Anu issue 21 / A New Ulster

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

Featuring the works of Neil Ellman, Maurice Devitt, Peter O’Neill, Barry Sheils, C P Stewart, Paddy Mc Coubrey, Maire Morrissey Cummins, John Saunders Rachael Stanley and Paul Anthony.

Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 21 June 2014

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A New Ulster On the Wall Website

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

Cover Image “Youth and Exuberance” by Editorial

Amos Greig page 6

Neil Ellman; Improvisation 4 Improvisation 11 Dark Transition

page 8 page 9 page 10

Maurice Devitt; The Oystercatcher Lost Flying over water

page 12 page 13 page 14

Peter O’Neill Pattes d’eph History Baggot Street Split Shift, Friday Night The Willow pattern Penhurst Place Eternal Variations Myths 64 Symbolism The Phoenician

page 16 page 17 page 18 page 19 page 20 page 21 page 22 page 23 page 24 page 25

Barry Sheils; Leavis and Crumb

pages 27-34

CP Stewart; Ash Sparrow England Summer & Let There be Night Nesting Time Blackbird Goldfinch & Night

page 36 page 37 page 38 page 39 page 40 page 41

Paddy Mc Coubrey; Letter to Sophie The Night that Never was

page 43-46 pages 47-52

Maire Morrissey-Cummins, Idyllic Altamont Summer Musings Ripples Under Ice

pages 54-55 page 56 page 57-59

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Rachael Stanley; Ironing

page 61

John Saunders; Bee Lines Crystal

page 63 page 64

Paul Anthony; Boris O’Murphy

pages 66-72 On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats

page 74

Peter O’Neill; Peter’s work can be found

pages 76

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

pages 78-81 Round the Back

Arizahn Tread Twice Unto Tiber

pages 84-85

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

“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.” Marcus Aurelius

We were saddened to learn of the passing of Maya Angelou a powerful voice has left us. Her gift lives on in verse and in sound and is a reminder of how far we have come and how much work is still needed.

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: Neil Ellman

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

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Improvisation 4 (Neil Ellman) (after the drawing by Wassily Kandinsky)

Of the irregular, I sing, eccentric, disproportionate a knife with missing teeth how everything seems at odds with itself the center of its gravity drifting to the edge where nothing is true but a jagged arc splitting the heavens apart its being bent around an abstract star as if it were real— of the shape of space, I sing, imperfect, unfinished like my improvised life.

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Improvisation 11 (Neil Ellman) (after the painting by Wassily Kandinsky)

The distance between two worlds Is the shape of rain

The arc of their orbits around our thoughts an empty gourd

The meaning of now and then a sometime thing.

Nothing is what it seems or was when life pretends to be

other than what it is: a chance occurrence, a meeting

on an amaranthine street where old friends neither touch nor speak.

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Dark Transition (Neil Ellman) (after the painting by Hans Hofmann)

My metamorphosis Jekyll to Hyde the sun behind the moon the transit of Venus across the skies I drifted to the other side on Charon’s boat I changed from the light of my youth to the darkness of my age from a boy to a man in rage from the shape hope took upon a time the shapelessness of wrath— mine is the passage of a life into the twilight of its days.

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Biographical Note: Maurice Devitt After a career in business he completed the Poetry Studies MA at Mater Dei in Dublin, focusing on the poetry of James Wright, John Berryman, Charles Bernstein and others. He was recently short-listed for the Cuirt New Writing Award, The Listowel Writers’ Week Collection Competition and selected for The Cork Spring Poetry Festival. In 2013 he was placed third in The Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition, and short-listed for the Over the Edge New Writer Award, Westport Arts Poetry Competition and The Doire Press International Chapbook Competition.

During 2012 he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, was runner-up in the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition and short-listed for the Listowel Writers’ Week Poetry Collection Competition. Over the past two years he has had poems accepted by various journals in Ireland, England, Scotland, the US, Australia and Mexico. He is a founder member and chairperson of the Hibernian Writers’ Group.

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The Oystercatcher (Maurice Devitt)

He scurries across the mud-flats like potassium on water.

An indecisive shopper, stops to sample, tips his beak and moves on.

Eyes rending sea and sky he watches the creeping tide.

Just like Chaplin that day, when he decided silent was no longer for him, tore the film from the reel, cut it as though chopping off limbs and became The Great Dictator.

Now he hugs the foreshore, mumbles to himself on evening walks from The Butler’s Arms.

No sound, just that unmistakeable gait.

Then stops to tip his hat.

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Lost (Maurice Devitt)

As night leaned in to the slope of the day, we found ourselves on a road too small to trouble a map,

twisting out of sight in both directions.

In the absence of breadcrumbs how could we find

our way back and as the sky darkened could even a compass distinguish north from south?

Could we trust a man who stepped into our path, eyes the colour of hedging?

With haberdasher’s hands

he spooled the road like a ribbon, deft fingers smoothing every crease, scissors leaving just enough to get us home.

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Flying Over Water (Maurice Devitt)

The Airfix pilot who could never eject, the fear of balsa in your blood. How you yearned for caravan angst, high-step drama of paddling-pools, comfort of concrete slippers. The signs were always there; vertigo on a kitchen-chair, your failure to master the double-fold of a paper plane and how we found you quivering in the garage when trees were to be climbed.

You always knew the shortest crossing, became nostalgic for the maps of Ptolemy when a man from the council painting a white line could circumscribe the world without lifting pen from paper.

And as the plane flutters its wings over the Atlantic, your body stiffens, aware that any sudden movement could tip the dowser’s rod.

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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill

Born in Cork in 1967, Peter O' Neill spent the majority of the nineties in France before returning to live in Dublin where he has been living ever since.

His debut collection 'Antiope' ( Stonesthrow Poetry, 2013) appeared to critical acclaim. "Certainly a voice to be reckoned with." Wrote Dr Brigitte Le Juez (DCU). His second collection 'The Elm Tree' ( Lapwing, 2014) was also well received. " a vibrant, sensitive and amazingly inventive poet" Ross Breslin ( The Scum Gentry). A third collection ' The Dark Pool' is due to appear early next year ( Mauvaise Graine ). He will be reading from 'The Elm Tree' by invitation of O Bheal in Cork, on the 23rd of June.

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Pattes d’eph (Peter O’Neill)

A further sign corresponding to you, now displaced, No longer to be seen on the horizon. The fragile nature Of the batik, whose print colour and texture, Sound out the Ganges

Covering your serpentine limbs, you again With the Amazon, the gunpowder flowers, Their visual canon, volleying a barrage of shot Right between the eyes;

Fresh with the calf, its limp muscle pulsing In the grape, the vine of skin, this world Just implodes a pliant dune

Grains of sand moving along with the Elephant, their zoology- the wind blowing Your pantaloons like a sail

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History (Peter O’Neill)

After having had lunch in her grandmother’s apartment Above Mollat, the great bookshop off rue saint Catherine, You walked her down through the ancient Roman thoroughfare, Before returning to collect the pullover, which you’d left behind.

She opened the great door and motioned for you to enter, Half expecting you. Coffee soon followed. Then, after a Respectful silence, and staring straight ahead of her, Out past the first floor window into the azure,

She began telling you about her first encounter with them.

Two coal scuttle helmets appeared to her over the brim of the hill, The soldiers were seated on a motorcycle with sidecar.

As she stared straight ahead of her she witnessed seeing them again, Rommel’s panzer bound for the North African campaign, And when you left her you knew that you would never see her again.

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Baggot Street Split Shift, Friday Night (Peter O’Neill)

Already eight hours in, tieless, shirtsleeves well rolled up, After having finished with the first seemingly unquenchable horde, You head up then to the chipper, and after having first placed your order, You next commandeer the jukebox.

The Police! All the hits of heartbreak; Every Breath... The Bed’s Too Big, Walking On the Moon. You play the rosy litany Like a two dollar saint. Your heart a mush, as duplicated in The quarter pounder before you.

Then... up to the Lord Mayor’s Lounge in the old Shelbourne Hotel. U2 standing there, you stall and then you think Fuck em’Order a pint, grab a copy of Le Monde and sit down again.

Later, cleaning up back in the bar, you smoke ceaselessly With Cohen and Dylan wailing high overhead, your sacred crown, And you joining them on each chorus like some circus clown.

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The Willow Pattern (Peter O’Neill) ‘Two people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this world’.

Humphrey Bogart - Casablanca

I could start out with a line by Apollinaire about the duplicity of love, Somehow seeing your own story replicated in the celebrated plate; The pattern by Mirton since 1780 replicated by Worcester and Wedgwood, and which you picked up in TESCO with some coupons.

Out of such sweet banality sublimity springs, Peering down into the bowl of porridge, or when parting The almost grotesque orange sauce of the beans, Only to see yourself then in the role of Chang, or the beloved Kong-Se.

Life then being the mandarin, fencing you into your own Particular form of willow pattern, like so many before you, And the many hundreds of thousands to come.

From beneath the bearer of sliced pans, The bird’s eyes, the most forbidden fruit discreetly lies.

Out of such sweet banality sublimity springs.

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Penhurst Place (Peter O’neill)

I found the old porcelain side plate in a former ballet and drama school, Tucked away on one of the shelves behind the wall to wall mirrors; A souvenir which was destined for the skip, I placed it carefully Inside my bag and took it home with me.

It has been resting upon our Danish shelving unit ever since, Where its hand-printed Burgundy design, much to Laura’s annoyance, Stands out against the sleek white contemporary furnishing; An antique salvaged bearing grazing deer beneath the battlements.

I am still drawn to it for two reasons: The day I found it I had just graduated from Dublin City University, Where I discovered you –

You who had discovered Petrarch’s canzone Made in de vulgari eloqentia; Sir Philip Sydney Poet and Soldier was born here.

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Eternal Variations (Peter O’Neill) For Ernst Pignon Ernst and Alfred Brendel

Elle est retrouvée.

Quoi? – L’Éternité.

C’est la mer allée Avec le soleil.

(Arthur Rimbaud, 1872)

It has been found again.

What? – Eternity.

It is the sea allied with the sun Upon the horizon.

Elle est perdue.

Quoi? – L’Éternité.

C’est la merde allée Avec le soleil défunt.

It has been lost again.

What? – Eternity.

It is the shit illuminated On a dead sea.

( 2014) 21

Myths (Peter O’Neill) For Amos

Myths are eternally reoccurring events Presented to us in the guise of mere chimera, They are, as such, the handmaidens of both satire And tragedy, and spawn countless other artistic endeavours Trafficked as fantasy. They are eternal metaphors of “Be-ing”, Pulling us from out of our literal bodies into the atomised Pool of eternity. Such moments become the residue of history, Which is the bastard child of all mythology.

The Greeks realised all of this, which is why their Particular myths still resonate so powerfully.

Unfortunately, we live in highly barbarous times When the very opposite would appear to be true; Myths now being all told to children, Who in turn shake their heads at our naivety.

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64 (Peter O’Neill) For Ross Breslin

Seemingly idiosyncratic laws determine why gardeners Plant olive trees in Finglas in north county Dublin, Which in turn signal to me the figure of Heraclitus And his further Nietzschean, Heideggerian legacy

Most aptly pronounced in the lectures with Eugene Fink; The thunderbolt steers all. Beneath the waves Of amassing cloud my daughter runs under the boughs Of the light trees below Ardgillan Castle

Completely oblivious to the compelling omens, While I stand about with my I-phone Punching in the data of the ancients.

To bear the laurels one must remain always erect; The poet’s task then a well nigh impossible oneWishing to get beyond language, and using merely words alone.

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Symbolism (Peter O’Neill)

History flows in two strictly successive forms; Firstly in blood, and secondly in ink.

‘His’ story quickly taking precedence of the Others – Yer’ man’s, or yer’ one’s!

Poetry, in stark contrast, pertains to be wholly objective, Transcending all borders. The miracle of Metaphor being its genesis in the particular And yet then becoming wholly universal.

Religions work in the same way; Madonnas having their symbolic birth in mothers and motherhood Striking a deep chord in the lives’ of the fervent.

And much in the same way is the muse for the poet’s work, Since time immemorial from Orpheus to Baudelaire and onto Yeats.

So too, you merge in me first through the blood before finally harbouring in the ink.

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The Phoenician (Peter O’Neill)

To glide above the topography of a poet’s soul, As at Tharros where they sacrificed children, Where both the sky and the sea were azure, And the sun illuminated a finless shield.

Or, high above the macchia on the Costa Verde, Where the aroma of wild rosemary and goat –shit Permeate the antique pages of your Iliad, There were swarm the ant and aphid.

And there also where the muse was seen jogging, Pursued along the coastline by her muscular suitors, Half expecting Cocteau’s horse to come galloping.

Yet never reconciling with the spirit levelling mirror, That burnished shield replenished in monk’s gold, And smoking with the innocence of the cremated bones.

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Biographical Note: Barry Sheils Barry was born and raised in Omagh. He currently lives in the Midlands of England where he writes on and teaches literature. He has written a critical study of W.B. Yeats which will be published with Ashgate Publishing later this year.

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Leavis and Crumb (Barry Sheils)

Ensconced in my usual place, two seats back by the aisle sitting going forward, I saw Leavis get on at Loughborough, though with a whiter head of hair than I remembered.

Crumb rose from his seat to shake hands, and then offered to exchange his side of the table for the other. I knew Crumb. I knew he liked sitting going forward as much as I did, so his offer took me quite by surprise. What might he expect to gain, I wondered, noticing some momentary confusion as Leavis deliberated, unsure, it seemed, whether the advantage of natural orientation derived from sitting going forward was worth the obligation it would create. Finally Leavis declined the offer with a smile. A contest of charm, I wrote in my notebook.

Leavis loaded his small suitcase onto the overhead rack and sat down. To tell you the truth, he said, I’ve always thought that sitting going backwards is the safer option. If this train comes screeching to a halt I will have time to adjust my bearing. You, however, are bound to fly helplessly into the air. Crumb laughed at this, a little too delicately, I thought. I’ll be flying head first into you, he replied, so really it will only ever be a question of who has the harder skull. Leavis winced as he considered the image but said nothing back; a masterful stroke, demonstrating his appreciation for the image itself as well as his understanding of the aggression that created it. First blood to Leavis, I wrote in my notebook. A man of expertise.

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Crumb felt it too, and slumped back, defeated into his seat as the train left the station.

But Leavis was not slow to redeem him, confident, it seemed, that quick and easy victories were not really victories at all. A quiet train, he offered. Yes, the other replied, I chose this train deliberately. Very good, Leavis assured him. Leavis then proceeded to tell Crumb about Loughborough station, how its platform was too short for some trains. Our Victorian ancestry inhibits our growth, he said. Lucky we’re sat in the middle carriage, laughed Crumb. Leavis agreed. And quiet, he said, looking around him, not another body –perfect really. I contracted in my seat as he spoke these words and at the same time imagined Crumb bristling with pride.

Confidence restored, Crumb spoke about his journey. He said he’d moved to Matlock recently, which was perfect for work.

It gives me access you see: Buxton,

Chesterfield and I can get to London without delay. Leavis looked at him with a slightly bewildered expression. Chesterfield? he asked. Sorry I haven’t expressed myself clearly, said Crumb who prided himself on his clarity of expression. He cleared his throat and began again. Now that I live in Matlock I can take a train direct to Derby which connects to London in a reliable fashion. One hour forty minutes and I’m there. Leavis raised his right eyebrow. Matlock is also proximate to Chesterfield. I can drive to Chesterfield in twenty minutes and from there the whole of the North East is open to me. I can park and catch a train to Durham, Newcastle, Middlesbrough, Sunderland, even Leeds which is on the way –but I have little use for Leeds.

Alternatively, I can drive a little further to Buxton and from there it’s Manchester, Liverpool, Wigan and what have you. In fact I would say that in Matlock I am ideally

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placed, that it is the perfect place to live, for doing the kind of business that I do.

Maybe I should move there, if that is indeed the case, said Leavis with a chuckle.

Crumb conceded that family matters also play a part and that not everyone can be expected to live alone.

After that, the conversation meandered and I found myself pretending to read my notebook as a way to stay awake. Nothing important was said beyond their exchanging plans for Christmas which was, according to each separately, Crumb then Leavis, and both together, Crumb and Leavis, arriving at a gallop. Nothing else was said that required me to write, so I began to listen in a more lackadaisical fashion, shifting my gaze from the book to the dim window where my own reflection stared back at me and, passing beneath it, the lonely English night. I was nearly asleep when a smell filled my nostrils, a sweet flatulent smell like raisins in a curry lifting itself slowly over the upholstery. I looked up immediately. Leavis was speaking about the rising cost of petrol. Nothing remarkable in that, I thought, but I took it down verbatim just in case, convinced that what a man says in company when he has just farted is always significant. It’s the fact that the government aren’t saying anything about it that bothers me, he said. When the government don’t speak about issues that affect everyone I begin to worry. Crumb looked back impassively. Then he nodded and replied with equal seriousness that the job of government depended on the clarity of its expression. Neither man seemed prepared to be pardoned. Indeed, they were each so imperturbable as the conversation progressed that I began to doubt my own olfactory sense. Perhaps I had imagined it? It was impossible in any case to decide

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between the two of them as to who was culpable: as I resolved upon Leavis, Crumb looked the more guilty, and then as I resolved upon Crumb, Leavis seemed to glimmer with mischief. So I resolved instead to be more attentive henceforth in my listening duties.

It was not long after this moment of resolution that I was rewarded for my vigilance when Leavis spoke openly about the three kinds of fraudulence. The conversation had begun with the topic of cars, then moved on to the theft of cars, and finally to the peculiar kind of fraudulence which can sometimes attach itself to the theft of cars. I have a friend in Birmingham, elaborated Leavis, who had his car stolen last year around this time, just coming up to Christmas. His voice settled into the routine of telling an intriguing story. Well he went through the usual rigmarole, calling the police, insurance, the whole bit and the word went out, as it does: blue Ford Mondeo 2000 reg. et cetera, et cetera, you get the picture? Crumb affirmed that he did. Well, the next morning when he woke up, my friend, what did he see on the street in front of his house but his car, returned completely undamaged! Crumb shook his head, incredulously. Not only that, Leavis continued, but he found an envelope sitting on top of the front right tyre, you know, tucked over so any old passer-by couldn’t see it, and inside the envelope was a note, and the note contained an apology from the thief for stealing the car explaining that he had needed it to do an urgent errand, blah blah blah. You get the picture - pulling at the heart strings? Once again, Crumb affirmed that he did get the picture, and at the same time made sure to keep shaking his head to indicate his incredulity. So the thief asks my friend to retract the statement of theft he

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had given to the police and in return offers him two opera tickets, best seats in the house, Leavis proceeded. My friend has a think about it –the wife loves opera you see– and eventually decides there’s no harm in letting bygones be bygones. The car’s completely undamaged remember. He phones the police, the insurance and that’s that.

Incredible, said Crumb, thinking to mark the end of the story, but it was not over. So my friend takes the wife to the opera and what happens? Well they have the best night ever –I think he said it was something by Offenbach someone or other– but when they come home the house has been completely ransacked, emptied of all its valuables: flat screen TVs, expensive microwave, laptops, exercise equipment, the lot. Leavis slapped the table in delight. What a set up! They knew the date, the time. It was a piece of pie! What a set up! Unhappily, Crumb did not respond with the level of appreciation Leavis was expecting. Instead he weighed in with his own short account of a friend in Leicester who had his car stolen. The police caught the thief and when they asked him why he did it he said it was because it was raining. Crumb shook his head. Incredible, he said. But Leavis looked mournful. It was clear they had spoken at cross purposes and that Crumb had reflected none of the ingenuity expressed by Leavis’s story. It was less clear, however, whether Crumb’s obtuseness was deliberate and it was for this reason it seemed that Leavis decided to draw out the conversation.

There are three kinds of fraudulence in life, he said, and this applies to business as well, the third of which is the most important. For the first time both gentlemen inclined toward each other and rested their arms on the table. My pen was at the ready.

The first kind was unacknowledged fraudulence of the everyday sort which Leavis

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distinguished from a simple error. It is more like a white lie, he said. He said it was the kind of fraudulence that we practiced almost without noticing, and if we ever did insist on acknowledging it, nothing would get done in the whole wide world. Crumb voiced his strong agreement on this matter, saying that it was impossible to audit every single thing you did and that some practices become second nature, advantageous or not: that’s just the way it is! Then Leavis revised his earlier statement by saying that in fact we can, at least partially, acknowledge it to ourselves, but definitely not to other people. When people ask you how you are, you don’t bloody well tell them!

Leavis soon moved on to the second kind of fraudulence which he described as that fraudulence we are completely unaware of until we are made aware of it. Crumb screwed up his face and asked for clarification. Leavis tried again. I suppose, he said, it is unconscious fraudulence: we are doing things in business or in life which we believe are absolutely correct and about which we do not have the slightest doubt or hesitation until one day some little piece of information, some little trigger event, means that the whole structure comes tumbling down around us and the truth is revealed. As in a company perhaps, offered Crumb. Yes, or any institution. You thought it was a cathedral but it was as flimsy as a house of cards. Yes, concurred Crumb, getting it all of a sudden: you thought you were whiter than white but unbeknownst to yourself you have been executing fraudulent actions! On someone else’s behalf! But you will get the blame! Exactly! The two men nodded in agreement.

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Unfortunately at this point, and after exerting myself so diligently in the activity of note taking, I must have fallen asleep, because I have no record of the third kind of fraudulence. I do remember however, coming around as the lights of Luton hallucinated through the window and hearing Leavis ask with some urgency, who’s Jim Pearson? I was still somewhat drowsy but I could see that each man remained in the attitude of conspiracy, leaning one toward the other; and it seemed that their voices had become quieter as if they were afraid of waking someone up (which was impossible since I was the only other person in the carriage and they didn’t know I was there). You know Jim, he’s the tall, pale man who works out of Derby. It was Crumb speaking - with a new level of assurance, I thought. You must know him with all the mails flying about singing his praises. Leavis remained silent. Well I know you know Andrew. Andrew who can’t deal with the pressure, who still prints out every invoice he receives, who, even though we have all been allocated secure waste bags, insists on spending half a day every week shredding documents. Put it this way, Jim is the opposite of Andrew. Jim is efficient and modern and initiative driven. Well I haven’t even heard of him, said Leavis, rather petulantly. You will hear of him, don’t worry. Crumb stopped and raised his hand for emphasis: Jim’s the future, he added.

Leavis looked disturbed at this news and seemed to withdraw from the conversation.

Crumb watched him complacently, saying nothing.

I remember thinking that it was ironic how they lapsed into silence for the first time at the very point, after my snooze, when my listening was at its sharpest. Indeed it was only when the train had crawled quite far into the suburbs of London that Leavis

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spoke again, asking what Crumb thought the evening before them would entail.

Crumb replied that it would probably be a very quick end of year review, nothing very much of anything, and then a party in which everyone would get very drunk indeed.

Who will be there enquired Leavis. Definitely Ian and George, and probably Jonathan from Bristol. Andrew, suggested Leavis. Yes Andrew, but not Jim. As they spoke the smell filled up the air once again, sweeter than before and more sickening. This time there was something horrid at its centre like the residue of a small rodent rotting beneath the fabric of the seats and I couldn’t help but be repulsed. Once again, however, neither man flinched. Indeed they continued exchanging names with one another without as much as wrinkling their noses until we arrived at St Pancras.

Anthony. Yes, and David perhaps. Definitely. Charles and Ian. Yes. You’ve already said Ian. Yes, so I have. One of Mark, William or Trevor of course, yes, and Gareth will come. Yes.

I let them un-shelve their suitcases and exit the train, before following at a distance along the platform. Some way before the turnstiles in the usual place I stopped, observed the silent rituals, and passed them both, Crumb and Leavis, to another listener. The moment of discard we call it, when you fall back onto yourself; and it is perfectly normal to feel abandoned. Perfectly normal. I watched them disappear, Crumb in front of Leavis, down the escalator, and then I turned back towards the desolate train.

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Biographical Note: C P Stewart C.P.Stewart lives with his family in North Yorkshire. Formerly singer- songwriter with the cult band Laughing Gravy, his poetry has been widely published in Canada, Australia, Ireland, England and the United States. For two years he was the poetry editor of Sotto Voce Arts and Literary magazine (U.S) A chapbook of his poetry, ‘ Taking it In ’ was published by Koo Poetry Press in 2009. ‘Considering the Lilies, New and Selected Poems’, was publishedin 2011 by Wordsonthestreet, Galway. ‘The Naming of Things against The Dark & The Lane’ was published by Lapwing Press, Belfast, in 2014.

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Ash (J P Stewart)

That big ash down the lane is dead.

Three years now, no show of green.

One by one its branches fall; it thins.

On windy days I hurry by, glancing upwards, ears cocked, set to run.

I knew a man once, met his end felled by a tree – the irony – one wild March morning, riding out.

Someday, someone will make the call ─ not me.

These old, deep-rooted things, still standing

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Sparrow (J P Stewart) The tits and wrens dart here and there, never still, jittery.

I look at you, you look at me.

Unruffled, on your hedge-top, in the morning sun.

Tiny monk, little prince.

What do you know?

That all is well.

That every drab brown feather counted, counts.

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England; summer (J P Stewart)

Blue skies, white clouds and shimmering heat.

The grass waist high, the green wheat rising.

Men will die on days like this, almost believing they might never end.

Let there be night

Here, where once four rivers flowed, black roses bloom on twisted stems.

Gods now, they begin again, creating man in their own image.

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Nesting Time (J P Stewart) Early spring and I’m sitting on a warm bench plucking a pigeon.

Finger and thumb into a metal pail.

In the corner of the garden by the twisted larch.

Now and then a feather or two floats off across the lawn.

A chaffinch appears.

Picks up a feather, flies away.

Returns, takes two. Next time, three.

She cocks her head and looks at me.

Slowly, I raise a fistful of feathers to my lips and blow.

Some days, quite out of the blue, these gifts from heaven.

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Blackbird (J P Stewart) The others keep their distance.

Or, perhaps it’s you.

With your half-white face and that tatty white mantle.

Piebald.

A runt too, half their size.

They sun themselves, sing and scold, in cottage-gardens, down the lane.

The years go by.

Three winters now, I’ve wished you luck.

When spring comes I look out for you.

Here, where the laurels crowd the hedge, by the compost heap, where nettles thrive.

Your little patch.

You know it well.

Each leaf and pebble.

Every bird.

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Goldfinch (J P Stewart) Daffodils and crocuses, white apple-blossom.

Sunlight on a red-brick wall.

In Nancy Whisker’s garden the colours sing.

Then you appear, and silence.

God’s trump, this bright spring morning.

The final word.

Night

Morning shall come; love will not fail.

The sun shall rise again; light will prevail.

The white moon rolled back like a stone, the bright stars swept away.

Morning shall come.

And morning will stay.

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Biographical Note: Paddy Mc Coubrey Paddy was born in belfast, lives in lurgan shortlisted for 2012 Desmond O Grady poety contest, nothing published as yet,

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Letter to Sophie (Paddy Mc Coubrey) When now I come to think of you while winter nights are long, as snow falls deep and covers all and the northern winds are strong, and the new full moon is hard to see through the frosty window pane, that also hides the street lamps that have flickered off again.

And the broken chair still sits by the table near the door, while the third broad still creaks when you walk across the floor, and the book of Spanish poets that I always meant to read, now lingers on a bookshelf that’s filled with war and creed.

For now on nights like this Somehow I still get caught, Always so it seems between memory and thought.

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And for all of the things that spring to mind, most were swept away and few were left behind, but now certain feelings always still remain, they re carried with the burden of the fall-out pain.

Well another log is burning keeps the room a little warm, they say tonights the start of the first full winter storm, and the candle by the window is dimming down and low, too low to cast a shadow or give a hearty glow.

In the silence here i wonder about all the reasons why, the reasons some things happen and the reasons that we try.

Old friends who used to visit no longer come to call,

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They’ve used up all their sympathy now they’ve nothing left at all, except some chosen words well rehearsed concise and clear, "how sadness never lasts and better days are near."

The clock ticks close to midnight and another year is gone, the ivy has all withered but your apple tree grows on, the branches still are heavy and dip a little low, reaching down to where the wildflowers used to grow.

But now its just a scene of simple winter white, as traces of the springtime are all but lost from sight.

Seems everywhere I look there’s a little bit of you, in every single season in every day that’s new.

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And so many kinds of pain i somehow had to fight, some of them are gone and some are locked in tight.

I can ease some just a little but no matter how I try, the greatest pain of all is we never said goodbye.

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The Night That Never Was (Paddy Mc Coubrey)

he wandered down the lane alone, past cottages of weathered stone, and stopped beside the tilted tree then stared as far as he could see, across the fields that never change was there he noticed something strange, just what it was he could not tell but it disappeared by the empty well.

he rubbed his eyes not once but twice his bones felt cold

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as cold as ice, and in the air he felt a chill that seem to come from yonder hill. well he did of course as one man might, and made his way in the fading light. towards the path where no one goes where the bluebells and the heather grows the air around was sharp and sweet and mixed as one in the summer heat.

still ever mindful of local lore he neared the place where few before

had ever dared

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to ventured near for tales they told where filled with fear. as the falling dusk descended fast the darkness over fields was cast, thro he felt a shiver in his bones he never felt at all alone.

and he never noticed that with every step, around the well a mist had crept, and it made the moon look dim and small, as clouds rolled by at a steady crawl.

then he stumbled on the rocky ground and just at that

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he heard the sound of someone’s voice from somewhere near that spoke to him precise and clear.

He felt a calm from deep inside the kind of calm you can’t describe and even then all sense of time was quickly swept from his aged mind and he did not feel in the least bit scared he only knew he was now prepared.

By the broken wall the full moon lit a familiar figure bit by bit now moving slow

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with a cautious pace when with himself come face to face.

into his eyes he dared to look for a second then his body shook he saw a life that used to be and he knew now that his soul was free and he knew his likeness meant no harm and was only there to bring peace and calm

and to ease his pain and his worldly load and walk him down an unseen road.

then he felt a tiredness from deep within

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his body heavy his breath grew thin so he sat himself on the stony ground as a strong sweet smell had settled round.

Now leaning out to the other man his bony fingers gripped the hand.

well they found him just before the dawn his body cold and his spirit gone and they said a prayer in the morning light as the wind blew soft and the rain fell slight then not too far they heard the toll of an old church bell for another soul

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Biographical Note: Maire Morrissey-Cummins Mรกire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for many years, working in Holland mainly and Mรกire lives between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published haiku writer.

Mรกire retired early from the Financial Sector and found art and poetry. She is really enjoying the experience of getting lost in words and paint

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Idyllic Altamont (Maire Morrissey-Cummins) Old stone pillars flank the entrance tangled with ivy, brambles and weeds.

An avenue of copper beech curves to an abandoned house where a peacock's call echoes from purple walled gardens.

Weeping Aspens tremble on sunlit walls.

A faded facade lies hidden under a myriad of saplings.

Vines meander the windows, moss carpets the steps.

Through an arched doorway a thick walkway spreads through lawns, lined by pyramids of clipped box and sweeping arches of yew.

Trellised roses perfume the path leading to a lily clotted lake.

Swans with their young forge a trail through yellow pods 54

dipping long necks into raven waters.

They drift in summer sunshine.

A woodland of rhododendron bracelet the lake, great mops of pink and purple leading down to a dank bog, swamped with giant rhubarb and grassy reeds swaying the breeze.

A diverging path coils to a cascading waterfall, crashing into to the river Slaney.

Dense dark ash spiral upwards to a bright grassy clearing to intoxicating views of the Blackstairs mountains.

A feast of surprises, at each path's twist and turn with a seat to sit and ponder, How I long to return to Altamont.

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Summer musings (Maire Morrissey-Cummins)

Leaning over the promenade wall, I watch the summer breeze puff nervous sea pinks over the rocky ledge.

It is July, the sun high in a hot blue sky.

It highlights the sea silver in the glow of noon.

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Ripples Under Ice (Maire Morrissey-Cummins)

Inspired by a walk around Powerscourt gardens in the summer.

Draped in a veil of ivory lace, she circles the frozen lake.

Her pearl studded hair ashen with grief flies with the icy wind under a star-lit night.

She stands a while staring into the deep watching white lilies bloom.

A gold ring burns her frozen finger as she whispers the words “I do�.

Beneath the glaze in the depths of the lake, she watches her dreams ripple.

They stand by the church door, 57

hearts glowing, confetti scatters the air.

She looks into his eyes, their lips touch as snow tumbles her face.

Her porcelain skin numbed by crystal spears stinging the cool night air, piercing her yearning heart.

For fifty-two years she awaits his return circling the lough by night.

In her silk purse, wrapped in scarlet tissue she guards a golden locket, token of their love.

She holds it to her lips, to her beating heart then clicks it open.

Gazing at the photographs, her true love stands in uniform and she is smiling seventeen.

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Warmed by her locket, wrapped in her memories her dreams continue to flourish.

Her lily bouquet flows in the ripples.

Loves reflections stilled forever, solid as ice.

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Biographical Note: Rachael Stanley Rachael Stanley has published poetry in Ireland and overseas.

Her work has been published in Static Poetry volumes II and III, Everyday Poets, Wednesday Haiku at Issa’s Untidy Hut, Riposte, The First Cut, and News Four.

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Ironing (Rachael Stanley)

The Kitchen has fallen silent now the days were numbered from the beginning For a while I played games with illusion skirting around shadows The sun is shining sleet and hail in this heart born to perish

The steam spits its hissing remedy upon the cloth smoothing out the creases

The moment of darkness passes

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Biographical Note: John Saunders

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Bee Lines (John Saunders)

Hovering over dandelions, he will not see winter.

Drones, on standby for virgin queen, the sting - death after sex.

Beeswax – secretions for candle glow and wood shine.

Royal Jelly of desire, sticky propolis, shellac of hives.

Death is in her sting, her survival in larvae.

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Crystal (John Saunders)

You are a single snowflake on my skin, an ice cube in my room warm gin.

You are snow blocking my driveway, sea ice floating in an artic bay,

a glacier in the dead of night, when ship’s captains lose their sight.

You are living in Calcite and Argonite and in vertebrates – hydroxyapatite.

You are polymorph and amorph, form silica and quartz.

In Graphite, soft enough to draw on slate or as an oil to lubricate.

Euhedral, Anhedral, your symmetry is a habit, you’re an ornament on my sitting room cabinet.

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Biographical Note: Paul Anthony Paul Anthony is a retired University lecturer. His first book, “The Adventures of the Tricycle Kid”. Is published on Amazon. It is a humorous account of growing up in Belfast in the Fifties and Sixties. He is also a contributor to collections such as “The Incubator” and on line anthologies such as “A New Ulster” and “The Camel Saloon” and has read extracts from his poetry at the “Mapping Memories” exhibition in the Ulster Hall. In addition he is a regular contributor to writing forums such as Blackstaff’s Skypen and Harper-Collins Authoronomy.

At present, he is 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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Boris O’ Murphy - The Only Russian Ever To Join The IRA (Paul Anthony) Boris O’Murphy amongst other things, was a misnomer. The only son of an Irish hotel worker and a Russian sailor, he was born and named Boris Oliver Murphy.

When the birth was registered with the State in Moscow on a red October morning in 1948, an over enthusiastic Party official, who knew that the island of Ireland lay somewhere to the west of Poland and that most surnames there began with the letter “O”, duly entered the name Boris O’Murphy in the ledger. It was next to Brendan Murphy, Irish Citizen, Hotel Worker and Irena Malinova, Citizen of the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics, First Officer on the нет капитуляция submarine.

The sole issue of this unlikely union, his progress through school was closely observed by the men in shadows who knew, that in addition to Ireland being an island somewhere to the west of Poland, it had vaguely something to do with Britain. His Russo-Celtic heritage was something of a novelty in his school in the Arbat suburbs of Moscow. He was not the brightest of children to say the least, but as he was able to recite everything almost parrot fashion immediately on hearing it, he gained a level of esteem way beyond his capabilities and soon was wearing the red scarf of the Pioneers with pride, passing into the Komsomol on his fifteenth birthday and a short time after that, the full Communist Party. He began adult working life in a print factory and his social life centred round Party meetings and associated leisure activities.

With his parental background of a Green father and a Red mother, he was as Irish as he was Russian and notions of revolution came easy to him. His father had ingrained in him a hatred of all things British from an early age and this did not go unnoticed by his Party mentors. This, plus his innate desire to do what he was told and a brain which could be easily filled with things he could not pretend to comprehend, singled him out as possible spy material by the KGB. The fact that he had inherited his 66

father’s brogue which he applied liberally to both his Russian and English, a shock of red curly hair and other physical features associated with the Celtic race was also considered to be a plus.

He was approached at a summer camp where he had gone for two weeks holidays in his twentieth year and was given special duties by the Party to test his resolve. These he carried out with the eagerness of a simpleton which both pleased and worried his mentors.

They decided to further test him with a low level courier job in England. He was to go to London, meet up with a contact, collect a parcel and return to Moscow. Nothing could be simpler.

It was decided that he should enter the British Isles through his native Ireland, travel to Belfast, go to the ‘mainland’ via the Larne-Stranraer ferry then on to London where he would be met in the Shamrock Bar in Brent Park by his contact. He was given the necessary documentation which showed him to be an Irishman, a handful of Irish and English pounds, his book of introduction password lines and was shown the door.

Post war Europe was not the easiest of places to traverse but he did it with surprising ease. On arrival in Dublin, he caught the train to Belfast and made his way to the bus station. He saw the bus for LARNE, the name he immediately recognised as his port of departure. He also saw a bus for LONDONDERRY. He recognised the first part of the name, so using whatever little initiative he had, decided that this would take this one.

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He asked the driver for a return ticket to London.

“Fuck me!” thought Robert. “I know the Fenians call it Derry and we call it Londonderry but just to call it London? Now there’s a true Son of Ulster!”

He gave him a free ticket.

The fact that Boris did not cross anything resembling water on his journey fussed him not.

Within two hours he had arrived. The place was in darkness and the streets were empty. He eventually found someone and asked directions to the Shamrock Bar. He found it with minimal difficulty and on securing a room upstairs, spent three days and nights, supping Guinness with vodka chasers, waiting for his contact to arrive. As per instructions, he spoke to no one. He was annoyed he was not able to see Buckingham Palace.

Meanwhile in the Shamrock Bar in Brent Park, London, Ivan Asanov in emerald green shirt, white trousers and an orange cravat, like a refugee from the Eurovision Song Contest, nodded, winked and approached a succession of likely men with some minor success but not in the field of espionage!

On the fourth night, Boris was approached by someone who looked less than the spy he had been creating in his head. The someone had been watching him from the day and hour he entered the bar - empty eyes, a dour face below a tightly curled head of hair, and a post box slit for a mouth.

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“What you doin’ here?” said Empty Eyes.

The greeting seemed vaguely familiar. It was almost like the opening delivery he was expecting which was supposed to be: “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?” but he was not sure.

“Please remain here for one minute”, he said and repaired to the Gents with haste.

Thumbing through the Book of Introductions – he could not find the phrase but perhaps there had been a mistake. “Close enough!” he thought. He returned to the bar to exclaim with some triumph

“The Sultan of Brunei has ingrown toenails”, in his best Irish brogue, adding a “Begorrah!” for an additional touch of authenticity.

“Are you takin the piss mucker?”

“Surely the reply should be, ‘You may kiss me on a Monday?’ ”. He thought it best to leave out the “A Chara!”

“OK smart arse…… outside!”

He was bundled into a waiting Ford Cortina with two shadows, one in the driver’s seat and one in the back.

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“Let me do him now, Brendan” said the second shadow.

“Wait! Hood him! We’ll hear what he has to say first!”

Second shadow pulled out a pink pillow case cover and began to tie it over his face.

“What in the name of Jesus is that?”

“It’s me ma’s pillowcase, it’s all I could find!”

“It’s bloody pink!”

“Well I didn’t wanna use my new Thunderbirds one!”

“Jesus!”

He was blindfolded and driven to a wood some miles away where he was given two options: either he could have his kneecaps removed without the aid of pain relieving drugs or he could tell the consultant parasurgeon the whole story as to why he was in the Bogside. He chose the latter, blurting out more information than he really needed to and that they wanted to hear.

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The shadows were dumfounded and looked at each other blankly. This was way out of their depth.

“Jesus Christ Brendan, the Brits we can deal with but the Kremlin. I’ve seen what these guys can do!”

“Lemme think! Lemme think!” His clarity of thought was somehow impeded by a hooded Boris, swaying back and forward, humming “Danny Boy” in the background.

“Shut it you!” said Empty Eyes pushing his face with pillow case into the muck.

“Easy Brendan for Chrissake. That’s me ma’s best pillowcase. She’ll have my guts for garters if I bring it home dirty!”

“I’ll have your fucking guts you wanker!”

“It’s only the “Londonderry Air” interjected Boris, now as confused as his captors.

“I’ll waste you, you, you little……” the words would not come.

“And it’s not the Londonderry Air – you little toad. It’s the “Derry Friggin’ Air.”

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“Aaah!” said Boris with sudden realisation and making a mental note of the real title, “The Derry Friggin’ Air”. He would tell his mentors of their mistake when he got home and he looked forward to singing it in other Irish company if he ever got the chance to go to Ireland. He would really impress them! He might even sing his only other Irish song the “Mountains of Friggin’ Mourne”!

He was driven to a safe house in the Creggan Estate, where given the circumstances he was treated reasonably well although his persistent requests for beetroot soup and pickled cabbage almost led to him being on the wrong end of a good seeing to on more than one occasion.

When he was checked out over a week later and nothing could be found on him, he joined the ranks of 4th Battalion Provisional IRA, South Derry branch.

Meanwhile in a bar somewhere in Brent Park, London, Ivan Asanov, undercover Russian spy, second class, was being led away by the Metropolitan Police on suspicion of soliciting for gay sex.

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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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June’s 2014'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS: Cats dislike change. The Editor knows this now. He has spent most of this week unpacking us from the various boxes we have hidden in. A New Ulster is apparently moving house. It’s all change around here lately. Elections, moving address, and a new system for ordering hard copies – this comes into effect from August 4th 2014. It was decided

by Arizahn, as it will be easier and more financially viable...whatever that means...will there be more money for tuna?

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: Peter O’Neill Born in Cork in 1967, Peter O' Neill spent the majority of the nineties in France before returning to live in Dublin where he has been living ever since. His debut collection 'Antiope' ( Stonesthrow Poetry, 2013) appeared to critical acclaim.

"Certainly a voice to be reckoned with." Wrote Dr Brigitte Le Juez (DCU). His second collection 'The Elm Tree' ( Lapwing, 2014) was also well received. " a vibrant, sensitive and amazingly inventive poet" Ross Breslin ( The Scum Gentry). A third collection ' The Dark Pool' is due to appear early next year ( Mauvaise Graine ). He will be reading from 'The Elm Tree' by invitation of O Bheal in Cork, on the 23rd of June.

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Blue Pattern by Peter O’Neill

Red Patter by Peter O’Neill

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Biographical Note: Maire Morrissey-Cummins Mรกire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for many years, working in Holland mainly and Mรกire lives between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published haiku writer.

Mรกire retired early from the Financial Sector and found art and poetry. She is really enjoying the experience of getting lost in words and paint

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Gated Doorway by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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Summer Entrance by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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North Beach by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

South Beach by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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Waterfall by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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Biographical Note: Arizahn Arizahn is one of the editors of A New Ulster primarily responsible for managing the Alley cats and prose pieces.

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Tread Twice Unto Tiber (for Narfi) (Arizahn)

Flycatcher. Snapping crocodile. Fox in a collar.

Everything was twice wrought with you: Birth, Life, Death – aye, even that journey.

Stillborn, saved, sent safely onwards again By those that had spun you into this span.

Returned twice too to us By two would-be forever afters – maybe you liked it here?

Upside down and akimbo you drifted Lost in our arms and running still From whatever it was inside of you.

Red, gold and white in the cool waters And under the dappled dream of trees You paced as closely as you could to us.

There was pollen netting the breeze And bees and damp white moths All through the height of the safe grasses.

But not enough of this world Was ever safe to you, and what was Shrank too far at the last.

Bad dreams haunting a bloody good dog 84

As whimpering away sleep You told us you had decided to depart – it was time now.

I wasn’t there for the final act Of your Triumph – Emperor, forgive me please?

Return now to Tiber: that long lost river With waters filled by far worse!

Pad on across the bright of the last sleep As the Bifrost melts into Elysium.

Ashes beneath an unknown guardian tree You wait unafraid at last, at least now.

Beyond the lesion and its grip Laughing redly at everything.

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LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES 978-1-909252-35-6 London A Poem in Ten Parts Daniel C. Bristow 978-1-909252-36-3 Clay x Niall McGrath 978-1-909252-37-0 Red Hill x Peter Branson 978-1-909252-38-7 Throats Full of Graves x Gillian Prew 978-1-909252-39-4 Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro 978-1-909252-40-0 A Long Way to Fall x Andy Humphrey 978-1-909252-41-7 words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne 978-1-909252-42-4 Red Roots - Orange Sky x Csilla Toldy 978-1-909252-43-1 At Last: No More Christmas in London x Bart Sonck 978-1-909252-44-8 Shreds of Pink Lace x Eliza Dear 978-1-909252-45-5 Valentines for Barbara 1943 - 2011 x J.C.Ireson 978-1-909252-46-2 The New Accord x Paul Laughlin 978-1-909252-47-9 Carrigoona Burns x Rosy Wilson 978-1-909252-48-6 The Beginnings of Trees x Geraldine Paine 978-1-909252-49-3 Landed x Will Daunt 978-1-909252-50-9 After August x Martin J. Byrne 978-1-909252-51-6 Of Dead Silences x Michael McAloran 978-1-909252-52-3 Cycles x Christine Murray 978-1-909252-53-0 Three Primes x Kelly Creighton 978-1-909252-54-7 Doji:A Blunder x Colin Dardis 978-1-909252-55-4 Echo Fields x Rose Moran RSM 978-1-909252-56-1 The Scattering Lawns x Margaret Galvin 978-1-909252-57-8 Sea Journey x Martin Egan 978-1-909252-58-5 A Famous Flower x Paul Wickham 978-1-909252-59-2 Adagios on Re – Adagios en Re x John Gohorry 978-1-909252-60-8 Remembered Bliss x Dom Sebastian Moore O.S.B 978-1-909252-61-5 Ightermurragh in the Rain x Gillian Somerville-Large 978-1-909252-62-2 Beethoven in Vienna x Michael O'Sullivan 978-1-909252-63-9 Jazz Time x Seán Street 978-1-909252-64-6 Bittersweet Seventeens x Rosie Johnston 978-1-909252-65-3 Small Stones for Bromley x Harry Owen 978-1-909252-66-0 The Elm Tree x Peter O'Neill 978-1-909252-67-7 The Naming of Things Against the Dark and The Lane x C.P. Stewart More can be found at https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/home All titles £10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.

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