ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Marcus Strider Jones, Helen Harrison, P D Lyons, Marie Lecrivain Judith Thurley and Marion Clarke. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 29 February 2015
A New Ulster On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Editorial
page 5
Marcus Strider Jones; The Dance
pages 7-8
Its so Quiet Pyramid Prison Hats of Sociopathic Eclipse The Division Bell Ninety Nine Percent in Tents Two Misfits
pages 9-10 pages 11-12 page 13 pages 14-15 page 16 page 17
Helen Harrison; SEEDS
pages19-20
POTATOES
page 21
Haiku
page 22
P D Lyons; page 24
Magumbo Shhh & Grandview Avenue
page 25
The Tree the Wind Lives In & Lovers w/ the Cello Player Thank You
page 26 page 27
Marie Lecrivain; Hemingway’s Veil State of the Neighbourhood
page 29 page 30
Judith Thurley; Siraj Eyad Abdul Villanelle Me Caso Hoy May
page 32 page 33 pages 34-35 page 36
Life is a Beautiful Dream
pages 37-38
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On The Wall Message from the Alleycats
page 40
Marie Lecrivain; Marie’s work can be found Marion Clarke; Marion’s work can be found
pages 42-43 page 45 Round the Back
Press Releases Book Review and editorial
pages 46-48
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Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/ Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland. All rights reserved The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 To be identified as the authors of their work. ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Cover Image “Equine Shadows� by Amos Greig
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“Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.” Aristotle. Editorial February is for many a quiet period Imbloc was only a few days ago and the weather is starting to turn I’ve had a great deal of fun working on this issue and I believe the quality of the submissions speaks for themselves. The poets voice is one which sings the praises of passion and shines a light on the darker aspects of humanity. A poet can use their words to inflict a barb or to help lance an old wound. For me poetry can be a key for enabling Peace and Reconciliation. Northern Ireland still bears the scars of the Troubles and we have started to stumble over Peace and Reconciliation there is an emphasis on the past and history here sadly that history can itself be biased and only helps pollute the future for other generations. I’m pleased to say that we have reached a global audience and that we will continue to operate as a platform for up and coming voices. We have some strong work from P D Lyons and Judith Thurley some of these pieces will make you think and some will make you wonder at the world around you. I hope you enjoy this issue and find something which stays with you. Our next issue will be released in time for International Women’s Day.
Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!
Amos Greig
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Biographical Note: Marcus Strider Jones Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. In 2014, his poetry has been published in A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27, The Screech Owl, Catweazle Issue 5, Calliope and The Gambler magazines; Degenerates Voices For Peace-Vagabonds: Anthology Of The Mad; Killer Whale Journal; Dagda Publishing; The Huffington Post USA; Writer’s Ezine; The Poets Haven-Vending Machine Poetry for Change Volume 5; Sonic Boom Journal and The Open Mouse. His poetry has also been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition; Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal, 2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal and East Coast Literary Review.
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THE DANCE (Marcus Strider Jones) pull the roof off knock the walls down touch the forest climb those mountains and smell the sea again. watch how life decomposes in death going back to land to reform and be reborn as something and someone else. there's no great secret to it all. no need to overthink it through food and shelter fire and shamens clothes and coupling used to be enough with musicians artists and poets interpreting the dance. then warriors with armies religions with god and minds buying and selling stole the landscape and changed time. smash the windows break down the doors melt the keys rub evil words from their spells and puncture the lungs of their wheels before they kidnap you from bed call you dissident hold you without charge wheel you out on a stretcher from waterboard torture for years without trial in Guantanamo Bay. they are selling 7
the sanctuary we made with our numbers bringing back chains making some of us slaves outside the dance in the five coloured rings making winners and losers holding flags and flames.
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IT'S SO QUIET (Marcus Strider Jones) it's so quiet our eloquent words dying on a diet of midnight toast with Orwell's ghostlooking so tubercular in a tweed jacket pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packetour Winston, wronged for a woman and sin re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes that came to him in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools where conscience learns to lie within. not like today the smug-sly haves say and look away so sure there's nothing wrong with wanting more, or drown their sorrows downing bootleg gin knowing tomorrows truth is paper thin . at home in sensory perception with tapped and tracked phone the Thought Police arrest me in the corridors of affectionwhere dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats in collapsing houses, all self-made and self-paid smarmy scrotesnow the Round Table of real red politics is only fable on the pyre of ghostly heretics. they are rubbing out all the contusions and solitary doubt, with confusions and illusions through wired media defined in their secret encyclopediawhere summit and boardroom and conclave engineer us from birth to grave. 9
like the birds, i will have to eat the firethorn berries that ripen but sleep to keep the words of revolution alive and warm this winter, with resolution gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak, to be reborn and speak.
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PYRAMID PRISON (Strider Marcus Jones) in detritus metronomes of human habitation the ghost of Shelley's imagination questions the elemental, experimental chromosomes and ribosomes of DNA, reverse engineered that suddenly appeared as evolution yesterday. her monster mirrors dark wells of monsters in our smart selves, the lost humanity and oratory that fills laboratory test tubes with fused imbued genes to dreams of flat forward faster distinction to disaster and barbarism's ectopic extinction. this is our pyramid prison, where all souls and proles climb the debased opposite steps of extremism, like Prometheus Unbound, defaced sitting around the crouching sphinx abandoned by missing links. free masons of money and wars, warp the alter of natural laws, so reason withers and wastelands rustno longer rivers of shared stardust in the equal symphony of spheres in space, 11
filling our ears with subwoofer bass, definitive primitive medieval evil waste.
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HATS OF SOCIOPATHIC ECLIPSE (Marcus Strider Jones) the cream is a nightmare seldom a dream, that blood rare stream that rises unstopped, soured by bullies whose wisdom has no worries and despises those who are not. when truth becomes twisted then hard fisted and spoken rotten over all we have forgotten, you know the mask want it to last over us like the past. they want us to be clones of skin and blood and bones, like frightened, servile drones grateful but outcast. corruption is the god of the Significant, so be wary as you plod if your mind is wired differentsordid business gives soiled forgiveness now the politics and technocrats are Fixed: let your individuality and normality be the sense and conscience against these hats of sociopathic eclipse.
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THE DIVISION BELL (Marcus Strider Jones) they have civilised the language of hatred and corruptionturned it into condensed subliminal codes to be absorbed passively and aspired to through elite worship. this softening, that swims in intercourse with Oppositions and Self mandates it's wars and povertyhides the bodies from presentations where the Smile and Fist work together. there is no Division Bell that Speaks and Moves with and for the majority marching past outsidelike Natives carrying their bags of belongings, being screened and moved from lush lands early into cemeteries or onto cattle trains out to desert Reservations. the Doors of cold centuries blow open, and we see how Treaties are still Broken and Abusedby those we entrust who have turned the Globe of Everything we are meant to Share into something Bought and Sold 14
all Right to be Owned and Inherited. most sheep don't Mass for muchjust a patch of grass to graze and a shack to shag and sleep ina few, have their own field and privately furnished rooms, but when they all adore w and k's first tour on the front page and tv news for twelve days of conditioning, or letch and leer over the tits on page threethe Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law makes them troll and bay for this culling of peopleuntil it comes for them.
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NINETY NINE PERCENT IN TENTS (Marcus Strider Jones) in the compound of this room we make our tent with revolution's loom knitting a firmament that challenges corrupt times with solemn slogans to plutarch totems simply marked on cardboard signs. resistance kindles in the dark and breathes new poetry and art like a cultural tsunami elites can't beat with armies. these sincere spears of human spheres stand soft spoken, peaceful, but not broken like disciples in fabric domes chanting social justice tomes while Jesus circles existential throwing speculators from the temple. we don't need money in our tent to make each other feel so spentonly the sea shore, forest and mountains to trickle streams and spurt fountains, unlocking love when the cradle rocks the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.
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TWO MISFITS (Marcus Strider Jones) it was no time for love outsideold winds of worship found hand and mouth in ruined rain slanting over cultured fields into pagan barns with patched up planks finding us two misfits. i felt the pulse of your undressed fingers transmit thoughts to my sensesaroused by autumn scents of milky musk and husky hay in this barn's faith we climbed the rungs of civilisation so random in our exileand found a bell housed inside a minaretwith priest and muezzin sharing its balconysummoning all to prayer with one voicethis holy music, was only the wind blowing through the weathervane, but we liked its tone to change its time.
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Biographical Note: Helen Harrison Helen was awarded funding from ‘The Arts Council of Northern Ireland’, to study writing and poetry at ‘The Poets House’ Donegal during April last year, and gained inspiration and knowledge during the 7 day course. Helen has performed poetry at the Garage Theatre in Monaghan, and at Monaghan Art Show. She has also performed at the ‘Bray Arts Show’ in Wicklow, and has poems in the ‘Bray Journal’. Helen enjoyed the pleasure of sharing some of her poetry, through reading, on ‘The Creative Flow’ on Dundalk FM. Helen has appeared at Belfast’s ‘Purely Poetry ‘open mic events. She has recently been long-listed for The Allingham Festival prize. And has had poems published in a recent edition of A New Ulster. Some of her poems are on a blog: ‘poetry4on.blogspot.com’ which is named ‘words4thought’.
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SEEDS (Helen Harrison) 1 On a Sunday in mid-summer right at the edge of the park you come to me; talking future plans, shining eyes, and a heart that dared. We saw ourselves buying a car to travel down to the coast whenever we took the urge All planned out under the elm of eager spreading roots. Many seeds scattered ideas with wings on the breeze hope floating all the way towards the sea along winding open-windowed roads.
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SEEDS 2 Smashed in spring - the last season you inhaled; lying singing on the back seat. The front driver’s side was saved, letting me drive to dreams that died. Dreams have a way Of coming at you by the front And leaving by the back door. I pass it now, the car In the scrap yard At the edge of the town It’s only half now.
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POTATOES (Helen Harrison) I can smell the sweet potato peel Upon my skin - and I visualise walking Amongst the summer rows. I pick over the box of earthy potatoes. When I pull one that is perfect I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget Buried in my memory - a charm. I peel back happiness from the soil, Memories drop into a watery bowl; The day we planted them - sowing Love which had lain on the edges. Uncertain, I nearly threw love out With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges. Instead I wrapped them and stored them In a cold shed - for spring planting; I can already see your face shining pride At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance; The posture of the accomplished soul - your eyes, Stare lovingly at each planted offering.
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HAIKU – Helen Harrison
SURVIVAL Nurtured and nourished After late spring arrival The flowers flourished.
SCAVENGED They picked the ribs clean Inside the frozen carcass No waste in nature. LANDINGS Winter birds landed Fuelling idea during flight Poems like seeds sprung growth. WINGS The frequent fluttering Wings on winter bird table Helped my poems take flight.
GROWTH Those fresh spring ideas After a frost-sharp silence Cleared the cluttered mind. to look at my bare face to find a moroseness sharper than its facial striations –
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Biographical Note: P D Lyons
Tim Dwyer has recent publications in the Boyne Berries, Burning Bush 2, North West Words, Ropes 2014, Skylight 47 and wordlegs. His current manuscript is entitled Smithy Of Our Longings: Messages From The Irish Diaspora. He is poetry consultant to Catskills Irish Arts and a member of Irish American Writers And Artists. He is a psychologist at a correctional facility, grew up in Brooklyn and lives in the Hudson Valley of New York State. His parents were from Galway
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Magumbo (P D Lyons) in the back yards of the moon mountains ever silk a cigarette a champagne a dress for dinner as if we would ever be back the only true things ghosts unable to sleep unable to abide the weight of age and flesh princess and the cats a woman afraid of her own jungle hunter of the caged a man afraid of mortality how could our hungers meet? how could our true nature reveal those ghosts we fear so much, all the spirit we could have been all we trade away so cheap. in obligation of our evenings entitlement of our heritage sweat black the spear singers sweat black the towel holders as if the pale god held sway with out the guns of our own steel with out the cripple nature of our own fears we could never make our way a way
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Shhh (P D Lyons) young legged dream blue moon tights pillows of lies languid skirts smudged red lips shhh like smoke
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Grandview Avenue We were walking Hand in hand Up the hill In the rain I had your bright red scarf Wrapped around my head Traffic swished by Lights on Wipers squelching We didn’t know what the day would bring But I turned my face up to the sky Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me
(Waterbury Ct 2011)
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The Tree the Wind Lives In (P D Lyons) the tree the wind lives in drowses a whisper something on the road rain windows your passing soul promises like rides to every hitchhiker never kept smoky speculations headlight hide and seek behind some kind of lace hung by my visiting mother as if ever earned a simple gratitude
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lovers w/ the Cello Player
envy of every straight male hugged by those knees arms for which the word sinew was invented hands entwined by pure blue vines exquisite needles drawn from every inch spread through return to our randomly occurring bodies until this moment never knowing anything
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Thank You (P D Lyons) My first cigar of the season and I think of you Gabriel I too have my river like yours but different although how different can rivers of men really be? each travels the same easiest option easily taken to the same sea never stopping each deals with whatever is thrown into it no matter what only disappearing into the same saline never ending sea does that sea greet you now women you have loved and been loved by comrades of good and not so good words food drink fine smoke from properly rolled cigars angels through an unlimited jungle of stainless sky
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Biographical Note: Marie Lecrivain
Marie Lecrivain is the editor-publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and is writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Edgar Allen Poetry Journal, Maitenant, A
New Ulster, The Ironic Fantastic, Nonbinary Review, Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and others. She’s the author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (© 2014 Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House), and she’s the editor of the anthology Near Kin: Words and Art inspired by Octavia E. Butler (© 2014 Sybaritic Press). Her avocations include alchemy, alternate modes of transportation, H.P. Lovecraft, Vincent Price, steam punk accessories, and the letter “S."
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Hemingway's Veil (Marie Lecrivain) (Inspired by Hemingway's "Secret Pleasures") In the beginning, I watched my hair grow In the mirror, or at the glass windows at Maxims Where it looked longer after drinking my aperitif. I felt the locks curl about my ears of their own Accord, like Pauline's slender fingers, A tender and guilty caress that stripped me Of all desire to write, hunt, or to watch My hair grow in Maxim's windows. But since I'm not the most patient of men, And to hasten the growth, I stopped wearing suits, Bathing, and letting my wife caress My ears, as I feared this would make The follicles lose their desire to grow Over the broad terrain of my brow, And down the long line of my neck. Days pass. Weeks pass. The hair strives to cover As much ground as it can. I can't go to Maxims, Or Shakespeare and Co. without being Treated like a hobo, or that I'm too poor and too Mental to enjoy a good meal or borrow a book. My hair falls into my eyes and over my ears, A thick curly veil my body wove for itself. Today, I prepare myself to ford the stream From the left bank of the writer to the right bank of journalism. My hair obscures my vision. I can no longer watch where I step.
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State of the Neighborhood (Marie Lecrivain) To protect and serve. This was a promise we could count on before days of remote CCTV cams and drones. In a lawless land, this is de rigueur. But now, take note of the stepped up presence of military ‘copters in our skies and the unsmiling people who freeze at the arbitrary need for the LAPD profiling of our friends and neighbors. I never leave the house without my wallet anymore, in case this happens to me. I believe it just might when I’m going to the store or out for a stroll one lovely spring day. What price freedom when trust is thrown away?
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Biographical Note: Judith Thurley
Judith Thurley had her poetry pamphlet Listening for Hedgehogs published in 1995 by Lapwing Press in Belfast. She has since had poems published in Ireland, the US and Newfoundland & Labrador. She has had non-fiction nature prose published in A Wilder Vein by Two Ravens in Scotland and wrote a chapter on the nature poetry of Ulster as part of A Natural History of Ulster. She is a member of Word of Mouth Collective and QUB Writers' Group
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Siraj Eyad Abdul-Aal (Judith Thurley) aged only 8, of Khan Younis, I stood on the steps of Broadcasting House and upheld your name for the cameras. I pressed your name against my breast as if that might succour you, as if that might halt the missile, as if that might unmake of rubble your home. Siraj Eyad Abdul-Aal, aged only 8, of Khan Younis, when we posted the thousand beloved names of your dead neighbours on the wall of Broadcasting House saying them aloud, chanting justice, chanting stop! we might as well have been talking to the wall. Siraj Eyad Abdul-Aal, aged only 8, of Khan Younis I wish your mother to know that I am still saying your name, even here, even now.
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Cameron climbs the stairs of the Ulster Hospital. (Judith Thurley)
He took us two at a time with such virility! (We were burnished the night before with polishing wax). He trampled on us; he’d no time for disability, on his pre-election tour of this healthcare facility. (His helicopter was paid for with income tax). He took us two at a time with such virility as he strode, the picture of alpha-male health and fertility, all pelvis and outstretched hand to the Unionist chaps. He trampled on us, he’d no time for disability and his eye scoured the hall; oh, we never saw such affability! as he waved at the people whose jobs he was planning to axe. He took us two at a time with such virility, dismissing the workers’ fears and vulnerability with a jovial grin: Vote me in! Then you can chillax! He trampled on us, he’d no time for disability. But the woman who cradled the child with the growth in his back, stared him out, unimpressed by his gung-ho go-getter-bility. He took us two at a time with such virility: he trampled on us. He’d no time for disability.
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Me caso hoy (Judith Thurley) Me caso hoy: mis novios el mar y el viento del norte. El uno besa mi cara, el otro bana mis pies. El cormoran es el oficiante; la garza real y arao negro, nuestros testigos. Olas y gaviotas tocan y cantan y es solista el mirlo de Belfast Lough. Mis suegros seran el sol y la luna y mi familia las cuatro estaciones. La luna de miel es aqui mismo y seguira hasta que me muera. ยกQue ningun hombre me atrape! ยกque ningun hombre me aprisione! ยกque ningun hombre me gobierne!
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This is my wedding day. (Judith Thurley) This is my wedding day. My grooms; the sea and the north wind. One kisses my face, the other bathes my feet. The cormorant is priest; heron and black guillemot our witnesses. Waves and gulls sing and play and the soloist is the blackbird of Belfast Lough. Sun and moon will be my in-laws, and my family the four seasons. The honeymoon is right here and will last till the day I die. No man catch me. No man imprison me. No man govern me.
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MAY (Judith Thurley) For Louis J, aged 2 I want to see the ribbons Yes, the ribbons are beautiful Where are the ribbons? The ribbons are in a box Where is the box? The box is in the loft Where is the loft? The loft is up in the roof Where is the roof? The roof is on the school Where is the school? The school is among the trees Where are the trees? The trees are on top of the hill Where is the hill? The hill is above the town Where is the town? The town is beside the sea Where is the sea? The sea is behind the house I want to see the sea.
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life is a beautiful dream (Judith Thurley)
my son on top of the hill waving his arms at me not quite in silhouette for it is still just light and behind him the great light of the sky and the sky arches over him and over me and I know if I turn, behind me there is the rustling sea and carving into the sea the golden curve of fields and trees a lean-to and huddle of hawthorn and whin the Point I can feel the sea’s restlessness I am inhaling the sea’s perfume her seaweed baths her pebble garlands and the universe is a shimmering bay between two juts of land and beyond them another cove another point and beyond that I learn that a moment like this is eternity where even the guttural the banal are an echo of the passion of heaven and when the robin and the blackbird 37
sing and children’s voices chime and drift on the salty air we are already in heaven and my son is on top of the hill waving to me against the light of the sky
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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. 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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FEBRUARY 2015’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
We still need more tuna. Arizahn still needs more gin. Send tuna and gin quickly please. And James Bond (not the current one) to work the tin opener, ta muchly! Valentine’s Day is looming once again…well done John Byrne for spotting last issue’s deliberate mistake. 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: Marie Lecrivain
Marie Lecrivain is the editor-publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and is writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Edgar Allen Poetry Journal, Maitenant,
A New Ulster, The Ironic Fantastic, Nonbinary Review, Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and others. She’s the author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (© 2014 Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House), and she’s the editor of the anthology Near Kin: Words and Art inspired by Octavia E. Butler (© 2014 Sybaritic Press). Her avocations include alchemy, alternate modes of transportation, H.P. Lovecraft, Vincent Price, steam punk accessories, and the letter “S."
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Accidental Isoceles by Marie Lecrivain
Camoflage by Marie Lecrivain
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Lethe by Marie Lecrivain
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Biographical Note: Marion Clarke
Marion Clarke is a writer and artist from Warrenpoint, County Down. Her poetry and fiction has appeared in literary journals, including Burning Bush II and The Linnet’s Wings. In 2013 her entry was long-listed in the Desmond O’Grady international poetry competition. An advocate of Japanese-style short form poetry (haiku, senryu, haibun, haiga and tanka) Marion’s work has been widely published internationally and in 2012 she received a Sakura Award in the Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Competition. Highly commended in the Irish Haiku Society’s International Competition in 2012 and 2013, she was delighted to be placed third in last year’s event. In 2014 she was the overall winner of Dublin’s Carousel Summer Haiku Competition and last November was invited to read her poetry at the launch of the inaugural Seamus Heaney Award in the Linen Hall Library, Belfast.
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Pearl-Moon by Marion Clarke
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In this edition, Assistant Editor and Senior Alley Cat Wrangler Arizahn reviews a recent independently published novel from Texas - Ashes Upon The Snow (Carroll C. Martin), and asks awkward questions of our attitudes towards literature. Ashes Upon The Snow is a supremely gradual suspense, and a challenging read. Author Carroll C. Martin demonstrates his deeply rooted connection to the source material from the very first page. He paints a vivid image of the gritty innocence of rural life within 1920’s Texas. In addition, his personal experience within law enforcement ensures a detailed coverage of the investigation and subsequent trial. However there is a recurrent tendency to over clarify that jars with the overall subtlety of the narrative. Additionally, the author flits through time when providing back story information. This isn’t easy to read as there are no clear indicators as to when it is happening until after the event has been read about. The effect of these co-existing memoirs for the characters is unsettling, as it is difficult to predict how or when the main plot will proceed. And perhaps this is one of the novel’s strengths: the reader is unable to sit comfortably with it. It is a window into a reality that is far removed from our own, despite it having been inspired by real world events. Whether this work requires an editor or merely a patient and attentive reader can only ever be a matter of perspective. What remains as undeniable is that the author knows precisely where he is taking his audience and won’t be rushed. This dogged, inevitable approach conveys the unrelenting march of history all too well and renders the reader as utterly powerless in its wake. Not everyone enjoys this form of storytelling, and it is truly delightful to find an example of it enduring within today’s quick fix society. It is also intensely surprising. This style of writing is dying out, leaving our shelves and minds poorer for its passing. Ask yourself this – how many times have you been disappointed with the content or narrative tone of the latest so-called best seller? Why 46
are so many of the current titles available at a vastly reduced price so very soon after their release? We could perhaps point fingers at the dreaded e-book market. “Blame the independent authors; blame online sellers; blame those who won’t charge a decent price!” But instead let’s be blunt. It’s not down to them at all. It’s down to the reader base that refuses to buy anything at a price where it can be sustainable. This isn’t as much of a concern for the established publishers. Mainstream book selling is a balancing act of clever marketing and cut throat production techniques. The reason that it is so difficult to break into this world is because those running it will only risk taking on those that they can reliably sell. And that means that they want formula. When the standard fare consistently sells enough copies to cover the cost of producing it, you don’t change the recipe. At least not until enough consumers notice that the flavour is unsatisfactory. By that point there will be another title ready to shoulder the mantle of latest best seller, and another author hoping to close the difference between their advance and the production costs. Only then can they hope to receive any royalty payments. Independent authors struggle to keep on trying in the face of such inevitable ennui. Why should they pour out another measure of their soul if no one is prepared to acknowledge their craft? Every ten pages of a finished novel will represent on average two weeks of hard work – anything from six to ten hours of solid graft per day. With an average page count of three hundred, this means that there has been a year’s worth of effort involved. This includes not only writing, but research and development, typesetting, proofing, revisions, perhaps even artwork. There may be expenditure required for those authors who cannot manage the whole circus single handed. The end result is a labour of love; a dream made real despite the pressures of the author’s everyday life and career – and it will stand the best hope of selling if it is priced at £0.99 to £3.99 per copy. These prices render producing a printed copy impossible for the independent author. It would actually cost more to make the book than they would receive from its sale, hence the tendency to go straight to e-book editions in the hope of garnering enough revenue to validate an eventual print run. Their only other viable alternative is the print on demand formula, with its inevitably higher price tag. The author must be prepared for a doubly uphill battle to win enough interest to be able to sell their work, and they will only receive the royalties once they have sold enough copies to translate into £100. At perhaps thirty pence average royalty amount per copy, this will take a while. Little wonder that the literary agents remain so powerful; holding the connections to mainstream publication and all of its supposed financial benefits. “You must have an agent; an agent will mean that you are taken seriously; an agent opens doors.” In my view, more doors are blocked by the expectation for authors to have agents – they have become the priesthood of literature. Authors are believed to be incapable of representing themselves and sadly most accept this to be true. It is arguably a myth which suits agents and publishers a little too well. Modern technology has enabled a freedom of expression that was undreamt of in previous eras. With this freedom has come the tendency to regard self-publishing as the contemporary vanity press. But is 47
this genuinely the case, or are independent authors better than some might like us to believe? The official stamp of a mainstream publishing house is no guarantee of quality. Typesetting and proofing errors aside, there is no denying that the overall standard for literary technique has stagnated. Having been delving into the available material on both sides of the fence, I have concluded that the only real difference is in marketing. Certainly there is good and bad literature being produced by all involved. And of course we as readers have every right to demand that what we consume should fall into the former category. However we also need to question our outlook with regards to the value of literature. Because whether they are commercially published or independent, it is fair to say that authors are not doing this for the money; or at least not after the first time that they attempt it. They write for the same reason that birds fly, and it is past time to appreciate this.
(Where the deuce has the usual cat gone to?)
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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. In PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.
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