Anu issue 18 The March issue of A New Ulster by Amos Greig

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

Featuring the works of Alistair Graham, Eamonn Stewart, Orla McAlinden, Maire Morrissey-Cummins, Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill, Chris Murray, J.S.Watts, Rachel Sutcliffe, Rosie Johnson, John Jack Byrne, Neil Ellmans and Jax Leck. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 18 March 2014

A New Ulster On the Wall Website

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

Cover Image “Gateway” by Editorial

Amos Greig page 7

Alistair Graham Text Message Coffee in Ann Street After the Golden Thread ABC Balancing Trick

pages 9-10 page 11 page 12-13 page 14-15 page 16

Eamonn Stewart; A Dagger of The Mind by Gaslight By The Light of The Moist Star Night Porter The Blessing The Loves of XYY Men

page 18 page 19 page 20 page 21 page 22

Orla McAlinden; The big, fat Chemadrine

pages 24-27

Maire Morrissey-Cummins; Spring Green Marmalade on Toast Sepia Dawn

page 29 page 30 page 31

Peter O’Neill; Nursery Unrhymed A New Idiom Faust Barkeep L’unghie merdose

page33 page34 page35 page36 page37

Chris Murray; Cup New Trees& Pretty Useless things The Ragbag

page 39 page 40 page 41

J.S. Watts; As Above Then so Below Years Ago You Coloured Me Bonedancing Leaving Marks Collection The Mapmaker Returns

page 43 page 44 pages 45-46 page 47 page 48 page 49

Rachel Sutcliffe; The Distance Between Us To All Those Who Went

page 51 page 52

Rosie Johnson From Bittersweet Seventeens

pages 54-55

John Jack Byrne Peace Going Back Tree of Life

page 57 page 58 page 59

Neil Ellmans Between the Torus and the Sphere Poeme D’amour Site de Memoire Number 9: In Praise of Gertrude Stein

page 61 pages 62-63 page 64 page 65

Jax Leck Meds Joy

page 67 page 68

On The Wall Message from the Alleycats

page 69

John (Jack) Byrne; John’s work can be found

pages 71-72

Maire Morrissey-Cummins Maire’s work can be found

pages 74-75 Round the Back

Round the back

page 76

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/ 4

Published in Baskerville & Times New Roman 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.

Editorial An artist never really dies they live on through their work, the shared realities that they craft. It is always difficult to learn that someone has passed away and we here at A New Ulster were saddened to learn of the passing of Lapwing poet Dom Sebastian Moore O.S.B. His death was a shock to all of us and we send our deepest sympathies to his friends and family. Here at A New Ulster we still believe that poetry is as ever about the individual, the artist and their place in society. It is a celebration of their work and a window into their techniques. A New Ulster is open to experimental and traditional poetry styles and approaches. This issue holds a strong example of poetry, prose, haiga and tanka. I hope you enjoy reading what has been shared here today. This issue features a strong example of experimental and local poetry from many voices and styles as well as a range of short stories. Every piece has been chosen by the writers and by the editor I feel that this is a very strong issue and hope you enjoy reading it.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity! Amos Greig

Biographical Note: Alistair Graham Alistair lives and works in Belfast. He has two published collections;

War and Want Streets of Belfast Both published by Lapwing. He is currently working on a third collection which is approaching completion.

Text Message (Alistair Graham)

It’s dark and dismal in damp and dirty Belfast and the road to work, a greasy liquorice snake

First day at work since leaving you in England and emails, demanding and wanting, to high-heaven are piled up

I could bloody well clear the desk of it’s contents swipe from its’ top the letter trays and date stamp, the paper

clips and telephone and the computer; let it crash the whole lot on the floor and I could

Instead I fill the kettle wash cups for coffee the first day back always looks like this only

this time is different not how I knew it when I left a week ago, though probably by lunch-

time the sun will show, the emails will be kicked into touch and this moment, this now moment will be

gone just like yesterday, last week, last year; gone like my first day at school and the sun,

if it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t show by lunchtime then maybe tomorrow. Have a good day at Uni sonď &#x160;

Coffee in Ann Street (Alistair Graham)

We were sitting in a cafĂŠ in Ann Street drinking coffee The aroma of freshly ground beans filled the air above our heads An elderly couple in the corner had a bag each on their laps They were poking around, looking at stuff they had bought A waitress beside us bent over to pick up a spoon We looked through the glass at the tables on the street outside A man and a woman sat talking and drinking coffee with a cigarette The man with the woman shifted his weight onto one buttock We couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t smell it but we knew he had farted We finished up and walked out into the autumn air

After the Golden Thread (Alistair Graham)

Alan in a spill in Laveryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s after performance poetry in golden thread; red wine, like blood, on the back of his hand on bar counter from the splash of tumbling glass

We split a 70cl and sip at first, young girls and lads down shots behind us, and shouts, later outside the doors, taxis open and close pick up drop off, a throw-up boy bows to the bus stop

We grab a black cab 12

in Bradbury Place, climb into its jaws take the long seat and sit, stare out from its eyes at the performance of passers-by on the short journey home

Alan out first, later me after three pound tip for the trip and a gaze through partition to the back of a head and a glance in the mirror at the eyes

and a thought in my mind of division and decades of barricades; here is fine thank you, there you go, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my second book, I hope you like it, good night 13

ABC (Alistair Graham) If life was as simple As ABC I would climb on My bicycle, Ride to the sea

I would rip off My clothes, Unbuckle my boots, Run naked over Lapping waves, Ignore all the looks

I would swim out On the ocean, Swim back twice as fast, Tie a scarf around My waist, Forget the troubled past I’d cycle back To Belfast, walk Naked through the town, Convince the people I’m the one, A Prophet of renown

I’d be like John The Baptist, My scarf around My loins, I’d shout my Head off Through the streets And dodge The flying coins I know they’d think I’m crazy, I know they’d Want me dead, Because I know They don’t like change, I know I’d lose my head

Balancing Trick (Alistair Graham) She checks the balance at the hole in the wall, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not in her favour. though the total is high it will free-fall when the grabbers begin grabbing and if she waits, the see-saw will hit the floor leaving her groundless

They constantly tell her itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s every man for himself so she grabs a stash for her for bread her family fed so they wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t starve, and the balance? she leaves them to it

Biographical Note: Eamonn Stewart Eamonn was born in Belfast 1964. He trained to be an advertising photographer. Eamonn worked in advertising as motion picture cameraman. He studied film history at University of East London. Eamonn has had an extensive publication of poems and photos in magazines and anthologies. Presently, working pro bono in student/indie films.

A Dagger of The Mind by Gaslight (Eamonn Stewart) In the mall, I sat down, tired of walking And overheard two young spides talking About the Wasp® Gas Injection Knife Blows-up any shark in a trice. Xmas muzak imploded back to the P.A. The lights were nulled, enough heard I walked away.

On still and smoggy nights the gas lamps Sang, infinitesimally, attenuatedly Like a choir of angels on a pin head. Moths pulsed around the panes Made the lamp like Gysin’s Dream Machine Petite Mal scintillas of the sun Through park railings as you race by.

On a school trip The gasworks men shovelled coal Oblivious to the Carboniferous Era’s Shards of ferns and cycads or the flames That flapped dragonfly wings a final time.

The lamps for me evoked a taste of sherbet Summer evenings, games of cribby , girls skipping and skating Tinted like some Odillon Redon painting. The gasometer sank forever out of view And couldn’t be raised by the gas in the wished-for knives of the youths.

By The Light of The Moist Star (Eamonn Stewart) They say that there’s water on the moon, And I’ve bought shortbread in Brigadoon’

An African Muslim prostrating in the library. His backpack and whispered orisons really scared me. In Linenopolis, I bought a shroud To pass unnoticed in the crowd. Who’ll solve he riddle of our history’s Sphinx And keep the two tribes from the brink ? On the tourist bus they go To snap the Falls’ outdoor Lascaux. In Glockemara I did roam And brought some laundered diesel home. They say there’s water on ;the moon And I’ve bought shortcake in Brigadoon .

Night Porter Mater Infirmorum Hospital (Eamonn Stewart) Amongst the capsules, more than one Osthanic phantasticum: Cremated human remains All found on the casualty of a rave. The anabasis of The Arena Club: At 4.00 am the coach pulled-up. A girl stopped me on the way to the lab “a crocodile is eating his back, he says” “African or Aussie ?” I quipped Swinging the bloods I went on my way.

The Blessing (Eamonn Stewart) The old, in my infancy Conflated “scared” with “sacred” And blessed the streets with holy water Where shootings had occurred . But, in primary school essays I was bereft of descriptors To frame the absurd Having neither readers nor listeners. Looking through a lens Seeing everyone as flensed Like echorche plates: Not knowing what this portends And wanting a less vatic state. Stars are born in dust. Depression redacts the loveliest poem For the rest of your life or Until you die. In memory’s reliquary The talismans deflate to filthy husks And the glum aspersions of stealthiest rain.

The Loves of XYY Men (Eamonn Stewart)

1968

Two girls in our street share one pair of skates. Divining simple joys, redacting the hopscotch grid As their lives would be redacted in the future. Now, the mouse is my planchette. 2013 One woman told me – and I heard her well: “ I only go with fellas who’ve been to jail…” The shaven heads dazzle their eyes And the extra gene XYY. The cup of masculinity overruns , Bicced* skulls coruscate in the sun. (from Bic disposable razors)

Biographical Note: Orla McAlinden Orla McAlinden is a new writer, whose award-winning memoirs and short-stories are deeply rooted in her Northern Irish childhoodâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; with all the complications and contradictions that entails. Her work has been published in The Chatahoochee Review, The Fish Anthology, A New Ulster, Roadside Fiction and Wordlegs. She has lost count of her rejections! She is actively seeking publishers for The accidental wife and other stories, from which Bye now has been abridged, and for her full-length memoir Union Jacks and Rosary

Beads. Orla blogs at http://orlamcalindenwrites.wordpress.com and rarely tweets @orlamcawrites

The big, fat Chernadrine. (Orla McAlinden) The mystery of the big, fat chernadrine haunted my middle childhood. I knew it was a large and heavy beast, characterised by immense sloth and lack of drive. I knew it was a dreadful insult. “Get up ou’ that and don’t be sitting there like a big, fat chernadrine!” roared Ben Sr., when he needed help to move his bullocks. Sighing, we peeled ourselves reluctantly from the massive, diesel-coaxed fire in the vast fireplace of the ruined farmhouse in the townland of Mulladry, and headed off into the persistent, sullen drizzle. “Look at thon wee cyarn on the news, sitting there like a big, fat chernadrine; he wouldn’t work to warm himself!” grumbled my father, as yet another Northern Ireland Office minister was sent out to justify cuts in the Education or Health budget. I was consumed with curiosity and outraged by my ignorance. It was beneath my dignity to ask for explanation. I knew an ocelot from an otter, a hawk from a handsaw. I could spell palaeontologist and use “recidivist” in a sentence without blinking. I could not bear to hear this mysterious animal’s name taken in vain all round me, without some idea of its appearance, its habitat and habits. Instead of simply asking Ben, I borrowed his “C” volume of The World Book Encyclopaedia, “to research a project on Saint Catherine of Siena”. No luck. Even the boffins at Encyclopaedia Britannica were silent upon the subject of the elusive chernadrine. Many other terms have disappeared from common parlance since those times, some were quaint even then. The language was rich and fanciful, making today’s dialogue seem

weak and effete. We weren’t “dosed with the cold”- we were “up all night, blaugherin’ and hoggerin’.” Each county, each town, each townland, had its own distinctive patterns and rhythms. I learned both town and country, remembering to shift between each as required; at school one did not want a reputation as a “munchie”, in the country one hoped not to be regarded as a snob. Naughty children attracted a range of colourful, abusive epithets such as “wee blirt” or “bad wee skitter”. Foolish ones were “wee stumers” (pronounced to sound like stupid) or “simps”. An overtired child, spoiling everyone else’s day with their whingeing was a “pishmire”. Only in recent years I discovered that a pishmire is a fierce, black ant, troops of which rush out from the tough grass atop sand dunes to spoil festive picnics, making the insult nearly as bad as I had thought it. A petulant or spoiled child was, invariably, a “wee nyark”. Language was less habitually profane then, richer and earthier, drawing on a depth of socially acceptable, deeply hurtful, vocabulary. As taboos have fallen, and as one no longer hesitates to shout “stupid fuckin’ wanker” into one’s mobile phone in a bus crowded with primary school children, the language of insult has dwindled and weakened. When I was a child, any particularly boastful or self-aggrandising tale was immediately countered with, “Aye right, and your bum’s beef, I suppose?” A naïve person might have “just floated down the Bann in a bubble” insulated from the harsh realities of life. If your plans were ambitious or outlandish, you needed to have a tither of wit, or to catch yerself on. A friend, newly returned from a shopping spree, might be grudgingly greeted “My hand on your new coat!” a rather ghoulish expression which translates roughly as “Leave it to me in your will!” 25

As a young teenager, and resigned to my ignorance of the C-word, I helped clear the semi-derelict farmhouse at Mulladry. Benedict Jr. was marrying, and taking formal charge of the farm. Occasionally in years past, when my father was in great form, he had hoisted me on his shoulders, allowing me to creep, at significant personal risk, up the staircase, destroyed by fire decades ago. I picked my way carefully across splintering, rotten, fire-damaged boards and joists, roaming bedrooms untouched since the death of old Barney, decades before. Holy pictures glared down, as I poked at the ancient, crumbling bed-hangings and pulled long strips of curling distemper from the walls. The Virgin Mary and the Child of Prague glowered from dressing tables. Chamber-pots nestled snugly under the beds. Now, all was change. The staircase must be replaced, the bedrooms gutted and prepared to receive the new bride. The old derelict kitchen ran the full length of one gable and opened directly onto the farmyard. It held mouldering curtained bookcases and bottles sticky with noxious veterinary draughts from years past. Here, I bottle-fed orphan lambs beside the enormous hearth, and sheltered from the rain. The dirty, old kitchen was to remain untouched, available for these vital functions, but locked and sealed from the renovated dwelling on the far side of the stairwell. The “parlour” and the “scullery” must be emptied and converted to a modern living room and kitchen. Grunting, Ben Sr. rolled a huge, oak dash-churn from the scullery. “What will I do with this?” he pondered. “I see town-people planting flowers in them. I say, I say John, would it be worth money?” My father invited me to plunge the massive dash up and down a few times through the tightfitting hole in the lid. My arms ached and trembled after a half-dozen strokes. 26

“Oh, you wouldn’t be so generous spreading your butter if you were churning it yourself” they laughed, “Instead of buying it from Golden Cow!” They reminisced about the bright yellow butter of their childhood, the sharp, tangy buttermilk, about the smuggling of butter across fields and ditches in the days of wartime rationing. “Oh, cleaning the churn was a bitter task too, crawling inside the old drum, scrubbing with a hard brush, sluicing with boiling water carried from the kitchen to the dairy. Then wedging it in the hearth, steaming beside the fire, and the awful, choking smell of the big wet churn-a-dryin’.”

The big, fat Chernadrine first appeared on www.skypen.co.uk in July 2013.

Biographical Note: Maire Morrissey-Cummins Mรกire lives in Greystones, Co. Wicklow, Ireland. She is writing since 2010 and has been published in many online magazines and print anthologies. She is a member of an online writing group www.splinter4all.ie and is a member of Haiku Ireland and the Irish Haiku Society. She was listed in the top 100 European Haiku writers for 2012 and 2013 and is published in Bamboo Dreams, the only book on Irish Haiku Poets.

Spring Green (Maire Morrissey-Cummins) In ancient woodlands I am breathless, hushed beneath lush foliage dappled in sunlight. A brook babbles over mossy stone, ferns unfurl extending long tendrils to a distant sky. Pin cushion moss carpets the dank floor. I am awakened to scents and textures of leafy green.

Marmalade on Toast (Maire Morrissey-Cummins) The wasps came early this year, put an end to breakfasts outside, our simple rituals on summer mornings.

You carried the heavy teapot and I followed with marmalade on toast,

out the patio doors to the octagonal table on the corner of the deck. Barefoot, in pyjamas beneath a growing sun we eased into the warmth of day, under an aqua sky.

On this waxen February noon, how I miss you, my child as I stir a pot of oranges on the stove.

Sepia Dawn (Maire Morrissey-Cummins) Stormy daybreak, bare branches stab the moist air, tree trunks sepia with rain. Beyond flooded fields, a pewter sea mirrors a slate grey sky.

Above the garden trellis glassy droplets fasten to scarlet rose hips, weave through bare limbs of a naked cherry.

Ivy clusters glisten in the dim light, the holly tree blushes scarlet.

From the rooftops a lone blackbird thrills the morning, my winter garden dripping with rain.

Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill

Peter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967. He has been a regular contributor to The Galway Review, A New Ulster, Danse Macabre and The Scum Gentry. His debut collection Antiope (Stonesthrow Poetry) appeared in 2013, and to critical acclaim. ‘Certainly a voice to the reckoned with.’ Wrote Dr Brigitte Le JueZ (DCU). His second collection The Elm Tree is to be published by Lapwing shortly.

http://peterseanoneill.blogspot.ie/

Nursery Unrhymed For Liam and Rebecca (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

All children love dinosaurs, for they are hugely symbolic to them of chaos and a world unregulated by any apparent orderwhich would appear to be their only prejudice.

Their world is one populated by Ski Beetles, Chocolate Chickens, and the infamous Back Snakes, which slither their way along the wooden tiled floors of the house where they play, play, play...Play!

Play is the King of verbs in their world, one which is purpose built for their unique source of duty. And Kantian in their devotion to the King they would utter daily whole volumes of critiques of pure unreason.

Arriving into their world then is Swiftean, whole perspectives being utterly skewered, till one lying stalwart upon the floor, while they cry outrage in arms, forgets in their company the whole deluge of impending adults.

A New Idiom (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

To think of language like a sea, you open your mouth, Or pick up a pencil, and dive straight in, turning the pages Like waves, yet sometimes you like to climb out again And either row or swim into another unlimited ocean, Where each word can be likened to the resting sunlight Shimmering constantly, so that your skin seems to rest Like the flaky scales of succulent fish, those same Aqueous stony prisms illuminating the white pilgrims Who lay famished beneath the stone hives out at Skellig. The coldest honey run, far from the droning of the common Tongue, whose every word sounds like a hookâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s barb, Pulling you down into the old tragic world of kilos of skin. Now, you pull the watery blanket about you, and the blessed Sonority of foreign vowels and nouns astounds you.

Faust (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

All young lovers must come to know That the exact pleasure in measure will Be exactly accorded to them in sufficient pain, In due time.

But, does such an almost diabolic calibration encourage caution? Nay! Like thoughtless borrowers on unlimited credit They spend their days in one anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arms, Without a care for old Tom Morrow.

The days, weeks, months soon turn into years. They, as if fossilised, act out their eternal minutes, Building cathedrals from both their limbs, Blind to the debt of gargoyles, which also encroach.

Barkeep (Peter O’Neill)

Sentinel of endurance, your eyes survey The flotsam which appears through the saloon’s Doors, and where standing there before you, And your wizened eye, to reveal their personality In a single mannerism or tick, after the eventual One too many; lawyers, bankers, harlots and thievesEach one bringing with them their distinctive tales, Unloading them to you, one by one, eventually, Under the reverential solemnity of the two-handed Cyclops! Ye,t the spume you would offer up to these Minor Odyssey’s being from Pilsen, Saint Jame’s Gate, or borne over by the twin elephants from Copenhagen, in an absolutely pointless endeavour To douse their poor soul’s unquenchable fire.

l’unghie merdose For Daniela Casseli (Peter O’Neill)

Dante’s shit encrusted fingers of the flatterers, Caravaggio’s dirty feet and arses of the penitents, Beckett’s capitalised CUNTS and Pricks... Each of these diabolical phenomenon are An absolutely necessary part of the whole. For in them appear the microcosm Of the very Real. Take them away, Howsoever distasteful they might appear to you, Is to merely sanitise, or a feeble attempt at Prettifying, which is to say, dehumanise Them... and apparently missing the point entirely. So, here’s to love, and unconditionally. What say you!

Biographical Note: Chris Murray .

Cup (Chris Murray)

nest rests her cup

(heart, feather)

into wood winds' capillary

In air (above) sky is a heart caught red, its amber spilling

nest stills her dust and moss

breathe out

underground, wet roots stir the sleeping house up soften the softening rain my veins answer tree

New Trees, (Chris Murray) there are three two crows dance steel-beaking the mounds round

Pretty Useless Things

A Summer's evening, its grey raining. The flames of five candles are dancing gay.

As counterpoint, your little lamp is straining Her low glow across the space between us.

You give me pretty useless things These symbols of light,

A golden bowl figured in silver round Red glazed, a red not in nature found.

The Ragbag (Chris Murray)

These small sorrows are mine and they belong to the world

Clothes that the children are outgrown disgorge brightly from its mouth.

I pull at them. A veined mass of scarves and winding-sheets unwind unto the kitchen floor.

Here is a piece for dress-up, a flowery veil, a robe. It could dress a dynasty.

The white Napkins (plain), a tablecloth (embroidered) flutter on the year's edge.

And the flowers beneath my feet do not bloom. I feel their stir beneath the loam.

Biographical Note: J.S. Watts

J .S.Watts lives and writes in the flatlands of East Anglia in the UK. Her poetry and short stories appear in a diversity of publications in Britain, Canada, Australia and the States including: Mslexia and Polluto and have been broadcast on BBC and Independent Radio. She has three published books to her name: a full poetry collection, "Cats and Other Myths" and a multi-award nominated poetry pamphlet, "Songs of Steelyard Sue", both published by Lapwing Publications and a novel, "A Darker Moon" - a dark literary fantasy, published in the US and the UK by Vagabondage Press. Further details at:www.jswatts.co.uk and on Facebook: www.facebook.com/J.S.Watts.page

As Above, Then So Below (J.S. Watts) Another weary day struggles towards night As the heavy green-gold of a late summer evening Heaves itself across the land. Up above, big balloons hang inert, gravity denying droplets. Their solid red, blue, green glows intermittent fire In a lazy, slow-mo semaphore, Totally lost on me. Ponderously uncomprehending, I can only applaud Their sustained suspension in a world weighed down by light.

We have started to feel too heavy, you and I, Despite the attempts at lightness in your voice. I feel the dead weight of the receiver tugging at my hand. You want, so much, for me to say I love you. Your leaden need drags around my neck. I have to cast off ballast to stay afloat. I can live this life if I love you less; I can't live this lie and love you more. I am ready to be lighter.

Years Ago You Coloured Me (J.S. Watts) Another clean, clear-sighted day. In the ivy sparrows are chatting, though to look at it you wouldn’t know. Many things are like that; keeping their secret light under a bushel, their confidentialities camouflaged under green and yellow leaves. Years ago you took your crayon set and coloured me, but on the inside where it doesn’t show. Mostly I forget now, except at dusk when the evening’s striped with blue and I find myself stained the same colour. Then when I try to get some sleep the cloud drowned moon pulls at my gut, drawing memories in her wake. Your long abandoned absence hugs my side and the empty place beside me has space enough to snuff any candle I could light against the coming of the dark. Then comes missing you in the morning. Waking up with the knowledge you are long gone, leaving my world cold and strangely orange. I keep my daytime thoughts to black and white. Straight jacketed and numb they run ahead on preset lines avoiding unnecessary colour. By afternoon my world is safely monochrome until I notice the ivy, yellow and green, in which brown sparrows play and chatter, but not loud enough to drown your shrieking absence heard by my ears alone, In much the same way that only I can see your fading colours, feel their echoes tattooed inside of me.

Bonedancing (J.S. Watts) Heat of the day and the village bones lie bleeding under a sun struck sky. Cicadas maintain their peaceless vigil. In the valley goat bells toll the daily death knell of this town. Forty years abandoned to the wilderness until the wilderness is one and the same, penetrating every once-private place in homes the people left one day when the world slipped her corsets and moved for herself.

For a brief hour or so we people the place. Enough time to eat the lunch we brought in case manna was not forthcoming. Then further in and further up. The mountain track becoming less of a road and more of a mountain until we scrape to a halt on a horizontal, vertical unto itself until recently. The shattered rock scattered on the mountainside like the sun-bleached bones of ancient animals abandoned by time to a palaeontologist's dream.

Backwards-down over ground already covered. Down and round until the twentieth century comes out of hiding and gives us a route around not up to the point of our journey; skeletal fortress the Venetians built. More than the village. Bone stones dancing on the souls of its builders 45

buried beneath by mortality and time and the pair of us dancing over the top, between the stones and over the stones, our own bones dancing. Stone dancing, bone dancing, you and me.

And so we return where we've been before, where the earth doesn't move unless we choose to make it, where flat domesticity replaces the mountains and we circle each other as well as ourselves. Our own history does not stretch back so far. Enough to entrance me in the rear view mirror while you try to scrape forward without bottoming out. I see better backwards. The daily irritations become more substantial when time melts the promise of hope from their bones, leaving you and me bonedancing in our circular masque.

Leaving Marks (J.S. Watts) The colour of our sea Left its mark on these pages When you painted it on Like five blue fingerprints, Like five blue bruises, Like the indelible marks You have left on my heart.

I intended to write only Brave words on this paper, Images to celebrate you and me; The love with which we colour each other, The passion and joy we have blended together, The joy I thought was still to come Permanently marked by our belief in ourselves.

Now I see five blue tears Staining a page on which Love was written. The emotions are too raw, The words too pained To leave their mark Where our waters once flowed.

Collection (J.S. Watts) I am collecting people, threads of lives, piece by tiny piece through the cracks in conversation. Accumulating scraps of existence in such minute amounts the owners do not know their loss until I have more of them than they have of themselves.

Here a name, an age, point of origin, a fleeting recollection of time past discarded casually, but gathered with intent, inserting them deeper into my now. Later there may be anecdotes, a telling of someone else, and so I glean a shred of them too, collected, preserved, revealed.

Each new tender morsel, the beginning of another glass-skinned collection, a human puzzle of green-hued sample jars preserved for selective observation until one day the whole becomes clear and they find themselves gazing out at me through a concave wall of glass.

The Mapmaker Returns (J.S. Watts) Here it is blank. The lines on the map have exhausted their inks, their curves and zigzags fading into the distance of the home straight. My measurements have coiled themselves up. My journeys have put down their bags, kicked off their boots and slipped into the dust with a compulsive sigh. All is rest. Except Except this dumb tranquillity offers no peace, just an absence, a way of not being, an arrival nowhere, a coming home to an empty house, its shutters down, the domestic gods fled. Lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shaping rituals have let themselves go believing me gone. The cat ran away, ears back, tail plumb-line straight, thinking me a ghost. I have given up on thinking. I have lost the words. The stubby black limbs of their letters are scattered in the soils of my travels, cast aside to lighten a load I did not know I was carrying until I was a load lighter and now I am here, abandoned home. Empty, weightless, miles consumed, but without a map to interpret such disturbing proximity.

Biographical Note: Rachel Sutcliffe Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from a serious autoimmune disorder for the past 12 years, since her early twenties. Throughout this time writing has been a great form of therapy, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kept her from going insane. She is an active member of the British Haiku Society and the online writing group Splinter4all, has her own blog @http://projectwords11.wordpress.com. She has been published in various anthologies and journals, both in print and online, including; A New Ulster, Prune Juice , Every Day Poets, Shamrock, Lynx, The Heronâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Nest and A Hundred Gourds

The Distance Between Us (Rachel Sutcliffe) It’s not a distance of miles But mind Between us. Stood right next to me But still I can't reach you. The closer I come The further You retreat. But we're fine? Why yes! Of course! Yet I know We’re not. I see why You’ve gone, I just wish You’d come back. It's hard Doing this Alone.

To All Those Who Went (Rachel Sutcliffe) What is it youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re scared of? What do I represent? What is it you tried so hard To circumvent? Vulnerability? Cruel reality? Sheer torment? Or was the long run never Your intent? In your absence I vent Alone to fight illness Without relent.

Biographical Note: Rosie Johnson Bittersweet Seventeens is Rosie Johnston's third pamphlet for Lapwing Publications. As in Sweet Seventeens (2010) and Orion: A Poem Sequence (2012), each poem is just seventeen syllables long. Johnston also writes fiction and journalism, and facilitates creative writing groups in London and Cambridge. She was born in Belfast and grew up there and in Portstewart. Bittersweet Seventeens is dedicated to her father Roy (RR) Johnston (1924 - 2012).

From Bittersweet Seventeens: (Rosie Johnson)

Today her brain’s a shuttered room. Glowworms Hover protecting her gloom.

Fatigue piles feathers on her Lashes, Floating her softly ever down.

That ogre high in the Family tree, When will his drumbeat silence?

Past suffering shoves forward still, Hate red In its unremitting gaze.

Dear Orpheus; his fingers Lace with hers, ‘Eyes front, heart ever forward.’ 54

The full moon is whispering: ‘Up you come, Waltz with the tide and forget.’

‘Birl me, sway me back to my Girl days: Daze me alive with six-count jive.’

Between past hells and future Heavens, This moment poises sacrosanct.

Atom by atom past suffering Melts in Relentless gentleness.

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/

Peace (John Jack Byrne) Open your heart and welcome peace give it a home within feel the love throughout your being witness the healing begin Share your peace with all living things comfort those in need extend to creatures great and small no matter what their creed Peace for the captains and the kings and for those they seek to oppress peace for the freedom theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll one day find when evil deeds find redress Peace to the wanderers who walk the roads for they may be troubled within share with them the peace you possess and witness the healing begin

Going Back (John Jack Byrne) I’ll rest now and drift away to a time when I was young hear the music and the dance and I’ll sing the songs I sung I’ll look upon my mother’s face who often I’ve recalled singing by the fireside bright with the company enthralled I’ll see my father’s young grey hair when he sings of “Noreen Bawn” a song that only he could sing as the dark night seeks the dawn I’ll hear our neighbour Seámus og tell the stories of the old with a warning of what befalls me if I’m ever very bold In my nostrils lies the scent and smells of yesteryear of apple tart and soda bread and evenings of good cheer Then I’ll gaze at turf fire flames which climb the chimney tall I awake content upon my bed and sounds of the present call

Tree of life (John Jack Byrne) Sweet tree of life fine and strong through love you grow and grow life is such a precious thing and all this world should know Stop your killing and your wars behold , this tree of life better we all embrace each other and bury all thoughts of strife Soldier true and soldier brave put down your killing gun donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you know that nothingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gained and none of your wars were won

Biographical Note: Neill Ellmans Neil Ellman is a poet from New Jersey. He has been nominated for thePushcart Prize and Best of the Net. More than 950 of his poems, most of which are ekphrastic and based on works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.

Between the Torus and the Sphere (after the sculpture by Richard Serra) (Neil Ellmans)

Between an if and when the hardness of a metaphor and simileâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s soft skin between the shallows and the deep between the years and seasons green with hope once found then lost between the rusting sheets and toruses of light that curve around the sun between the space between our disembodied souls we walk alone.

Poème d’amour (after the painting by Hans Hofmann) (Neil Ellmans)

Everywhere you are I am the moon having risen and set too many times drooping like a worn-out face with spittle from its mouth you look through me as if I were a pane of broken window glass your indifferent smile the way you count the stars while making love I am the slow wobble of the earth an old man’s gait around the sun my weary eyes through yours in flagging leaves falling aimlessly to ground I am the tide’s half-hearted ebb and flow unanswered prayers 62

unspoken words the way you have forgotten the way I used to be when you and I could touch the sky.

Site de Memoire (after the painting by Jean Dubuffet) (Neil Ellmans)

Written in the convolutions of the brain hidden in its passageways, gray matter, secret corridors folded in the creases of a witchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face Irrational, incoherent, the make-believe of memories and toys scattered in our thoughts concealed to eyes we are betrayed by recollections of the recollections of the night guarded from the world outside. It is the place where we surviveâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; in photographs, fantasies in a cluttered room alive with plastic dolls.

Number 9: In Praise of Gertrude Stein (after the painting by Bradley Walker Tomlin) (Neil Ellmans)

There really are pigeons on the grass yellow pigeons on the grass, alas, she said there were alliterative, onomatopoeic birds feeding on the yellow grass as if they were pigeons—or maybe not.

There really was a Gertrude Stein dead now these sixty years, alas, she really is feeding pigeons and metaphors on shorter longer yellow grass she fed the yellow pigeons—or maybe not.

Pigeons in the yellow grass and Getrude Stein, Gertrude Stein oh great Gertrude Stein feeding on the yellow grass as if she were a pigeon on the grass— or maybe not 65

Biographical Note: Jax Leck Jax Leck is relatively new to poetry but is not new to writing, Jax has had one science fantasy book published and another on the way.

MEDS (Jax Leck)

I am here below the surface held in check by chemical restraint abstract thought dulled brilliance tempered damped down balanced normality banality price for equanimity sum of security cost worth paying?

JOY (Jax Leck)

I break loose sometimes in mad flight metaphoric tail euphoric I leap skyward chasing dreams, daft schemes hopefully landing on all fours.

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!

MARCH 2014'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS: The hares are back and the stormy weather too! Here’s hoping that this month is more lamb when it departs. And that the newly revived Siberian virus doesn’t eradicate any single celled life forms...that would be bad for our ecosystem. 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”.

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/

Without wings by John Byrne

Haltered by John Byrne

Spring Morning by John Byrne

World by John Byrne 73

Into the blue: by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Red Light by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Into the Blue by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Tidbits Adobe has issued a proclamation that starting in July, the vast majority of e-reader apps and hardware devices will not be able to read purchased eBooks anymore. This announcement stems from a massive upgrade to the encryption system Adobe has implemented in their new Digital Editions 3.0 and will have reverberating effects on ePub books all over the world. Unless thousands of app developers and e-reader companies update their firmware and programming, customers will basically be unable to read books they have legitimately purchased. In effect, Adobe is killing eBooks and e-readers. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------One of Europe's leading ebook distribution sites, XinXii, has quietly been making indie authors' works available in markets that very few e-retailers are reaching, quickly growing to be one of the major forces in self-publishing across a variety of languages and borders. In an effort to continue to make the platform available to authors throughout the EU, the platform unveiled some new features that have previously only been available to authors in the US and other markets served by Amazon.

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Keeper of the Creek x Rosy Wilson ascult? lini?tea vorbind hear silence speaking x PETER SRAGHER Songs of Steelyard Sue x J.S. Watts Paper Patterns x Angela Topping Orion: A Poem Sequence x Rosie Johnston Disclaimer x Tristan Moss Things out of Place x Oliver Mort Human Shores x Byron Beynon The Non Herein - x Michael McAloran Chocolate Spitfires x Sharon Jane Lansbury Will Your Spirit Fly? X Richard Brooks Out of Kilter x George Beddow intro x Jeremy Reed Eruptions x Jefferson Holdridge In the Consciousness of Earth x Rosalin Blue The Wave Rider x Eva Lindroos Martin Incidentally x Gerry McDonnell Streets of Belfast x Alistair Graham Some Light Reading & A Song x John Liddy Threnody: for Four Voices x J.C. Ireson Howl:The Silent Movie x Peter Pegnall Ieper x Martin Burke Occupational Hazard x Aidan Hayes Last Feast x Mira Borghs "Make it Last" x Davide Trame Words Take Me x Ian Harrow Between Time x Jean Folan Maore & England Suite x Walter Ruhlmann Wind Horses x Judy Russell Witness x Seán Body Ice Flowers over Rock x Patrick Early Shouldering Back the Day x Seán Body Rosin-Dust Under The Bridge x Laurence James Call of Nature x Christopher Rice Plaything of the Great God Kafka x Roger Hudson London A Poem in Ten Parts Daniel C. Bristow Clay x Niall McGrath Red Hill x Peter Branson Throats Full of Graves x Gillian Prew Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro A Long Way to Fall x Andy Humphrey words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne Red Roots - Orange Sky At Last: No More Christmas in London x Bart Sonck Shreds of Pink Lace x Eliza Dear Valentines for Barbara 1943 - 2011 x J.C.Ireson The New Accord x Paul Laughlin Carrigoona Burns x Rosy Wilson The Beginnings of Trees x Geraldine Paine

All titles £10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.