Anu issue 19 by Amos Greig

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

Featuring the works of Marie Lecrivain, Alistair Graham, Benjamin Robinson, Peter O'Neill, Glen Wilson, John McKellar, Donal Hale, David J. Kelly, Michael McAloran and Maire Morrissey-Cummins. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 19 April 2014

A New Ulster On the Wall Website

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

Cover Image â&#x20AC;&#x153;Rosesâ&#x20AC;? by Editorial

Amos Greig page 6

Marie Lecrivain; Muse as Poet Fibbonnaci for Femen The Red Rose of Saturn

page 8 page 9 page 10

Alistair Graham Binding and Loosing Chat Up Mop Clown Face Poet Fan

page 12 page 13-14 page 15 page 16-17

Benjamin Robinson Interregnum

page 19-23

Peter O'Neill London The Muse is a Dominatrix Brlesque The Nomad Pim Pam, Bim Bom, Krim Kram! Miltonesque The Mona Lisa Needles

page 25 page 26 page 27 page 28 page 29 page 30 page 31 page 32

Glen Wilson The Wedding Dance of the Chironomidae The Groynes The Gulls

page 34 page 35 page 36

John McKellar Once in Belfast Two Boys On A Train Muslim lady in a niqab Cremation Day Blues Apple Pies

page 38 page 39 page 40 page 41 page 42

Donal Hale Miracle She Grew Into Nothing

page 44-45 page 46-47

David J. Kelly The sound of snow without warning where do photons go

page 49 page 50 page 51-52 On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats

page 54

Michael McAloran; Michael’s work can be found

pages 56-58

Maire Lecrivain: Maire’s work can be found

pages 60-62

Maire Morrissey-Cummins: Maire’s work can be found

page 64 Round the Back

E.V. Greig Legend of Greymyrh extract

page 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/

Published in Baskerville Oldface & 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 In America and Canada April is National Poetry month we here in the UK and Ireland have to wait until October for that date. Do we though? Why does poetry need a National Poetry Month or Day at all? The Google analytics clearly show that magazines and ezines such as A New Ulster, FourxFour, Poetry Bus and so many more are read regularly and that an appetite for poetry and prose is still very strong. 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. Perhaps part of the issue surrounding poetry is a failure for mainstream media sources to connect with or recognize poetry as a relevant artform. The worldwide outpouring of personal grief at the loss of poets such as Seamus Heaney and the celebration of Bukowskiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work suggest that we are still enamoured with art and the artist. This issue features a strong example of experimental and local poetry from many voices and styles as well as a range of short stories. So why this talk of National Poetry Day or Month? Well it was one of the birthplaces for A New Ulster and each issue is a tribute to all our artists and poets.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity! Amos Greig

Biographical Note: Marie Lecrivain Lecrivain is the editor-publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and is writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Edgar Allen Poet Journal, Maitenant, A New Ulster, Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and others. She’s the author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (© 2014 Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House), Love Poems…Yes… REALLY… Love Poems (© 2013 Sybaritic Press), and she’s the editor of the forthcoming anthology Near Kin: Words and Art inspired by Octavia E. Butler (© 2014 Sybaritic Press). Her avocations include alchemy, alternate modes of transportation, H.P. Lovecraft, Vincent Price, steampunk accessories, and the letter “S."

Muse as Poet (marie lecrivain) She’s a little beauty armored in a black mini skirt, corset top, and sheer ebony stockings. Her tiny feet - shaped into stiletto hoofs - tap softly against the worn Persian rug. She’s dressed to the 11s tonight for him, her genius poet boyfriend, the one she watches from under her camouflage of auburn hair while he enchants the crowd with tales of death, hipster mysticism, and a last supper with the Old Masters. She clutches a piece of paper in her hands, her poem, her only offering, the words shared earlier this evening in a room filled with more chairs than people, accompanied by the hiss and grind of the espresso machine. She watches her lover - her genius - wipe the sweat from his broad brow. His lips, which spend more time composing verses than kissing her, curve into a sardonic smile; the smile of a future academic who accepts his Nobel Prize for Literature, or some other such thing. She bows her head to hide angry tears that threaten to spill from her eyes. When will her time come? When will forty people show up on a Tuesday night to buy a five-dollar chapbook, hang onto her every word, and buy her a snifter of brandy at the end of the night? Her boyfriend now comes to the tail end of his set. He thanks the poetry hosts, the audience, and, in closing, says, “A special thanks to my girlfriend who was responsible for putting my book together, for the artwork on the cover, and who will be using funds from the sale of my book to buy candy and kettle corn.” A wave of laughter follows. The poem - crushed between her hands suffers a quick and brutal death.

Fibbonnaci for Femen (marie lecrivain) Look! Four against One. Her hair drips into a shallow Parisian gutter. Gendarmes bend her bones to the breaking point, and a photographer - like a thief in the night - steals up from behind to capture this

decisive moment for phallic posterity. A womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s place is everywhere, from the sewer to the infinite stars.

The Red Rose of Saturn (marie lecrivain) Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem - Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton

Shakespeare never saw this cosmic bloom come into being. It springs from the Titan, twice the size of our modest sphere, and with some trepidation, we measure with precise instruments this wondrous flower that, since time began, is the symbol for all we strive for; lust, and immorality. We convince ourselves with each inhalation weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re alive beyond five senses. We neglect, of course, whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beneath the flame. We forget about the hardy stem with many barbs that force their way past flesh into the mind to sprout in the soul, and while suffused with internal woe we reach for the red rose - love eternal.

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.

Binding and Loosing (Alistair Graham)

At the office early every morning for the upper hand and to wash three cups and fill the kettle for my colleagues, like a disciple washing feet

I see the level-line of the liquid through the kettle window I hear the roar of the water heated by the element below

And then the boiling, and the water line, in a fit of hopping and leaping, throwing watery arms in the air, like a madman

Chat Up Mop (Alistair Graham)

I walked into the kitchen for another glass of wine in a good frame of mind when I met a mop sitting in a bucket and the handle, a hard looking lady; she fell towards me I said good evening and thought; how should I play this, then the words just came out. shall we smoke? go for dinner? are you happy to come to the lounge for a drink? I left her to make up her mind while I went to the loo saw myself in the mirror 13

and thought; young man, you will do get back down the stairs and continue the story if the bucket dries out christ sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll lose all her glory but when I walked in of her there was no sight. Lucille had locked her in the garage.

Clown Face (Alistair Graham)

A slice of pizza on the worktop with a cheesy grin waiting for the leaver of left overs to turn over a new leaf in autumn or turn a churn of milk in midsummer nights dreaming of creamy delights -

and flights of fancy and fear -

after lowering a loved one deep down in your heart down into the grave in a cool box for a cold blue sleep then a beer to wash it all down with a frown

Poet Fan (Alistair Graham) The oscillating fan stands still and tall like a mechanical sunflower worshiping the ground I walk on; her stem-stand feet, her slender frame, both covered with a blanket of dust; the dead skin of me; her thin layer of clothing, she with her one good eye weeps without ceasing all of the day, if I fail to push her buttons but when I push one, or two her mind is a frenzy of floating then flailing three leaf petal and me? she now rejects me, she throws me back at me in tiny snowflake pieces of scratching the surface of skeletons in cupboards of clearing out the cobwebs so I clear my throat of minute pieces, I see fragments above me migraine spectacles of me coming home to roost on my flesh; a huge weight on my mind “mind you” I say to her, “it’s about time you took me less serious; this is a grave situation and you, in your place 16

in the corner of the room, between coat rack and filing cabinet, remain a fragile little flower that I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to see crack upâ&#x20AC;?

I push her nought button, disconnect her from the powers that be, wait for her to calm, slow her breathing, I put my arm around her waist, walk her over to my desk, to me to witness how she settles, like dust to dust, how she is happy by my side funny thing, she never once asked for my autograph

Biographical Note: Benjamin Robinson

Benjamin Robinson was born in 1964 in Northern Ireland. His work moves between various inter-related disciplines and genres, encompassing digital photography, conceptual sculpture, autobiography, critical analysis, poetry and fiction. He work has been recently published in: Suffer Eternal Vol. 1 (anthology, Horrified Press); online at Gone Lawn, Paraphilia Magazine, Paper Visual Art Journal, 3:am Magazine, Puerto Del Bloga, and Recirca. He lives in Dublin with his wife and son. Website: http://robinsonbenjamin.wix.com/benjaminrobinson

INTERREGNUM By Benjamin Robinson

Knowing little of the intricacies of the game, I sat it out in a quiet corner of the Republic. To the question ‘what game?’ I can only reply, the game without name, which takes place in the dark. My fellow islander’s entered the darkness wearing grey cardigans, khaki shorts and a variety of brightly patterned socks. Hair was cut short. Shoes were persona non grata. It was, I think, one of the Popes Gregory who said ‘a pastime bemused by a lack of shoes is a pastime perplexed’, and we were, as a family, well shod and clear sighted so the spectacle of young and old crossing that longsuffering threshold in their stocking feet was of little concern. To render onto Caesar what was Caesar’s was a grindstone to which my family was not prepared to put its collective nose. Looking into my well-fortified visage you would be forgiven for thinking my kinfolk well acquainted with the kafuffles of Irish history, those longsuffering thresholds traversed by the pure at heart, but you would be sorely mistaken. We were to a fault what clean bed linen is to the nocturnal emissions of the Irish question: not an absolute prerequisite but a pleasant surprise. To speak of partition in this context is to pour topology on troubled waters. Born and bred in Belfast my father was first and foremost a military man, his martial vocation having hit the pan sizzling as soon as the butter, which had since childhood lodged intransigently in a corner of his mouth, finally melted. He joined the British Air Force, reasoning that airborne forces were more favourably disposed to a Christian outlook than the forces whose fate it was to flounder with an iron fist on land or sea. Although his devotion to altitudinous bellicosity was second to none the casual disregard for human life that was the mainstay of aerial bombardment would cause him to receive a compassionate discharge after he placed himself, in an act of subservient supplication, under an RAF bomber and whilst urinating in the direction of the aircraft’s undercarriage beat, as the piss came down to earth, upon his naked, bloated belly with a pair of malacca canes. He had just met my mother, a Wicklow woman who would drag him out of his native Belfast and give him a good southern hiding. He was, it seems, smitten by her republican esprit de corps. 19

We shared this at least, my father and I: that discharges, compassionate or urinary, were the least of our worries. I was the first of his four green sons. To his northern ear the claxon of my Dublin youth sounded unbecoming, the murmur of subluxation having formed the central strut of his paternal vocation. There was no point to my mother as far as I could see; a rambunctious drunkard more slurring that slurred against, who covered her head in shame when she entered the Lord’s house. For me she existed solely to dispense cold comfort to a household caught between the cracked croquet mallet of her Anglo-Irish ancestry and my father’s unsustainable belief in the supremacy of the British manufacturing industry. More often than not my father, in the patois of his adopted motherland, would begin a conversation with, ‘Do you ever get the feeling we’re being watched?’ My reply—that such a feeling never left me—would be prefixed with a profane punctuation such as ‘Jesus!’ or the more rounded, ‘Jesus Christ!’, which was designed to give the impression that the eyes of the Lord are forever upon us. No stranger to deities or profanities, my father’s reply would consist of a sequence of numbers, such as ‘Sixteen forty one’ or ‘Seventeen ninety eight’. He might go so far as to say, ‘Eighteen sixty seven’ to which I would respond, quick as a flash, ‘Nineteen sixteen’. On it would go late into the night, the pair of us mining the numerical depths. A just war, my father once explained to me, was a war in which you were entitled to beat the livin’ bejasus out of your opponent. Haunted by his Protestant past, he would demonstrate by bringing the handle of a hammer down on an orange, before turning on his heels and taking to his bed. He spent a week in bed one Easter, eating nothing but lamb cutlets, his propensity for which dated from his abandonment of his memoir The Reluctant Bombardier in which he failed to profitably expound upon his disaffection with the principles of aerial bombardment. By Easter Sunday tears were streaming down his cheeks and the bed was full of bones. One cold January morning he sprang down the stairs like a spring lamb and accosted me in the hallway. “Do you ever get the feeling we’re being watched?” he said. “Christ almighty!” 20

“Why didn’t you tell me it was Easter?” “Because it’s still winter. And can’t you look at a calendar, can’t you? Haven’t you eyes in the back of your head?” “In the back of my head, is it? I never thought I’d live to see the day.” I held him in my arms and explained to him the meaning of subluxation. As I released him he made his confession. “Your mother’s a mole,” he whispered. “Well I’m sure she wouldn’t be a mole unless it were absolutely necessary.” “Since when was it ever necessary to be a mole?” My three green brothers were lurking on the landing, observing with mounting excitement our father’s distress. I found myself in the unenviable position of having to justify my mother being a mole. It was thus I came to formulate the theory of the just mole. I reasoned that it was not being a mole that mattered; in a way we were all moles. What mattered was who one was a mole for—for whom the mole tolled, as it were. My mother, it seems, was a mole for a malevolent supernatural being who watched over us with a vengeful eye. For this simple assertion my three green brothers rounded on me. The mole was a furtive creature incapable of loyalty, integrity, or the most basic of territorial aspirations. Uncelebrated and unsung, it deserved nothing short of an agonizing death. My older brother, whom my parents had seen fit to name Hymn, hit me on the head with a croquet mallet, and I dropped to the ground. I woke up in the Samuel Barclay Beckett Centre for Peace and Reconciliation, a purpose-built facility on the outskirts of Craigavan. Situated between the drowsy hamlets of Lurgan and Portadown, Craigavan’s bustling metropolis provided a boisterous backdrop to the tedium of reconstitution. Feeling acutely lethargic I surmised that after recovering from the blow to the head I had been administered a conciliatory sedative. My hair has been cropped short in the style of a criminal and I was wearing some sort of medicinal cardigan, therapeutic shorts and a pair of star-spangled socks. Brogues, it seems, were persona non grata. Although scrupulously clean, the bed linen smelled faintly of lamb chops. 21

My mother came to see me, shaking with nerves and with drink on her breath. “Your father’s a mole,” she said. I explained to her as best I could that it was not being a mole that mattered, but for whom one was a mole. My father, it seems, was a mole for a malevolent supernatural being who watched over us with a vengeful eye. “Moles are furtive creatures,” she said, “incapable of loyalty, integrity, or the most basic of territorial aspirations.” “Have you been talking to Hymn?” “Hymn said I should confront your father.” “And did you?” She hesitated before answering. “He said it was recklessness on his part. A spur of the moment thing. A youthful indiscretion.” “Who amongst us can say they have not at some point in their lives been a mole?” Her southern hackles rose. “That sounds suspiciously like something a mole would say.” “If he is a mole and I’m not saying he isn’t, could you not find it in your heart to still accept him?” “Hymn’s planning something special for him. I overheard him discussing it with your brothers. They’re going to do a dry run on a lamb.” “Sweet Lamb of God. And what if we’re all moles, what then? D’you see what I’m saying? All of us furtive creatures racing towards some malevolent threshold of aspiration.” “I don’t trust your father anymore. Wasn’t he drummed out of the British Army?” “It was the Air Force and he was compassionately discharged.” “Discharged, drummed out, what’s the difference?” I opened my medicinal cardigan to reveal the extent of my shorts. “These are the wounds of love,” I said. “You can see your wares,” she said, turning away in disgust. The night was closing round us. The security apparatus was a blanket of stars under our feet.

After a period of intensive therapy I was discharged and returned home to find a disembowelled lamb suspended from the ceiling. No longer the prodigal portal of memory, the house had been transformed into a hive of reciprocity. Doubt had evaporated. Disrespect was at an all-time low. My father had been relegated to the cupboard under the stairs where he survived on indiscriminate acts of charity. Hymn was in charge now. Hymn ruled the roost. I confronted Hymn in the kitchen. He was leaning against the fridge, his moustache caked in fat. “The lamb’s a sign,” he said, with a vengeful eye. “It stays where it is.” “A sign of what?” “A great injustice.” “Just who do you think you are?” He was beginning to get on my nerves. I’d had it up to here with Hymn. As I stormed out he delivered his coup de grâce. “The fool hath said in his heart, there is no mole!” Emboldened by our mother’s blatant disregard for our father’s wellbeing my three green brothers roamed upstairs and down, linking arms and breaking spontaneously into song, the virtues of shared aspiration echoing to the rafters. Around the open wound of our discord they dug a ditch of derision, engaging in acts of physical prowess that saw their fists punch the air and their mouths release gobbets of spit that bathed the lamb’s rotting carcass in the excreta of victory. In despair I bided my time. I comforted my fugitive father in his under stair lair. On Ascension Day I waited till nightfall, when Hymn and the others, full of beer and lamb chops, had fallen asleep in front of the fire. Donning my medicinal cardigan and shorts, I paraded up and down with my father, our feet tracing and retracing a star-spangled threshold of blood. My dreams of unity in ruins I looked through the fanlight, deep into the night, to see the dove of peace departing.

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 was published by Lapwing (2014). He is currently working on his seventh collection, and he is also translating Les Fleurs Du Mal, and the poetry of Augusto Dos Anjos.

http://peterseanoneill.blogspot.ie/

London In memory of Helmut Newton (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

In and above the underground, patrolling The Circle, battle hardened AmaZons In their mid thirties march through the labyrinth Of streets and corridors in pairs.

With the tails of their raincoats Flapping like Devil Ray wings, revealing Twin carnations of rosy, muscular thighs, They gravitate towards Eros, in Piccadilly Square.

While across the Millennium Bridge An army of old European surrealists, Led by Paul Delvaux, go to meet them.

The orgy commence outside Whitehall, Finally climaxing under the shadow of Big Ben Where the statues of Boadicea and Nelson are released into the Thames.

The Muse is a Dominatrix Apres chaque belle rancontre ilya toujours des blessures

(Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

After every beautiful encounter Someone is bound to end up getting hurt. Some wounds may be just physical, like the classic teenage marks of love left behind under the collar of your shirt. Others may be a little more raw, like those cuff marks left upon your two wrists! However, as you grow older, they generally tend to become more profound. Take, for example, those deeply ingrained fissures inscribed on your forehead and upon your face; Like routes on a map signalling Death Valley, all bearing witness to that Other, who practically extinguished the invisible part of you.

Burlesque for Emmeline Launay (Peter O’Neill)

The only religiosity I feel is when I am in your company. All the rest is sheer ennui, or fatigue. A pain! Blood and death coagulate in the mercy cup, And I can hear the secret mind’s cry in a century’s turning.

You prey upon my mind like a vulture with a carcass, Bringing a certain cadaverous thrill to my thoughts. O lie down beside me an give into the murder, Lie down beside me and be my partner in crime.

Of course, the whole scene is entirely ridiculous. And yet, somehow your head happens to fit so perfectly, Glaring in at me with those two pitiless lamps you have for eyes, And which emanate such an unquiet vehemence that I cannot but be moved.

Older than Africa, and darker than any human heart, Your movements coarse their way down through me Leaving me to roam about like some drunken Napoleon, Who wakes up beside GiZa, staring at the Sphinx.

The Nomad (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

Like a mirage you appeared, an oasis upon the horizon. Blinded by your sun, I staggered forward dying of thirst And mad with the promise.

The journey from A to B was hazardous, I fell down on countless occasions due to sheer human weakness, But the rewards offered appeared to be so great that I pulled through.

After having suffered tribal attacks, Whole fevers of sporadic rage compounded with jealousies, I finally achieved the ultimate prize of position B.

Now, on my hands and knees, You can observe me grasping whole fistfuls of sand.

Pim Pam, Bim Bom, Krim Kram! or ,When the Torturer becomes the Victim (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

Do you remember when my voice Blotted out the rumours of the sea? When my touch finally uncovered you Leaving you trembling like a beetle Beneath a stone, belly up, head spinning, CraZed with the onslaught of the blinding Revelation, its insidious illumination, Clarifying all shadows, till there remained No longer any place for you to run? You then, like a thing undone. Oh, but I taught you well, real coldness. You returned with an even greater boldness, Making the NaZiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s look like children, Skewering my heart with such a cold precision.

Miltonesque for Caroline Minot (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

On first contact it was as if we were both thrown From a cliff, and holding onto one another, As unforgiving angels, we wrestled together Seemingly oblivious to our fall, so concerned Were we in our own actions. Until, we reached The furthest edge of the abyss where we then Finally crawled away from one another, in shame, To nurse our wounds after the inextinguishable Pain, which boiled lava like in the blood, Intoxicating the brain to a feverish cancer. Until, eventually, time passed, merciful heavens! And with it our emotions mellowed, And we could witness the sea again, and not recoil. I still smile when I think about you, little devil.

The Mona Lisa (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

I still get glimpses of you, Artic reflections Of sunlight, despite the incalculable distance Which separates us, and that seems to be Encompassed now in your smile.

There you are then, your image trapped By the hunter in my head, caught up In the newer territory of neurons and cells, Where you roam, an artful maladie.

I nurture this image of you, The richest of collectors, and proud Possessor of my very own immortal.

Through the smooth corridors of urbane Domesticity I go to sometimes view you, Secretly applauding how magnificently youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been framed.

Needles (Peter Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill)

Your indifference is magnificent, And as impenetrable as a chasm, or cave. Your presentation is like some obscure window With a view to nowhere, Which, admittedly, has its particular charm too. White flour like sands, wooden slats, pine trees... These are just a part of your lingering charms, Which continue to haunt me. So that I appear to be lost in a nameless country, Without a map, whose compass is Northless. For it is here, where your spirit, Like some Jinn, is forever unleashed.

Biographical Note: Glen Wilson Glen Wilson lives in Portadown with his wife Rhonda, daughter Sian and son Cain. he â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;worksâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; as a civil servant in Belfast. Glen was part of the Millennium Court Arts Centre Creative Writing Group for over 5 years. He has had poems published in Iota, Purple Patch, Black Mountain Review and was shortlisted for the Strokestown Satire Prize in 2007. .

The Wedding Dance of the Chironomidae (Glen Wilson) The others swat at us as we spread fresh wings We have feasted in the water now comes the ceremony and the spring We dance out our life we have no mouths to sing The world cannot make out our words But our love so potent it brings A summer day of pure flight before deathâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sudden unseen sting.

The Groynes (Glen Wilson) We gather in the longshore drift, Pieces of material on the whim, coke bottles, crisp wrappers, condoms, caught by the rotting wooden arms Man has thrust out into the ocean. We build loose land together, Grain by grain, smoothing out the edges. Longing to be settled, but each tide brings more arrivals, takes others away.

The Gulls (Glen Wilson) They sat perched on the roof of the new titanic building all new lines and promise reaching far into the horizon. But the gulls squawk back and forth, involved in their argument. They fly off and land on the bridge, the lagan heading out towards the sea. Still they squawk circling each other, looking for vulnerabilities to attack. They land on a ceramic fish sculpture, their shrill cries swirl in the wind. Eventually they tire, make grudging retreat, torn white feathers float to the ground as their quarrel hangs poisoned in the air.

Biographical Note: John McKellar

John was born in East Belfast. He holds degrees from Durham and Newcastle. John taught English for some years to 11-18 year old students then worked with teachers exploring the concept of learning for 8 years . Free-lance educationalist but now semi-retired. John lives between England and France.

Once in Belfast (John McKellar) I skipped in my father’s stride when I was a child Guided and assured by the broad clutch of his hand Through streets smelling sour with Guinness; Perched on a pub’s wide window sill The city and I waited without complaint till Business between publican and bookie was done. No better joy for a Saturday afternoon Than to sit by a window in Belfast City Feeling the shoulder of people passing below, Watching the patchwork of lives with places to go And things to do before the City’s day-end. And I was at peace in this company of strangers In a place of transient wonder where A child could idle time away Waiting for his father as a City marched by. Once in Belfast in a busy street Where the banter and laughter of drinking men Filled voids between the traffic’s clamour I felt the soul of my City before innocence Was lost and the ways of men were redefined.

Two Boys On A Train (John McKellar) Two boys on a train too young to be burdened by history But inspired by their visit to Carrickfergus Castle Having walked its ancient stones and gazed towards the harbour To where, three centuries past, their stories began. They fill the carriage with a medley of song and epithet Whilst we sit in studied silence too weary to respond. Two boys on a train putting down their marks Paying the homage their fathersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; forefathers paid To the endless loop of lore sucked at their mothers' breasts. Their steadfast faith has endured this mere passing of time Sustained through years by the beatings of sticks on skins. These children forbid history to sleep in books To be read and referenced in musty college stacks and Yawned upon as a chore to complete before dawn. And what do they know of the Bloody Hollows where men embraced Their enemies as brothers in the death-fields of their songs? And where is the respectful tilt of the head to the other fellow Whose spirit for the sake of his soil is equal to their own? All that has been lost and all that was ever won Is bettered then by the screech of brakes as the train halts At the Jordonstown station where they wish us farewell With their refrain to â&#x20AC;&#x153;Never Surrenderâ&#x20AC;? fading with the evening light.

Muslim lady in a niqab (John McKellar) One quiet Sunday in an English market town A Muslim lady in full niqab regalia Passed close to where smokers stood Engaged in laughter and banter between pints By the entrance of a crowded public house. The menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s startled silence and collective gaze, A perfectly framed picture of wonderment, Should have been statement enough at her passing; Some wise-crack comment broke the spell Releasing the moment in a rasping fit of laughter As fags were finished and thirst recalled them in. But one remained behind and stepped forward Shouting after her as she rounded a corner Why? and again, Why? his question resounding No longer than the time she took to disappear. Shaking his head he took his question inside To be tossed and turned about and measured against Eight hundred years of perceived freedom. And the casual observer would have been entertained To hear a culture fail to find an answer To the question why this woman hid herself From a society obsessed with revelation of the individual. But perhaps, she heard the question before the corner Sheltered her away beyond its eager challenge And perhaps, she silently wished that he who spoke Owned the same voice of Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s authority That has forbidden the sun to shine upon her face.

Cremation Day Blues (John McKellar)

The guests are lined up by the chapel door Some hold hands while others stand alone And stare at the sky or kick gravel on the floor; Someone is talking too loudly on their phone. Under a tree the smokers deeply inhale Their smoke an unwitting portent of the day A few wander down the memorial trail And the kids want to be let loose to play. A sunbeam elbows through the clouds Winking promises of better days to come But today is all wrapped in a winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shroud None welcome the histrionics of a neglected sun. The Vicar is flitting like a thirsty flea From one to another to gather the gen To compose and preach his bespoke homily: A husband, a father, a hereafter, Amen. The sun has slid behind a veil of grey A respectful gesture guiding the cortege in Everyday stuff has been put away Positions adopted, let the service begin.

Apple Pies (John McKellar) How does life become timeless? To feel the utter fact of self In the here and now moment of being And in the hair of a breath to be undone To become your childhood self again! A vacuum-packed part of life Cut through by a facet in the eye of time And there, Mother with her arms in flour Singing to rhythm the butter mix - in And the sweet scent of apples Steaming in a bowl under my nose. Always two, two apple pies One for Father, a treat for himself, The other for us all to share. They sat side by golden side Dinner plate apple pies Like a vista of little drumlins Glistening in sugar-coated frost. Sixty years ago became today. Science will say a trigger was pulled The smell of apples, a woman singing, The brain never forgets after all. Perhaps, let’s give the boffins their say; But I don’t hold with them To say when life became timeless; When I felt Mother’s kiss on my face.

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

Miracle (Donal Hale) In the line with the others. The blind, the deaf and the dumb trudging to altar to the healer. Cures for all things, he proclaims, praising god and the holy spirit.

The power of prayer will cure little Billy’s Leukaemia and cure Glaucoma, Cystic Fibrosis, Depression and other such ailments.

Roll up, roll up and see the healer. Cures you for a fee to his “church” prior to service.

Feel pain no longer, only joy.

You may be knocking on heaven’s door, but don’t let that faze you. Healer will summon the spirit to save you.

Countdown to the very end. But, the cure is coming if you’re willing to listen.

Here his words: ‘repent and receive the holy spirit.’

Not chemo for the cancer or even morphine for the pain.

Empty words. False hope.

She Grew Into Nothing (Donal Hale) She grew into nothing, except the embitterment of that man she dared to love. Mournfully, stuck, in stasis since he abandoned her and she gave up. The grief, if that is what it is, slowly swallows her. Her distant smile encapsulates no joy as she laments that man she dared to love and those wicked turn of events.

She loved him, yet the lack of reciprocation lead to years of frustration. He did not love her, or at least, not in the way she so desperately desired. She begged him to stay but he shrugged his shoulders. She kicked, screamed, threatened and cried,

but her arsenal was too weak against his disburdened heart. She swore not to love again.

Later, she saw him with some other lover known to her from this moment onwards as the Other. She lamented that love loss and shrunk into herself even further. He stared into the Otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes unlike he had into hers and she knew. Anger grew from her bones, almost piercing her skin. Then she was nothing.

Biographical Note: David J. Kelly David was born in London in 1963, but has lived in Dublin for the past 15 years. He has worked as a farm labourer, a cook, a computer programmer, a peripatetic ornithologist and an environmental archaeologist. He has had a number of haiku, senryu, tanka, haibun and haiga published and is attempted to compile a collection of "regular" poems suitable for publication. He is currently working as a zoologist in Trinity College Dublin.

The sound of snow (David J. Kelly) I travelled from a Finnish town, beneath a powdered sugar frost, and journeyed over gritted roads until the streetlight glows were lost. Away from cars and mobile phones, along a softwood forest track, even colour disappeared as winter turned to shades of black. Alone, in silence, listening to owls conversing â&#x20AC;&#x201C; hoo and fro â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I heard a gentle tinkling and realised it was the snow. The tiny, falling crystals chimed against my windproof, Gore-tex coat and deep among cold conifers I thought I caught each ringing note. There must be other quiet sounds around me in the hue and cry. If I listen sympathetically, soft voices will not pass me by.

without warning (David J. Kelly) This is not how it should start; without a line of introduction, no cast of major characters nor hint of interplay. Yet you came to me from nowhere, blew my present into pieces, left me thinking of the future in a very different way. This is not how it should end; without knowledge, growth or insight, with our paths, not quite in parallel, moving steadily apart. But you were leaving when I met you, undergoing metamorphosis, the you I knew was ending. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see the new you start.

Where do the photons go? (David J. Kelly) I used to ask hundreds of questions of my parents every day; as they furnished me with answers the problems went away. But one question wouldn’t let me be, I simply had to know, “When I shut the downstairs cupboard, where do the photons go?” I thought photons bounced, like ping-pong balls, from surfaces to eyes, so when I turned the cupboard light out I got a real surprise. That ordinary cupboard space instead of staying bright was plunged straight into darkness - a deficiency of light. I tested from the outside, then tested from within in case the photons, bouncing round, were wearing rather thin. But the scientific method confirmed my deepest fear: the photons must be vanishing as fast as they appear! While not quite satisfactory, that answer had to do; 51

I dropped the quantum physics and moved to pastures new. Yet now, four decades later, with a title and some letters, I still reserve that answer for my academic betters. From time to time the question will rear its ugly face, so I re-run my experiment in the downstairs storage space.

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!

FEBRUARY 2014'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS: Happy National Poetry Day Canada and America. We have heard a rumour about a new Fantasy series to be released later this year. Worlds will end and spiders will talk, and watch out for the giant elves too – The Legend of Graymyrh has been called a marvellous new take on the High Fantasy genre. This issue contains an excerpt on pages 67-68. 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: Michael McAloran Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). His work has appeared in various zines and magazines, including ditch, Gobbet Magazine, Ygdrasil, Establishment, Unlikely Stories, Stride Magazine, Underground Books, etc. He has authored a number of chapbooks, including 'The Gathered Bones', (Calliope Nerve Media), 'Final Fragments', (Calliope Nerve Media) & 'Unto Naught', (Erbacce-Press). A full length collection of poems, 'Attributes', was published by 'Desperanto' in 2011. Lapwing Publications, (Ireland), released a collection of his poems, 'The Non Herein' in 2012. The Knives, Forks & Spoons Press, (U.K), also released an ekphrastic book of text/ art, 'Machinations' this year & Oneiors Books has also released 'In Damage Seasons' & 'All Stepped/ Undone' in 2013. A further collection 'Of Dead Silences', was also published this year by Lapwing Publications. Further projects are forthcoming this year from Wurm Press & Oneiros Books. He was also editor/ creator of Bone Orchard Poetry & also edits for Oneiros Books...

Untitled by Michael McAloran

Coveillance1 by Marie Lecrivain

Coveillance2 by Marie Lecrivain

Illuminative Evolution by Marie Lecrivain

Natron by Marie Lecrivain

Wine by Maire Lecrivain

Biographical Note: Maire 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.

Colours of the wind by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Tanka â&#x20AC;&#x201C;Cobwebs by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Biographical Note: E.V. GREIG The author is a graduate of QUB, and considers that experience to have been time well spent. They have been writing for the sake of writing for as long as they can remember, and intend to keep doing so until they run out of stories to tell. â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Legend of Graymyrhâ&#x20AC;? is supported by the Arts Council NI and the National Lottery. The completed work will be released on sale as a series of e-books from October 1st 2014. Printed copies will be available to order at a later date.

THE LEGEND OF GRAYMYRH BOOK ONE: BLOOD AND ASHES (E.V. Greig)

“So what brings you to Briersburge, Uncle Ranulf?” Naomi Du’Valle smiled up at the man whose gauntleted arm she leant on. “Do you intend to steal my husband away to war with you so very soon after our wedding? I have scarcely had a chance to show him around all of the keep and here you have returned in full armour and with a face like the end times were upon us!” Sir Ranulf Von Rosenhof III regarded his ward with a heavy heart. How was he to tell her of what was coming to their world? How could he destroy such happiness? Losing her beloved Skegyl had been pain enough for her. Thank whatever merciful entity watched over them for Bandhir! The mercenary had brought back the warmth into Naomi's broken heart. He had entertained her with songs and magic tricks - slowly teaching her to smile again. He had saved her from wasting away and for that Ranulf knew that he would be forever in the man’s debt. But love was not enough to save them now. Naomi was far closer to the truth than she realized. “Uncle Ranulf! Spare me a word or two, will you?” Naomi glared at her favourite relative in some irritation, her blue eyes narrowing beneath her jet black brows. She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, look, will you please just tell me what troubles you so?” Ranulf stopped walking. “Well, my dear it’s like this: the end times are indeed upon us. Our world is doomed and there is nothing that I or indeed anyone else can do to save it.” Naomi stared at him for a long moment. Then she uttered an obscenity so colourful that she could only have learnt it from Skegyl. A passing maidservant blushed and ran away,

covering her ears. Naomi sank down onto the cold stone floor of the corridor and buried her face in the skirt of her gown. The great red hound, which was her constant companion, growled at Ranulf from behind its muzzle. Ranulf frowned: thinking it to be a little odd that Naomi had agreed to muzzle her beloved pet. Perhaps it had bitten someone. He shrugged and knelt beside his niece: his black and gold enamelled breastplate heavy and awkward as he hugged her. “Do not despair, my niece; for I have a plan, you see. A plan that is both bold and audacious in its endeavour! Whilst I cannot save our world, I believe that I may have discovered a means by which it is possible to tear open a doorway to another world through which we can escape - along with a few others.” Naomi shook her head. “How many is a few? And how do we decide who is to be saved?” He stroked her hair. “I can bring Briersburge and every creature within the walls but that is all. The folk of this keep are good people - they have not been corrupted by the evil that is slowly poisoning Kaseden. Your influence here has kept them safe until now but you do not have the power to shield them any further. A terrible era has arrived - an age of daemons and unspeakable things! The elves have already fallen, the dwarves too and the tribes to the far north. Niece - there is nothing left on this world outside of Briersburge that can be saved. We have to go, Naomi. We have to go now.”

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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.