Featuring the works of Kelly Creighton, Patrick Dorrian, Neil Ellman, Aisling Keogh, Jax Leck, Aine MacAodha, Emma McKervey, Sue Morgan, Maire Morrissey-Cummins, Chris Murray, John Taylor and more. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 10 July 2013
A New Ulster On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Cover Image by Editorial
Amos Greig page 6
Kelly Creighton; Subaqueous Gro-Humour (Grotesque) Pixelated
page 8 page 9 page 10
Patrick J Dorrian; (Minding) The Gaps
page 12
Neil Ellman; Blue Divided by Blue White, Red on Yellow Blue, Orange, Red
page 14 page 15 page 16
Oonah V Joslin; Train of Thought A Way of Looking In an English Comfort zone Untitled Evidence
page 18 page 19 page 20 page 21 page 22
Aisling Keogh; ETHEREAL
pages 24-29
Jax Leck; Three Haiku
page 31
Aine MacAodha; Companions Flashbacks Keepers
page 33 page 34 page 35
Emma McKervey; Each-Uisge Hungover Seagulls
page 37 pages 38-39 pages 40-41
Sue Morgan; Down the Rabbit Hole
pages 43-45
Maire Morrissey-Cummins; The Attic Chest Slices of Summer Folding Memories
page 47 pages 48-49 page 50 2
Her Rosary Beads
page 51
Chris Murray; Hooks
pages 53-55
John Michael Taylor; Belfast South Contact Point Easter Monday
page 57 page 58 page 59 On The Wall
Message from the Alleycats
page 61
Maire Morrisey-Cummins; Maire’s work can be found
pages 63-65 Round the Back
Barbara Gabriella Renzi
pages 67-68
Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 24 Tyndale Green, Belfast BT14 8HH Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 52 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/
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Published in Baskerville Produced in Belfast, Northern Ireland. All rights reserved The artists have reserved their right under Section 7 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 To be identified as the authors of their work.
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Editorial J uly has crept upon us and once again the Marching season stands upon the horizon. The end of June saw some very interesting things occur for me as well as the literary world in general. The Belfast Book festival was an amazing success once again and perhaps unsurprisingly the poetry slam proved to be the most successful event of the festival breaking box office records. Each issue of A New Ulster is released on the fourth of each month or as close as we can get. As I put the finishing touches on this issue it is the Fourth of July Independence Day perhaps one of the most important days in American History. I wanted to celebrate this day so with quiet reflection I share the words of Albert Camus “Freedom is nothing But a chance to be better”. Syria sees two years of continuous violence and struggle for freedom from oppression and today the Egyptian government has been overthrown again in a relatively bloodless coup, Turkey sees strife over oppression, for me some of the moments that stand out include the individuals who defied the system with dignity. The man who stood staring into the distance and the people who read books while water cannon and tear gas went off around them. Poets, philosophers, students and ordinary citizens standing together. As you read these words Papergirl Belfast’s exhibition will be entering its last days, Four X Four will be available as will Tender Journal to find out more check out page 64. Finally I have been awarded a Support for the Individual Artist award by the Arts Council of Northern Ireland. This is to help me develop my skills in photography, editing, painting and of course poetry. Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity! Amos Greig
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Biographical Note: Kelly Creighton Kelly Creighton is a Belfast born poet and fiction writer with work currently and forthcoming in literary journals Wordlegs, The Ranfurly Review, A New Ulster, Electric Windmill Press, Inkspill Magazine, The Galway Review, Poetry24 and numerous other publications. http://kellycreighton.webs.com
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Subaqueous
taking place here is the secret of warped speech, of stealthy seas that no current could wreck, just bloat on as our reminder. alluvium on rock face leaves us washed up, our truths friable at the feet of day-trippers.
Kelly Creighton 8
Gro-Humour (Grotesque)
We can provide a tragic framework to bud a friendship within. We can end the children’s games with our tales of atrocities. Humour is our laughing breathing ha-ha, hurried, harried air; our coping mechanism from the days when we weren’t wishing, waiting, wiping away those emotions difficult to name.
Kelly Creighton 9
Pixelated
The population seem mechanical. They correlate their apparitions.
Cordially expecting expertise, expecting no social interface.
Ideas egocentrism-created, lacking iron in their paraffin blood.
Pixelated, they’re over-rated, preferring the predictable,
the inert, the wholly impassive. A demesne established while in search
for the performed and proposed and designed with fastidiousness.
Impromptu defrayals are syphoned on screens for our un-special occasions.
Keep yourself distant, unreachable. Accept a machine as your companion.
Kelly Creighton 10
Biographical Note: Patrick J. Dorrian Patrick Dorrian is Belfast born bred and buttered as McDowell would say. He retired from teaching in 2007 after 30 years struggling in west Belfast. Patrick is married to Frances and they have 3 offspring all adults now. He has dabbled with poetry for several decades as a means of escape and last year Patrick had a poem about Palestine published in a magazine in Europe, his first publication.
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(Minding) The Gaps When I was young, I'd see them; women in black but not nuns, singular, trespassing on the time between then and the now, lost in reverie of lost loves. Why, is question of choice of the young, and in the case of the "weeds", was always answered, " Her husband was killed in the War". Her medal was the widows' weeds. Then, there was a friend's granddad; a man who left most of his face in France, goaded to heroism by false claims and an empty promise of nationhood. Now as an adult, I see them, the living that should have died of wounds, butchered on the altar of economics, sacrificed for a false notion of patriotism. (Why?) The politicians can always appeal to the young, dying for the country and all that heroic shit, but no one told them of the mutilation, limbs, skin, eyes, brains and the collateral damage. The parents shackled to a life of pain, the wives left to service the undead, denied their widow's weeds, overloaded by sympathy, initially, resented, as a guilty reminder when the peace comes. So we mind the gaps, preferring not to see them, communities short of young people, removed, families ruptured but given a flag folded to a triangle, to sit for a while beside a picture, fading. Patrick J. Dorrian 12
Biographical Note: Neil Ellman Twice nominated for Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey. Hundreds of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. His first full-length collection, Parallels, is a selection of more than 200 of his previously published ekphrastic works.
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Blue Divided by Blue
(after the painting by Mark Rothko)
Blue shivers glistening cold.
Ice crackles under curious feet.
Even now, the sky wraps winter arms around the earth.
Between blue mornings and bluer nights days pass glacially blue.
Neil Ellman
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White, Red on Yellow
(after the painting by Mark Rothko)
Splendid choruses spread splendid song
white sonatas white nights red symphonies red field of stars yellow fields of daffodils cornets in golden blaze comets in blue-white flame
night without sound light without white red sun rising in the east.
Neil Ellman 15
Blue, Orange, Red
(after the painting by Mark Rothko)
Discontinuity played out
at the confluence of here and then
blue orange
clash in splayed symmetry
the indifference of red
speaks limitless now.
Neil Ellman
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Biographical Note: Oonah V Joslin Oonah V Joslin was born in Ballymena and now lives in Northumberland from where she edits the e-zine Every Day Poets. Oonah has won three MicroHorror prizes and has judged both poetry and nmicrofiction competitions. You can find out more at: http://www.oovj.wordpress.com
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Train of Thought
(for Emily Davison’s Centenary -- she is buried in the churchyard in Morpeth where I live.) That’s me away. I can’t stay here longer. I must stay on track. Even my sister suffragists don’t always agree with what I do of necessity. I stand with them but sometimes feel alone. I have a voice that apologises to nobody. Some see me as an oddity; uttering the cryptic ramblings of a lunatic woman. But I speak plain. I’m not hiding. I’m in residence. Not playing out their Act of Cat and Mouse. My voice speaks eloquently even as my body suffers indignity. I don’t repent. I won’t relent. I’ll never be silent. They restrain me but they shan’t tame me. On this great truth I rest, "Rebellion against tyrants is obedience to God." I cannot conform. I must confront. This is my course and destiny. That’s me away.
Oonah V Joslin
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A Way of Looking Vindauga they called you Wind eye Eagbryl -- Eye-hole. Words from languages no longer spoken. Fenestration not only admitting light and air invites the eye to wander here and there wonder at nature’s visions ponder on acts of saints choose goods in gaudy display windows breached the barriers of today skins, paper, lead, horn, glass, photons; every innovation is a window inside, outside no longer translates dark and light the way it used to be these words could not exist in a world without windows.
Oonah V Joslin
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In an English Comfort zone I shall be bold and have a cup of tea with milk I think -- indeed with milk -- I think. Or maybe not. Perhaps I’ll have Earl Grey, Lapsang soo Chong or camomile or chai. Spiced chai no -- not spiced, with a slice of lime. Moroccan mint with just a hint of clove? I think I’ll maybe have a scone by Jove. That would go down well with an English blend and jam and clotted cream and milk of course. I think I might invite a friend along. A slice of cake might be just the thing to sweeten an otherwise bland afternoon. I shall be bold and make a pot of tea. I’ll make believe that I am not alone.
Oonah V Joslin
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Untitled (Experimental) Of trees sing I / out of the swing of bleeding branch / breeze sighs reply I hymn swinging / a scythe of tide Low notes bellow / in undertow Fish forth on shore / death of all toil In roiling tide / heaven’s platter On brook side bed / head dashed on stone Of splintered wood / flesh stripped to bone I sing I feast / I killed the beast Of trees I sing / to fire and moon
Oonah V Joslin
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Evidence 5th May 2013 we went to Belsay. I see by the receipt. The girl at the desk was called Vic. I see by the receipt. The receipt is enlightening Unlike the red pen top -- the ink was black black like the bruise on the strawberry I had to throw away black like the feathers on the little bird dead by the decking that made me shudder as I put on rubber gloves and binned it. The sun is shining. I don’t remember what it was like on the fifth of May whether it was glorious.
The dead bird had not hatched then, the strawberry still on the stem ink flowed. I hesitate now reluctant to let go the only evidence I was there.
Oonah V Joslin
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Biographical Note: Aisling Keogh Aisling Keogh is a psychotherapist and a stay at home mother to three young children. She is relatively new to writing, and has had short stories published with the Irish Independent, Crannog Magazine and Wordlegs. Her first short story, "How to Save a Life" was shortlisted for the Hennessy Irish Literary Awards 2011. In her free time Aisling likes to write and sing.
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ETHEREAL
I lie with my eyes closed, wishing for sleep. The morphine they've given me has taken away the pain, but it has done nothing for the interminable itch underneath the dressings on my wounds. I see elephants, and a tangerine sunset, and women in red and gold sari's sweeping past me on bicycles. And I see white walls, polished linoleum and masked up strangers waiting to tend to me. And I don't know if any of it is, or ever was, real. I see my grandmother sitting in her fireside chair in the old house, and I am three years old again, walking towards the fire burning in the hearth with my hands outstretched, wanting to touch the flames. As a child I read about the great fires of London, New York, Toronto and Vancouver, enthralled by their power to transform and destroy. At eight years old I wanted to know all there was to know about spontaneous human combustion; it was my holy grail. The morphine makes it difficult to recall, but I remember unpacking the car and dragging the kit to a clearing in the woods - our special place. Thirty years ago I lost a bet to my college room mate; a stupid, juvenile wager about how much alcohol I could drink. My forfeit was that I must join the university’s hill-walking club. On the day of my first hike I was improperly dressed in jeans, runners and a light raincoat. My hangover was such that I was fighting the urge to vomit. A tall red-haired stranger, with woolly socks and waterproofs, fell in to step beside me and laughed when he saw my grey-green pallor. He poured tea from a yellow thermos and shared it with me when the group picnicked in the clearing. He teased me about my delicate state and had
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the unusual effect of making me laugh at myself. I had no idea where he was gone. John left no note that morning, but I was sure he would be here. I gathered wood, made a campfire, and waited for him to arrive. A tightness across my chest made my breathing shallow; in the raw November air it made a satisfying rasping sound to accompany the snap of the leaves and twigs underfoot. Frozen, and breathless with expectation, I lit the fire, and while I did I allowed my mind to wander back to a street in India, where I thought I had found what I was seeking. It was September of nineteen eighty seven; John and I were travelling through the state of Rajasthan in Western India when we happened upon a gathering of thousands, in a relatively small village whose name I can no longer recall. It was a strange thing, some of the crowd were singing and chanting, while others were wailing – tears flowed freely down their cheeks. The atmosphere was tense, negatively charged. The crowd was apprehensive and uneasy. And then I saw her. A woman on fire. Her arms were raised, swaying in the air. Her shape was silhouetted against the flames that danced a circle around her together they contrived to make an improbable ballet. On my eighth birthday, Grandmother threw a party. I still bear the scars along my hairline. I remember being overwhelmed by the urge to touch eight tiny flames, and leaned so close that my hair caught fire when I stretched to blow out the candles on my cake. The smell of burning hair is as pungent as it is unmistakable; its stench pervades the memory of my eighth birthday, and of the burning woman in India.
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The crowd shrieked at the apparent horror of the spectacle, but the burning woman herself was silent. Years later, I learned that when burning flesh has melted through to bone, all of the nerve endings that sense pain are destroyed. By the time I saw her, the woman could no longer feel, she was no longer in her physical body. She was a ball of fire, a sun – beyond pain. Consumed by flames and silence - I watched her, twirling, then writhing, then still. I have always loved the unpredictability of fire, how it can ignite, take over, and destroy within seconds. Part of my fascination with spontaneous human combustion was that all of this power comes from inside a person; it is their own biochemical reactions that create a charge powerful enough to destroy them. To me, this woman was a vision of power, a superhero. Omnipotent in a way I dreamed of being. We returned to our hostel, and while John slept that night, I lay awake and replayed the scene over and over in my mind, euphoric and terrified in equal measure. I hear footsteps on linoleum, and hushed voices talking about the possibility of infection. The masked strangers loosen my dressings and peer at my wounds, agree it’s a waiting game, and shuffle off, leaving me alone again. Alone, except for my grandmother who cautions me to stay away from the fire. “No, Jilly, too close,” she wags her finger at my three year old self, and smiles, and I smile back at her through the morphine and the itch and the noise of the white coats and their polished shoes. In November, dusk creeps in early. I watched the sky change and admired the
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pink and red and gold of the evening in all its lustre. Seated on a fold up stool beside the fire, I listened to the crackle of burning wood, wrapped my arms around my knees, and rocked myself backward and forward. I went to the wood because I wanted to see John. I was sure he would be there, he always came when I needed him. He would touch me, hold my hand, stroke my face, mumble promises. With him my boiling blood cooled. I was soothed by his presence – he could make the rest of the world disappear. But I tired of waiting, and glowered at the flames, and for the briefest of moments I saw John’s face, flushed red and orange in dancing firelight. My mind filled with muttering people, dressed in black and shaking my hand, and I struggled to recall another fire, John's funeral pyre. I searched out my phone, and scrolled down as far as John’s name and pressed the “call” button. I waited for it to ring, but it didn’t. Instead a stranger’s voice told me that the number was not in service. That my love has already burned. And so I keened my loss all over again. I mourned as I will do tomorrow and the day after, when lucid moments make it possible to see the shattered pieces of my life in their entirety. A man with a kind smile, and a suit and shiny shoes, spoke to John and I in a language I did not understand. The word sounded foreign to me; Alzheimer’s. More men in suits, some brisk and business like, some kind. Tablets that didn’t work and more tablets that did. Eventually the haze receded long enough for me to understand that old age had come early for me. Not only do I hate the disease, I hate the loneliness. Other diseases have a well worn and predictable path. A cancer diagnosis comes with oncology
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appointments, a treatment plan. Chemotherapy. Hope. However futile, I would have preferred the dream of a cure. I hate my health visitor, with her cardigans, her nun-ish shoes, and her preoccupation with when I last washed, and what I have or have not eaten today. I hate that, one day, she and my daughter will have to agree I can no longer care for myself. I hate knowing that day is not far away. I can still remember the way Grandmother’s face creased when she smiled, and the ethereal woman on the street in India, and the way John’s thick auburn curls arranged themselves on the pillow when he slept beside me. These are the things I know, and they are not enough. I am an unreliable witness to my own life. Like the morphine, this disease offers only the briefest moments of clarity when, through the smallest of windows, I can see it from the outside, looking in. I see a Grandmother, her daughter, and her granddaughter sitting beside the fire. Its mantel is decorated with tinsel and holly; the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree and the flames in the hearth bathe the scene in a warm light. I watch as my granddaughter raises her arms and asks to sit on my knee, and I regard her with absolute indifference, not because I do not love her, but because I am no longer there. I am somewhere else; a spectre, a mere ghost of my former self. I tried to calm my self – focus. Think of something else. The sea, sounds from a rainforest; I could not conjure them. My mind refused to focus on anything higher than the mundane, and I became more desperate and frustrated because I could not remember where John said he was going this morning, or whether or not I had turned off the gas hob? Or if I
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had taken the yellow tablet today? The yellow one is supposed to help my memory. The forest fire roared and I rocked and seethed at the unjust hand life had dealt me. I spat and hissed like the flames that burned, filled with a resentment of what has yet to come. Dependence, helplessness, death. Even the beauty of a silver forest at dusk could not move me beyond my despair. I gave up on finding comfort, and ceased my rocking. Instead, I sat perfectly still on the ground and grieved for a version of myself that was not yet dead. There’s a name for it – for the custom of widows sacrificing themselves on the funeral pyre of their deceased husbands. The burning woman on the street in India was a sati. Fire transformed her. By its power she became a deity in the eyes of her fellow villagers, a goddess to be worshipped and bestowed with gifts. With my eyes screwed tightly shut, I conjured her, dancing in flames. Pale and silent, she opened her eyes and smiled – like some sort of beatified saint. Then she lifted her arms and beckoned me, called me in to her embrace. She whispered promises, and I believed I too could shine, eternal, like the sun. I clambered to my feet, and began to search out the petrol can I had thrown in to the near distance. I unscrewed the cap. With dizzy delight I poured petrol on the campfire, and watched it roar to life. Transfixed, I allowed the can to drip the precious liquid on to the ground, my shoes, my jeans and jacket. I stood with arms outstretched, and waited for the flames to take me to be with him. (Aisling Keogh)
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Biographical Note: Jax Leck Jax Leck is relatively new to poetry but am not new to writing, Jax has had one science fantasy book published and another one the way.
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Three Haiku
Damn you hoodie craws peck pecking the arse and eyes of a newborn lamb
Thorn impaled victim bleeding cries and wrestling limbs Dying for the shrike
“Good journos listen and they never interrupt,� she said, cutting in.
Jax Leck 31
Biographical Note: Aine MacAodha Aine MacAodha is a writer and Photographer from Omagh situated North of Ireland, her recent works have appeared in, Doghouse Anthology of Irish haiku titled, Bamboo Dreams, Poethead Blog, Glasgow Review, Enniscorthy Echo, wordsocialforum, previous published poems translated into Italian and Turkish, honourable mention in Diogen pro culture winter Haiku contest,
thefirscut issues #6 and #7, Outburst magazine,celticburialrites.blogspot.co.uk A New Ulster issues 2 and 4, Pirene’s Fountain Japanese Short Form Issue, Peony Moon, DIOGEN pro culture magazine world poetry day, Poetry broadcast on 'Words on Top' radio show. She has published two volumes of poetry, 'Where the Three rivers Meet' and Guth An Anam (Voice of the soul).
Her photographic work has also appeared in,http://lightonthepage.com/ , wordsocialforum,
http://www.thewildgeesegenealogy.blogspot.ie/2012/05/making-artby-ulsters-sperrins-q-with.html ~
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Companions
The fuchsia haze of this June evening descends on the tree tops causing a heavy mist to form and cool the trees heated bowels. Time means nothing when you face a natural scene like this. Far from the noise of the town the creatures go about their business before nightfall. The strawberry moon peeps from behind cloud every so often shows off its clear beauty. It' not so far away these days sure Mars is the next big thing. Its my companion this moon, my muse on lonely evenings and like a dog the moon is earths companion following it all year long. It has seen some changes to mother earth over the ages
Aine MacAodha
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Flashbacks In a half sleep half awake state the edges are often blurred you filter the tail end of something. A wild animal long extinct prowls through my thoughts tearing apart the curtain of the past memories of spousal abuse suddenly evaporate before me in my minds eye that thundering voice, clenched fist less frightening now, cleansed away by this animal, my totem animal who reveals before me beauty without fear. Streams rise serenely from clay displaying around it a glorious meadow for the lamb to play. My thoughts come fully awake gone are the bad memories, I tread softly now like a new born lamb counting my blessings counting the sound of my heartbeat as morning emerges.
Aine MacAodha
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Keepers Nature collects things is a hoarder of future finds. stones on the riverbed that memorize climate changes on natures universal calendar A simple hedgerow in Ireland layered in various thorn often reveal ancient things beneath and around its presence to a casual walker, a pile of old stone from a wall badly erected to others its natures way of giving birth again to past ways. often we forget in the moment our lives so busy. Nature collects things even the wind whispers secrets blown through the centuries caught in the opened mind of the one learning to listen.
Aine MacAodha 35
Biographical Note: Emma McKervey Emma McKervey has been penning poetry since the age of six, and there remains in her familial carriage house a box worth of writings - although allegedly this supposed sixth form angst shall best be bound deep in darkness. She serves as a cellist and has worked within the forum of community arts for a number of years. Her writing has begun to re-emerge recently as time tarrying at home with children has over taken time out playing music and working. She savours both the denomination and domesticity of Leonita Flynn and the myth making and delectable darkness of Robin Robertson.
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Each-Uisge The blackness of his hair startled her Midst the silver-sages and soft greys of the shores edgeA liminal border, shifting with un-sieved sand And fizzing waves of moon’s breath, His body hard and fixed against such muted intransience The yielding tangle of seaweed seemed misplaced Through the gleaming mane and so she took no note. Instead she advanced, shocked by his nakedness Yet forced on by the shame that would be felt In turning away; He watched, moving only To settle his stance more firmly in the surf Reaching out to her just as her eyes widened With sting of freezing submergence on unshoed feet He did not take her hand but instead her Waist, and they fell back into the rise of tide Her skirts were raised and pushed aside by foaming swell His body beneath her sudden thighs, the vacuum Of retreating wave sucking her body unto his And she was fastened, unable to detach From the spreading blackness, as between spray and Froth and scream the man changed to rearing horse And bore down on her to feast Even while he kicked for greater depths, Descending beneath a surface now sullied with blood. Later as they searched for the unreturned girl no notice was taken Of the moist shimmering heap surrounded By squabbling gulls, assumed to be a jellyfish If commented on; unusual though In its liverish hue.
Emma McKervey
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Hungover 7am on a Thursday morning A school run morning A lunch box packing and uniform sorting Breakfast making and homework signing morning But I’m hungover. The little tricks-500mls of orange juice An iced coffee with extra sugar Can’t disguise that I should not be moving Fast, quick and organised It is not a morning when I should be Groping down the side of a single bed Nose buried in a musty teddy bear Whose fur is dreaded by Love and night time salivations To find carelessly cared for glasses Or to discover the white wash is Not yet dry and so summer dresses Cannot be worn. To locate glue (that’s the wrong sort Mummy) Needed to fix a loose sheet Into a Maths work book But I do it. I stand in the shower Calmly responding that the cuff buttons Will be fastened when I am dry Through the locked door 38
My voice only tremulous and rising On the fifth repeat. I still attempt to wash the face Of my perpetually grubby son Removing smudges that will reappear Within moments, somehow. And I find the black pen, the red folder, The blue hair elastic And the orange scissors because they are the sharpest Zip up coats, adjust Velcroed shoes Plug them in seat belt safe Kiss goodbye and wave from the window Which needs cleaning.
Emma McKervey
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Seagulls
The school run is never a source Of inspiration and rarely encourages Philosophising- the walk to the station Through carefully laminated suburbia, Hedges trimmed by set square Plum line straight Results merely in resignation and a Kind of emotional lethargy, My bewilderment finally having passed At being someone’s Mum In a three bedroomed semi. Almost forgotten are dreams of Seedy garrets in Berlin and The intrigue, art and underground Cabaret But such memories of desire when resurfaced Do not feel maudlin; only young. It comes a surprise then, when A pair of seagulls make me smile Perched on the apex of a roof Imperious and haughty, duplicated In stance and timbre of pose, gazing Into the middle distance. And I laughed because when I saw Them I thought of Gilbert And George, it seemed to recall A poster I had once seen of them Perhaps on the South Bank 40
Advertising a show. But as I moved on Towards the train I thought ‘Is that what Art is then, Can it be found strutting The tiles in any seaside town?’ And maybe that’s where it has Been all along, Residing in the ordinary.
Emma McKervey
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Biographical Note: Sue Morgan Sue Morgan lives in Northern Ireland with her husband and teenage sons. She writes in an attempt to stop the dust from settling, recent work can be found at the Southword Literary
Journal, Crannog Magazine, The New Poet, Poetry 24, Abridged and elsewhere. Sue recently won the 2013 Venture Award.
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Down the Rabbit Hole (after Dali)
Somewhere amid intangible synaptic gaps there hops a poem about a rabbit, bouncing between commonplace realities it ricochets fully formed.
To find the essence of this poem it is necessary to dive headlong into the rabbit’s hole, take the shaman’s journey to corners of the subconscious mind, interrogate the clay, fire, water and the blessed verbs of Creation.
To coax it home, eager hands must reach confidently into that lacuna, bearing small kibbles of faith, on an trusting palm.
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The Mantis that does not pray, slows down time until he stops - still on the page. 43
He does not raise his body, nor does he lift his hands in supplication, that barefoot monks might hear his pleas. No, he skates on the smudge of silence. And waits.
But, the un-bounded rabbit launches like the Miraj unicorn, with blooded eyes and teeth that have tasted King Richard’s flesh. A fizz of fireworks around his form, Seville orange, a flamenco about his ears;
whilst Alice skips on the edge, shadow-captured, drawn deep into the devil’s pit.
The earth is but the frozen echo of the silent voice of God
And the wolf winds blow, fire ignites, the earth swallows and one drop of the ocean contains the universe.
**** 44
I am Alice and I dance in the dark.
An impish lover cavorts, mere primal shadow to my movement
Lord of the Dance on molten flame from a cornered abyss
slave to my burning – my half-moon breasts call to him in the night
beacons on the edge of madness a siren to the tumultuous blaze
I wear my hair like unfettered rope to bind him to my sails
I come a-hunting, the sun erupts in vain
and painted, we will dance in dark places.
Sue Morgan
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Biographical Note: Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins Mรกire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for many years, working in Holland mainly and Mรกire lives between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published haiku writer. Mรกire retired early from the Financial Sector and found art and poetry. She is really enjoying the experience of getting lost in words and paint.
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The Attic Chest
Winter winds the darkness into an attic chest, her cold bosom wrinkles like a wind-blown river. Wet snow sparkles from tiny crevices, trickles gently like a mountain stream.
Autumn leaves coil like a dancers ringlets they twist and spin like blossoms of Spring and angel feathers that float on the breeze.
I grasp the last one on the wind.
Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins
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Slices of Summer (A poem without verbs)
Dark canopies of sycamore above wide grassy lawns, along a gravel path, down cement steps to a country cafe.
Beneath vaulted ceilings of broad triangles, rotund pine tables beside open sash windows. Spent carnations in earthenware vases, strong tea, white cups, hot apple tart and cream.
A crack in a jug on the wooden surface, milky circles on my sleeve. Sunlight cups a silver spoon, slices of life in a knife
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twisted faces in steel teapots.
In the garden pine and copper beech brush a vast day. Swallows loop steep verdant slopes on a wing of cloud. Cherry blossom branches through an old lilac, family roots of trees in soft leafy beds. The rush of rusty waters over moss green rocks.
Birdsong from my fingers music on my page. in ripe August sunshine.
Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins
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Folding Memories
A perfect square, it pleats in four then folds in two, forms a triangle to insert into a suit pocket. Silk, smooth as the surface of a wave washed pebble sleek as the first primroses of spring, cool as the embrace of a summer breeze,
I place it under my pillow in memory of you.
Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins
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Her Rosary Beads In the week that my father died I went to church with my mother to partake in her daily rituals, be closer to her. She still sat in the same pew, one we filled as a family years ago. She placed her leather bound missal on the slot in front of her, smiling photos slid from pages, bookmarks for her favourite psalms. Her string of rosary knotted her fingers, she caressed each bead in prayer. Soothed by her lisping whispers and the click of glass on wood, I watched her pray. Her eyes closed face raised in adoration to some uncharted world beyond. Tears lined her powdered cheeks, her credence in the mysteries moved me, became tangible in our shared grief. Intertwined by an invisible string, the links on her rosary became a connection to an afterlife, a place I could not accept before. My mother, closer now, the thread of life, so strong. My father’s death, still trying to unite us from beyond.
MĂĄire Morrissey-Cummins
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Biographical Note: Chris Murray Chris Murray is a City and Guilds Stone-cutter. Her poetry is published in Ropes Magazine, Crannóg Magazine, The Burning Bush Online Revival Meeting (Issue 1), Carty’s Poetry Journal, Caper Literary Journal , CanCan The Southword Journal (MLC) and the Diversity Blog (PIWWC; PEN International Women Writer’s Committee). Her poem for three voices, Lament, was performed at the Béal festival in 2012. She has reviewed poetry for Post (Mater dei Institute),Poetry Ireland and Writing.ie. Chris writes a poetry blog called Poethead which is dedicated to the writing, editing and translation of women writers. She is a member of the International PEN Women Writer’s Committee, and the Social Media coordinator and Web-developer for Irish PEN.
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hooks
a hook for an eye this ribbon for a slip
there’s a pigeon in the pot and tree makes the room
your foot on the boards your head in the sky
no mind if your stockings snag are splinter-caught
the red thread frayed or snag
walk now on swollen feet on feet that are bound-in
with red and orange with stocking threads
these can be mended these can be made whole again
you wouldn’t even notice the tear
we are so good at what we do
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neat and tight no pain no gain
for the ragged flower
hooks
gauze dries into the stitched wound where the tender-care of hands tug to redress to change to douse stitches with a brown liquid stuff
it dyes the skin a type of clinical colour but with so tender a care -
the split wound of vaginal mutilation is less easy to care for no gauze can be safe at depth of and thus submersion-in salt baths
whilst the jagged edges gather to as mended sails, as canvas-stuff as linen-stuff
you can tell at a distance that a woman has a scar that snakes up by the cast of her foot the heel-down look
those stitches are insoluble hold-to the birth passage for the next opening
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hooks
the feather-hook is a seed spiralling in the breeze, a false signal
it mocks the mayhem of the caught moth down to its nub stone
its plane is a shell network of dried skin, veined even - it has a spine of sorts
it mocks the mayhem of the caught moth down to its nub stone
Chris Murray
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Biographical Note: John Michael Taylor John Michael Taylor was born in Belfast and has studied in Aberdeen University and University College Dublin, doing a Creative Writing course.
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Belfast South
The clouds splotch like after a bad Chinese burn And bruise into the afternoon – Wedged cars hunker as the neighbours trees Darken and take one lasting breath. This is the world of hedge lines, clotheslines And patio weeds teetering on the brink. Drummer rain helter-skelters down the pipes; Racketing handfuls thud the outdoor tables. Nevertheless, tour buses make one more loop. Now that knowledge is for everyone let’s sit In Botanic and be human for a while And watch the grey Quarter’s sky teeming. I’ll explain what I’m after: I want a patterned account of restlessness, Of our slow morality and my damp affinities, Of these wet spirals facing the pavement skating rinks, Sodden, thawed out, ready to make a dash for it, For it’s only when the sun works and the streets’ Bright flanks crystallize do we turn, and I, being me, Catch on and believe we really do have the potential.
John Michael Taylor
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Contact Point
No such thing as romance In the dole queues Just air-conditioning, JSA forms,
Whispered swears and rallying calls,
Seek jobs and ye shall find. Imagination suffers
Yet the dozy office girl
Could grow a wing If she wasn’t so pregnant. We come keen each fortnight
To be squashed clean By a mighty blue biro slash. A ticking-over room God bleeps out commands:
Number forty three to desk seventeen, please
John Michael Taylor 58
Easter Monday
Wind buffed, drizzled, the car Would curve the high right Hand of the north, the white Dashed lines receding far Beyond memory and horizon. Wild meandering creatures Supping the spray on Tor Head To White Park Bay, Cushendall, Ballycastle, we stopped, read And heard the raised call Of an unrelenting coast; And before evening drew in We’d name mountains, skim Stones and perfect the art Of filtering states, weather, dim Car journey’s home: Life Renewed in acts over the chords Of a faithless chopped sea. I do know your deeds, Lord, But take lead and run for the coast.
John Michael Taylor
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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!
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July’s 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
The Alleycats are on holiday this month so Amos has taken over the duties of sitting on the wall and knocking over bins Ahem. Is that human out now? Good. Stop letting him back in: his feet are muddy! This month see’s not one but two pieces of prose. One is a traditional short story and the other is a fairytale by Barbara Gabriella Renzi. We enjoyed them greatly, as did our special guest editor, Misericord, who very kindly helped to organise some of the bios. 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”.
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Biographical Note: Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins Mรกire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for many years, and bides between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published haiku writer. Mรกire retired early from the Financial Sector and found art and poetry. She is really relishing the experience of getting lost in literature and paint.
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Butterflies Spring Dress by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
Dawn Light by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
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June Sunrise by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
Light guides by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
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Lone Rose by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
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Biographical Note: Barbara Gabriella Renzi Barbara Gabriella Renzi is a philosopher and a linguist. She has published articles in peer-reviewed publications and monographs in English and in Italian. She is also a published poet in Italy. She relishes reading short stories and painting pictures of the Belfast sky.
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Once upon a time a widowed prince had a daughter, called Cinderella. She was not particularly beautiful or intelligent; however, she was just as lovely as every other child born on Earth. She liked drawing and singing and running in the fields. After some time her father decided to marry the governess of his house. The governess had three daughters, and she preferred them to Cinderella. After the governess started living with her father, Cinderella was forced to spend a lot of time on her own and was often sent into the kitchen to work as a servant. Her father didn’t care about her so much because she was just a girl, and he had always wanted a boy! Even though the governess had three daughters of her own, Cinderella was the only one who had to work hard every day. Then one day a fairy who was fed up with all this abuse, gave Cinderella a magical golden bucket. When the King threw a ball, Cinderella decided to use the magic bucket so she could go to the ball too. The bucket gave her a lovely dress and a horse to reach the King’s castle. The King fell in love with her. Cinderella felt in love as well, because for the first time in her life she felt loved. However, she ran away after the party, because she felt guilty of having used her magic power. She didn’t want the King to discover her true nature (the fact that she was working as a servant and she was dirty all the time). However, the King’s servant had captured one of her slippers. All of the maidens in the land were invited to a feast for a shoe-test where Cinderella was identified. At last the King found Cinderella and married her soon after. She had not to work as a servant anymore and she could eat all the food in the world but what else could she do? The King was the King and she was his servant, a precious and graceful servant but still a servant. In her heart she always wondered whether the King had married her because her tremendous sense of guilt. A woman who carries such guilt can be a great servant after all. They had one beautiful daughter and that daughter also had a beautiful daughter. They were both lucky as they married kings too and therefore they were classed as high status servants. Then one of her great-great-great granddaughters decided that she was fed up of being nothing other than a high status servant - and so she became a secretary! Centuries had passed and from far away in another fairytale land, Cinderella was looking at her descendents. She was hoping that this great-great-great granddaughter of hers was free and finally happy. She was having a lovely life and 67
she decided to have a child. She has this lovely child, but nursery was much too expensive and she couldn’t go to work for years. When her child went to school she looked for a part-time job, she wanted to work as a secretary again. She was a wonderful secretary after all! However, she had been out of the job market for too long and she was not getting any interviews. The only job she found was in a castle, as a servant of a rich woman; who appeared to be grumpy and sad all the time, complaining that she was rich but she could not do many things. She was the wife of the owner of the castle but not the owner of the castle. At that moment she felt she was dreaming, she remembered her mother telling her the story about Cinderella, her great-great-great grandmother and she wondered whether things had ever changed! Barbara Gabriella Renzi
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It has been quite a busy month so far with the release of the next issue of Four X Four, the launch of Tender Journal a magazine run by women for women and the launch of Papergirl Belfast’s exhibit. Four X Four features the work of Gerry McCullough, Sandra Johnston, Kenneth Bush and Natalie Smyth. Steered by the steady hand of Colin Dardis Four X Four continues from strength to strength here’s the link; http://issuu.com/fourxfour/docs/fourxfour5pdf
Tender Journal is a new venture a quarterly journal designed to feature the work of female identified artists be it poetry, art, photography similar in some ways to A New Ulster.
The website can be visited here for more details;
http://www.tenderjournal.co.uk/abouttender also the first issue can be read online here; http://www.tenderjournal.co.uk/
Papergirl is a non-commercial initiative that brings art to the streets in an alternative and dynamic way. Drawings, paintings, photographs, illustrations, prints, textiles, poems, prose and zines will be showcased in an uncurated exhibition at PS2. The gallery exhibit ends on Friday after which time the contents will be handed out randomly to passersby. One of my pieces was included in the exhibit.
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LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT, NEW And FORTHCOMING TITLES 9781907276798 Martin Domleo The Haunted Barn: A Novella 9781907276804 Helen Soraghan Dwyer Beyond 9781907276811 Richard Brooks Metaphysical Flaw 9781907276828 Martin Burke For / Because / After 9781907276835 Gerry McDonnell Ragged Star 9781907276842 James O’Sullivan Kneeling on the Redwood Floor 9781907276859 Una ni Cheallaigh Salamander Crossing 9781907276866 Teresa Lally Doll 9781907276873 Lynne Edgar Trapeze 9781907276880 Paul Tobin Blessed by Magpies 9781907276897 Laurence James Deliquesence of Dust 9781907276903 Marc Carver London Poems 9781907276910 Iain Britton druidic approaches 9781907276927 Gillian Somerville-Large Karamania 9781907276934 Martha Rowsell Another Journey Like This 9781907276941 Kate Ashton The Concourse of Virgins 9781907276958 Martin Domleo Sheila 9781907276965 Tommy Murray Swimming with Dolphins 9781907276972 John O’Malley Invisible Mending 9781907276989 J.C.Ireson The Silken Ladder 9781907276996 Mariama Ifode Senbazuru 9781909252004 Keeper of the Creek Rosy Wilson 9781909252011 Ascult? Linitea Vorbind hear silence speaking x Peter Sragher 9781909252028 Songs of Steelyard Sue J.S. Watts 9781909252035 Paper Patterns Angela Topping 9781909252042 Orion: A Poem Sequence Rosie Johnston 9781909252059 Disclaimer Tristan Moss 9781909252066 Things out of Place Oliver Mort 9781909252073 Human Shores Byron Beynon 9781909252080 The Non Herein - Michael McAloran 9781909252097 Chocolate Spitfires Sharon Jane Lansbury 9781909252103 Will Your Spirit Fly? Richard Brooks 9781909252110 Out of Kilter George Beddows intro x Jeremy Reed 9781909252127 Eruptions Jefferson Holdridge (out soon) 9781909252134 In the Consciousness of Earth Rosalin Blue 9781909252141 The Wave Rider Eva Lindroos (out soon) There are other new works in various stages of preparation. All titles £10.00 per paper copy Or In PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.
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