Anu issue 31/ A New Ulster 31

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

Featuring the works ofStrider Marcus Jones, Eamonn Stewart, Rachel Sutcliffe, Tom Pestacore, John Jack Byrne, Dr Mel Waldman, Noel King and Carl Scharwath . Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 31 April 2015

A New Ulster On the Wall Website

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

Editorial

page 5

Marcus Strider Jones; Stone Jar

The Vase Tin of Sorrows Yin-Yang Thoughts Bard’s Song Two Beads Taking off my Coat Eamonn Stewart; The Chav’s Judgment of Paris The Cows Muddied my Personal Helicon

The Lock-In Myths of the Rights of Fathers Oklo Chez Sois/ Oklo Chez Falls Rachel Sutcliffe; Haiku & Senryu Selection

Tom Pescatore; Baking in my Sleeping bag As a dog barks

Dead Eyes It remembers my Password Girl in the Purple Dress John Jack Byrne; Dream my Dreams Yellow eye

Dr Mel Waldman; An Unholy Silence Inside the Dead Files The House of God is a Poem Mysterious Disease Raw After Tav

2

Noel King; Boys of the Rhythm Stick newlyweds Potato Bride when Did they Say I Can Go Home?

Who'll Die First?

On The Wall Message from the Alleycats

page 52

Carl Scharwath; Carl’s work can be found John Jack Byrne; John’s work can be found

pages 55-58 page 60-62 Round the Back

Press Releases Book Review

pages 65-70

3

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 “To win your love” by John ‘Jack’ Byrne

4

“Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.” Aristotle.

Editorial I’m somewhat surprised to find this issue coming out at Easter I hope everyone has a quite and peaceful holiday break. This issue contains an amazing selection of work poetry, senru and artwork from around the world.

I’ve noticed a growing trend to produce literary and arts magazines without listing page numbers for the various artists I’ve tried to provide a clear and concise order to each issue so that you can find the work easier however in this issue I’m going to forgo the page numbers in the listings above the work will still be in the order it is presented however.

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.

Easter is a time of rebirth and reflection and I find myself looking back at the beginning of this magazine a lot of time and effort has gone into producing every issue and while I look at the first issue with fondness I can see that the issue has grown and suffered teething problems along the way I do not seek to push an agenda or a directive instead I’m providing a platform for artists to share their work, to reach a global audience I hope you enjoy this issue as much as I enjoyed working on it.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

5

Biographical Note: Strider Marcus 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.

His poetry has 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; East Coast Literary Review; Nightchaser Ink Publishing Anthology - Autumn Reign; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu Issue 29; Poems For A Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine and The Lonely Crowd Magazine.

6

STONE JAR (Strider Marcus Jones)

have seat stone jar with heart old as peat; you've come this farseen history shoot itself to repeat the past but nothing else is made to lastwhy weep and fast, while others sleep and blast this sorrow from the same face tomorrowand what fool am i to keep thinking that the thinkers will remove the old ways blinkersand speak.

7

THE VASE (Strider Marcus Jones)

standing silent proud, alone, or in a crowd life glazed mood and skin outside and infor you, i think out loud and take you inwhere thoughts abound reversible and convertiblewhere saying being wrong reaches out beyond the natural need to win. moulded by my hands to this shape that understands; its cloth of clay holds you warm, a mummer masked in costumes stormreact with its receptacle of reason for sorting truths from treason, but you don't need to have a season to put your flowers into meswaying here, in wind and wild, as born so be.

8

TIN OF SORROWS (Strider Marcus Jones)

i keep bad blues from the past, in a tin of sorrowsto remind me, that my tomorrows can bloom out of this.

the vertical hues that last, backfill regrettable hollowsthat find me, when time shifts and borrows the coves of happiness in bliss.

the loves i lose, become the glues that hold, and make me last; instead of weighing me down in woes that blind methey guide me on new roadswhich open when i wish.

9

YIN-YANG THOUGHTS (Strider Marcus Jones)

i contemplate for hours, weaving circles round the moon, using supernatural powers in an oxygen balloonimagining the straight in the twists and turns of fate.

the truth is ties and tangles of beads upon a thread, with answers to its angles solved in something that you saidlike the canopy of bloom lighting shade inside a room.

soft, part the peel of pleasure, real and ripe behold, beginimagine of the whole together, spoken out, and spoken in, like yin-yang thoughts beat to beat to balance talks.

10

BARD'S SONG (Strider Marcus Jones)

When the night Holds the light And closes its hand I lie in its equation Of sensory deprivation And think to understand.

Nothing is wrong With this bard's song His lucid notes reach out For love's soft lips And finger tips Released from shadows doubt.

Feel its beauty, Unlike dutyPlay and set you free: To ride the wave Desires crave While you lie with me.

11

TWO BEADS (Strider Marcus Jones)

in some quixotic place, there is the figure and the face, whose mind transcends that secret spacein me. she winds new memories like ribbons round the helix threads of destinyaltering perceptions, light and sound when i turn aroundand find her watching me. two beads, bound by natures mime, consent to dance a tango on the silent strings of time, oblivious to other fruits, that ripen on the vineeventually.

12

TAKING OFF MY COAT (Strider Marcus Jones)

each evening is like taking off my coat. i sit down apart from the day and nothing happens. i let silence sing her supernatural notein the air, i drown in how the lonely play as reality slackens. curdling in a chair with arms of broken branches that used to be and went somewhere in circumstance and chancesnow greying, like wild hair at the end of all its dances with the gravity gone from its romancesi feel time's weight compress the emptiness of fate, into some sort of nothing that held my hand, and left me somethingto understand.

13

Biographical Note: Eamonn Stewart

Born in Belfast 1964. Trained to be an advertising photographer. Worked in advertising as motion picture cameraman. Studied film history at University of East London. Extensive publication of poems and photos in magazines and anthologies. Presently, working pro bono in student/indie films.

14

The Chav’s Judgement of Paris (Eamonn Stewart) “The Sibyl’s raving mouth

Prophesies without mirth” Each night, The Spear Carriers Shamble onstage: “E”s invoke crass Judgements of Paris or worse, Paris’s are left forlorn and in a rage.

Delinquents drunk on The Cider of Discord, Stabbed my friend as his girlfriend Stared aghast.

Because some bouncer with a flaming sword Drove them from a disco, They weren’t prepared to let this pass.

My uncle told me long ago That cows used to run after steam locos.

In this Thereomorphosis of Chavs They pursue boys in filched fast cars.

Flocked round a cable junction box, They bash a din from it with their feet.

As I pass they ominously stop.

And, in the silence of the too-dark street, One perches there, headless As Samothracean Nike – Anencephalic, in baseball cap and hoody: I hear the box’s electrics Lamasary choir.

Fear spins awe’s prayerwheel – Grants my desire.

15

The Cows Muddied my Personal Helicon (Eamonn Stewart) Tonight, his sacred cows come home To Elysian pastures in the Academe Grove.

From their hides you get glycerine – Nitrates and ammonia from the pish and dung, And their ponderous hooves blend the clay.

Thye’re this spin-doctored Odyssey’s Cattle of the Sun. Bogs, horse ploughs and boarding schools Were not for me. Rather cobbles Handcarts and Sawyers* chicken Bar-B-Q machine, transported me, Though not as far as Stockholm in tails – Not in my wildest dreams.

For I only wrote of my peers Blasted by the prayers of saints # Poured from base vials Sold with ironmongers’ complaints Over loutish wiles.

His cattle are not our lodestar – Pharaoh never dreamt such ominous steers, Whose claps will swamp new Irish poetry for years.

* Sawyers was Belfast’s one and only delicatessen when I was a boy.

# Revelations 5,8

16

The Lock-In (At The Submarine Bar) (Eamonn Stewart) When my phone went-off in the bar Vibrate and ring; The ASDIC beam ping And poltergeist shower of stones.

Where my surface thoughts crash-dived To Albert Street in 1975 When Stevie ran from the toy barricade And a Pippin Fort soldier Did something depraved.

This databurst phantasmagoria played On the meteorburst mirror Brock’s Fireworks made: The hopscotch grid’s ouija board, Passing the votive candle’s Treacly strobe The search barriers turnstiles Thaumatropes Re-integrated the dead That bombs had unmade And I had to get out Of that lock-in.

Tired eyes I rubbed Once Aladdin’s lamps Became the wreckers lanterns.

17

Myths of The Rights of Fathers (Eamonn Stewart) My fatal touch and turn towards/to Eurydice Was on paper, but no less overwrought than Morel's sysyphusian Marienbad- anabasis of my thoughts correct your maps you dads Byzantium is The family Courts !

And, let’s say/ (if) Thebes is the life you’ve planned with your child Then your ex is the Sphinx there running wild.

She has no riddle to turn her mild You would-be solvers are cursed if you try

18

Oklo Chez Sois/Oklo Chez Falls (Eamonn Stewart)

The Muse Sukie* was our disquieting muse.

Hypocrite moniteur du lait, J’Accuse !

Bereft of her glass laurels, bereft of desks Bereft of pews, pharmacology is what my peers now choose.

Antecedents Who drowned the Riverdale Rats?

The Breweries, the Breweries.

Where have their sons and daughters gone?

They’re all away with the fairies.

Whither away – to what fairy hill?

A palace no more than a little white pill.

Misunderstandings “Enghien chez sois and an Oklo up your own nose !”

“It’s still natural “ he replied “Fuck up. What would you know?”

Earlier that night, a bouncer saw Me do origami with a receipt – That was a wrap, my Bond-esque quip As I stood bewildered in the street Thinking of Hugo from the homeless hostel Ejected from the library, For hurling abuse then books: The first through Tourette’s , The second, through the injustice of the absurd.

Still I laughed to think of the book-hurling octopus In Cousteau’s Silent World - the one upon whom Another Hugo had cast slurs.

Sukie As Cassandra When Africa was younger by aeons Some undine at Oklo enchanted Orphic water to quicken the sandstone – Eurydicized the Yellow Cake.

Proving the Achilles Paradox 19

Of slow neutrons – The apports of photons In dark waters Bluer than the milky way Trapped in surface tension.

But, this Powder of Sympathy Dogs the nose, Apotheosizes snots to Escargotique Ondes.

The moderator from which this fission of the neurons flows Petrifies Phase Two fossils under the pilgrim’s feet Along the Falls Road.

20

Biographical Note: Rachel Sutcliffe

Rachel Sutcliffe (Yorkshire, England) has suffered from a serious immune disorder for the past 14 years, throughout this time writing has been her therapy, it’s kept her from going insane. She is an active member of the British Haiku Society and the online writing group Splinter4all. Her work has appeared in numerous print and online journals including: Hedgerow, Prune Juice, Brass Bell, The Heron’s Nest and A Hundred Gourds. Find her @ http://projectwords11.wordpress.com.

21

Haiku & Senryu Selection (Rachel Sutcliffe) late thaw pointing towards spring green shoots under the rainbow sunlight pools in puddles sudden storm raindrops reconvene in the river first picnic of spring so many hungry flies champagne toast the bride’s fear of fireworks bookshop the assistant reads my mind library visit the hole in your story hotel alarm call showering with the guest upstairs

22

Biographical Note: Tom Pescat Pescatore atore

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he'd rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row.

23

Baking in my sleeping bag (Tom Pescatore) You're on the other side being abstract, acting distant, I have a stack of thoughts in front of me, unfinished; have poems to write, poems I should be writing; instead I'm writing this; an alarm goes off, it's mine Saturday morning, you're laying around somewhere, Cootie Williams is blowing Gator Tail; I shut the blinds and the world outside goes on and on and about and out without me, this poem is running, jazz is dead, so are all those jazz men playing, dead, but time doesn't make sense anyway; it's just going in circles, stealing what it can, which is everything, we aren't friends; I can't see the trees, I'm hiding from the sun.

24

As a Dog Barks (Tom Pescatore) The Hunt

by Dexter Gordon? usually don't guess right but that's what's playing: July 4th 2014 8:53 am my phone turns itself off during that night, never the day day looks like rain, but it's not raining I shit, shower head doesn't hurt any longer.

I should get a beer, I says, I'm a writer, it would make sense.

I don't. I hear children playing outside, I left my window cracked, the gray sky leaks inside, now everything is gray this doesn't feel like independence a strange metallic sound outside, car, sounds off, these guys (Filipino & Mexican guys) are always out working on their cars, I don't know enough to know what they're doing, I missed out on that part of manhood.

25

I've held a pen, typed instead.

Sun peeks through clouds off-screen it's all starting to look different it's July 4th, 9:38am I'm typing poems as a dog barks.

26

Dead Eyes (Tom Pescatore) A soft summer rain, clicking of some insect or raccoon or squirrel off in trees, purple-orange sky haze in the distance, beyond that, the city, I walk out into scene swinging trash bag, cutting down invisible spider-webs, the dumpster looks at me with dead eyes like the dead eyes staring out wet tree branches, like the dead eyes leering under cars, like the dead eyes from the million cold bodies buried in all the cemeteries of the world, and I toss the bag into the gaping black mouth weary of stepping any closer, walk out into the street where I feel somehow I'm safe, for a moment, before turning back toward the old brick apartment building with its dark windows watching, and its own dead eyes wondering.

27

It remembers my password (Tom Pescatore) Search: Right images: I'm tagged in (1) [is the face in the mirror the one you're allowed to see?] mine is smiling without pretense I hope (at least) we haven't checked our backlog yet --in a while-notifications waiting piling up kb/mb/gb/love how many waiting? [have you ever stopped and looked yourself in the eye?] for 30 years I thought mine were brown (they're hazel) Central heterochromia - is an eye condition that does not interfere with a person's eyesight. we are wrapped in social media tears you and I and all of us we you and me faces recognized locations checkedin 28

I am signing on the login screen I am checking all the boxes one x one so it remembers what I've done.

29

Girl in the Purple Dress (Tom Pescatore) I find you in my bed at night dreaming follow you my arm tight around your waist maybe sometimes words between us are lost you have eyes like opaque pools of super novas depthless your legs are silk thoughts cool rivers edge your body against mine is my body when you're not looking I reach out to you there is more I want to say in my hands pulling back there are memories beyond my memories foolish little words that aren't enough

30

Biographical Note: John Jack Byrne

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

31

Dream my Dreams (John Jack Byrne) With thoughts of you I dream my dreams by golden sunsets and silver streams through winter skies and star filled nights as rolling clouds shield soft moonlight When rains fall softly upon the land I’ll walk with you hand in hand into a world of lovers dreams of golden sunsets and silver streams Within the birdsong at early dawn your voice of love goes on and on on mountain ranges at great heights through winter skies and star filled nights Ever thankful for to dream of our love that is supreme ever thankful come the night where rolling clouds shield soft moonlight

32

Yellow Eye (John Jack Byrne) Welcome to my autumn garden sweet bird with yellow eye stay awhile and eat your fill before you decide to fly Come close to me and be my friend share peace with me this day my autumn garden’s a tranquil place to help you along life’s way Perhaps you’ll help me seek my heart it too has flown away that day my true love left me the clouds were dark and grey So thank you bird with yellow eye your visit has made my day linger awhile and roam at will I’ll be sad as you fly away

33

Biographical Note: Dr Mel Waldman Dr. Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, and writer whose stories have appeared in numerous magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, HARDBOILED, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, DOWN IN THE DIRT, CC&D, PULP METAL MAGAZINE, INNER SINS, YELLOW MAMA, and AUDIENCE. His poems have been widely published in magazines and books including LIQUID IMAGINATION, A NEW ULSTER, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, THE BROOKLYN VOICE, BRICKPLIGHT, THE BITCHIN’ KITSCH, CLOCKWISE CAT, CRAB FAT MAGAZINE, SKIVE MAGAZINE, ODDBALL MAGAZINE, ON THE RUSK, POETRY PACIFIC, POETICA, RED FEZ, SQUAWK BACK, SWEET ANNIE & SWEET PEA REVIEW, THE JEWISH LITERARY JOURNAL, THE JEWISH PRESS, THE JERUSALEM POST, HOTMETAL PRESS, MAD SWIRL, HAGGARD & HALLOO, ASCENT ASPIRATIONS, and NAMASTE FIJI: THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY. A past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis, he was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature and is the author of 11 books. Four of his mystery, fantasy, and horror stories were published by POSTSCRIPTS, a British magazine and international anthology, in November 2014. He recently completed an experimental mystery novel inspired by one of Freud’s case studies and is looking for an agent. He has been inspired for decades by his patients and their heroic stories of trauma and survival.

34

AN UNHOLY SILENCE (Dr. Mel Waldman) An unholy silence sits inside the shattered remains of the death room in Old Brooklyn in the summer of ’65, almost half-a-century ago where I still exist & die in the deep silence of Mother’s death, & now, I rediscover the everlasting vast room everywhere & nowhere for one 35

by one my precious loved ones pass through an unholy silence into an old fashioned room a gathering place where they wait for me ghostly & ethereal in the unfathomable landscape & eerie stillness of Eternity

36

INSIDE THE DEAD FILES (Dr. Mel Waldman) Perhaps, a hundred years from now, with the toss of metaphysical dice, you’ll pick a random set of numbers, the sacred lotto ticket to my soul, & suddenly, you’ll find my raw remains buried in the dead files of the defunct internet, & within the ancient archives, you’ll discover my 37

secret writings & traces of the man I was & my shattered self; then, in a poignant moment of unendurable anguish when you gaze into the oval mirror of my tortured mind, you’ll find yourself in me, a fellow traveler in the unfathomable universe holding & caressing the fiercely beautiful cornucopia of human emotions, an alchemy of love & loss, beauty 38

& grotesquerie, in celestial inner space-flowing inside the dead files beyond Time & Space where we are one in Spirit & death

39

THE HOUSE OF G-D IS A POEM (Dr. Mel Waldman) The House of G-d is a poem in the oval mirror of my mind waiting to be born The House of G-d is & grows on the Tree of Life hidden in the sacred fruit of Being & Becoming in the secret garden of creation in the holy womb of the holy city The House of G-d is the unfathomable poem of the Word giving birth to me within the voiceless voice of divine script 40

in the eerie metamorphosis of consciousness & cosmic breath within the everlasting flow of Hashem, the Nameless One

41

MYSTERIOUS DISEASE (Dr. Mel Waldman)

I remember the beginning.

Inside the Harlem methadone clinic in the early eighties, I watched the rapid flow of death, the evaporation of my patients, of all ages; but I particularly remember the young healthy men and women dissolving and imploding, and suddenly disappearing as I watched.

I didn’t understand, nor did my colleagues. The incomprehensibleness devoured us, like the mysterious disease that ate the flesh of our patients, the lost addicts of Harlem.

And so, within a few weeks or months at most, I witnessed the unspeakable; their bodies dwindled and shrank, and thinned, perhaps, to a bony nothingness. Some of our pariahs, whom we fought to save, were emaciated with scarred flesh and marked faces. And then they vanished and passed away.

We too were dually condemned and marked. Healthcare lepers, we treated addicts with a mysterious deadly disease. This was our sin to the outside world, but privately, our salvation.

I remember this horrific beginning, grotesquely haunting and sad. I can’t forget. It’s inside me, like my patients, the ghosts of Harlem who died too soon so long ago.

42

RAW (Dr. Mel Waldman)

In the winter of despair, the wind howls with homeless pariahs, hiding beneath the Coney Island Boardwalk, gazing at the Chimera, the Monster of Paranoia and Soul-Slayer, while stoned on cheap liquor and toxic drugs; & lost in a leper’s phantasmagoria, these outlaws, outcasts, outsiders, and freaks, high on poison and intoxicated with psychosis, inhale the raw despair and rage of this bestial winter day; & crave the ultimate high, the thrill of a lifetime, a raw ecstasy and the divine O.D. for the final exit.

43

AFTER TAV (Dr. Mel Waldman) After Tav, the last letter of creation, the universe reunites with Aleph, the first holy letter & the sacred story continues again and again with new beginnings and myriad endings, in the mystical circle of Aleph-Tavthe twin circle of Tav-Aleph, each one flowing into the other forever

44

Biographical Note: Noel King

Noel King was born and lives in Tralee. His poems, haiku, short stories, reviews and articles have appeared in magazines and journals in thirty-seven countries. His poetry collections are published by Salmon Poetry: Prophesying the Past, (2010), The Stern Wave (2013) and Sons (forthcoming in 2015). He has edited more than fifty books of work by others. Anthology publications include The Second Genesis: An Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry (AR.A.W.,India, 2014).

He has published just over 70 short stories, from Ireland’s Own to The Quest in Montenegro. He has been shortlisted and highly commended more times than he cares to remember in short story competitions throughout the world.

45

Boys of the Rhythm Stick (Noel King) For the remainder of the beating the younger boy is calm, tears run, he wills their evaporation, only the right edge of his lips trembling, his face is composed.

His cousin smiles, enjoys, knows he has a suitable lad for the beat: the back weak, the will weaker, the granny in her parlour with her Mills & Boon, the parents three weeks away on holiday.

A routine game of horse and master began as fun yesterday; begging to stop has stopped, he cowers, hunches over high-tea their granny places before them; the granny is content to care for her son’s son’s, thinks butter would not melt in their mouths.

The younger boy closes his ears to the older rattling out a day of lies to granny’s ears of what they’ve been up to.

Sinking his head lower, he sucks tea from a saucer – a practice the bigger boy grew out of.

He has to pay, for what he doesn’t understand, knows he can only scream to himself.

46

Newlyweds (Noel King) She splashes water on her hot face and splashes her apron with gravy, while he sprawls before the TV. She chops parsley to the gravy and pours it over the roast chicken they scoff for their big dinner.

It was just a large chicken, she admits to her mother-in-law at her hubby’s old home on Boxing Day, but not the same as turkey, oh no, and yes, we will come here next year, yes, next year’ll be the perfect Christmas.

47

Potato Bride (Noel King) Annie Finn found a new green in Kerry land after Minnesota’s open sky.

Her fate: to the base of her forebears to plough and plot, crafting seed on hills with the man she met in New York City.

She saw her new man as twentieth century disciple, evoker of music with spuds.

Those hills had not time to listen to the voices in her head of her friends in America; spared nothing in their demands to stand: dual grafting of a man and a woman.

Her husband is heavened now, the potatoes seeded by her sons.

Annie continues to plough a place still nearest America, tugs to her stronghold, instilled by a Kerry mountain breeze.

48

When Did They Say I Can Go Home?

(Noel King)

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

49

Who’ll Die First (Noel King)

Mother or father Mammy or Daddy Mamma Papa?

50

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!

51

April 2015’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

Happy Easter! Remember; bunnies are crunchy and may contain bones. Beware of zombies. Something about voting. Another request for gin and tuna. And a reminder that Upatree Press is accepting Submissions. Not the questionable 50 Shades sort of Submissions; the written sort. They’re on Facebook.

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”.

52

Biographical Note: Carl Scharwath

Carl Scharwath's work has appeared internationally with over eighty publications selecting his poetry, short stories, essays or art photography. He won the National Poetry Contest award on behalf of Writers One Flight Up. His first poetry book “Journey To Become Forgotten� was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press.

53

Amerika by Carl Scharwath

54

Antirealism by Carl Scharwath

55

Citiscapes by Carl Scharwath

56

Exit 13 by Carl Scharwath

Mt Dora face with key by Carl Scharwath 57

The Paradox by Carl Scharwath

58

Biographical Note: John Jack Byrne

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

59

Incoming by John Jack Byrne

60

October by John Jack Byrne

On the Sleepy Hill by John Jack Byrne

61

Pounding Heart by John Jack Byrne

Winter sunshine by John Jack Byrne

62

In this issue I would like to take the time to share a short section from Project Nightingale a new novella by E.V. Greig a brief introduction first It is the late 21st Century. Whilst mega corporations and governments fight a less than discrete war for control of the general population, there are others who operate within the traditional boundaries of Intelligence. Walking in the shadows and trading in secrets, these operatives will do whatever is necessary to complete their missions. In the interest of maintaining public ignorance, someone is needed to clean up in their wake. That someone is Nightingale Spence; aka Housekeeping - a unique blend of assassin, medic, alibi merchant, and therapist to some of the most inventively lethal people in the world...

63

Biographical Note: E.V. Greig

Author and illustrator E.V. Greig is a graduate of Queen’s University Belfast, where she studied Ancient History and English. She is the founder of Upatree Press, and an Assistant Editor and Reviewer with the literary magazine A New Ulster. Her other published work includes the Experimental High Fantasy series The Legend of Graymyrh, which was developed with the support of the Arts Council NI and National Lottery under SIAP 2013. The novella Project Nightingale was published in March 2015, and is her first foray into the genre of Transhumanistic Cyphernoire.

64

Chapter One – No Names, No Details

“He has vital intelligence; you must bring him back alive – is that understood?”

Nightingale Spence yawned and nodded automatically despite there being no way that those at headquarters could see the gesture. “Bring him back alive, got it.”

“He’ll be in Room 406 of the hotel. Don’t get distracted, and don’t let him bleed out.”

“That was implied in the order to bring him back alive. I’ll take him straight to medical.”

There was a slight pause and then a sigh. “He hates medical. You’ll need to patch him up yourself.”

“Should I bring superglue or plasters, ma’am?”

“God alone knows.” *** That had been twenty six minutes earlier. Now Spence was standing in the doorway of Room 406 and attempting not to let the operative in question collapse. “Look, if you fall over now mate, I can’t get you back up.”

He was smirking despite the pain, or at least attempting to do so. “Scrawny sort of a thing for a field operative, aren’t you?”

“Shut up and sit down before you fall down.”

“Bossy...how come everyone is so bloody bossy..?”

Spence sighed, kicked the door shut, and managed to drag him to the bed. “Sit!” It was fairly typical for operatives to be less than obedient, and more so when injured.

This fellow was no exception, but nor was he stupid. He sat and did no more than grimace as his impromptu physician set to work. “This was my favourite shirt, you know.”

“Mmn-hmm, I count two small calibre rounds to your left bicep and three cracked ribs.”

“It was a rough day at the office..!”

“So help me, if you start coughing up blood, I shall be most displeased.”

The tone dragged him back enough to refocus his wits. “No coughing up blood; got it.”

“Good man.”

“Are you a doctor then?”

65

“Not as such, but I can patch this up well enough for you to be fit to travel.”

His eyes were blue; there was something both playful and wary to them. A clammy sweat that had grown out of exertion, pain and probably alcohol beaded his pale skin and made the longish black hair appear lank. “Are we taking a trip, not really a doctor?”

“Yes; back to headquarters.”

“I got the hard drive. It’s in my jacket.”

Spence glanced briefly at the jacket that was draped over the coffee table. “Well done.”

It was painful how important those two words appeared to be to him. “It’s what I do.”

“You’re beyond drunk.”

“I didn’t have any morphine.”

And of course that was a perfectly rational explanation. Sometimes Spence felt that they asked too much of them – these wandering creatures of mass destruction and unbridled chaos given human form. Point them at the enemy, and watch the shenanigans ensue. Just don’t ever let them drive within the UK. “Morphine is overrated anyhow.”

“Oh? Did they make a new...is there a better one now?”

Observing someone in this much pain was less than enjoyable. “They’re working on one.”

“Can I...can I have some please..?”

“Once we get back to headquarters, yes.”

He hissed a little as the bullets were dragged loose, and muttered in something that sounded vaguely chthonic as the wounds were cleaned and dressed. “First class ticket I should hope, not really a doctor?”

“Budget cuts I’m afraid. We’re going by car – there’s a driver already waiting for us outside.”

“I can drive.”

“You’ll be busy sleeping.”

“Not tired – sleep when I’m dead.”

“You’ll sleep when I tell you to and that’s final.”

He chuckled at that and made a vague attempt at a salute. “Drill sergeant..!”

Spence dabbed a bit more arnica gel onto the bruising about the operative’s ribcage.

“Housekeeping, actually – I clean up everyone else’s mess.”

“Do you...do you have a mop then? Is it a mop with a gun in it?”

“Sometimes, yes; it depends on the mission. Now – put this on.”

66

“You brought me a new shirt.”

“I think of everything.” Which was true; the role that Spence performed was reliant in equal parts upon inventiveness and foresight.

It took him four attempts to fasten the buttons properly, and by then Spence had finished clearing up. “Housekeeping – is that what I call you then?”

“It’s what everyone calls me.”

“I’m called – “ “No names, no details. Let’s go.”

He looked hurt but followed along without protest.

The corridor was empty, as was the lift. There was a single receptionist at the desk in the foyer, but the room had been pre-booked and there was no bill to settle. For once, it seemed that extraction would be simple.

That illusion vanished the moment that they reached the spot where the doorman ought to have been and found a pair of gunmen instead. “Hello there – you two look like the people we’re here to find!” The two enemy operatives moved forwards, weapons ready.

“British Intelligence at its best, yes?”

The receptionist was levelling a gun now too. “That’s the operative; this must be his back-up.”

Spence sighed. “Why can’t we all be reasonable about this?” There were three guns and one injured operative too many to risk this argument. “You want the intelligence, we want to keep breathing. I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Hand over the drive.” Gunman number two was less chatty, it seemed.

“You heard him; he wants the hard drive.” Spence winked at the now bemused British operative; who was barely upright but still clearly too stubborn to co-operate. “Let him have it!”

It was always incredible to watch when an operative improvised. Although, they wouldn’t be able to use this particular hotel again; given that security had been compromised.

And the bullet holes in the walls – hoteliers always hated those. Still, it was done. The three dead enemy operatives would be written up as a robbery that had gone badly wrong when the receptionist attempted to play hero.

Spence had informed headquarters and the technical people were already placing the required details onto the relevant computers. The CCTV footage had been wiped. All that remained was to get home safely. Their driver glanced at them in his rear view mirror as they fastened their seat belts. “Any change to the route?”

67

“No thank you.” Spence relaxed backwards against the leather headrest. “All’s well.”

There was a cough from the injured operative. “So tell me, why no names and no details?”

“It’s simpler to remain detached.”

“Well it sounds bloody lonely to me.”

“I wade through bodies for a living. I don’t have time to learn their names.”

“But I’m not dead!”

“No one starts out dead. They all end up there sooner or later.”

“My God, that’s depressing.”

“It’s the truth.”

The driver had closed the privacy screen. Spence’s companion continued his argument. “It’s one truth, or one part of a truth! Don’t you have friends in the job?”

“Not out here.”

“Coping mechanism, eh?”

“I’m simply being practical.”

He grunted. “Well, I’m called – “ “Please don’t. I really don’t need to know.”

“Alright, call me – call me Smith! It isn’t my name, but it makes talking simpler.”

“We don’t need to talk. You need to sleep.”

Smith’s eyelids were already drooping. “Cheers for the help, Housekeeping.”

“It’s what I do, Mr Smith.”

“You do it well.”

“So they tell me.” Spence thought of another conversation: twenty years ago; a pair of teenagers stuck playing at being socialites and hating every moment. Where have the years taken that boy to – that lanky youth with so many dreams and so little hesitation?

The car took a smooth turn to the right then and merged warily into the traffic streaming out of the city. There was a vague threat of snow behind those too still clouds, and the brilliance of the city’s lights masked stars which would otherwise have been too clear to be warm. November again, just as then, but Spence was alone tonight and had been so for well beyond a decade. No mobile devices then beyond radios – it had been frighteningly simple to lose touch with one another.

And now the risk of reconnection loomed – would he even want to hear word? His life had taken a different path. They were worlds apart surely. Perhaps that was better. There was little hope of merely picking up where they had left off. Too much water and more than 68

too much blood had flowed under that bridge. The boy was a man now; this was not a world for children or for vague dreams.

Beside Spence, Smith was muttering his way through sleep. The operative would be out of commission for a few weeks at least. Hopefully he would make the most of the time, but when did they ever see rest as important? Obsessive devotion to duty was a key feature in this role. It spurred them on past the normal limits of endurance and blurred the pain of the latest bullet into little more than a dull nag at the back of their thoughts.

It was utterly mad and Spence relished every shred of it. Smith did too; he wouldn’t be there otherwise. No – he would have been a banker or perhaps a stockbroker. Something clean and well ordered, where he wouldn’t end his career bleeding out alone and unknown in a puddle of his own innards. And that was the most usual sort of an ending for them – that or torture by one of Britain’s many enemies. Spence was employed to prevent the latter and clean up the former. A foul but vital occupation within a tangled hush of secrets and deceits echoing back at least as far as the Great War, and almost certainly beyond it.

No – he was not named Smith. That was a cover for a cover for a ghost wrapped up inside a shadow. Spence had managed such important unknowns for the past ten Novembers and a few months prior besides. It was an art in itself, just as much as what they did.

Someone had to clean up the bodies; the shell casings and broken windows. All the messy remnants of a job well done and a world saved once again at the eleventh hour.

Secret radios and miniature bombs had remained amidst the rise of increasingly tiny phones. Code breaking had evolved into coding; cypher melting into cyber and somehow back again. Computers were the blood of it nowadays, along with satellite surveillance, facial recognition software, IP tracking, and forensic accounting. Everything had been digitised but the endgame still revolved around the operative with the coldest nerve; be that behind a computer screen or a gun.

The world of tomorrow was upon them all. Spence wondered what the boy made of it now that he had grown. He had always had an innate understanding of technology. Is he out there somewhere behind a terminal, or perhaps underneath a half completed chassis for some new vehicle? Or has he gotten past his horror of killing and taken to the field himself?

Spence regretted mocking him now. Mercy was not so pathetic a quality when one knew the cost of it. They had been friends before that awful conversation. Spence knew now as then that they could easily have been much more. Perhaps they ought to have been.

Probably that was the truth of it; the reason that any risk of a kind word had seemed too

69

dreadful. Commitment was not either of their strong suits, not really, but the boy was the type that might have attempted to become better at it. Even then Spence had understood that.

What sort of a man did you become? Do you think of that evening in November; the too expensive restaurant with its crisp white tablecloths and velveteen seats? Do you think of that argument?

It seemed so very small now, looking back - two silly teenagers; both too desperate to grow up to realise the worth of what they could have had together. Spence closed both eyes and imagined what his face would be now. There had always been a catlike mixture of guile and amused disdain in his eyes - blue beneath his black hair; the injured operative whose actual name was not Smith had triggered that memory. But Smith, whoever else he really was, could surely never have been that boy! Life simply didn’t play out so very kindly. Two lost little pieces would surely never find each other like this – would they?

The operative mumbled and yawned then, and the sound edged Spence into looking at him more closely. It still had to be impossible for this battered operative to be that long lost boy. And yet there were similarities; the turn of the jaw line, the soft throb of his pulse. The scent of him, albeit overlaid now with layers of alcohol, cordite, sweat and the copper scratch of blood.

Christ on a bicycle; what would be the odds?

70

71

LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES 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 978-1-909252-68-4 Increasing the Denominator x Martin Domleo 978-1-909252-69-1 From Dawn Through Dark x Rose Moran RSM 978-1-909252-70-7 Ladies Who Lunch x Fiona Sinclair 978-1-909252-71-4 Mature Student & other poems x Aubrey Malone 978-1-909252-72-1 Muse x Joseph Fagan 978-1-909252-73-8 Chiclit & Poses x Dawn Rock 978-1-909252-74-5 A Wet Day & Mr Sevridge Sketches x Richard Halperin 978-1-909252-75-2 Entropic Elegies x Craig Podmore 978-1-909252-76-9 Voices of the Benares x Pauline Rowe 978-1-909252-77-6 Pink,Ochre,Yellow x Richard Halperin 978-1-909252-78-3 Flash Words x Paul Tobin 978-1-909252-79-0 The Mask x Anthony Costello 978-1-909252-80-6 Bright Water Over Grey Stones x Rosy Wilson 978-1-909252-81-3 the centreless astonishment of things x Richard Halperin 978-1-909252-82-0 Undisturbed Circles x Bethany W.Pope 978-1-909252-83-7 Startled by You x Maria Ní Mhurchú 978-1-909252-84-4 Pictures from a Postponed Exhibition x David Walsh & Michael Bartolomew-Biggs 978-1-909252-85-1 There's Enough Blue in the Sky x Janette Fisher 978-1-909252-86-8 Poverty Street & Other Belfast Poems x Thomas Carnduff (reissue) 978-1-909252-87-5 The Way It Is x Niall McGrath 978-1-909252-88-2 Animal Sanctuary x Michael O'Sullivan 978-1-909252-89-9 Shadows Waltz Haltingly x Alan Morrison 978-1-909252-90-5 Landscape of Self x Aine MacAodha 978-1-909252-91-2 He Robes Me Royally x Helen Long 978-1-909252-92-9 Conversations in the Dark x Valerie Masters 978-1-909252-93-6 Frequencies of Light x James R. Kilner 978-1-909252-94-3 Broken Hill x Keith Payne 978-1-909252-95-0 The Trouble with Love (From Trouble, With Love) x Fern Angel Beattie 978-1-909252-96-7 Smithy of our Longings: Poems from the Irish Diaspora x Tim Dwyer 978-1-909252-97-4 Speck Poems 2002-2006 x Alice Lyons 978-1-909252-98-1 The Last Fire x Helen Harrison 978-1-909252-99-8 The Immigrant Woman's Tale x Csilla Toldy & Fil Campbell All titles £10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles. £12.00

72