' me he needed someone t'do 'im a favour, I t'ough' I could helpya ou'."

"Look, Paul, no offence t'ya, but I'm no' a drug dealer. And I'm no' the kinda person tha' does jobs for drug dealers. I've go' a family t'think abou'. I can't afford t'go t'prison."

"Ah, Jaysus, it's nothin' like tha'. Tings are geh'in' a little hairy dese days, as y'can tell from d'newis. All y'have t'do is hold onta this bag for a coupla weeks, tha's all. Two weeks, and y'can forgeh' all abou' tha' money y'owe me. Nob'dy knows who y'are, tha's why yer perfect. They'd never tink abou' lookin' here. Two weeks and yer sor'ed."

It all fell into place right then. The two grand credit Paul had extended, how he'd let it creep up on Dom. Dom felt like a fool. He didn't like it one bit. He thought about Cliona and the kids. He thought about his dwindling phone book. How far would Paul extend his credit if he said no?

Dom inhaled deeply, cooling the rage that was smouldering inside him. "Two weeks?" he asked.

"On me life," Paul said, his hand to his heart.

Not that there's one in there, Dom thought.

"Two weeks, and the debt is paid?" Dom asked.

"With interest, buddy."

"Fuck i'," Dom said. "I can take i' for two weeks."

"Good man. I knew I could trust ya. Keep i' safe." Paul got to his feet and rooted in one of his pockets. "Here's a little sumtin' fer yerself. On d'house." He handed Dom a baggy of white powder.

Dom took it without question. Paul shook his hand, and Dom could feel the bones like there was no flesh on them at all.

Dom stood at the door as Paul walked down the drive. As he was closing the door, Paul turned and said, "Gimme best to Cliona and kids."

Dom stood in the silence of hall. The fear crept over him like a horde of ants. He'd never told Paul about Cliona and the kids. He felt stupid, so fucking stupid. Of course they knew. That's why they chose him.

Dom brought the bag into the attic. He looked up at the high beam. He felt like he was already hanging from it. The floorboards in the attic had always been a death-trap. He shifted one aside, pulled up the pink fibreglass insulation, and placed the bag into the gap. He covered it with the insulation and replaced the board. # He could feel the weight of it above him as he sat watching The Late Late Show with Cliona that evening. It was never out of his mind, and he found himself looking up at the ceiling every few minutes.

He realized he had never checked inside the bag. There could be anything in it. Not that it mattered. It was a prison sentence one way or another, the only difference was the length. But that didn't matter either, no matter what it was, he couldn't have said no.

When Ryan Tubridy asked his next inane question of his latest insignificant guest, Dom slapped his knee and said, "I'm goin' t'the pub."

"Y'alrigh'?" Cliona asked, cosy in her pyjamas.

"Yeah, I've been cooped up in here too long. Jus' need t'get ou' fer a bi'."

"A'righ', enjoy yerself. Don't be late," she said as he put on his jacket.

"I won't be, love," he said and kissed her.

Dom went for a quiet pint that turned into a loud one. He bumped into a fella called Derek who he worked with in Tesco. He was an electrician who'd returned to the trade. His boss had just secured a contract to build a small apartment block and was looking for experienced hands. Dom bought him a few pints. They talked shit about old times and toasted the new.

The weekend went as weekends go: dance lessons, pints, Sunday league, and Sunday dinner.

On Monday morning, Dom thought about calling Derek. But it was too early. Derek had his number, he'd call when he had news. Dom spent the morning watching Jeremy Kyle.

As the DNA results came in, Dom's phone rang. It was Derek.

"A'righ' bud?" Dom answered.

"I've good news fer ya," Derek said. "Conor'll take ya on. On a probationary basis.

Once y've proved yerself, the job is yers" "Ah, tha's brilliant, man, brilliant. Tanks so much. Y've really go' me ou've a spo'.

When do I start?"

"T'morrow. I'll textya on the details."

"Tha's great, man, I won't let you down."

"See ya t'morrow, bud. Bright and early."

Dom hung up the phone and clenched his fist in triumph. Two weeks and he'd be sorted. He felt like celebrating. He took out his wallet and pulled out the baggy that Paul had gifted him. He took out his debit card, and tapped a bump out onto the table. He froze with his debit card between his fingers.

What the fuck am I doing? he thought, I told Derek I wouldn't let him down. Two weeks and I'm sorted. Two weeks and I'm done. I'm done.

He squeezed the top of the baggy open and pushed the fine white dust into it with his card. He walked into the bathroom under the stairs and poured it all into the jacks and flushed. He was done with that.

He made himself a cup of tea and lit a fag. What more could he need?

A bang on the door seemed to make the whole house shake. Dom spilled his tea and scalded himself. The banging continued. Voices shouted to be let in. Dom sat there, frozen.

He was done.

END

Biographical Note: Mark Conway Mark Conway’s third book of poetry, rivers of the driftless region, will be published

by Four Way Books in April of 2019. His work has appeared in The Paris Review, Slate, Boston Review, American Poetry Review, Kenyon Review Online, the “Poema-Day” series of The Academy of American Poets, Ploughshares, the PBS NewsHour and Bomb. He lives in rural Minnesota.

in the driftless (Mark Conway) I’m older – over there – sleeping :: partially decaying / taken up in night sweats as mind solvent drips through padded caves :: it gets me twitching / deep in dreamraging – I forget I’ve never forgiven (really) any of them: them dumb bastards : with both of us dying together daily / crazy at the home movies unreeling in our heads where we’re always young we live forever through fiestas in muggy a m’s / our aging recorded at the atm we’re seen: daily : inhaling money: (no stanza break)

in the driftless (p.2) otherwise oblivious we float through the driftless region – weightless / daily as mayflies / inside their time that never passes:

the moment just lifts them an instant / then

goes on / untwisting… you see us – riding streams faces veiled in nets of insects / infinite in their droning – the long evening suspended – draped over

dark broken waters – the past always in us / as river /

(stanza break)

in the driftless (p.3)

spilling down to the ocean‌ looking back

into the black west we’re in it / again the driftless

in the rear-view (Mark Conway) i

now the world : the world in the glare of the world hidden inside its dark shining – the way a bird smashes through the picture window / falling for the more luminous sky : it’s true I saw you in the unfurling sails / diving off the wharf after selling out the whale tour… in now :: is now : still I saw you inside the shining… you only see the earth bend

from the sky or sprawled across the waterline eyes riding up the breaking wave

ii

the bird in the bird singing the outer bird wants to sing – too : my hand my old hand turns into my old hand : the road singing dirt… two days before they died the people I knew memorized the room by looking in my eyes – fading dutch interior reflecting back… they smile / nodding at the hum of the emptying room then turn— whispering to those already gone and turn again

to the last face loved loved though the face of someone they no longer know

iii

the world in the finch seed in the mouth…

I see what you see – to the side we’re lost inside one mind I meet you in the infrequent…

I want to meet you in the infrequent clearings : such a relief to know you can appear :: the faces behind what I see – seeing inside… these days I measure time by hand the seen time unrolls as pause / falls from the finch beak – half-hull whirling to the ground

iiii

I took you down to the quayside that was you (infrequent – flickering near the water) I talked to beneath the bitter gulls – looking back across the tidal sand your eyes like the sun light up the mostlyvisible world : squinting through the live mirage… your sunlike eyes look out the mind looks in

iiiii

children call to the hawk now the red hawk : I hear the glacier calving to the north : also: next-door neighbors eating pizza / talking shit I know I sleep but not how I got through sleep’s draped rooms now day – trees (again) (first off) sap in the outer ring as sugar – spring and the great waters spin

iiiiii

now the spring : here the trees divide in waves we walk for miles : in our minutes we remain‌ the fields move like the river moves through rain : we cut across grainfields part the green wheat leave it broken and supreme I carry stones in my shoes / stones of mud road the birds alone can make me sing I sing: dirt road

iiiiiii

time to move – I go on with my father who was never my father / always walking farther off with the sun in his eyes eyes we got for day blindness for night we can hear the earth turn at evening the fire burning down if we move like the river we can make it back by dawn

iiiiiiiii

now the air : I believe in cold water – believe that was you— youthful by the quayside heaving to…

I came to you so long ago our civilization now worn to ruins... looking in the rearview mirror blinded by the glare – we see everything we had is gone :: or lost – the only thing we’d planned

Biographical Note: Michela Zanarella Michela Zanarella is the author of poetry, fiction and plays. Born in Cittadella, Michela lives and works in Rome, where she carries out her work in collaboration with various journals on the web. She has eight books of poetry, and she has received several national and international awards. Her poetry has been translated into Spanish, Romanian, French and Arabic.

My Grow ing Woman (Michela Zanarella)

Will to the roots and calm superior to spirit, m y growing woman on the fans of time’s fire.

Ma ybe it is the desire of the sk y: the blood runs and it helps me to discover the love of sunrises.

I chase lumps of light and brotherl y silences, in my steps a meeting of childhoods and paradises uninhabited.

I try with strength a wa y and I shout to encounter life at death.

From “Meditations in the Feminine” (Bordighera Press, 2018)

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!

August 2018’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

We exhausted by this year it weighs heavily on us. 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