Anu issue 20

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

Featuring the works of Paul Anthony, Peter O’Neill, Paddy Mc coubrey, Byron Beynon, John Jack Byrne, Patrick Joseph Dorrian, Ellie Rose McKee, Chris Murray, Rachel Sutcliffe and Laney Lennox. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 20 May 2014

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A New Ulster On the Wall Website

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

Cover Image “Equine Garden” by Editorial

Amos Greig page 6

Paul Anthony; How Eugene P. McCurdy got his name

pages 8-14

Peter O’Neill; Ulysses The Master Malebolge Hadji Bay On Reading Neil Patrick Doherty’s Translation Ireland 2013

page 16 page 17 page 18 page 19 page 20 page 21

Paddy Mc coubrey Grace Moiras Dream Susans House

page 23 pages 24-25 pages 26-29

Byron Beynon; Ilstan Wood THE CATHEDRAL AT ELNE RUE DE L'UNIVERSITIÉ Personal

page 31 page 32 page 33 page 34

John Jack Byrne; In You Heroes Stoirm Sneachta

page 36 page 37 page 38

Patrick Joseph Dorrian; Weekend At Home

page 40-41

Ellie Rose McKee, Bubbles Timezones Travel for One

page 43 page 44 page 45

Chris Murray; Famine Ship at Murrisk Abbey

page 47

Rachel Sutcliffe; Poetry Spring Series

page 49

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Laney Lennox; On the Death of Bobby Sands

pages 51-53 On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats

page 55

John Jack Byrne; John’s work can be found

pages 67-68 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/

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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.

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Editorial “Look back over the past, with its changing empires that rose and fell, and you can foresee the future, too.” Marcus Aurelius

Once again we find ourselves on the Fourth of May a holiday time borrowed by a fictional setting. For those reading on the launch date “May the Forth be with you”. As I put the finishing touches to this issue I take a moment to reflect on those who are taking part in Worker’s Marches across the world.

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. Poetry can be a scapel to lance the poisons of history both personal and worldwide.

This issue features a strong example of experimental and local poetry from many voices and styles as well as a range of short stories. Come this September we will have been in production for 2 years. That’s two years as a semi independent monthly arts magazine/ ezine hybrid. I have plans as we move towards the future.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Paul Anthony Paul Anthony is a sixty three year old retired university lecturer.

His first book is The Adventures of the Tricycle Kid. Published on Amazon, it is a humorous account of growing up in Belfast in the Fifties and Sixties. He is at present working on a book of short stories and a novel about the Book of Kells. He toggles between homes in Belfast in the North of Ireland and Clonmellon in the Republic

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How Eugene P. McCurdy Got His Nickname (Paul Anthony) Eugene P McCurdy left the Tax Office on the grounds of stress when he was forty. He had been shifted between various departments in an effort to find him something less demanding but even the most trivial of pen pushing exercises was alas too much for him. It was with mutual consent, a meagre incapacity benefit, routine speeches and stale sausage rolls that he left on April 4th 1973, at four twenty nine, never to return. Both the Tax Office and he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

A singular and meticulous little man with a boringly mathematical brain and a head full of useless facts and figures, he returned to the now empty maternal home to decide what to do with the rest of his life without work.

Apart from making resin paper weights, he had no hobbies and women did not feature in his life any more.

He had been briefly engaged to Annette in his early twenties but she decided on fresh pastures when he informed her one night, in the build up to the long awaited baptismal love making session, that the Gross National Product for Peru had risen for the first time in twenty years. His grief on her departure lasted but shortly and he helped himself to overcome it by buying a state of the art betamex video recording machine. It had a remote control which plugged into the back of the television but did not have a lead long enough for him to sit back and comfortably watch his increasing stock of films for the discerning gentleman. So nightly he could be seen through the window, hunched over the screen, remote control in hand like an Eskimo ice fishing.

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He soon found a use for his well filled brain. As was the custom in many parts of no go Belfast in the seventies, he joined a club where he could partake of modest refreshing tinctures in the hours which he was forced to fill before his nightly celluloid entertainment. Such clubs abounded at this time – some legal – some less so, and it came as somewhat of a surprise to his few friends that he became a fully paid up social member of the local pigeon club. Neither a fancier nor an observer, it was a strange choice for a little man with a permanent suit who would have been called dapper in the fifties but in the sombre seventies he looked somewhat archaic.

One October afternoon in the otherwise empty saloon, he was regaling the near atrophied barman, Barney, with everything he needed to know about the Eurovision Song Contest when he was told:

“Christ McCurdy. Why don’t you do the quiz tonight? It would be a breeze for you with all that shit that’s in your head. The Lofters are lookin’ for a fourth man. You’d be a Godsend. I’ll tell Big Joe and you show up here at 8.00.”

Surprisingly McCurdy agreed and he joined the Lofters at seven forty nine that evening. Before the start, Big Joe was informed that a Hawaiian stamp of 1851 with a face value of two cents, was the sole reason Gaston Leroux, a Parisian philatelist, murdered its owner Hector Giroux. He also told him that honey bees have hair on their eyes and that Bruce was the name of the mechanical shark in the Jaws movies. All of this in between three visits to the toilet, courtesy of his diuretic medicine which he took for his blood pressure. Big Joe was beginning to wish that he had taken some of his own 9

special pills but had to make do with serial pints of Guinness. He looked over at Barney who winked back at him, continued to polish glasses and mouthed, “That’s the last time you’ll call me a baldy bastard!”

Although scoring ten on the boredom scale, McCurdy also scored with ease in the quiz knowing that every citizen in Kentucky must take a bath once a year by law, to win the prize of a bottle of Bull’s Blood which “incidentally” and “interestingly enough” came from the Eger region of Northern Hungary.

Preferring a chilled Riesling himself, it was up to the rest of the team to quaff the Bulls Blood which they did as chasers to the copious pints of Guinness which they also downed with stunning regularity. McCurdy thought of reminding them to sample the wine first and perhaps find a spittoon to eject it after aerating it in the mouth but wisely decided not to.

This became the routine for Wednesdays. After the quiz, he would walk the mile to his house through darkened streets with heroes lurking in the shadows, stopping at the local chippy for a fish supper with extra vinegar. At home he would ceremoniously remove the trademark suit and don T shirt, sweat pants and checked slippers for his nightly liaisons with Helga Sven, Marilynn Chambers, Linda Lovelace, Mary Millington and the like. On the occasions when he watched Ann-Margaret, he kept the suit on as a mark of respect as she was a “classy lady” but who unfortunately kept her ample charms under wraps.

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Unfortunately, his newly acquired social lifestyle could not be supported by his invalidity stipend. He looked around for “positions” which would provide some extra revenue to fund his new found love for the “black stuff” but few were forthcoming. That was until he was told sotte voce by Big Joe one evening that the Infertility Clinic at the Royal Victoria Hospital would pay a handsome sum for his man eggs. Never for a second thinking that this might be a wind up, he beetled off to the Clinic and within a few weeks discovered that his man stuff was as slippery as a Lough Neagh eel and had a mobility which would seek out the most shy and retiring of female ova and do the business.

He decided, therefore, that “his essence” as he preferred to call it could be put to better use than it had been for the past number of years. He presumed Ann-Margaret would not mind so he signed up as a donor making thirty pounds a pop which in those days was quite a sum. It maintained a continuous flow of Guinness, the occasional luncheon in the Skandia and a new pin striped suit.

On the final night of the quiz, he helped his mates scoop first prize of a bottle of Power’s whiskey by astonishingly recalling that Thomas A. Edison spoke the first words “Mary had a little lamb” into his newly invented phonograph. The whiskey was cracked open and although he had some business to attend to at the hospital the next morning, he drank his share, as neither blood nor urine samples were involved. Celebrations duly over, he lurched home negotiating the burned out cars with some difficulty.

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The half of his fish supper with extra vinegar which was slowly sliding down the front of his suit attracted more than a passing interest from a group of Republican tom cats who followed him to his front door in the hope of a meal before going on active service. The one who was obviously the commandant hurled himself at his twenty seven and a half inch inside leg and with a combination of claw and tooth dug in and managed to get a generous portion of batter puncturing McCurdy in the groin in the process. He tried to swat it as one would do a bluebottle but with no success.

He fell through the front door, cat firmly attached to his privates, made straight for the kettle and poured its contents over the feline hanger on. It squealed and bolted out the door. He aimed a kick at its disappearing rump, spectacularly missed and connected with the fridge instead. It was now his turn to squeal, louder than a girl but not as loud as the cat which he had just half drowned.

Eugene P switched on his Baird television and new recorder with cordless remote control. As his chosen movie for the evening was Carnal Knowledge with Ann Margaret, he kept on his suit but hoped she would not mind if he put on his slippers as his right foot was now throbbing and swelling rapidly and his left one smelled of vinegar and cat’s piss. With the Guinness and Powers having fully kicked in, he never made it past Jack Nicholson and Art Garfunkel’s initial meeting at Amherst College and drifted off on the sofa before Ann-Margaret (“full name Ann-Margaret Olsson” ) came on screen just fractionally after her bosom.

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A bloodied and slightly sore Eugene P McCurdy, woke from a drunken stupor late for his hospital appointment. He hobbled to the bathroom to obtain the wherewithal for his £30 and rushed to the bus stop, legs more than slightly apart to ease the pain in his groin. As the previous night had been one of some minor unrest, the buses were not running so he high tailed it down the Falls Road in his pin striped suit stained with the remains of batter and extra vinegar, and the pair of tartan slippers which he had forgotten to take off. He arrived at the Infertility Clinic, sweating, breathless and carrying the sample of his essence in a brown paper bag, only to be told, straight faced given the circumstances, that it was too late to use and would he mind going home and trying again.

Now it is the wont of the clientele of drinking clubs and the like to append nicknames to people with slight deformities or abnormalities or to those who have had defining moments in their lives which need to be marked and shared with the world. It is really a form of endearment and those who name one day can be those who are named the next so no offence is ever taken. The Balmoral Pigeon Fanciers Club ( Social Section) was no different.

Members basked in the glory of such names as “Stone in the Boot”, “Lamb Chop”, “Vincent Vomit” and “Half a Lip” and quite often no one knew what other people’s given names were.

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The self appointed Nickname Selection Committee at its next meeting could have had a field day with Eugene P McCurdy given his catalogue of disasters the week before. It chose not to and after only a short discussion he was named “Slippers�, the handle to be formally awarded on his next visit to the Club and to remain with him forever more.

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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill Peter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967, he spent the majority of the nineties in France before returning to live in Dublin in 1998. His debut collection Antiope (Stonesthrow Poetry, 2013) was critically acclaimed. ‘Certainly a voice to be reckoned with.’ Wrote Dr Brigitte Le Juez (DCU). His second collection The Elm Tree (Lapwing, 2014) was also very well received. ‘A joyto behold.’ Ross Breslin (The Scum Gentry). He is currently working on his seventh collection, when he is not translating Le Fleurs Du Mal and Augusto Dos Anjos.

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Ulysses (Peter O’Neill)

Taking the idea of texts containing Architectural structure, we could see The corpus of a writer then as being Analogous with a state, or country;

Each book, or tome, a city and we, The readers, its citizens who come and go.

The author James, in this case then, being God. He being as omnipotent and yes, scary!

I walked along the streets of Ulysses, through its pages For many years, admiring the crumbling Georgiana, as I like to do in Dublin.

Then, one day I met a chap called Sam Feck It, He was hiding from the Minotaur in some alley way.

“Dedalus, the bastard,” he muttered, “ Forgot to leave us all some rope!”

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The Master In memoriam Samuel Beckett

(Peter O’Neill)

Populate the mind, an obscure terrain, With contemporaneous geographical Matter, such as the common ordinance Of sheep, house flies and a solitary tree.

All of which are imbued with mythological Status, evoking Cain, Cyclops and Aeneas.

That’s three civilisations in one implant, Causing temporal resonance in the hippocamp.

Because of metaphor our worldly hurt is shared; We all equate with the great salty wounds Of Ulysses, laugh at the dicks in Euripides.

Because of metaphor, when I look Northward, in place of the blue arteries Of the Mourne, I see the Argo.

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Malebolge (Peter O’Neill) For Michael Mc Aloran

I marvel anew at the design inherent In the intestinal walls, as the earliest patrons Of MOMA must have, when they first Caught sight of Frank Loyd Wright’s stairwell.

Of course, the exhibits mounted on those walls Also share common currency with the Gentle motions of stool which cascade along, Ever so gently, to the eternal gateway to Armitage Shanks.

Which has me thinking now of that artist Who spent fifteen years drawing metropolis Constructed of fecal matter, housed in the Tate.

And Beckett, for whom Art had deeply scatological Resonances. I am reminded of the rivers of shit In Comment c’est through which all words are borne.

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Hadji Bey’s (Peter O’Neill)

The Emporium of Hadji Bey’s Turkish Delight, Situated on Patrick Street in Cork City, was a Place of magical encounter which I entered into In either the company of my Father, or my Grandfather.

Inside the aroma of rose, orange and lemons pervaded As the sunlight illuminated, in great shafts beneath The shop front blinds, the towering minarets of the Glass jars, which housed the preciously powdered,

Sweetened delights bearing with them, in the taste, The opulence of adventure; disbarred then momentarily were we, From the assassinated, crucifying norm of the local patriarchs.

While, in this enchanted place, mere mortals appeared then To be resplendent in eternalised mesmerism, our very tongues, Containing the sweetest delicacy of our dusk filled evenings.

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On Reading Neil Patrick Doherty’s Translation ‘The Picture of the Conqueror’ by Oktay Rifat (Peter O’Neill)

My mother, once a stewardess with Pan Am, Used to have a little copper memento of The great dome of the Haghia Sophia, which she Picked up in Istanbul, hanging above the old black telephone.

As a child I would spend hours alone in the laminated Wooden hall, contemplating the dome, imagining Far off lands, other lives and the possibilities Of an unlimited universe still, as yet, unexploded.

These mental excursions used to be brutally interrupted By the shrill ringing of the telephone, a surreal Artifact containing its electronic Muse.

Like Sultan Mehmet, I crossed whole phalanxes of scape, The invisible hordes adhering to my every whim, I then the Emperor of my own absolute desolation.

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Ireland 2013 (Peter O’Neill)

We are not a serious nation.

As a people perhaps not the most critical; Not being the best on the receiving end ourselves.

All our faith having been lost in the Church, We jumped aboard Mammon with an equally Fervent relish, and now look at us!

But just as I grow despondent I am struck by an image of a high cross, One of those Celtic ones with the great Lozenge interlaced into the design, Distinguishing it from all others.

Were not those our great glory days, Pre-Vatican, when Patrick walked freely With the pagan, embraced as he was by that other Sun?

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Biographical Note: Paddy Mc coubrey

Pat mc coubrey is a Belfast born writer, he lives in lurgan.

Pat was shortlisted for 2012 Desmond O Grady poety contest, Pat has not had a collection published yet.

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Grace (12) Paddy Mc coubrey

in a garden by an apple tree, the old man sat alone. the children knew to let him be, for these moments were his own.

he watched his flowers with cherished pride, mixed shades of summer blue. three waiting angels by his side his smile showed that he knew.

it was much too soon that he was gone before the sun began to shine his memories all are carried on with the wisdoms of his mind

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Moiras Dream (Paddy Mc coubrey) She confided in me of a place by the sea on a hill that looks down the bay, the fishing boats sit on the shore for a bit and fishermen live day by day.

And seabirds will fly in the warm morning sky and dip and dive with an ease, their scattered calls with each new fall is carried along on a breeze.

The days will be spent with time that is meant for doing things like never before, starting each day with a walk on the bay sketching driftwood lost on the shore.

I know that i ll find a new peace of mind i know each day is my own, i know of the strife of a past city life and the battles i frought there alone.

And all that i need is a new kind of creed and someone to share my dream, to hold my hand and understand 24

just what my visions mean.

On an old rocking chair by a table thats bare with a candle burning down bright, i ll write about love and the stars above in poems as deep as the night.

With a sense of boheme i ll live out my dream and never look back to the past, this fateful quest will more or less lift every curse that was cast.

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Susans House (Paddy Mc coubrey) I At susans house theres a rusty gate on the moss covered roof sits a broken slate, the garden still is overgrown of plants and weeds with names unknown, and the neighbours then can still recall how posies grew near the gable wall.

The rainbow colours all are gone as tones of gray just linger on,

In susans house just beside the door last weeks mail lies still on the floor, and the shapes on the carpet are faded and worn for next to a table is a coat thats torn, and along the hall 26

its dusty and bare except for some clothes that are draped on a chair, the smell in the air is hard to conceal as nightime drops theres a sense of unreal.

In susans head shes seldom alone in a hidden world she calls her own, of which the doors are tightly shut for her once keen mind is anything but, and still the demons come to call they scale her mind and refuse to stall as they leave her world a broken land they release emotions she cant command.

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II She sat in the dark on this her darkest day wrapped herself in sorrow for it seemed the only way, she tried to shed a tear but nothing seemed to come for all senses and feelings were renderd vaugh and numb and she had an inner pain she frought so hard to hide and she cursed the world she knew and she cursed the world outside.

But everything she longed for she tried but could nt find she seemed forever trapped in what she could nt leave behind.

Everything was hazy as time was passing slow she stared into the distance as confusion seemed to grow, she only had one throught as the pain was closing in some said it was an option some said it was a sin.

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III Above susans house the moon is full, thro' the rain and wind comes a sudden lull, that brings a silence and a passing chill, that seems to linger there until,, the wind once more blows cracked and loud, and the moon gets lost behind a cloud.

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Biographical Note: Byron Beynon Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including The Warwick Review, London Magazine, Poetry Wales and Cyphers. His collection Nocturne in Blue and Human Shores (both from Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).

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ILSTON WOOD (Byron Beynon) Returning again to the footpath we followed it through the wood, sounds of a nearby stream, a fluidity of notes and fresh tones for our breathing shadows, alert to the surviving senses all around.

The sculpted faces of the trees, with nature's canopy wide-awake under which to meet a memory of something real, spreading towards a darkening green.

Swallow holes, summer banks, birds we could not see, with wild flowers rewinning the landscape; this threatened gallery where history blends with the vital air, a secret undergrowth waiting patiently, the way through trodden by the ages that brought us here.

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THE CATHEDRAL AT ELNE after the painting by J D Innes (1887-1914) (Byron Beynon) The geology of paint: a strata laid before the viewer where the foreground climbs the calm hill.

The inner stillness of sky engaging the mind with various shades.

The cathedral points to a heaven it cannot understand.

Recurring questions, with foundations growing from a palette, coming nearer to the upheaval of eternity's surname.

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RUE DE L'UNIVERSITIÉ (Byron Beynon)\ The metro worms to another area of the Left Bank, Rue de L'Universitié, where at number 9 T S Eliot once stayed during 1911, his lonely but romantic year, nine years later to the same address James Joyce came with his family; he walked in the Bois de Boulogne with his wife, Nora the day before the publication of Ulysses, his nerves on edge.

Both men knew early on that they would be uneasy with the blank rectangle of paper, the unsettled challenge of words called them, and like the scientist who completed the experiment, recorded the conclusion – fingers stained and tired with a clear and cool mind.

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PERSONAL (Byron Beynon) The colours do not really matter, each verb, each tense and letter convey their own shade and texture.

They are personal and you their instrument: sharp vowels cut their course opening the eye like new life after the rain.

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

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In You (John Jack Byrne) I don’t need the morning sun or the deepening sky of blue I don’t need the lark to sing because I have all that in you I don’t await the summer breeze or thread that morning dew no need to watch an eagle soar because I see all that in you I don’t need to slake the thirst of flowers to keep them new or pick the golden daffodil when their scent is all in you How beautiful are swallows ? in the barn they fly right through the blackbird sings at eventide of the love I have for you I don’t see the golden corn in the fields I stroll with you no sights will ever distract me when my eyes are fixed on you The cuckoo’s far off mating call and the constant pigeon cu sounds which make sweet harmony in the love I have for you

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Heroes (John Jack Byrne) The mountain dark with shade of pine, bright summer sun, sweet memories mine Small boys playing act out their dreams of childhood hero’s on silver screens Hop-along Cassidy and Robin Hood ride make believe horses through shadows of wood Goodies and baddies in all kind’s of plots each day after school all learning forgot Contented and happy the drama played out wash bloody knees to Mother’s angry shout Now the day’s over climb into bed turn off the light the comic is read

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Stoirm Sneachta [ haibun] (John Jack Byrne)

Whilst visiting Galway last weekend I took a trip to Inis Meadhóin known as the Middle Island ,one of the famous Arran Islands off Galway Bay .

I was in awe of the one hundred and sixty or so population living on this last cultural stronghold which is predominantly native speaking.

One thing amazed me that with all the history of their island to talk to strangers about , the main topic of conversation was of the” stoirm sneachta trom” [ heavy snow storm] which hit the Island at the end of year twenty ten, apparently the first snow to ever fall on Inis Meadhóin.

os cionn an tu a gealach corrán luionn [above the thatch a crescent moon rests ]

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Biographical Note: Patrick Joseph Dorrian

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.

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Weekend at home (Patrick Joseph Dorrian)

I remember the black and white days; when we minded ourselves, walking, through the brickfields of Beechmount to the 'Murph, avoiding the bullies and streams, passing from my house to my friend's. There; Frozen like a photograph, the family room crowded by adult daughters come to visit, the dad and older brother fresh from McAlpines and Wimpeys on a weekend break.

Freshly laundered they sat awkward, familial strangers, tired from the train and boat, strained with the prospect of returning.

Eating a family meal and watching the clock leaking the minutes till it was time to go.

Time to leave the acres of unemployment, time for the hostel that would take blacks, dogs and the Irish, time again for unhappy songs in pubs in places deemed Irish quarters, losing their place in the family home, 40

losing their faith in a loving God, feeling as abandoned of those caught liverish in the cold bedroom of a London Street.

I remember the black and white days and the streets of England widows, gripping the letters with the weekly remittance to be squandered on food and rent, the family allowance book already hocked to some friendly loanshark.

And all the while the thin children smiled and the shawled wives aged before their time.

No one to colour their hair for, no one to share their bed but wondering was he alright in digs, was he eating well, not drinking too much and hoping he was celibate too.

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Biographical Note: Ellie Rose McKee

Originally from Bangor in Northern Ireland, Ellie lived in Lincoln, England for three years. Since then she has spent six months living in Oxford and a considerable amount of time travelling elsewhere around the UK. She is the author of 'Still Dreaming' and 'Wake' collections of poetry and short stories - is currently working as a freelance writer and finishing her first novel, a love story with the working title 'Rising from Ashes', in her spare time. Blogging since 2008, Ellie also dabbles in fan fiction. You can find out more from visiting her website: www.ellierosemckee.com

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Bubbles (Ellie Rose McKee) Blown with gentleness To glide through the atmosphere Some hitting objects Breaking upon them Some resting on the ground Quite successfully, for a time Some not making it past The wand Some big Some small All falling None lasting forever (ce n'est pas Ă propos de bulles)

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Timezones (Ellie Rose McKee) No matter where you are in the world, Even if it’s yesterday there, Or tomorrow already, You’re never going to be further apart in time from anyone else that walks the earth.

You can move closer, and bridge the gap, But there’s no bigger timezone than where you’re at, On the opposite side of the globe.

And if you had enough money, you could be back in a day.

A whole day’s a long time to fly, But nothing, really, in a lifetime.

In this age we’re living in, there’s very little keeping us apart.

Only a day, at most, Just think about that.

It’s what keeps me going

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Travel for One (Ellie Rose McKee) I am a traveler Everyone asks me ‘Table for two?’

‘Bedroom for two?’

‘Will you be wanting to take advantage of our two-for-one offer?’

‘No’, I say, ‘I travel alone.’

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Biographical Note: Chris Murray Chris Murray is a City and Guilds Stone-cutter. Her poetry is published in Ropes Magazine, Crannóg Magazine, The Burning

Bush Online Revival Meeting (Issue 1), Carty’s Poetry Journal, Caper Literary Journal , CanCan The Southword Journal (MLC) and the Diversity Blog (PIWWC; PEN International Women Writer’s Committee). Her poem for three voices, Lament, was performed at the Béal festival in 2012. She has reviewed poetry for Post (Mater dei Institute),Poetry Ireland and Writing.ie. Chriswrites a poetry blog called Poethead which is dedicated to the writing, editing and translation of women writers. She is a member of the International PEN Women Writer’s Committee, and the Social Media coordinator and Web-developer for Irish PEN.

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Famine Ship at Murrisk Abbey * (Chris Murray) ‘L’heure bleue’ for Aad de Gids

That almost night at Murrisk Abbey.

Darkness begins to drop its black capillaries, its ink blots.

Rorschach animals ink sky’s ultramarine seeping their blue tones into the sea.

The reek looms above Murrisk Abbey.

Altared, a blown bouquet tissues its stem toward the famine ship,

bone-souldered its graven skeletons knit ‘ship’ it baulks the dark,

blacker than the fallen sky, the fairylight houses.

Blacker still than stone.

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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, it’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 Heron’s Nest and A Hundred Gourds

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PoetrySpring Series (Rachel Sutcliffe) spring stirs each dawn a little greener spring morning the birds and I singing spring skies the young chick stretches its wings spring garden the smell of fresh soil on warm hands spring sunshine the laughter of children in the school yard spring forest between the branches less sky spring breeze the gentle applause of leaves spring showers the slugs and I take a stroll

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Biographical Note: Laney Lennox Laney Lenox is a senior peace studies major and creative writing minor at Millsaps College in Jackson, MS. He studied abroad in Belfast for the spring semester of his junior year.

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On the Death of Bobby Sands (Laney Lennox)

Mass was solemn, the lads as ever brilliant. I ate the statutory weekly bit of fruit last night. As fate had it, it was an orange, and the final irony, it was bitter.-Excerpt from Bobby Sands’ diary

I was in a lonely apartment that week—an apartment a man had lent me because he was never there. His bedroom door was closed when I moved in and I never opened it out of fear. Belfast has a lot of ghosts and I thought he might have one behind that closed door.

One day in that apartment I watched the film Hunger. That was the first time I saw Bobby Sands die. I’d later see him die in other films and news clips.

I’d watch footage of his funeral, see him in all stages of death. But this first time was by far the worst. I just lay in the bed while the final credits rolled, disturbed by the fact that the bed I was in looked eerily similar to the hospital bed Bobby occupied in his final days. I wanted to get up but I couldn’t, held there by some force stronger than my own will and volition. I finally got up because I wanted to see if I could eat. I put a slice of orange in my mouth. As I bit it, the juice squirted out from the pressure and I immediately spit the slice out into the trashcan. I found it bitter and strange. I stared at the bitten, but not chewed, section and wondered what it meant.

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It may seem odd to be eating an orange in Ireland—citrus fruits and the cold aren’t organically linked in our minds. But they were something I purchased every time I went to the grocery store. By some strange course of logic I was convinced that if I didn’t eat oranges every day in Ireland I would get scurvy. Like sailors of old who contracted the disease on the high seas, I was on a new journey in a new world, where many Americans still don’t venture, afraid because of bad memories.

It wasn’t until later that I read his diary, discovered the experience he also had with an orange in Northern Ireland. By then I was back in the United States, sitting in my parent’s house. It scared me when I learned of this strange coincidence. Maybe a part of me subconsciously thought it meant I’d meet the same fate. Dying for something I believe in is not something I’ve ever wanted to do. Living for something I believe has always been my dream. Dying would interrupt that.

After my attempt with the orange, I didn’t eat again until I felt lightheadedness coming on, it just didn’t seem fair not to wait. I repeated the process—rose out of the bed, opened the fridge and got food. This time I kept it down. It wasn’t much, just a few crackers and some hummus, but that day it seemed like the largest meal I’d had in a long time. Energized from food, I walked out into the Belfast air, crisp even in July, and it was like a baptism.

Bobby Sands was elected as an MP while on hunger strike, giving the 52

Republican movement and the Catholic community hope in democracy as a means to achieve goals without violence. Bobby’s death also resulted in a large amount of recruits joining the IRA, but the bad doesn’t take away the good. I no longer felt despair. I walked past the 300-year-old McHugh’s Pub, past City Hall where the flag no longer flies, and didn’t stop until I got to the bottom of the ninety-foot Celtic cross on the side of St. Anne’s Cathedral. It is important to spend time around things we must look up to. I looked at what had been there long before I was born and what would be there long after I was gone, come hell or high water, peace time or bombs, and I found that the persistent specter hope had found me again.

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If you fancy submitting something but haven’t done so yet, or if you would like to send us some further examples of your work, here are our submission guidelines:

SUBMISSIONS NB – All artwork must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not be published, and anyone found to be in breach of this will be reported to the police.

Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format.

Please include your name, contact details, and a short biography. You are welcome to include a photograph of yourself – this may be in colour or black and white.

We cannot be responsible for the loss of or damage to any material that is sent to us, so please send copies as opposed to originals.

Images may be resized in order to fit “On the Wall”. This is purely for practicality.

E-mail all submissions to: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to “A New Ulster” (name of writer/artist here); or for younger contributors: “Letters to the Alley Cats” (name of contributor/parent or guardian here). Letters, reviews and other communications such as Tweets will be published in “Round the Back”. Please note that submissions may be edited. All copyright remains with the original author/artist, and no infringement is intended.

These guidelines make sorting through all of our submissions a much simpler task, allowing us to spend more of our time working on getting each new edition out!

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May 2014'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS: Never tread barefoot on broken glass. 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 61-62.

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

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

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

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Daisies by John Jack Byrne

Her Hair by John Jack Byrne

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Adrift by John Jack Byrne

Summer Heat by John Jack Byrne

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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. “The Legend of Graymyrh� 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.

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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,

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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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