ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Byron Beynon, Felino A.Soriano, Peter O’Neill, Michael McAloran, John Saunders, Strider Marcus Jones, Amy Barry, Neil Ellman, Gary Beck and Joseph Patrick Dorrian Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 33 June 2015
A New Ulster On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Editorial
page 5
Byron Beynon; Jobs Well Lane
Portrait of a Gypsy Sunshine and Dust/ Corner of a Room On Cefn Bryn Felino Soriano; Self Portrait Review of a 6:00 a.m. belief And Why questions conceal automated responses Implicit compromises Home as understanding compromise Cultural queries inventing dilemma Sound and the cylinder of its oscillating music Learned behavior
Peter O’Neill; An Old man
Michael McAloran; #
John Saunders; Love no.2 The Days Before Decimals Conditional Belfast
Strider Marcus Jones; Urban Distress Us Sunflowers This Fibbing Sun That Corner of the Day Amy Barry; Monday Blues A New Season The Revisit Her Life Sentence
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Neil Ellman; In the Vastness of Sorrowful Thoughts Vulgar Comedy Eyes of Oedipus Ancestor Gary Beck; Fractional Disorder Departure Call Gadgetry Visitation The Last Song To the Cities Joseph Patrick Dorrian; Blood Liable
On The Wall Message from the Alleycats
page 53
Round the Back Press Releases Book Launches
page 62
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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 “Horsehead� by Amos Greig
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“We are what we repeatedly do. Exellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” Aristotle. Editorial Welcome to the June issue of A New Ulster this is another very strong issue and features work of a very high standard and also very topical for the recent weather. We have a strong selection of poetry including ekphrastic works and more traditional styles. We’ve had some difficulties recently a mix of technological hiccups and also health based issues. The end of May saw several poets gather in Skerries for the first Donkeyshots Avaunt Garde poetry festival organized by Peter O’Neill who has work in this very issue. We do not intend to allow these current issues get in the way of providing platform for new and exciting work as well as supporting those who have supported us in the past. Outside of these issues I’ve been working away on my own poetry as well as a few historical essays I’ve a collection of with a publishers and am waiting on word back. On Twitter A New Ulster often gets shortened to ANU and in ancient Sumerian beliefs ANU was the God of heaven, one of the oldest God’s in the pantheon and allied with Enlil (Air) and Enki (Water). I’m not saying that A New Ulster is Godly in nature ☺ but sometimes we accidentally stumble across something that stirs the creative consciousness. I hope you get as much enjoyment reading these pieces they speak highly of the artists who submitted to this issue and as I’ve often quipped they show the Artist as God and allow us to step into a world of dreams and hopes, yes for a brief moment we can walk different lands. Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity! Amos Greig
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Biographical Note: Byron Beynon
Byron Beynon lives in Swansea, Wales. His work has appeared in several magazines including: A New Ulster, Black Mountain Review, London Magazine, Poetry Wales and Chicago Poetry Review. Recent collections include Cuffs (Rack Press), Nocturne in Blue and Human Shores (both from Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).
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JOB'S WELL LANE (Byron Beynon)
The poet Dyer once fell into Job's Well, he'd been praised by Wordsworth and wrote Grongar Hill to achieve that quiet in the soul. Today the lane and name still remain leading towards Llansteffan. It was there between the footnotes of history my memory strayed, I saw you for the first time, your hair modulating in the Carmarthen air, the black and pink you wore and in your hand the canvas bag a forget-me-not blue.
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PORTRAIT OF A GYPSY after the painting by J D Innes (1887-1914) (Byron Beynon) There are those who'd want her to move on. They believe she doesn't fit into their jig-saw of humanity. Gypsy, Romany, the rare traveller within a different life, but equal to all those prejudice minds she's met. Her face has the strength to say she is herself, eyes without borders, those determined lips ready to taste what life has permitted her to receive.
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SUNSHINE AND DUST (Byron Beynon)
You were young, the leaves in their childhood, a resonant voice entered the theatre of memory. It was late spring, the place sheltered from the heart's storm; lights were born across the sky, you witnessed this world unfurl, the verities of weather shared this moment as you waited to leave a room full of sunshine and dust.
CORNER OF A ROOM (Byron Beynon)
Can a room preserve a memory? The key is hidden, but the curtain is drawn back to allow the eyes to settle on other lights. Chairs, a table simply laid, canvases at rest, quietly the corner emerges from darkness. Summoned by the act of patience, it is there in the mind's uncharted corridors where life goes on.
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ON CEFN BRYN (Byron Beynon)
A running spine with fits of open colours, the clean patterns of lights and slopes with their silent beauties.
The name carried by the knowing wind launched from the sea towards the sun
setting beyond the dolmen. The coming night bringing rain
knocking softly on fields and a communal stone, with a landscape’s porous nerves stretched across the flawed depth of time.
But still I go out. I just don’t look at the white. I keep my eyes averted. In the corner of my eye, I can feel it smiling.
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Biographical Note: Felino A Soriano Felino A. Soriano is a poet documenting coÜccurrences. His poetic language stems from exterior motivation of jazz music and the belief in language’s unconstrained devotion to broaden understanding. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prizeand Best of the Net anthologies. Recent poetry collections include Of isolated limning, Mathematics, Espials, watching what invents perception, and Of these voices. He edits the online journal, Of/with: journal of immanent renditions. He lives in California with his wife and family and is a director of supported living and independent living programs providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities. Visit felinoasoriano.info for more information.
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Self-portrait (Felino A.Soriano) I’ve never reinvented. Unless, to reevaluate. The useless language of what levitates among crowded syllables. Their tonguing catapults—their tonal monotony of expressive monochromatic dissertations. I’ve never listened. Unless to reinterpret. The usable stanzas of exterior motivation, pulses. To find what lives is to lift the chewed skeletal spine of autumn’s cardboard leaves. The bellies reveal what wings contain above the eyes’ circular peripheral fixation. To this, I listen.
Review of a 6:00 a.m. belief morning yawns an extract of/from impressionists’ articulation of the same momentum of stretch relaxes into hearing radial conflicts abscond upon a wing’s diligent and conforming dedication to dissolve as all does dissolves : each skeleton renames into particles of donated and decomposing brands of intellectual misnaming
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And (Felino A. Soriano) From what can gather or inhale, sustain or ignite much more so than a momentary confirmation— a momentary silence to bridge positions of each thought’s duality of purpose and pageantry. A hand does not alter to draw decease; it increases what flows North, a penetrating desire to build. I am a language of unsaid declaration.
Why questions conceal automated responses voice: Nobody inherits talkative parameters around engaging with nuances of silent gradations, the unseen partitions compartmentalizing collocations of secretive devotions to reaffirming autumn’s stagnancy of tone silence:
your interpretation
accusatory avalanche of intuitive open rhythms— a becoming is affluent enough to bankrupt transparencies of composed, predetermined fallacies
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Implicit compromises (Felino A. Soriano) divided hearsay for a later truth (from tiredness of thinking) pseudo light bends onto a bathing exhibition of a tableau’s reconciled placement of hands, or a desire to build using tools, an improvisation of jazz’s full-body function releasing sound to control an environment’s apathy to reconfigure is to renumber in sequential aspects of arranged forthcoming riches: rhythm
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impactful pace
placement
Home as understanding compromise (Felino A.Soriano) corridors and, the bodies entering to provide ambulation sequence fulfilled feeling (paralleling parental findings of smiles around disparate corners of a home’s engaging paradigm) in or, of these layers of tone and indigenous colors, what splays also stays to form friction to the warming side of why movement through architecture serenades voices landing against the forehead, against what leans to provide direct content contextual to the corporeal hanker placing systems of why the body rotates within an existence of contagious movements, deliberate and too, pertaining to an improvised dynamic of exploring through lenses of configuring subsequent to the way thoughts die and sustain concurrently
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Cultural queries inventing dilemma (Felino A. Soriano) the way day’s skin peels from tension of hours’ [purposeful] inventing absence, I name you— why (questioning self is a painful preference) does language twirl (beauty) and not twist (vileness) when what is named discards the one naming as to scold or prefer silence over the overwhelming monotony of a tongue’s version of spatial identity—? and again, can song intimidate as does the westward storm hovering in thrilling curse, alive in the way a finger’s pointing can contain injurious intent? can what matters detail the mapping of veins, unless calm? a mother once documented the child’s willing steps through weeping onto the shadow of the fatherless shape—does this require pathos or an intellectual dimension of ersatz psychology of _________?
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Sound and the cylinder of its oscillating music (Felino A.Soriano) I divided sounds to articulate the tongue’s tonic disparateness, a parental navigation toward under -standing youth and a reenactment of desire and splayed spontaneity. Or to define sounds’ multilingual configurations, a cymbal’s strongest edge stood still subsequent to the layered echoes’ fulfilling demonstration— behind the overlapping edge of the piano’s oscillating dusk wandering amid what wonders upon strange encounters with woven emblems, strong and diligent within knowing solo performances pertain to admired truths of sounds’ ontology of proven interpretations.
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Learned behavior (Felino A. Soriano) each hand traces shadow of a prior death —everywhere, shoulders ache portending a specific pain— a weight of foreign need and trembling of triangular species music prayer
prose
—all a related emblem, familial premise to ensure each hand tracing silvered pasts understands death is the punctuation of an ongoing conception needing to be retrofitted to current’s desire to subtract adulation
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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill Peter O'Neill has four books of poetry published: Antiope ( Hammer & Anvil Books, 2013 ), The Elm Tree ( Lapwing, 2014 ), The Dark Pool ( mgv2>publishing, 2015 ) and Dublin Gothic ( Kilmog Press, 2015). He has edited And Agamemnon Dead, An Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish Poetry with Walter Ruhlmann ( mgv2>publishing, 2015) and hosted Donkey Shots, Skerries First International Avant Garde Poetry Fest this year. He is currently editing issue 81 of Mgv2>datura - Transverser.
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an old man carrying a bucket of water (Peter O’Neill) Be-ing's unveiling or to reframe it the unveiling of Be-ING which was once the only concern of metaphysics and which could be made manifest through simple acts by one who seeing Death everywhere harbouring like the crow above in the fir that matter of factual such credence has to be given to the invisible structure which permeate our lives love
truth
and Death
all the great so called abstractions like a metal bucket breaking through the placid film of water its translucent essence spilling out its liquid light into the visible rush of the weight of the water which
is already putting a strain on the old man his two hands grasping at the handle biting into his palms he now straining at the full weight 21
the essence of light pooling above the brim which is the source of the light's play it spilling o u t into the light of the moon or son till light and water are one illuminating the old man who is standing there standing there by the water trough under the mist of the fir with the crows cawing sounding out the great grotesque anthem of scavengers their bodies now having been bloated on the human
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Biographical Note: Michael Mc Aloran
Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). He is the author of a number of collections of poetry, prose poetry, poetic aphorisms and prose, most notably 'Attributes', (Desperanto, NY, 2011), 'The Non Herein' & ‘Of Dead Silences’ (Lapwing Publications, 2011/ 2013), 'All Stepped/ Undone', ‘Of the Nothing Of’, 'The Zero Eye', 'The Bled Sun', 'In Damage Seasons',(Oneiros Books (U.K)-2013/ 14); 'Code #4 Texts' a collaboration with the Dutch poet, Aad de Gids, was also published in 2014 by Oneiros. He was also the editor/ creator of Bone Orchard Poetry, & edited for Oneiros Books (U.K 2013/ 2014). A further collection, 'Un-Sight/ Un-Sound (delirium X.), was published by gnOme books (U.S), and 'In Arena Night' is forthcoming from Lapwing Publications. 'EchoNone', is also forthcoming from Oneiros Books.
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#... ...an empty scarification of sound traces across the.../ silences unmoved by utterance/ the ever-return of the pulse to shear the trace from out of its belonging/ guttered by night in the empty actual unspoken reek of decaying words/ blood/ the unweaving pulse stretched before a meaningless sun/ shadows to bare but what of it/ dense as shit/ as coagulated breath/ night upon night there is no.../ no not a.../ foreign convulsive spasm of the echoing beseech of/ a jocular response of nullity/ no flowers for the obsolete tongue/ ashen the perfumed light of words/ collected wilt upon the passage of breath of pulse given to/ cessation yes/ bound in/ blackened/ imprint/ impress of none that lacks intent/ night is endless yet/ still yet it will never retrace its steps/ in a delirium of acid weave the unweaving given to placement/ dead space/ pulse all in a vertigo of non-space/ observing as if will were/ automatically cancelled out/ in the stepping apart from the step that was made/ broken glass/ untold design a snapped neck/ locked to yes/ unlocked in the none/ pulse’s motion in the realms of spat speech and worthless entities of breathing meat/stay down/ flourish in the receding flame/ that never was... (Michael McAloran)
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#... ...lack dirt poverty of expel/ in excrement of tide speech desolate blind burn utter utter/ eye in the opening up to shed clad falter undue if/ havoc burn blight eye as if to matter in what if only in or if to be yet it/ silenced broken bread as of stone lights/ dreaming in-dream eclipt nothing claimed/ solace yet of ask bitten through collapse feral pageant laughter-lung of promise desire’s genuflect upon scattered soil upon eviscerated once/ scars birthed from out of design clad less in zero depth reclaim/ how and ever given a silence never once heard rising up from the clogged shadow-breathe a taste of absenteeism/ the shore ashore silence zero equation none from out of none the bruised fruit ice of a deft lung’s abandonment/ it closes the tomb in spectral absence of/ static non-light abounding exigent a room a window turning from the soil once more to disadvantage point expels itself having been nothing ever of/ all bitten said of nocturne abandonment depth of ice of surface dread collapse unspoken ever as if having flung the coins to the silent undertakers of lapse long utter dark/ blind edge eclipt/ poverty of expel lack dirt/ blood bled out what matter/ a taste of iron from the opened veins the gilded speeches/ flung to the rotting dogs of black cadaver lights/ scald of yes non-else/ in spectacle of/ spliced eclipt blacklight of balm submerge... (Michael McAloran)
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#... ...eye lock in a butcher’s field disgarded waste/ vulture breath come to cleanse the obsolete devour from the in/ in matter of this or lack/ limbs locked foreign discharge of finality else of the which in if or inbetween/ sinks sung aglow of moth’s beacon lightless candle expired in else given to drought clad lock in nothing ever/ traces the trace with tongue deadlight/ fragrance of death caught in breeze reclamation else forgotten in the none of something obsolete yet in/ yet/ bask-white recollect absurdly/ piss for breath/ clap hands/ no/ not from the outset/ railing in the blood-weary moon’s reflect a given chalice from which to drain the sarcophagus exigeny/ speech as if one must fettered by/ breath-stun/ of the dissipatinjg emblems in the tight shore’s redress/ bountiless/ shitdeep in the meat of nothing ever unto ever-after dry the eyes it says/ mocks as if to/ in the becoming nothing of the in or else in traces fading unto dislocation/ a gallery of un-being all the while of the being of the final flesh/ drunk spasm nothing the blood dripping slowly unto the/ all the while the bite of nothing in the displace of observation/ skinned yes the eye/ a traipse/ ever the unsaid/ the lock-barter driven unto the... (Michael McAloran)
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#... ...in an obliterate of fallen/ bleeding out/ nowhere of/ dead space and counter-lineage/ sought yet never ought/ aligned breath and skin of teething absent of reclaim/ lapse sun death sun lapse death sun a-blight/ scar distances/ dead space in zero-plus/ stripped steel-meat to grasp at withered petal hands/ black as char before or here of the after-long/ teeth to grind/ a-speeches made/ design fucked from the tract silence overture nothing or of the other than if/ breaks the surface/ the bone-dry lake/ a colossus of wilted bone-blood/ sun yes yes what yes/ cannot/ as if ever/ no chance the dredge devouring of the upturned sky of eye of sky’s parameter/ specious wilt in sense attrusive spoken of/ whitened the light is an escapade unto utter static/ yet skin un-skinned/ levelled out/ reclaiming/ absent of reclaim from out of origin forgotten/ as if to/ desire what hence forgotten never having of the other than the final edge of/ raped stone/ (dry the eyes)/ vomits upon the sun-dead-else in the intro outro being in/ it is what then else/ drags what hence through/ not a.../
impart of/ regulate of disrepair/ shines out of the arse of it does not until/ in blind sight of/ contraspect/ devours what of in else of other than blockade/ fallen bodies/ nothing/nothing... (Michael McAloran)
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#... ...tapers tapers away rescinds unto in absent reclamation shadowed by/ breaking bone snap sharp sky desolate recoil in the echo echoing/ eaten of the parameters where not thought reverberates a collective night endless to expand within the split light eye’s blood whispering/ fallen falling fragments of flesh the upturned pam seeks to be filled with the nothing of/ it bound by lock lapse deserted coffin spurious flame residual dissipation unsung devour of blight winds/ in a mockery of milk teeth scattered as of seed dense amber/ eaten away the pulse bulb magnet nothing clad in the spectral design I lock fades in and out unto absentee expelled excrement tone deaf subtle subtle/ fingers caress the blood flecked shattered glass of being in reductive blessed be the obsolete regard taken from out of broken shells scattered pelts not a... not a trace for tomorrow given to undone in drift reclaim erased by solace of none spitting in the face of else what magnitude/ embers traces these are not for the/ vapours of words collected in the vocal expound in resound of hilt/ none done days of vital absence eradicating the naught/ still-speech a collision vertebrae not an emblem to caress not the warmth of/ the flesh of/ the eye fold in upon itself in gifted spasm nothing more of it/ shrapnel blight as was in terse of/ spits into the emptiness that cannot be other than/ recoils once more/ dead zone of approximate/ the sky has...colours the like of which unseen/ amphetaminal vibration/ skinned opiate reclaim/ and the bite of salve/ fading in fading out... (Michael McAloran)
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Biographical Note: John Saunders
John Saunders’ first collection ‘After After the Accident’ was published in 2010 by Lapwing Press, Belfast. His poems have appeared in Revival, The Moth Magazine, Crannog, Prairie Schooner Literary Journal (Nebraska), Sharp Review, The Stony Thursday Book, Boyne Berries, The New Binary Press Anthology of Poetry, Volume 1, Riposte, and on line, The Smoking Poet, Minus Nine Squared, The First Cut, The Weary Blues, Burning Bush 2, Weekenders, Poetry Bus and poetry 24. John is one of three featured poets in Measuring, Dedalus New Writers published by Dedalus Press in May 2012. He is a member of the Hibernian Poetry Workshop and a graduate of the Faber Becoming a Poet 2010 course. His second full collection Chance was published in February 2013 by New Binary Press.
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Love Poem # 2 (John Saunders) Before I could spell the word I searched for it, knew it lurked nearby. I opened every cupboard, pawed pockets under the stairs, anonymous boxes in the attic. Even though I did not know its shape, I was sure I would recognise it. Tears of despair came to me, I grew tired, fell asleep on the sofa and awoke in her arms as she carried me to my bed, kissed my head, lay beside me.
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The Days Before Decimals (John Saunders) In the days before decimals I knew my place. The fire burned with the fractions of off cuts. That press under the water tank, warm, dry, safe: where words came to me and my life was not measured in numbers.
Conditional If I had listened to her voice ooze advice into my ear that evening in seventy four while I waited for the five forty five to Dublin to educate myself in life sciences so that I would shed any belief and enshrine utilitarianism to survive the bullets of chance she would have died a proud mother. I didn’t.
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Belfast 2013 (John Saunders) The nicotine light of the pub is a watery shade and street puddles are blurred neon of conflicted colours. The hotel stands gallant in disaster. They said it could not happen and it did and they have salvaged hope from failure. I am in the shadow of adversity picking at your risk, helpless in the face of helplessness, stunned before collision. I have failed.
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Biographical Note: Strider Marcus Jones Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, 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-ADay 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 27/29/31/32; Poems For A Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; Writing Raw Poetry Magazine;The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review and Don't Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney.
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URBAN DISTRESS (Strider Marcus Jones) all around: birdsong from barky bars and nut-job neighbours, like flakey and fakey celebrity starscut the air with verbal sabres stabbing the back of sound. even the fields, that go in vegetarian meals are part of this drug processed urban distress. rocky riffs, like Mozart and Wagner with decibelsfell from concept cliffs onto punk's deconstructed shore, where the ocean roar diluted anger towards inaccessibles in the next generation into derelict houseywhile grunged indifference to expectation lost itself in Simon's nousey populous pap blasting the street with pimped gangsta rapheard, but not seen, jamming with Thomas O'Malley and Dylan in Shakespeare's alley, coloured and tense, but up to you, with Miles Davis in Kind of Blue.
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Us (Strider Marcus Jones) we are composed out of the fate of stars a light dark light so old and tuned that regards most of Us as Other peasants who are clothed without privelaged presents to burn wood in cracked stoves under crumbling cover. stitched to Their time we entwine in our own interpretation of this spinning station. only burlesque bright skies and the iris flowers of abandoned eyes can change the fixed views of a selfish landscape into united hues of equal state. our reality is brokenwe are the hosts and ghosts who have been stolen the violated tokens of corporatist totems screen greed being traded and invaded then beaten for protesting by police working for the Thief.
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SUNFLOWERS (Strider Marcus Jones) its an allotment with a leaky shed at fine leg for listening to the cricket ball touch willow whilst lying down on the lumpy pillow of an old sofa, content with it when love is spent. sunflowers are easy to grow she thoughtlooking out of the pub window at her soil canvas billowing and shimmering in sun warmed wind; not like a man, in his quiet hours of secrets, slow in the sum of his noughtbut not with you though, portrait depicted in church stained glass, caught and convicted of beauty daring him to sing and throw his cap into the ring. what are you going to grow besides natures nettles? you already have Aphrodite's petals opened or closed in his repose.
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THIS FIBBING SUN (Strider Marcus Jones) when this fibbing sun, dips below this planted plate of fieldsand waits to bob back up tomorrow: solitude, sucks the colour out of crimson clouds, and stars begin their movements over night's black curtain. thinks. this dance of being bornto live and die in sacred elements swirling in dust and gas, in beauty and folly that repeats itself to what purposedoes this engine and design make civilisations form then fade with gods and demons. there must be more to Michelangelo's ceilingthan creating orphans and leaving them, to grow old in fostered orbits.
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THAT CORNER OF THE DAY (Strider Marcus Jones) in the slit light of morning lancing through the curtains onto youit's that corner of the day uncovered in the circle we move into. silence, as a voice can now be heard eyes wide opena solar flare in infinity of spacemane aflame lunar lips pouting promises.
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Biographical Note: Amy Barry
Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media, hotel and oil & gas industries. Her work has been published in anthologies, journals and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad including in Southword Journal, First Cut, Poetry 24, Red Fez, Misty Mountain, A New Ulster. She loves traveling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, Falkerberg- have all inspired her work. When not inspired to write she plays Table Tennis. She also loves Sushi and Trampoline Jumping.
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Monday Blues (Amy Barry) Monday, the most hectic day of the week. After dropping the children off at school, I park my car, and lean back in the seat. Blustery wind gently shakes the car. Tuning in to Newstalk, ‘Dublin’s Spire will not be named after Mandela… French President reportedly picks actress over first lady…’ Beat tapping to Paolo Nutini, on the music channel, Candy takes me back to the serene hills in Nepalwhere I sip Jaandh, as it sinks into me, I absorb the unruffled ambience; Sagarmatha! You stand tall. Your crown wearing gold at sunset. Clouds alive; Breathe, laugh and dance around you… Lifting the sleek coffee mug from the cup holder, both hands clasp its rubber grip. I inhale the fruity aroma of Kenyan coffee, savouring its strong taste. Lulled, at silence, a quiet moment I should be glad ofin this little space in my car alone. 40
A New Season (Amy Barry)
She inhales. An odour of sexual ecstasy; the heat of breeding season. Mosses and ferns release their spores into the air. A hawk rises in blinding heights; shrills happy-in senseless passion. A moth lays tiny, glassy eggs in perfect rows. Bunnies, emerging for their first lesson in life, grasping at sudden freedom. In the garden of patchouli, mint, lavender; she sees him, intent in his inspection. She likes his smellso earthy, a forest-like blend of oak and aromatic bergamot. He turns to her and smiles, plants a kiss firmly on her lips. As if under a cloudburst of petals, the air sweetens. The dying leaves are gone, replaced by a luminous green.
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The Revisit – A Tribute to Mandela (Amy Barry) Today I had a chance to visit, the place I had spent most of my life, where I had passed the time calmly enough where I had often asked myself, ‘What moream I suppose to do?’ Desperation pushed me to take risks. Sadness hit me like an arrow, entered my flesh. Blessed be the part of me that protects from too much pain and sorrow; because when the torment was too severeI felt nothing.
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Her life sentence (Amy Barry)
Numbed, as wooden as a puppet, she yearns for something to make sense. Teardrops gathering on her lower eyelid, waiting to fall. Disappointment, burns her eyes, her brain. Hot blood rages through her veins, she wants to thump her fists against his chest, his face. Pained memories, like rough charcoal- sketches in her soul, wrongly remembered.
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Biographical Note: Neil Ellman
Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published more than 1,100 poems in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. He has been honored twice as a nominee for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.
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In the Vastness of Sorrowful Thoughts (Hans Hofmann, painting) How vast it seems the reach of sorrow like a hand across the universe expanding in the mind through the limitless void of our days. How determined and pitiless it seems taking hold of everything from within and without from birth to death when even then It never stops. It is in the molecules we breathe the pattern of our genes and sound of falling leaves a sonnet written to oneself sorrow in the bones as well as in the mind how vast it seems how measureless it is. (Neil Ellman)
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Vulgar Comedy (Paul Klee, lithograph) No buffoonery or burlesque in the commonplace before the pageant of the burial. No happy endings in the ordinaire between divinity and the grave At the gallow’s end before the last no last laughs but life’s absurdity and then the vulgar comedy of death. (Neil Ellman)
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Eyes of Oedipus (Adolph Gottlieb, painting) When he was a boy Oedipus had a single face with twice as many eyes; and as a would-be king more faces than could be counted each one having twice, more or less, as many eyes with which to see for miles beyond the ocean’s wine-dark waves to the front, behind and to his sides through solid walls and into the minds of men more royal than himself like a bee that could see Invisible light and like a snake the heat but he could never see the prophecy in the oracle’s bright light that even with a thousand eyes it seemed that like a child he had but one and it was for the woman of his dreams. (Neil Ellman)
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Ancestor (Pierre Alechinsky, lithograph) No tombstone with a name and six-point star engraved, no faded photographs, no dusty portrait on a wall, no yellowing documents announcing his birth his marriage or the reason of his death. The father of my father’s father had a name, I suppose, and lived somewhere In the Ukraine or Belarus speaking some other language in another alphabet, I think, he was a scribe, my grandfather said, but my grandmother said he shoveled manure like everyone else. Did he dream of miracles made by God or the shape of God Himself? Did he stare at the stars and wonder why they are and when they will speak to him in a language he could understand? Did he foresee that I, his heir, in an ancestral fog would wonder who he was when all I know is that he once lived and left nothing more than the color of his eyes? to use it. (Neil Ellman)
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Biographical Note: Gary Beck
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways (Winter Goose Publishing). Perceptions, Displays, Fault Lines and Tremors will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response will be published by Nazar Look. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts of Defiance (Artema Press). Flawed Connections has been accepted for publication (Black Rose Writing). His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City
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Departure Call (Gary Beck) Some migrating birds pass through New York City unafraid of urban muggers. Most pause in Central Park undisturbed by night prowlers who do their business on the ground and rarely climb trees. The birds who pause at Bryant Park are much more nervous in the vest pocket greenery, jostling for room with local sparrows harshly aggressive, unwelcoming to travelers unwilling to share food, impatiently awaiting departing flights.
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Gadgetry (Gary Beck) In the Stone Age we understood our artifacts, knew where they came from, how they were made. As invention evolved we knew less and less about our tools. Then artisans arrived who built devices that made life easier, more efficient, more profitable. As the Industrial Age spawned new machines beyond comprehension of most people who enjoyed the benefits of labor saving contrivances that changed the world of work, engineers, mechanics, building, operating new systems beyond manpower to manufacture goods for the consumption of many. And we began to leave the soil in great numbers renouncing toil in the fields for work in the factories. When we tamed electricity, harnessed it for creation, convenience, we did not understand it merely flipped a switch and there was light. And our marvels multiplied 51
until we controlled godlike power to obliterate cities at the push of a button. We created new wonders so even the poor the homeless carry cell phones and the people were connected, texting each other wherever they went intent on tiny screens not the hazards of the road. The inventions of the few beyond the comprehension of the many without the faintest idea how communication works, only slightly evolved from primitive forebears.
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Visitation (Gary Beck) Cousin Murray long dead, came to me in a dream, told me about his new app. I vagued out, just as of old when he was alive. Then he droned about a great idea, how much money he’d make, just as he did when he was alive.
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The Last Song (Gary Beck) As my time dwindles in this fleeting life I strain to understand the mechanics of existence, the engineering of society. I know there is a collective will to function together, irreparably divided by clan, tribe, religion, nations, frequently conflicting, often uncooperative, consuming the earth in senseless destruction, willing for all to perish rather then compromise.
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To the Cities (Gary Beck) We gather in cities for safety, comfort, a secure food supply, conditions that only exist with law and order. So we left the land for easier labor than the backbreaking grind of squeezing a livelihood from begrudging Mother Earth. Then we went to the factories and discovered new enslavement, instead of capricious Nature we found the grasping boss. But it was too late to return to the farm, gobbled up by the bank, sold to agribusiness. Production is only limited by the energy of workers mated with machines that never tire. Once the farmer toiled alone, or with small family. Then hordes labored together and learned to count their numbers. The baron who lived on the hill overlooking the gritty factory couldn’t just slaughter rebels, so they purchased protective laws. And when the workers wearied, neglecting insatiable machines, they used goons, police, National Guard and forced their return to work. 55
The new lords of capital did not have walls, moats to defend their property, just the rule of law. And the workers were always wrong, greedy and unreasonable, always wanting more then bosses would allow. Conflict became a constant and for a while it seemed the workers had compelled concessions from their masters. But this was an illusion. Throughout history, the lords gave when they had to, but took back as soon as they could.
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Biographical Note: Joseph Patrick Dorrian
Patrick is Belfast born bred and buttered as McDowell would say. He retired from teaching in 2007 after 30 years struggling in west Belfast. Patrick is married to Frances and they have 3 offspring all adults now. He has dabbled with poetry for several decades as a means of escape and last year Patrick had a poem about Palestine published in a magazine in Europe, his first publication.
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Blood Liable (Joseph Patrick Dorrian) It's red, we all have it, Some of us like to share it. A wonderful word, transfusion is. Sure, they like to place it in Sentences dear to their hearts, A transfusion of money for business. Meaning a possibility of extended life. That loan has interest accruing. The real meaning, the GIFT of blood Always so altruistic. Yet, this can be sullied. Some fundamentalists refuse it, Preferring death. Some look at the giver, Possibly a same sex sinner. HE may be clean but why risk it? But all blood is tested, checked, disposed Of if at all uncertain. (The aside) maybe being homosexual Is transmissible, maybe queerness can be caught. The fear is hidden, buried in text, read In a book that has been washed through Several translations (that prefix again!), And the poor dears get confused, They say they follow Christ, but are stuck In the Old Testament. So, no GAY Blood, One wouldn't want to crack a smile.
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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 2015 MESSAGE FROM FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
We have a Go Fund Me campaign so as to afford better 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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Delve into the depths of humanity and criminal justice with Homicide Detective Alex Boswell, in this thought provoking debut novel. Emily Donoho escorts her readers on a breath taking journey through the city that never sleeps, and the restless mind of one of its most dedicated servants. A tattered veteran of the NYPD, Boswell is a man beset: the combined weight of his case load and personal life grinding him down. The white lights are blinding, and the skyscrapers are closing in. It’s time to reach for the shore or drown trying – In the Canyons of Shadow and Light. (http://www.amazon.com/dp/151205268X/ref=rdr_ext_tmb)
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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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