Anu issue 14/ A New Ulster

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

Featuring the works of Peter O'Neill, Eamonn Stewart, Joseph Patrick Dorrian, Theresa McCormack, Byron Beynon, Maire Morrissey-Cummins, John jack Byrne And more. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 14 November 2013

A New Ulster On the Wall Website

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

Cover Image “Forest Snipes” by Editorial

Amos Greig page 6

Peter O‟Neill; Rimbaud‟s Illuminations Baudelaire Beckett The Drinker Dame Street Blues

page 8 page 9 page 10 page 11 page 12

Eamonn Stewart; Beauty Marred my own Little Cargo Cult Derelict Transfigured & The Chyme(s) The Drones Aide Memoire Scenes from a Spide‟s Agoge Jay‟s Progress Classical Lament of every Chav Disturbed Earth The Chav‟s Judgement of Paris

page 14 page 15 page 16 page 17 page 18 page 19 page 20 page 21 pages 22-23

Joseph Patrick Dorrian; Too Much Information

page 25

Theresa McCormack; Stevie Blunder And the seagulls roar Let‟s Escape A Moment

page 27 page 28 page 29 pages 30-31

Byron Beynon; A Greek Island Tragedy Trinity Beach The Marble Tower Athens Man and Wife at sea South Wales landscape

page 33 page 34 page 35 page 36 page 37

Maire Morrissey-Cummins; Spirited Magpies Rain Rythms Silence of Fall

page 39 page 40 pages 41-42

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John Jack Byrne; Selection of Haiku

page 44

Donal Hale: First you take a drink Hitch your wagon to a star Norn Iron (Northern Ireland) Political Spin

page 46 pages 47-49 page 50 page 51 On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats

page 52

Maire Morrisey-Cummins; Maire‟s work can be found John (Jack) Byrne; John‟s work can be found

pages 55-56 pages 58-59

Round the Back What‟s on

page 60-61

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 ‎November has crept upon us and sees the return of the Belfast Festival at Queen‟s. I have spoken about my reasons for producing this magazine before sometimes though it is worth repeating. I was surprised by the lack of poetry magazines or journals available in Belfast. There were a few but difficult to locate I sought to establish an independent journal in a similar vein to The Yellow Nib, The Honest Ulsterman and Southword. I wasn‟t sure how well A New Ulster would be accepted in the wider world.

The response was more than I could have expected and the quality of submissions never ceases to amaze me. So this issue is a celebration of sorts a recognition of the work that we share with you the reader. This one is for the artists and their contribution to creativity. Baudelaire said it best “Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness. This obsessive idea is above all a child of giant cities, of the intersecting of their myriad relations.”.

I see two voices at work in art the urban inspired and the rural both can run alongside each other and at times even intersect Heaney is a prime example of this he had mastered both voices. This is something that I try to accomplish with my work as well and when I picked the pieces in this issue I kept these themes in mind.

I hope you get as much enjoyment reading these pieces they speak highly of the artists who submitted to this issue and to paraphrase Arthur Rimbaud they show the artist as God. Their brush strokes, words give life to a world we can barely interpret however through their eyes for a brief moment we can walk different lands.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill Peter O‟ Neill (1967) was born in Cork where he grew up before moving to live in France in the nineties. He returned to Dublin in 1998, where he has been living ever since. He has been writing poetry sine the eighties, and has been published in reviews in Ireland, USA, UK and France. His debut collection Antiope (Stonesthrow Poetry, 2013) was critically acclaimed: „certainly a voice to be reckoned with.‟ Dr Brigitte Le JueZ (Dublin City University). With over six collections behind him, he is currently translating Les Fleurs Du Mal.

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Rimbaud’s Illuminations, or the Death of Books (Peter O‟Neill) This page is not made of paper, For we do not even see it!

When the lead touches it It touches air, infinity, sheer essence.

The words are not symbols or signs, But rather the things themselves.

Search not for logic or reasoning, But rather let the experience be totally sensory.

The leaves will appear sonorous, Like perceiving a wall of sound.

That‟s it, let their force or shape guide you, Like a stone would your own hand.

Lose yourself in sheer being, The momentous gravitational pull of sheer presence!

Now, you see you are no longer reading – At least not as you formally used to understand the term.

However, there is a price to this game: Expect more now, from all things.

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Baudelaire (Peter Oâ€&#x;Neill)

Sound is sense; Close thunder twins The apocalypse of the human heart.

After the murder of words, Their incantation, You are left feeling like an empty shell.

But, just as quickly You can close the book, like a door, And peace will be restored.

L’oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche...

Expulsed now onto College Green, As inconsequential as a louse; Above the sky... a passing leviathan...

Yet, you are just as indomitable.

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Beckett For Conor Lovett (Peter Oâ€&#x;Neill)

Secrete the germ of absence Which plagues the will, Calibrate the measure of nothingness For the mind to fill, And populate lacunae with fauna: Bawds, bicycles and inmatesTo quell, somehow, its riot.

Process of negation, itâ€&#x;s elemental; Like wind and sea pulverising rock.

The buffeting the self takes, by itself and others, All of this is constant, That, and your stand.

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The Drinker (Peter Oâ€&#x;Neill)

A glass of wine rests on the counter in which a miniature world is being reflected back to the viewer, all of his contained.

It comprises of a roof, a window and the bartender, who appears and disappears, floating in and out like a goldfish, trapped, in this liquid cell.

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Dame Street Blues for Alessia (Peter Oâ€&#x;Neill)

Tomas Davis rises like a shroud above the mist trumpeted by four, broken, apocalyptic angels.

Grattan is exhumed; Caught, catching air.

Not one window in the bank is open.

The girls in the bookshops are kneeling in front of the shelves like choirboys at the altar.

The poets through their volumes sing;

Cherish me my sweet Lolitas press me to your breasts like a bird.

The flowers outside the florist explode like rockets.

All coffee now tastes like wine.

Come back to me my lover and fuck with me again.

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Biographical Note: Eamonn Stewart Born in Belfast 1964. Trained to be an advertising photographer. Worked in advertising as motion picture cameraman. Studied film history at University of East London. Extensive publication of poems and photos in magazines and anthologies.

Presently, working pro bono in student/indie films.

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Beauty Marred My Own Little Cargo Cult (Eamonn Stewart)

As a child, mother‟s aluminium head-lice comb Was more beautiful than any princess‟s diadem.

I saw it‟s avatars in music box clockworks, Turnstile‟s thaumatropes , science fair spectroscopes And lately, on the Grosvenor Road .

The park railings diffraction grating Transfigured the wet road.

The tram-lined aurora of traffic and car lights Slothful as electrophoresis.

Blink comparators of Belitia Beacons at either end.

Efflorescence of smashed glass From bottles the winos had flung.

Chromatographs of oil leaks where I stopped To cross the road; Lit by white headlights, then jaundiced sodium Like variegated Plasticene I overwrought to brown As a child.

The sign subsumes the signifier in the park.

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Derelict Transfigured (Eamonn Stewart)

A young derelict with a baleen beard, In which every drink or meal heâ€&#x;s had adhered.

Traversing headlights lifted this stone I practically hurled on the way home.

The Chyme(s ) (Eamonn Stewart)

Oft have I heard the chymes of midnight In adjacent flats or in the streets.

These materialise, like Ballaâ€&#x;s lamp In the morning under my feet.

I awoke to a peal of beer bottles And white-cider tins Tintinabulated by OCD winds.

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The Drones (Eamonn Stewart)

The youth I know are angry drones Appeased by a certain smoke alone.

Their function done: their queen bees Ascend to forensic matriarchy.

But it‟s futile to speak For these smoke-dazed drones – “The Armed Struggle‟s” ASBO epigones.

They only want to get away with it And so be left alone.

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Aide Memoire (Eamonn Stewart)

In the snap, confetti the guests fling were the scales from the butterfly‟s wings.

Coventrating not cleaving the air that used to make it soar – became a simulacrum an electroscope flapping in a jar, charged and discharged by an electrophorus of despair – the diaphragm applicator: Only it, and the picture, are still there.

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Scenes from a a Spide’s Agoge (Eamonn Stewart)

These “suicide-prone” epigones Gather to drink from The Marian Shrine.

And shout taunts at those They‟ve already insulted online .

They only go mob-handed At those they have fought, And are literally better fed than taught.

Trailed-up on the protein-rich diet of kings; Their mothers‟ gave everything Within and beyond their means.

This Spides‟ agoge never seems to end.

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Jay’s Progress (Eamonn Stewart)

Q: Why are Britons so-called ?

A: Because they painted themselves blue.

Pre WWI prep school history book Quoted by Robert Graves in Goodbye To All That.

Jay “robbed” a Blaupunkt protected by a code.

The hostel bosses found his stash and told him he had to go.

The indigo ectoplasm of tinfoil transfigured Triffids Made him steal.

Ziplock bag apports from their sequestered crop circles Made him reel through the suburbs like Aesop‟s fox With a fiery tail.

In borstal, Sisyphusian bench-fitting; the Prussian Blue lacquer That mocked the file, blunt as his wits.

Freedom, flight to Dublin.

Strung-out in a Trinity public loo The violet lighting Hid his veins And anything else that was blue.

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Classical Lament of Everychav (Eamonn Stewart)

ASBO-Deuses, pimply Apollyons,

Dr Shulgin gave you the key to the abyss:

Before the fatal hyperpyrexia comes the bliss.

Malignant aggression comes before all this.

Delphi in a can.

(Eamonn Stewart)

Around my neck Dodona.

The rest of the world is Iago,

And I am Desdemona.

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Disturbed Earth (Eamonn Stewart)

When they release your name The soul departs But it is loathe.

The Big Bang fizzles out And creation maunders into reverse.

Now boffins say there is No peace in the grave – And there is water on the moon And Iâ€&#x;ve bought shortcake In Brigadoon!

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The Chav’s Judgement of Paris (Eamonn Stewart)

“The Sibyl‟s raving mouth Prophesies without mirth” Each night, The Spear Carriers Shamble onstage:

“E”s invoke crass Judgements of Paris or worse, Paris‟s are left forlorn and in a rage.

Delinquents drunk on The Cider of Discord, Stabbed my friend as his girlfriend Stared aghast.

Because some bouncer with a flaming sword Drove them from a disco, They weren‟t prepared to let this pass.

My uncle told me long ago That cows used to run after steam locos.

In this Thereomorphosis of Chavs They pursue boys in filched fast cars.

Flocked round a cable junction box, They bash a din from it with their feet.

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As I pass they ominously stop.

And, in the silence of the too-dark street,

One perches there, headless As Samothracean Nike – Anencephalic, in baseball cap and hoody: I hear the box‟s electrics Lamasary choir.

Fear spins awe‟s prayerwheel – Grants my desire.

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Biographical Note: Joseph Patrick 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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Too much information.

(Patrick J. Dorrian)

By the time I was inquisitive, my mother's father was quite old.

Seeing him on a daily basis certain aspects of his appearance were taken for granted; the dark suit and highly polished boots; the shirt that took the paper collars, the tie always pinned above the waistcoat; even his brushed bowler hat, worn to watch the orange parades at which he'd suck oranges when the flutes passed.

One might almost say he was dapper, a putative Dandy, had we not been poor.

Then there was the ivy, a sprig in his buttonhole, picked fresh each day from a nearby wall.

I'd seen it often but not noticed it, until I'd become inquisitive.

"Granda, what's the leaf?"

"It's Ivy", "Why do you wear it everyday?"

Left unanswered, I guess six was too young an age to learn about Parnell and Kitty O'Shea.

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Biographical Note: Theresa McCormack

Theresa is from Cobh, Co. Cork. She is married with two children and enjoys photography and writing poetry. She works in Cork City and is a big fan of the Cork Hurling team.

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STEVIE BLUNDER (in the Cork dialect) Theresa McCormack The blinds are down and the teachers are on holliers, For a week anyway‟s says Stephen Otherwise known as “Stevie Blunder”. Its the midterm boys he says matter oh factly, Just like an old Grand dad. He runs passed the playground doing the aeroplane. He zigzags his way passed the teachers, And does a full stop at the gates. Turning like a top on his new DC‟s The ones his ma got him for being good He searches for his friends face. Call for me after your dinner Ricky he shouts, Ricky gives a big thumbs up “I will Stevie, after me dinner”. Stevie waves goodbye and trots down the street A euro in hand for a dib dab and jellies Stevie rules the world. The perfect mothers chat and cackle like witches Leaning up against the red brick wall With their very best cardigans on…. Oh my Sean is very academic says Margaret, So is my Paul another retorts, „Sher once their happy says another, Ain‟t that the main thing, And they all nod together in agreement And I laugh inside. I wait for my blue eyed boy Away from the crowd, The blonde „wan chews her chewing gum Just like its on springs.

She looks me up and down Like I‟m from another planet. She thinks I think I‟m someone special, But I don„t, I know I‟m only me. Out of the corner of my eye A head that is familiar to me A swagger like jagger, He walks the walk and talks the talk Does my boy Jack. A spring in his step today, And the devil dancing in his eyes, He‟s won the lottery , He‟s hit the jackpot Schools out for a whole week. Today Stevie might rule the world But Jack rules the universe.

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AND THE SEAGULLS SOAR‌.

Theresa McCormack The seagulls soar On the crooked shore And the wind did roar As the storm it bore‌. On a windswept day Great oaks did sway Where the Herefords lay On that January day.

And the steam it rose From their mouths and nose As they lay in rows While the wild wind blows. And gusts of leaves Danced on the breeze And swished through trees Then drowned in seas.

Black crows like priests They took their seats On branches deep And closed their beaks. But the wind blew wild Like a restless child And it shook the tide From side to side. But the seagulls glide With grace and pride From deep inside The storm so wild.

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LET‟S ESCAPE Theresa McCormack When the rain stopped Two pigeons sat on a wet chimney Defeated and wet.. Tears of rain fell from bright blue sun umbrellas Trickling on and on Crying on to wooden sun tables. Basketballs sat on wet grass And old soggy dog food lay in plastic bowls. Where‟s the sun gone the children ask, Looking out speckled windows, Following the raindrops journey down the glass Wondering which one gets to the end first. Wet sheets hang lifeless on clothes lines Sure to stay there for all eternity, And I sigh a sigh to a lost July. The barbecue stands alone Wrapped up in a big green raincoat, Under the Holly Tree. The stillness after rain is beautiful I say to the children They look at me open mouthed, As if I‟m an Extra Terrestrial From a Spielberg movie. ET phone home mum they laugh, While pointing their fingers at the grey sky. The clouds never seem to move And stay transfixed above our heads. The birds still sing, The crows caw and fight on wet dripping trees, Like old men in black coats Sharing Sunday afternoon conversations. July is a washout I think to myself As the rain comes back to haunt us. Weather beaten we hurry for our coats and boots, Slamming the door behind us. Lets go and spend a rainy afternoon with Harry Potter I say, Theirs sunshine in the children‟s eyes again. Its not E.T. I say, Its not a Spielberg Movie, But it‟s a wizard and a goblin, And where we„re going theirs no rain..... Let„s escape.

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A MOMENT Theresa McCormack

I went to your grave today Just to touch base to bring you flowers. I feel guilty if I don‟t go.

I am empty because I can‟t see you, And then I end up having an argument with myself saying, “She‟s not there, its only earth and bric‟ a brac, Its only dirt.

I walk past a wind chime on Baby Paul‟s grave And take a moment A small Thomas the Tank Engine Truck lies there, Battered by the weather.

Battered like his mother and fathers heart No doubt a little piece gone now, They must have only half a heart each I say And I breathed out a sigh.

I put a pebble on his gravestone to show I was there An old Jewish tradition I like But the wind blows it off And the pebble is gone, just like Baby Paul.

And it hits me, yes, nobody is untouchable, Babies can die too, And I think how innocent they must be And I feel lucky to have my own two.

I carry on along the gravel path And look at the concrete Angels with their arms outstretched , Reaching for the heavens I wish I could reach up into heaven and bring you back sometimes.

But I know I can‟t and mumble to myself to grow up, I sit by your graveside talking to you Telling you I‟m sorry for this time and that time And regret visits me again.

I think of that morning I never went to greet you I never spoke hello, And I wonder how I could have known That it would be my last time hearing your footsteps or your voice.

Then I console myself quietly Remembering how cruel you could be to me Whiskey was always your saviour, And I tell myself that whiskey was your true friend, not me.

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I always come away feeling you heavy on my shoulders And my visits make me remember you even more, I wonder why I came, I feel empty.

I turn the car to drive off and there on a wall is a blackbird Right in front of me, I stare and she goes about her business Feeding her young in the wall of the cemetery.

She thinks they are hidden but I can see her duck and dive As she feeds her longing chicâ€&#x;s And though you are still heavy on my shoulders My sadness seems to fade.

I get out of my car and look without disturbing I hear them call to her, There in a crevice in the wall of the cemetery, where all is dead There is life.

And I remembered how once I told you I liked blackbirds, On a garden bench in the sunshine, When sunbeams hit your face and you smiled And suddenly I was not alone anymore.

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Biographical Note: Byron Beynon Byron Beynon lives in Swansea, Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including A New Ulster, London Magazine, The Warwick Review, Cyphers, Chicago Poetry Review and Quadrant.

Collections include Nocturne in Blue and Human Shores (both from Lapwing Publications). His most recent collection is The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).

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A GREEK ISLAND TRAGEDY (Byron Beynon) I watch the sea's glint of blistering light mirrored towards a matured rock's anchored surface, the faded stone with parched hills moored in an active Aegean.

Coins found and graced

by Dionysus's purple grapes, Demeter's corn of yellow, as Poseidon's dolphins leapt to the music of Apollo's lyre.

To-day's mortal scene of houses, cuboid, small and white, gauge their narrow streets seething with summer's tourists, caught in a sunburnt bottleneck.

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TRINITY BEACH (Byron Beynon) Cushioned between Yorkey's Knob and Clifton beach, this meeting place confronts the Great Barrier Reef.

The water shines like health, invites me to enter the spray of salty turquoise sharpening my sense of touch.

The broken coral jangles in the polished sea where during the rainy season jellyfish bring the risk of death.

I watch and notice three dolphins rise, they dip and disappear into the warm flux, a beauty of glistening arches on a journey northwards.

Here on the beach I feel their controlled energy like a carving, a concentration, their triptych.

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THE MARBLE TOWER, ATHENS (Byron Beynon) A rash of corroding noise with the bad breath of traffic on an afternoon stirring memory beside the marble tower of the winds.

I gaze at an architect's imagination, scattered flowers, the urn chiselled with water flowing from a precursor in history, the solid octagonal craft taking flight towards the ebullient light, a survivor from antiquity displaying a calm dignity, the sprawling compass-beats etched within this city's congested heart.

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MAN AND WIFE AT SEA (Byron Beynon) A middle-aged man conducts the air, guiding me to other seas, other mountains, which I inhabit like dreams and distant places.

He tries a variety of angles, moving his arms like a windmill, butterfly fingers stroking the air.

He has cultivated a paunch, imitating a pregnant woman, he looks outward and searches the coastline, rests both hands on hips, his pointed elbows the arms of a vase, the completed work of a potter, brought to maturity.

His wife cuts free the green-skinned cucumber, she sits carving a meal for two, nudges her man to eat.

A shared refreshment without words, her name is already written on the water.

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SOUTH WALES LANDSCAPE UNDER CLOUD (Byron Beynon) There is so much here for the eye to walk into, a succinct landscape under a heavy threat from developers who are only a stone's throw away; but for now let nature and humanity work together, a perfect stillness coherent with truth, a subtle feast interfused with a serene, sad music, an eternal power behind all things.

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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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Spirited Magpies (Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins)

Playful Magpies exchange trees, alternating between birch and maple, they compete for the highest branches.

Striking and athletic, I delight in their performance.

From close proximity, their plumage flashes a metallic blue, white underbellies lustrous as virgin snow.

Strutting boastfully lofty tails held high, I contemplate their beauty.

Solid, against a lifeless sky, feathers ruffle, they stand statuesque, spirited.

Moving in pairs.

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my superstitious mind cites “two for joy”.

I wonder if the most dominant one on the bony limb of my silver birch is my father‟s spirit?

His characteristics are so similar.

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Rain Rhythms (MĂĄire Morrissey-Cummins)

She slides the curtains to the changing season, clicks the window latch shut on a rain drenched morning, thick mist crossing the sea.

The radiator ticks into life swirls with waters warm filling the room with a July noon.

She pats down her dreams on a slumber tossed duvet, soothed by the drumming rain and a flame lamp warms this dusky morning, a new Winterâ€&#x;s day.

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Silence of Fall (MĂĄire Morrissey-Cummins)

This morning the sun fell silent bathing the grass in a blaze of light.

Blades glittered wet with September dew.

Rowan berries clustered red, the garden soaked in summerâ€&#x;s end,

ready for the fall.

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Biographical Note: John Jack Byrne John [Jack] Byrne lives in Co. Wicklow ,Ireland he has been writing for almost 6 years mainly poetry; Traditional and Japanese short form and has had some published success in UK , USA, Ireland in Anthologies, Magazines ,Ezines /Journals his blog can be found here: http://john-isleoftheharp.blogspot.ie/

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Haiku by John Jack Byrne journey begins...

43 hands reach for the air vents

Blenheim.... entrance step a wee dog cocks his leg

sleepy village... sharing my lunch a duck

coach window... also going to Oxford this fly

Blenheim.. naked bust a fly on her nipple

ferry... looking at the sea I buy water

ferry stern... getting smaller and smaller Wales

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Biographical note: Donal Hale Donal Hale was born and raised in Belfast before moving to London in 2009 to teach English and English Literature in a secondary school. A lover of poetry for many years, he mainly wrote poems as a personal creative exercise or for some sense of escapism, but now wants to share his work with a more public audience

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First you take a Drink, then the drink takes You (Donal Hale) Bleary eyed texts, to a would-be lover, on another alcohol-fuelled night which tomorrow you will fail to remember.

Your headache hits at around first light; you really are such a sorry sight.

That feeling of unaccounted for guilt is all too familiar, as you hug your quilt.

Was it worth it?

Feeling this shit?

I‟m guessing not, but take another resolve, and let those shameful feelings dissolve.

You‟ll be ready for another night on the town.

Like that‟s an opportunity you will ever turn down.

Come now, what‟s the harm in another drink?

Answer that quickly, before you have time to think.

Is it worth it?

Feeling this shit?

First you take a Drink, then the drink takes You; And when you realise that, that‟s your big breakthrough.

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Hitch your Wagon to a Star (Donal Hale) Wearing an, alright, black dress, hardly Prada.

Got my A-Level in drama, but didnâ€&#x;t get into RADA. Fairly prettyI guessainâ€&#x;t no Kate Moss.

Decent jobs. Decent wage, but, not the boss.

I was sixteen years old and had never been told that dreams are not a guarantee.

Yeah, no-one ever thought to tell me.

But, I worked hard.

They told me I would be a success, get out, make it big and all the rest.

If only they could see me now, 47

what would they say? „She‟s changed a lot, wasn‟t like that back in the day!‟

I do look differenta bit more, polished, I guess, though behind the make-up still feel like an utter mess.

They (I don‟t know who really) say I‟m a star, chasing me with blinding flashes to my car.

I‟m not.

Not at all, just another washed up singer more famous because of several rings on my finger, more known in the glossy mags like those wannabes and those preening WAGS and now as lines start to form on my face and 48

my tits begin to sag, I stumble from one party to another and my feet start to drag „cos I‟m tired and I‟m drunk on G&T‟s and I‟m lost now, and all I want is sleep.

Please

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Norn Iron (Northern Ireland) (Donal Hale) An English girl asked me once, „Is Northern Ireland really that bad?‟ I fought the urge to acidly respond, „You mean the North of Ireland!‟ opting with, „I would be lying if I didn‟t admit it wasn‟t a little mad.‟ With this, I gazed into her pearly blue eyes and took her by the hand: „It is like a bizarre fairy-tale land; devoid of all logic and of reason, where the public mood is more changeable that the summer season.

It is a place where to be Catholic and atheist is not contradictory and a murder is viewed with some sense of a sectarian victory.‟ „What about all that stuff about Good Friday and that peace wall?‟ I smiled, perhaps patronisingly, pleased with her child-like naiveté, „That was a good day, but the wall doesn‟t really help that much at all.

You see peace only seems to exist with that wall dividing the city.

She looked aghast and said, „They must all be the really religious type.‟ „You would think,‟ I said, „but to be fair most don‟t even bother with mass… unless it‟s one of those big holidays. It‟s all conflated with political hype more than anything and often it is simply about resentment of social class.‟ I sighed then. I let go of her hand, which now felt cold in mine. „I‟m sorry I asked,‟ she said. I stared at her and said, „It‟s fine.‟

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Political Spin (Donal Hale) Get him in focus and don‟t forget the soundbite!

We can spin this our way; let‟s take it to the Right.

Comb his hair; give him a broom for the glory shot.

Phone the BBC and get him on the prime-time slot.

Quickly now, we need to get to the next boroughremember, quick chat and nothing too thorough. „Can I not challenge them; condemn or chastise?‟ „No, because later we make need to strike a compromise.

The Party is relying on you to make them look good; you must appear strong and your words not misunderstood.‟ „Can I not just be honest and tell them what I think?‟ „Don‟t be silly- you want our voting margins to shrink!‟ „This doesn‟t seem right; there must be something I can do?‟ „Don‟t be a fool mayor, if you do, it will be such a fuss for you.

We have got the election to consider and we are losing support.

We must sort this out quickly; in politics time is very short.‟ „Fine, I will listen and do whatever you tell me.‟ „That‟s a good boy; trust me; I am your loyal devotee.‟ (And besides, if he fucks up, I‟ll step up to the position; He needs to learn what it means to be a politician).

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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: SUBMISSION S 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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November’s 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS: Its November already? I just want to sleep Once again we have some lovely haiga the combination of art and haiku impresses. Can you believe next month is December time flies.

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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Old Hawthorn by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Petals fold into Silence by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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Stones Sing by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Tangle of Trees by Maire Morrissey-Cummins 56

Biographical Note: John Jack Byrne John [Jack] Byrne lives in Co. Wicklow ,Ireland he has been writing for almost 6 years mainly poetry; Traditional and Japanese short form and has had some published success in UK , USA, Ireland in Anthologies, Magazines ,Ezines /Journals his blog can be found here: http://johnisleoftheharp.blogspot.ie/

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Awaiting by John Jack Byrne

Cascade by John Jack Byrne

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Forked by John Jack Byrne

Your Smile by John Jack Byrne

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November is probably going to be a chilly month but there is plenty of art and poetry on the way. First up we have a new poetry venture being launched by Ray Givans and Paul Jeffcutt. It is called The Squat Pen and will be a semi regular evening of poetry at No Alibis Belfast. No Alibis is known for its links to crime fiction as well as its support of poetry and the arts indeed several book launches have been held there.

The Squat Pen will be an open platform for pen and paper poets as well as performance poets to get in front of an audience and perform their work. The first evening will be on the 7th of November.

Also running from the 4th to the 7th of November is University of the Air a Literary Festival recognizing and celebrating the Open University and its links in Northern Ireland a full time table of events can be found here: https://www.facebook.com/events/174345226102853/?ref_dashboard_filter=calendar

You Write on (http://www.youwriteon.com/) is a very interesting service for writers sponsored by Arts Council money the site allows users to upload their work and then get feedback on it from other users many people who have used the service have managed to gain book deals. Publishers that have opened their doors to users include Random House, Orion, Penguin and harper Collins. Community supported writing appears to be the new way forward for many and this could be something to watch.

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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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