A New Ulster 83

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

Featuring the works of Nigel Ford, Gordon Ferris, Iain Twiddy, Fiona Pitt-Kethley, Tim Dwyer, Glenn Hubbard, Susie Gharib, Will Daunt, Fabrice Poussin and Nathaniel O'Reilly . Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue 83 August 2019

A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website

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

Editorial Nigel Ford;

1. Refuge Gordon Ferris; 1. Glimpse 2. Questions 3. Erasure 4. Goodbye 5. New Beginnings Iain Twiddy; 1. In Higashi 2. Junior Kick Start 3. Hive 4. Memorial 5. Reds Fiona Pitt-Kehley; 1. The Naval Prison, Lo Campano 2. Tunnel de Submarinos 3. The Projector of Torrosa 4. El Ferriol Tim Dwyer; 1.

2.

3.

4.

Leaving The Medical Center After Receiving The News Disability Claim Newspapers

Glenn Hubbard; 1. The Storm Before The Storm 2. When The Swallows Coincide 3. The Picnic (La Merendola) Susie Gharib; 1. Yet 2. Concordance

3. A Sparrow Boat 4. Allure 5. The Language of Flowers Will Daunt; 1. Blakeney 2. LJLA Fabrice Poussin; 1. To the Rhythm of a Dream 2. Veil in his mind 3. Whispers 4. Safe 5. Tugging at infinity 6. Riding Shotgun For The Lilliput Laundry Company Nathanael O’Reilly 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

Mort Panchuela Back Verandah Dinner Bookmark Composition Technique 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 “Portal� by Amos Greig

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

Editorial I’ve been thinking about my English Dissertation again lately and reflecting on what I’ve already written I can see that there continues to be an evolution in story telling techniques within the computer game industry with a blending of genres and elements as well.

One of the central themes in games is the concept of choice just how much free will do we actually have? We see this in the Bio Shock games where it is a key element of the character and the players development within the story. Indeed the first game in the series subverts the conceit of free choice that games present we the reader or gamer are presented a story along the way there are consequences and sometimes options but the author has a specific goal and direction so the game will ask you “Will you kindly?” but phrases it in such a way that it seems you have chosen of your own free will. In Bio Shock that is the central core of your characters drive he and the player find out together that all the way through the story they have been driven and guided to a specific path via conditioning of the “will you kindly?” from the very beginning to the very end. Its quite clever and if we step back we can see that throughout life we are constantly asked by societal norms to “will you kindly?”

One of the other key elements of games and novels is the escort mission its so popular I’m surprised that it isn’t considered a genre in and of itself. We see it in Babylon AD, The Girl With All The Gifts (a novel made into a film), The Resident Evil Games, The Road and of course The Last Of Us the later is being made into a film. These genres ask us to become responsible for the person or item being escorted almost as much as the character doing the escorting is to such an extent that when the moment comes for the shock reveal we should on some level be troubled by what is being asked of off us. I won’t spoil the ending of The Last of Us if you haven’t played it yet I’d recommend doing so or better yet watch a playthrough online that way you can immerse yourself in the story and enjoy the narrative constructs at work without having to play the game and master the controls at the same time.

Amos Greig Editor.

Biographical Note: Nigel Ford

Nigel Ford is English, lives in Sweden, works as a translator, writer and visual artist. His stories have appeared in the Penniless Press anthology, Howling Brits and a collection entitled One Dog Barking, published by Worldscribe Press His stories, poems and pictures have been featured in several literary magazines in the US and UK. His book “Snatches” is now being serialised in the notorious literary magazine “The Crazy Oik”.

His most recent event took place at the Lysekil Art Museum in May 2019, this taking the form of a short play entitled “Wader & Bader” using his paintings as a backdrop. More details about all these things can be found via a click on the Net. In addition he works at and has curated for the graphics department at the Artists Workshops (KKV) in Gothenburg. Sweden

Refuge (280 words) by Nigel Ford

Time to set the seal, thoughts dabbled with the inhibitions and various kinds of unreliable composures. Life, he thought, was not what you made it, it was what life made you. Life that made me. Life that left me without a refuge.

A man without a shell and nowhere on Earth to go. He had been walking for two years, two months, two weeks and two days. A bit of a larf when he thought about it.

Sticking your little finger up like a piquant note, when faced with a monstrous fact.

There was nothing to be done.

Questions would be foolish.

Well. Questions always had been foolish. They invariably needed to be answered by oneself anyway. So one might as well get on with it. No point in counting. He was on the road and it looked as if he would be staying there.

A new pair of comfortable shoes would be nice. There was probably somewhere near where a nice pair of comfortable shoes could be met, stroked and perhaps even polished.

He had always been proud of keeping his shoes well mended and well polished.

But you couldn’t say that now.

The bench looked nice, he thought. Vacant. Beckoning. Comfortable. Sunlit. The river waters burbling.

He could sit here a while. Grab some sleep. Then walk through the night. He liked that. Walking through the night when no one else much was about.

It made you feel special.

He would make use of the bench, this nice, comfortable looking bench, as a refuge, until the time came for him to continue on his travels.

Biographical Note: Gordon Ferris

Gordon Ferris is a sixty-one year Dublin writer living in Ballyshannon, Co Donegal for the past thirty-six years. He is a member of the Dublin Writers Forum and has had poetry and short stories published in A New Ulster, The Galway Review, and poetry in Hidden Channel.

Glimpse.

(Gordon Ferris) It's in old age I see the unspoken words of what that furtive glance meant in those moments I recall the embrace buried within his stoic look the pride in that Un-uttered boast I remember that masked smile in my direction the unspoken words not allowed by his old ways at the border into manhood, his unsettling words of advice to be a shopkeeper selling a dream of being a shopkeeper. of being a miner living in darkness living the darkness of being a miner.

Questions.

(Gordon Ferris) In broken English “thank you so much, you enjoy your day sir.”

Earnest and heartfelt beauty and a joy for life in her eyes.

what horrors has she left behind in her homeland to have such joy at now just living.

She travelled across treacherous seas suffering many humiliations, degraded beyond what any human should endure.

Why should the words of any God Warbler induce you to kneel before them When you witness what's done in its name.

I wonder if a world with no lines dividing or doctrine guiding

only steered by what’s already inside us. and what, by instinct, we know.

Would they still have to leave their land abandoning all they know

Would they still Have to live the nightmare Of lost hearts in a distant land.

Erasure.

(Gordon Ferris) The river cutting through tree-dotted fields is real and how it should be.

The river going underground to build a road, is not right.

They took down the old castle, where, as children we played in sun-soaked summers past.

They built houses and factories instead, now they lie empty, in decay.

What we look for Is continuity, Change is all we got, this change is everything that’s missing now.

All that remains is unnecessary punctuation too many scratches and marks on whats really fine on what all we had to call divine.

Goodbye.

(Gordon Ferris) The young man wept tears of regret over the old man’s grey frame.

Fingers lightly touching the folded hands as he approached and passed.

Off to find a solitary place to express his remorse, exorcise his unexpected feeling of loss.

The younger teenage brother’s passed the dark grey suited man fidgeting, not knowing what to do wondering why they had to touch the cold skin.

The boys walked together, all the image of the grey man in his youth all holding in the grief, tears falling to them an unmanly action.

They held the grey man’s hand kissed his forehead whispering private words saying goodbye.

New Beginnings.

(Gordon Ferris) clear head the order of the day all the demons of your past out erased before going further no building up of pain from past a new start with lessons you must learn all old influences must shed all old baggage put to one side new beginnings here at last.

the joy gone from your eyes see how faint they glow a heart so full of hate you never realized he could love others as once he so loved you

was it not being accepted by his people you not being one of them was it not accepting your husband's word as law that forged your hate in the depths of love

what fashioned this great act of evil was it the tolerance of royal infidelity by his people or was it your children never achieving the royal status that led to the slaughter and erasure of his line.

Biographical Note: Iain Twiddy . Iain Twiddy studied literature at university, and lived for several

years in northern Japan. His poems have been published in The London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Ireland Review, The Stinging Fly and elsewhere.

In Higashi (Iain Twiddy)

Making tea out in Higashi for our not quite debonair English guest (unfreshly landed from Korea

for the seal-slick ski-jumping in Sapporo) — as an afterthought, after she’s poured some water, she brings out some treats

and fits them on the overflowing table: bits of pale, unwanted biscuits from the dinner-lady at Kōryō,

the bag of chocolate novelty genitals and breasts she bought for me in Abashiri, then from God knows where, an Aero.

Now she’s making a splash near the shore at Tabgha; now she’s the bubble that holds the spirit level.

Hive (Iain Twiddy)

Long willow fingers at the rippling strips of the hive. The pinched belt at the neck funnelling a waspish abdomen’s stripes that throbbed like a stang’s sting. Or a mere pike, its rotting head scaling out to a fantail trance.

Or, in the evening light, an amphora, which could lift in a purled morning and pour a slop of muscle in the shiny grass.

I imagined, since the drains’ fluid wood had long been locked out by concrete, no matter how autumn pumped like a moon behind cloud and the scent tugged loose as the sluice water rushed, there was ever less chance of the real slipping into the form of an eel.

Junior Kick Start (Iain Twiddy)

A new low, this Wednesday morning, drinking drip coffee to spark inspiration, watching clips of Junior Kick Start someone’s ripped from VHS onto YouTube.

From when I was six or seven.

When all we wanted, in the holidays, was for all of them to fall off, preferably down a big bank into water.

Now I don’t. I want them all to get round without penalties, poor kids, each one straddling in the wind at the start gate, as if elbowed into a wobbly smile by his mum.

It’s all about getting a handle on the revs, the commentators say, clutch control; all about knowing how long to hold on, sensing just when to let go.

Memorial (Iain Twiddy)

Summer running Sapporo, the forests green clouds buffering the hills I run, the heat thumping,

the plump sun dipping; where ahead – double-checked – is the length of a fox, squinting, in a stretch of sun

a paw’s length from the path, his front hugging the bulge, his heart at it like the skin of a drum,

as warm and red and content as when I must have lain on her summer breast as unshocked as a fox

outstretched on the hill, the hollow which is part of the memorial park,

although I still can’t yet read

what it’s a memorial for.

Reds (Iain Twiddy)

When I find myself with the stop-light reds blotching the side of the line,

softly imprinting the distance, the red X between treasure-spot and a brand in a comic

stranded in the fleece of a blizzard that seethes over hedgeless fields as if it were sowing the furrows,

when I find myself there cowed, over-towered by the switching of the river-filled poplars,

run to the hilt by its peppermint chill, yet hollow as the quick black shock of a bridge like a portal

to closer to home (thinking I could in just seconds sneak through, like picking a watch from a pocket),

then I know with the whole weight of a man standing up to a freight train, I have gone

again clatteringly off track.

Biographical Note: Fiona Pitt-Kethley Pitt-Kethley is the author of more than 20 books of poetry or prose published by Chatto, Salt and others. She lives in Spain. These poems relate to elements of abandoned fortifications in the countryside. http://www.fionapitt-kethley.com http://www.amazon.com/Fiona-Pitt-Kethley/e/B001K7VT4S https://www.patreon.com/user

Naval Prison, Submarine Tunnel, EL Ferriol. Projector of Torrosa Naval Prison, Tunel de Submarinos, Demonstrating to Save Monte Sacro

(Fiona Pitt-Kethley) Tunel de Submarinos Espalmador, part of the port that once was fashionable, a former bathing spot.

Two tunnels, a hundred metres long carved into rock, a hollow mountain now.

What mystery lies shut behind these doors?

Six tunnels planned in 1944.

Why did they stop and leave the thing part-built?

No money left for submarines?

Or did the rock above prove treacherous?

What function now in its abandoned state?

A Bond like hideaway for something strange or just a simple store for ordenance?

The Naval Prison, Lo Campano (Fiona Pitt-Kethley) An empty gracious shell, Art Deco style, on pine-clad land beside San Julian´s slopes.

A tree beside its fence gave early figs and brushwood came in useful for our stove.

I meant to photograph, but was deterred by people lurking there and doing deals.

One day the prison vanished, just like that.

The swiftest demolition job erased the building. Few remember it was there.

A court for basketball is all that´s left and outlines of the former prison walls The place was dangerous, the paper said.

Kids climbed barbed wire and played within its cells.

The metal doors were stolen, one by one, to reinforce drugs dens, close to the site.

Much harder for the police to break down these.

Tunel de Submarinos (Fiona Pitt-Kethley) Espalmador, part of the port that once was fashionable, a former bathing spot.

Two tunnels, a hundred metres long carved into rock, a hollow mountain now.

What mystery lies shut behind these doors?

Six tunnels planned in 1944.

Why did they stop and leave the thing part-built?

No money left for submarines?

Or did the rock above prove treacherous?

What function now in its abandoned state?

A Bond like hideaway for something strange or just a simple store for ordenance?

The Projector of Torrosa (Fiona Pitt-Kethley) It´s rough stone surface merges with the cliff.

Its stone is local. That´s good camouflage.

The straggle of buildings is invisible until you make the effort to go close.

The hut that held the light still has its doors.

This wood from ninety years or more ago is dry and cracking underneath the sun.

The curving path that leads to the barbette is clogged with stranded tumbleweed and thorns.

It´s sited on a headland where the cliffs have fallen taking older paths away.

The rubble of some buildings lies below.

The cable was cut, and orders disobeyed.

The sergeant manning it thought for himself.

A useful sabotage reported as an accident. The beam would have betrayed, lighting them and the battery above as well as targets that it focused on.

After the Civil War they closed it down.

This place is very rarely visited.

Too near the Naval base security.

Too far from other popular walking routes.

El Ferriol (Fiona Pitt-Kethley) The Cantonal Uprising, Christmas Eve, a missile from a frigate hit their store of similar projectiles, blew them up.

Eighteen dead and ten wounded in this place.

A hermitage was built close to the spot.

Behind, small humps of earth and broken stones mark all that´s left of the old battery.

A donkey grazes where the cannons were.

Biographical Note: Tim Dwyer

Tim Dwyer’s chapbook is Smithy Of Our Longings: Poems From The Irish Diaspora (Belfast: Lapwing Publications, 2015). His poems have recently appeared in The Curlew, Orbis, Live Encounters, Honest Ulsterman and have previously been in A New Ulster. Born in Brooklyn, parents from Galway, he has recently moved from Connecticut to Bangor in County Down. .

LEAVING THE MEDICAL CENTER (Tim Dwyer)

The waiting, always the hardest part.

Bald eagles free fall through the great wide open of a Westchester sky, above us infused with chemo.

Driving home, his songs are on the radioRock n Roll savior in the dark days of disco.

The last real DJ announces the heart of Tom Petty stopped last night.

I live another day.

I won’t back down, no I won’t back down.

Allusions to Tom Petty songs include: “The waiting…the hardest part”, “free falling”, “the great wide open”,“the last real DJ”, “I won’t back down” Dennis Elsas-the last real DJ, WFUV Radio Station, NYC

AFTER RECEIVING THE NEWS (Tim Dwyer)

The grey gull drops a softshell clam on the stony path, cracks it open, flies away with the tender core.

Rock pigeons gather atop the neighborhood school, coo as the children begin their day.

Iridescence of mallards and starlings on this overcast morning.

Flutter and chirps of house sparrows bring winter bushes to life.

Comfort brought by the common birds.

DISABILITY CLAIM (Tim Dwyer)

The suburban city is a ghost town ten o’clock Monday morning.

Spring has begun on the sunlit side of Broad Street.

The shaded side where I walk is still winter.

I enter the tower of glass, concrete, steel.

Seats packed subway tight.

Wheelchairs, guide dogs.

I am puzzled by the young and strong, their hidden brokenness.

My number comes up, I report to window eight, and my name is returned to me.

NEWSPAPERS (Tim Dwyer)

Headlines throughout this life: Russian ships approach Cuba, American astronaut lands in the ocean, hero assassinated in Memphis, festival of music at Yasgur’s farm.

Last helicopter escapes Saigon, hostages are freed, Berlin Wall comes down, Desert Storm rolls through Kuwait, Twin towers fall, economy plummets, con man wins election. *

Released from prison, a grey-haired man refuses the shelter ordered by parole.

Newspaper is the great insulator even on the coldest nights.

Stuffed inside pants and shirt, blanketing hands and feet, he survives through New York’s ten below.

* A back-issue memory:

university days, final act of innocence for a friend on a trip of despair.

Scouring the town for yesterday’s news, we fill his room ceiling to floor.

Returning at night, he opens the door, faces a paper cumulus cloud.

We all dive in, softly land, our laughter humming through crumpled newsprint.

.

Biographical Note: Glenn Hubbard

Constantly surprised by his ability to write poems that people enjoy, Glenn Hubbard has been writing since 2012. His work has been published in a number of poetry magazines and last year one of his poems was submitted for the Forward Prize.

Glenn has lived in Madrid since 1987.

..

The Storm Before The Storm (Glenn Hubbard) Would they never be done crossing the Don? How many times now?

Advancing only to retreat.

Scourge and then scuttle.

Like frightened dogs that flee the wrath of their masters.

Now they would fall back to Stalingrad.

He was sat beside a truck spooning up soup when he came by and looked over and they both knew.

And because they might not survive the day he stood, but not on ceremony.

Stood and skipped over the rutted, mud-glutted roadway to spend just long enough to seem to be passing the time of day.

Before they both used the chaos to disappear into a small wood where they could not unbuckle fast enough though also wishing to take delight at the sight of each other, at how fine they both were, fascination and the joy of anticipation briefly rivalling desire till desire, not brooking the delicacies of appreciation, seeking confirmation of fore-taste, commanding its own dissolution, hurled them at each other in clumsy, fumbling desperation.

In the twilight, what remained of the brigade - fingers and faces sticky from gorging

on the overripe cantaloupes that lay, luscious, in the adjacent, abandoned fields trudged towards the Volga.

When the Swallows Coincide (Glenn Hubbard)

When the swallows coincide at the nest they continue a conversation.

Twitterings that could be complaints (they're never done asking for more! ) reassurances (no-one could do anymore! ) worryings (there aren't many flies. there used to be more. ) accusations (can't you catch any more? ) For the just-woken listener, unwelcome wittering, maybe. (those bloody birds. they're driving me crazy! ) But just think back to bringing up baby.

The temperature taking, the placing of the hand on the forehead hoping not to feel the furnace, the let-it-not-be-me-this-time turn taking, the reaching your limit, the niggling and quibbling, that sharp thing scribbling on your paper-thin patience, the forced feeding, the getting him off, the getting her up, the kissing it better, the sick down the sweater, the back to the doctor, the colour of poop, the unhelpful advice of contradictory websites fights the what do you think? and the she wants a drink the first nervous bath,

the last.

Swallows and us.

Divided by language.

United in purpose.

The Picnic (La Merendola) (Glenn Hubbard) And though we had been there many times before, under your spell, we set off expectant, as if for the first time, for the hawthorn tree, we four and the girls from below.

Up the hill to the dungy drinking trough, where we might stop to point at tadpoles or greet a timid tethered calf.

Then along the blackthorn-flanked track to the view across the valley and the right turn that took us into the field.

Just above the path, the hawthorn, where we sat and watched while you took from your bag what the spell had made special.

And so, still glowing, another layer of memory was laid down upon the existing strata.

There it cooled and hardened, helping to form a strong and stable place on which to heap up love.

Biographical Note: Susie Gharib Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Literary Magazine, Down in the Dirt, Peeking Cat Review, and Adelaide Literary Magazine.

Yet (Susie Gharib) I marvel at my bare floors at home, covered with marble and very hard stone, the maps of dampness drawn upon my walls the stalactites of peelings from paint and mold, and wonder how I manage to keep warm when held in the grip of a winter storm.

I overhear some fragments of a city-talk, a woman remarking on apocalyptic cold, for she cannot do without a stove which has consumed supplies of fuel that she is now seeing to their renewal, reiterating that she cannot endure a moment without the heater’s roar, despite her carpets and well-draped rooms and family unions.

It is not that I am numb to cold and heat but layers of clothes have done their feat, and constantly seeing to the needs of a pet, whose ageing has made him increasingly fret, has kept my blood circulating unchecked, so nothing in my system has frozen yet.

Concordance (Susie Gharib) A six-petal flower signifies my name I reside in one of the triangles of which the world is built, A seeker of symmetry in the essence of things.

All water clocks were clogged by the weeds of time But infinite threads of life ascend my hourglass, On wave lengths I ripple towards the North Star.

In the heart of overlapping circles dwells the flower of life, I gravitate to numbers in shells, sunflowers, and hives In concordance with the divine.

A Sparrow-Boat (Susie Gharib) I have never seen a sparrow before it sounds a kind of odd to you the spar- and –row, each on its own evokes aquarum for one who's so obsessed with the DNA of naming-words.

You resent my straying from the point 'A sparrow is a bird and not a boat the etymological root for the passerine fowl is spearwa, an old-English word.'

But isn't the spear- synonymous with Neptune's and isn't –wa an outrigger canoe both nautical for one who's so obsessed with the images that letters evoke?

So let it be an aviator boat whose wings are a pair of feathery oars navigating seas of a celestial breed trailing behind some cloud-spun foam.

Allure (Susie Gharib) A witch, though ugly, has her own allure, a cauldron which bubbles with potions and cures, an abode in the heart of a virgin wood, a broomstick out-speeding Ferraris and Fords, a gothic faรงade out-harrowing Poe's, multilingualism, conversing with stars and spoons, a martyrdom in the wake of a burning stake, an Oscar-winning role in fairy-tales, the consort of kings such as Macbeth, a Halloween outfit for Ruth and Ben.

The Language of Flowers (Susie Gharib) Two water lilies that swim in light will ferry me seas across your eyes.

Periwinkle twinkles like a million stars when their blueness catches the glow in your eyes.

A candle flame is a daffodil, the sun in your eyes before it sleeps.

Cowslips would slip their words of praise when they have been pierced by your gaze.

I wish I were the lotus that shines upon the lake of your smile.

Rows of snowdrops that shone through your lips have imparted heat to my frozen cliffs.

Fleets of poppies will always pronounce the vermillion warmth of your mouth.

Violets passionately remain the purple you pour into my veins.

My only nest is your chest, a lawn of carnations’ velvety breasts.

I will not rip daisies to test your love Because daisies reappear wherever you tread.

A jonquil ceased to be narcissistic when down in water it beheld another face, your grace.

Biographical Note: Will Daunt

Will Daunt lives in Ormskirk, and his sixth collection, Landed was published by Lapwing in 2013. He has reviewed for New Hope International and Envoi, adjudicating poetry competitions for Sentinel.

Blakeney (Will Daunt)

NR25 7BE

"Now here the sea’s about up to my waist and it’s half a mile to land. See the Point is moving west, just silt and sand and flowers: a longshore drift, they call it. Anyways, watch your feet when we moor up - there’s a bit of a gap on the ebb. And keep your mutts’ leads on if you’re anywhere near the seals.

"Summerhouse? No, that’s one of those panelled shacks that’s kept locked. It’s like that here: try the lifeboat place – they’ll maybe chat you up."

LJLA (Will Daunt) L24 1YD If this was the final airport, which flights would we drag from old holiday holds, reviewing them from angsty albums?

Cologne maybe - through squalls - or the wrinkled Massif?

Friesland staked out by sand-isles? That barbed Segrada? Or the Polish boyfriend vouching for beers? That Mexican trying to move his children from Spain to Cheshire? First off we booked the back, like on that Dublin trip with the girl who’d lost her leg months before.

Biographical Note: Fabrice Poussin

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University.

Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

To the Rhythm of a Dream (Fabrice Poussin)

For centuries, this man has stood atop of the galaxy I saw him once at the edge of the caldera he sat, quietly, contemplating his own soul written on the walls of the azure, in red and in orange, and in purple as if a sunset.

He caught a glimpse of a life stilled into eternity painted by a friend long gone, to Everest or Kilimanjaro standing as she looked to the world of her kin below her bare feet warm with the amorous snows above the sky, so close to heaven her true home

she saw memories drawn on the clouds by the hand of a grandfather, decades ago teaching a son to draw by the lake the gleeful fowl in the rite of spring wrinkles filled with the powdery charcoal of blue and of gray, and of the tones of a grand flight.

The sharp eyes squinting through the teasing waves of a mermaid lost in the sweet waters of man or the fairy who once took them upon a journey in a land like Eden not so far from their cabin in the woods when they let their hearts slow to the rhythm of a dream.

Veil in his mind (Fabrice Poussin)

She is a draft in the soul of the by-stander innocent he stands on the corner hoping for contact with the dream that invaded his past night.

The vision of a silky entity remains anchored gliding in his brain angelic ruler of the stratosphere scanning the surface of his days yet to come.

Gazing upward he attempts to guess a gentle form a wave almost invisible teases what is left of feeble hours his joy collapses lost amongst infinite stars.

His fragile frame trembles under the gust of an adieu while his soul hugs the fantasy warming his bones now to sleep at last within the shroud of her aura.

Whispers (Fabrice Poussin)

Still, perfectly quiet, invisible, almost transparent, he sits on the edge of a soulless abyss, weightless; by the cliff, there is no danger for the one who listens.

Touched on the senses of his depth by the innumerable waves, the being has frozen in the moment, feeling its eternity, communing with the creation as it softly whispers.

The air speaks in its subtle movement, composing a symphony only he can hear, for he knows to be mindful of the elements in minute particles all around.

Nearby the expanse blooms with colors of every scent silent; the stranger remains, a statue of fresh flesh breathing barely, cells invade and join with others to make sparks of perception.

He sheds his skin, as the world will now serve as his blanket; naked being, automaton to the stars, his essence is alive and screams its passion for the universe with each finite atom.

Safe (Fabrice Poussin)

Murmurs of a hundred souls saunter behind pillars there she aims to make a home safe to the flesh a ghost in the dark corridors of a willed oblivion.

Within, lies the immense wealth of a bequeathed heart speaking in tongues only the divine can fathom she creates impenetrable cyphers in the air.

Not a whisper nor a resounding cry will slow her pace as the waves of her floating form fade with her surroundings she flees carefree into the secure dimension of her desires.

Soon beyond the sharp walls of the somber fortress the adventure must continue as she recites her vows to be, unaltered in her new estate, alone with her words.

Tugging at infinity (Fabrice Poussin)

Space moved again in flawless harmony making a familiar void in the light of dusk.

Silence creaked through the crannies of time a vacuum annihilator of the day’s hopes.

From entrails too juvenile to understand a tug at infinity, a twitch and a fading dream.

A memory floats of the majesty in the womb invisible hands reach for the magic aura.

An impression remains of a subtle presence only left to the privileged attendant.

The air changes slowly like so many divinities making a secure home for the desired return.

Behind the standing wall a spirit is crushed like stone by the chains anchored within every rock.

It pulls at the minute strings with all its might hoping to simply wish again the great mountain.

The array continues to grow and spreads to the unknown pulling incessantly on every fiber of his breath.

The void will be his home, a hearth tailored for him to wait for her return upon the death of nameless hours.

Biographical Note: Nathanael O’Reilly

Nathanael O’Reilly was born in 1973 in Warrnambool, Australia; he moved overseas in 1995, has travelled on five continents, and lived in England, Ireland, Germany, Ukraine and the United States. He is the author of Preparations for Departure (UWAP Poetry, 2017), named one of the “2017 Books of the Year” in Australian Book Review; Distance (Picaro Press, 2014; Ginninderra Press, 2015); and the chapbooks Cult (Ginninderra Press, 2016), Suburban Exile (Picaro Press, 2011) andSymptoms of Homesickness (Picaro Press, 2010). O’Reilly’s poems have appeared in journals and anthologies in twelve countries, including Adelaide Literary Magazine,Antipodes, Australian Love Poems, Backstory, Cordite Poetry Review, FourXFour, FourW, Glasgow Review of Books, Headstuff, Marathon Literary Review, Mascara Literary Review,Other Terrain, Postcolonial Text, Skylight 47, Snorkel, Tincture, Transnational Literature, Verity La and The Newcastle Poetry Prize Anthology 2017. He has given invited readings in Australia, Canada, England, Hungary, Ireland, Italy and the United States.

Mort (Nathanael O’Reilly)

My friends’ parents are dying

finally we’ve reached that awful age

separated from death by a single fragile generation

another parent was taken last night

thankfully in his sleep

soon nothing will stand between us

and death

Panchuela (Nathanael O’Reilly)

hike along Panchuela Creek on the mountain forest trail climb towards East Pecos Baldy

pass through mountain meadows breath in aspen and spruce step over horse shit

pause to let snakes slither past beware of bears and make noise especially when you reach the caves

Back Verandah Dinner (Nathanael O’Reilly)

Knives slice mapleglazed brussel sprouts cut into peppered steaks

glasses transport chilled pinot grigio to mouths

bees settle inside flowers robins twitter & flutter

hummingbirds hover feasting on the fruit of the trumpet vine

the breeze rotates the back verandah ceiling fan

water trickles over rocks into the frog-free pond

open hands wave flies away from plates & glasses

your leg rests against mine transmitting warmth

Bookmark (Nathanael O’Reilly)

A child uses a blanket as a bookmark to protect

precious pages kept cosy safe and warm like an infant

swaddled in a custom quilt created by grandmother

Composition Technique (Nathanael O’Reilly)

The slam poet extemporaneously composes metaphors connecting with the crowd like similes enjambed with alliteration

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.

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August’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

Turn down the sun it’s too hot and bright. Where does the time fly? It seems like it was only last week when we were busy making the January issue meow!!.

Well, that’s just about it from us for this edition everyone.

Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.

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