A New Ulster issue 4

A New Ulster Featuring the works of Neil J Burns, Adrian Fox, Michael Mc Aloran, Stephen Elliott, Neil Ellmans, Aine MacAodha, Kelly Creighton and Peter F Fahy. Hard copies can be purchased for ÂŁ5.00

Issue No 4 January 2013

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A New Ulster

Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall

Editor: Arizahn Contents

Cover Image by

Amos Greig

Editorial

page 6

Neil J Burns; Battlefield

page 8

Kelly Creighton; Washing Faces

page 10

Stephen Elliott; In The Gardens of Patrimonio Municipal Dusk Fireworks in Glasgow green

page 12 page 13 page 14

Neil Ellman; To Be Looked at (from the Other Side of the Glass) with One Eye, Close to, for almost an Hour Canyon Three Flags Letting Go #8

page 16 page 17 page 18 page 19

peter F Fahy; Muck

page 21

Adrian Fox; Reflections Inner Music Empathy The Wrong Road

page 34 page 35 page 36 page 37

Aine MacAodha; To my children when I'm gone The singer sowing machine

page 39 page 40

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Michael Mc Aloran; #16 #26#31#40-

page 42 page 43 page 44 page 45

Gareth Writer-Davies; Brave Morse Code Winter Genetics My Sapphic Friend

page 47 page 48 page 49 page 50 page 51

On The Wall Adrian's artwork can be found on pages 54-58 Round the Back POET magazine ARTEMIS poetry magazine Purely Poetry

page 59 page 60 page 61

Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 24 Tyndale Green, Belfast BT14 8HH Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 52 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/

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Published in Baskerville Old Face Produced in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

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Editorial Poetry is for me a passion, as are the creative arts in all their formats. However, it wasn't always so. I was lucky to earn a bursary to the John Hewitt summer school and it was during that week that I really developed a love for poetry. Before that I had had the pleasure of meeting many of Ireland's poets; Michael Longley, Padraic Fiacc, Seamus Heaney and James Simmons to name just a few. I've watched poetry develop and grow as the reputations of up and coming poets took off. I've watched writer's groups come and go with great sadness. Yet the spirit which drives local poetry, art and music is still strong and vibrant.

The Editor and Alleycats are pleased with the selection of poetry, prose and art that is featured in this, our first issue of 2013. Works by Adrian Fox, Michael Mc Aloran and Aine MacAodha represent just a small portion of the talented individuals who have contributed to bring you this issue. As ever, it is about the individual, the artist and their place in society. It is a celebration of their work and a window into their techniques. A New Ulster is open to experimental and traditional poetry styles and approaches.

Issue 3 saw a new section added: representing the works of younger artists and writers. I believe that creativity and passion for the arts should be nurtured, and like to think that this will be a section that can be built on and expanded. I also hope to see photographers submitting images for the online ezine. I have plans for 2013 which I hope will see the journal grow and develop. There is always a question of momentum. I am also hopeful that we shall see an increase in social and community art projects. Finally, I hope that we will see 2013 as the year when STEAM becomes the norm at school. What is STEAM? Well it stands for science, technology, art and maths. We need to encourage the next generation to be thinkers and doers.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Neil J Burns Neil J Burns is a 31 year old blogger. His blog, titled Belfast is my Mojo, was short-listed for the Ireland blog awards 2012 for the category for best Arts/Culture blog.

The blog receives on average, 300 hits a day. One blog post was published on Blackstaff Press's website.

Neil writes in all genres, and has recently been published in 30 Under 30; with his short story To Chapel Haven. He has also been published in The Open Ear Journal (May 2011).

A former QUB Master's degree student in Creative Writing and erstwhile attendee of the QUB Writers' Group, Neil is currently homeless but hopes to move into own place in January 2013.

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Battlefield ‘Blessed are the meek for they will inherit the earth.’ Mark 5:5 I They say Diogenes lived in a wooden-barrel in Athens And carried around with him: a lit-lantern during the day.

With whining dogs at his legs, seeking ‘honesty’ he claimed.

And today - as I walk along a path close to the Lagan way II I watch the birds there fly to and fro, and I notice how free They are, with no pockets to curl their wings into balls of rage.

No deep pockets to bury secrets. I smile then because my strong Hands are free of anger. I do not feel like an animal in a locked cage.

III In St. Malachy’s Chapel, near the Markets, South Belfast. Stands A statue of a man dressed in rags: Saint Benedict Joseph Labre.

A man who in pure devotion, gave up all material possessions For God. And I get down upon my knees to pray to our padre; IV And I stay like that for a while, praying, And there I begin to see For the first time, that I am like the birds of Belfast - totally free.

Neil J Burns 8

Biographical note: Kelly Creighton

Kelly Creighton was born in Belfast in 1979. She is a poet, fiction writer and artist. Kelly has previously published poems and short stories in anthologies and magazines.

Recently her work was feature of the week in Electric Windmill Press; she will have further work in their upcoming issue and a poem in Poethead website in January.

Kelly is editing her novel ‘Yielding Fruit’, a historical fiction set in West Yorkshire while compiling her first collection of poems. http://kellycreighton.webs.com twitter.com@KellyCreighton

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Washing Faces His redundant work boots nudged their heels against the spine of the village’s path, straggling-sway home ; to fall through doors into bed, then at times into love and out of favour.

Head on his Guinness the starched-collar of his father’s war time obligations.

The country’s evolution made him unneeded in the shipyard, gone home; done with the scrabble.

Now he settled to wait it out and see what would come his way, warm bar stools and be reminded by his glass of his father’s warning to keep clean his face, not with his own tongue.

Friday nights would roll around, roll into each other. The five-day weekends of drink falling from his glass. Falling outs; out of bars, out of luck and pocket, then into debt.

Slept until his face-washing-callings kept his tongue from becoming too loose.

That sandy tongue skimmed by the brine, his docked memories and jug to ear, the pub called him.

Kelly Creighton 10

Biographical note: Stephen Elliott Stephen Elliott is an English Literature student residing in Glasgow, and has previously been published by the likes of Tuck Magazine and Illuminated Poetry Ireland.

A Belfast man at heart, it is not surprising that he notes Kavanagh and Heaney as major influences along with Hughes, Larkin and others.

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In the Gardens of Patrim贸nio Municipal In the gardens of Patrim贸nio Municipal I near the poor anthuriums.

Downy and delicate, One sorrows on a broken stem; A rueful red half-hidden by weary white.

All scent lost by the stamp of a foot.

I hear the sisters' song Emanate from an open window To illuminate our meager souls Of tender man and tender flower And for a moment we almost are At peace.

In the gardens of Patrim贸nio Municipal I almost shed a tear.

Stephen Elliott 12

Dusk The day darkens.

The wilting shadow of an infant birch Grants its last leaf to the pavement, Shivering; Becomes the gnarled, knotted hand Of Otherworld, Each twig-shade a Spindle fingered cipher Feeling.

Fondling Tickling the evening into passage.

The moment shifts.

Streetlights flicker and buzz into being.

A portal shuts.

Stephen Elliott 13

Fireworks in Glasgow Green These fireworks work the job Of all good poets, Starting in the roily trenches To selflessly employ the senses: Nasal twitch of sulfur smut – A whiff of Autumn’s snuffbox; Audil punch of cannon crunch Beating on the addled drum; But first the chief, a lucent Burst. A lustrous vision dyed, Tinted, no colour stinted; Advent Angels to our eyes; Sadly set to fizzle off – A sputter in November’s night.

Failing each of these, our eyes Are surely drawn to open sky To taste the sweet of heaven’s vastness, Or brush the hand of endless greatness.

Stephen Elliott 14

Biographical Note: Neil Ellman Twice nominated for Best of the Net, Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. Hundreds of his poems appear in print and online journals, anthologies, broadsides and chapbooks throughout the world.

Neil currently lives in New Jersey

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To Be Looked at (from the Other Side of the Glass) with One Eye, Close to, for almost an Hour

(after the painting and construction by Marcel Duchamp) From this side from that two worlds astigmaticized illusions here not there here what’s real there opposites converse bitter ironies glass between frost at the edges this world in focus that yours a presence one eye watching mine blind you see me as I am I don’t.

Neil Ellman 16

Canyon

(after the combine by Robert Rauschenberg) Between the canyon walls from past to now between the birth and death of confidence from flesh to artifice from its nest littered with buttons and nails bits of string mirror and photographs the odds and ends of history an eagle soars dips hovers glides on feathers gripping air preys for another meal then loses hold before it falls to earth like Icarus flown too high.

Neil Ellman 17

Three Flags

(after the painting by Jasper Johns) Banners of our discontent flags of patriots born to fight we show our honor blue-born blood-let in stars and stripes we die in amber waves of grain— so many lost for nation & god from sea to shining sea.

Neil Ellman 18

Letting Go #8

(after the painting by Cleve Gray) Letting go r-e-l-e-a-s-i-n-g hold absolved acquitted delivered discharged I surrender to wiggledy-jiggledy streams of cognition schemes of deduction seams of attention r-e-l-e-a-s-e-d free now free as I will ever be.

Neil Ellman 19

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Biographical note: Peter Francis Fahy Peter is a graphic artist who specializes in pencil and ink.

His work is usually a combination of artwork and short stories. Having read a lot of Japanese Manga, Peter finds that he is influenced by that style of drawing, most especially Kishimoto - the artist and creator of the Naruto series. Peter wouldn't call this fine art - it's just a real vital part of the creative process. Whenever he writes fiction, he needs to have some images in there as well.

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Muck Love is a flower, a delicate, delightful blossom that arrests eyes and hearts.

With their quiet grace and profound beauty, flowers captivate us.

Flowers, like love, are the most magnificent expressions of nature, thousands of shapes and hues, each one precious, perfect, and oh so poignant.

But love, like a flower, withers and dies. The petals fall, the nectar dries, and all that remains is a slim stem, the skeleton of something that used to be beautiful and alive.

Such was the love of Lily and Mark Gorman, man and wife, married for thirty exhausting years, thirty years sharing the same bed, the same home, the same insufferable love.

The Gormans were seemingly side by side, like two twinkling stars in the sky, but like stars, they were separated by a distance of a hundred million miles.

I Of course, it wasn’t always this way. Decades ago, in the early 1980s, Lily’s teenage dream came true when she met Mark Gorman, a muscular man, unlike all the other bumptious skag bag boys from Lisburn. He was thirty two and fit as a bull, with eyes like emeralds, jet black hair, and blessed with the most seductive smile she’d ever seen. Her heart fluttered when he grinned, and her heart leapt when she saw his white Skoda convertible parked at the end of her street.

Together, they drove deep into Ulster’s winding roads and over the rolling hills. Mark introduced her to the wonderland of the province, to the natural treasures of Northern Ireland, the lavender fields of Loughareena, the reed rivers near Barton’s Bay, the still waters of Silent Valley, and hidden caves along Antrim’s coast, caves they crept into and kissed when the tides permitted.

Red kites at the Dromara hills, cloudwatching at the Portstewart Strand, Mark knew all the magical places, every corner of every county, and he brought Lily to them all, just as he promised he would, flying down the country roads in his white convertible, the wind flowing through the wavy tresses of Lily’s long blonde hair, and Mark with a smile as bright and beautiful as the summer sun.

He made love to her in the moonlit grooves of Murlough beach, and the ocean roared around them.

What did it matter if he was twice her age, and that her father forbid her to see him? Lily was besotted, and when teenage girls are besotted, their hearts become as expansive as the ocean. Lily, enamored, enchanted and entranced, sailed towards Mark, the only port she could call home.

On her eighteenth birthday, Mark brought Lily to the Isle of Muck, an island on the craggy corners of Antrim’s coast. They left Lisburn just as the sun 22

was sinking and drove into the deepening darkness, around the narrow curves of the coast road and into the crown of the county. There was no sound but the whisper of the wind and the soft murmur of the sea. Two lovers in the night, with hearts like beacons in the fog.

Mark parked on a cliff. They got out of the car and stood on the edge, looking out to sea. A full moon hung suspended in the sky like a prodigious pearl radiating with divine light.

The moon reflected on the surface of the water and made a long, wavering white path from the beach to beyond. In the hazy distance, under the silver glow of the luminous moon, a shadow island emerged.

Mark held Lily’s hand and pointed to the island shaped like a woman lying flat on her back. Around the rising rim of the woman’s head, Mark and Lily saw a flickering fog, a cloud of black Ms flapping their wings.

“Is that birds?” Lily asked in awe.

“They’re razorbills,” Mark clarified, “they’re seabirds that fly across the Atlantic every year, to Iceland, to America, Canada, but they always return to the same breeding ground, to the same partner. Even in that flock, the male will find the female. He’ll hear her call and he’ll find her, always.”

Lily squeezed Mark’s hand tight.

“Look up, Lily.”

Lily turned her head towards the sky. The moon hid her marvellous face behind a sailing wall of grey clouds and let the stars take centre stage.

“What do you see?” He asked softly, coming behind her and kissing her neck.

“Stars.”

Mark rested his chin on her shoulder, raised her hand with his and pointed up, tracing the stars with her fingers.

“That’s Castor,” he said, pointing to a bright star, “and that’s Pollux.” He moved her finger slowly to the left and the right. “They’re the heads.”

“The heads?”

“Of Gemini - these stars were in the sky on the night you were born.” Mark moved Lily’s hand to chart the twenty seven stars that combined to form the constellation.

“It looks like two people,” Lily realized, “two people holding hands.”

“Forever,” Mark said, kissing her neck again.

He turned her around, and they stood face to face. Behind Lily was the Isle of Muck, the echoing caw of the razorbills, and the eternal companions in the starlit sky.

Mark released her hand got down on one knee.

He looked up to see Lily and the constellation Gemini twinkling about her head. “Lily, he began, sliding a hand into his pocket. He removed a small black box.

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The sailing wall of clouds moved past the moon and as Mark opened the black box the lustrous light of earth’s satellite illuminated the tiny diamond sparkling in the silver ring.

“You are more precious to me than you will ever know. I love you Lily, and I swear...I swear....” Mark’s lips quivered. Tears sparkled in his eyes. “I will always be by your side. No ocean, no distance will ever keep us apart. I’ll find you in the crowd, in the flock. You and me, I want us to be just like those stars, together forever. I swear. I swear. Lily...will you marry me?”

“Yes!” Lily cried, pulling Mark up from the ground. “I swear too! I swear.”

They kissed under the stars and Lily slid her finger into the silver band. She raised her hand up to see the diamond twinkling in the moonlight, like a little star that had fallen from the heavens and crowned her finger.

She fell into Mark’s arms. They fell to the ground and sealed their covenant under the Gemini night sky.

Lily lay on her back with Mark on top, both moving with sensuous motion, like waves in the ocean. In the distance, wind carried the crying caws of the razorbills. Up above, far beyond the stratosphere, in the far-flung reaches of space, Gemini sparkled, smiling on their union.

Lily’s eyes traced the constellation as Mark pushed deeper inside her, two companions, body to body, two lovers intertwined, and in the euphoria, the distance, the distinctions between stars and humans blurred. Love emerged, and Lily’s body opened up like a flower finally finding the sun, and still her eyes were on the stars as the petals unfolded.

The cry of the birds, the crash of the waves, the sparkle of the stars, Mark and Lily, they were one with the world, and when the shudders came she couldn’t tell the difference between the bodies on the ground and the bodies in the sky.

II Lily and Mark defied everyone who opposed their marriage and eloped to Gretna Green. They would have travelled to the ends of the earth to proclaim their love. The couple exchanged rings and vows, kissed before an altar of God and walked out into the world as husband and wife. Hand in hand they journeyed to Rathlin Island. Life was a dream and a delight. For a while.

Magic fades, spells shatter, and for Mark and Lily Gorman it didn’t take too long for the beautiful bubble to burst.

Mark couldn’t pay the rent on his own, not in their lovely Ballygally bungalow, so Lily had to throw her teenage freedom away and wake up to a world of work. Chambermaid, shelf-stacker, dishwasher, anything that an eighteen year old with two O Levels could find, and as if that obligation wasn’t bad enough, her so-called husband, the man who promised to honour and obey her, wouldn’t 24

even drive her to work. His job with Ulster’s Wildlife Trust took him here, there and everywhere. Early mornings, late evenings, overnight stays in desolate islands. Lily’s chauffeur abandoned her for the birds, the bogs, the seals and those bloody badgers, so she had to stand by the bus stop on the cold coastal road, in the blustery winds, in the freezing frosts, in the rainy seasons, staring fervently at the curve of the road and waiting for the Ulsterbus to arrive, sometimes ten minutes late, sometimes twenty, sometimes an hour, and over the years the soft skin of her young hands started to crack.

Goodbye to the wispy, whimsical dreams of youth. Hello to the horror of maturity - bills, debts, cleaning, all the obligations of married life.

She was a flower once, a beautiful flower in a field, but Mark plucked her from the garden of her girlhood, put her in a dusty book and pressed her flat.

There was no going back, not to her parents, not after she made a scene at her father’s funeral, contesting the will and demanding more money in front of all her family. Then she was caught red-handed stealing her mother’s jewellery. She could never go home again.

Her life in Lisburn was a distant dream. Now she only had the bungalow in Ballygally. It seemed wonderful at first, a home by the sea, stars and shores, but now she resented the isolation. She resented Mark for removing her from Lisburn town and Belfast city, for robbing her of life’s opportunities, hoodwinking her into becoming a wife, a captive bird for him to keep in his house beside all the nature books and watercolour paintings of Ulster’s loveliest locations.

Two years passed, ten years, twenty years, thirty years and the disillusionment continued to deepen. What happened to the strapping, strong and passionate stallion she met all those years ago? The man who drove her to the summit of Black Mountain to witness the majesty of the summer’s first full moon? When did he become so old, so fat, so flaccid? She’d never comb her fingers through his jet black hair again, because he had no hair, and that shiny dome disgusted her. Maybe if he paid for some hair plugs she might respect him.

At least he’d be resisting the onslaught of age instead of just submitting to it.

She wasted her life with this tired old toad of a man. He promised her that every day would be a joy, but every day was just a dull and dreary reel of sunrise and sunset, filled with listless emotions.

There were no children to break the monotony, not with Mark’s seedless pistol. He cheated her out of everything: life, love, happiness, even motherhood.

Is it any wonder she grew to hate him?

Love is a flower, but hate is a weed, an ugly, ubiquitous weed that invaded the lawn of her life.

Those oaths Mark swore under the stars, by the razorbill birds and the Isle 25

of Muck, the vow to love her forever, to live his life with the sole desire to make her happy, they all turned out to be nothing more than empty promises and pathetic fantasies.

She hated her life, and she could barely look at the man who yanked her into it.

Then, when Mark fell victim to the rapacious recession and became one of the many casualties in the long line of job losses, he just shut down and withdrew from the world entirely.

He was a failure, and Lily told him frequently that he was a failure.

Now, all Mark seemed to care about was those incessant, insipid little outings around the province. All by himself: just a notebook and binoculars.

How banal. How boring.

Lily deserved more than this, did she not? She worked hard to keep herself beautiful, to fight the onslaught of age. She gave her life to this man, and what did she receive in return? No children, no exotic excursions, no jewels on Christmas, and the only escape from her dreary, wearisome existence was weekend breaks to the rainy Rathlin Island, Warrenpoint, Portstewart, or some other grey and gloomy location in this sinkhole province that her sterile, lacklustre, fat, bald husband loved so much.

Life became unbearable for Lily, the pressed flower, the caged bird. It was too much to bear, and then she met Michael, and she remembered how it felt to burn with the heat of passion.

III Lily had seen the young man many times before. He was a scruffy chap, no older than twenty five, with dirty fair hair, narrow eyes and a nose shaped like a shark’s fin. He loitered in the Larne Library, the place where Lily had worked for ten years. He would disappear into the stacks, only to reappear minutes before closing time.

Their first encounter was on a Monday. The most depressing day of the week suddenly and unexpectedly was imbued with an exciting and invigorating energy.

Five minutes to five and Lily, doing her final rounds at the library, found this gangly youth dozing at a desk, books about airplanes and aeronautic engineering opened on the table, his body flumped on the soft chair and his head lolling back.

Lily intended to throw him out, but she failed to stir him from sleep with her “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me sir”, so she leaned down and shook his shoulder.

The sleeper gently pushed her hand away in a swift somnolent motion. His mouth hung open and a snore gurgled in his throat.

“Excuse me,” Lily said again, shaking his shoulder so hard his head 26

wobbled.

The dozer made to swat her arm away, but he missed the mark and his hand landed on her breast.

Lily froze. He squeezed. He stirred. The sleeper awakened to see a portly pair of boobs inches from his face.

His hand didn’t drop. The grey-blonde slim and slender librarian didn’t smack his hand away. He cupped his hand around the cup of her breast and pressed his fingers into the supple flesh. A thin, lecherous smile stretched across his lips.

“It’s closing time...” Lily muttered.

“Is it?” the young buck said. He blinked languidly; let his eyes fall from the curve of her breasts to the space between her legs. “S’not openin’ time, no?” He said saucily, bringing his narrow eyes back to her face.

Lily trembled. “No,” she replied weakly.

“Aww,” the stranger said with a sly, sleeked grin.

Lily retreated from the man, one step back, two steps, her eyes riveted to that licentious smile, that expression that sizzled with dirty desire.

Her back hit the stacks and she scampered around the corner, her face as red as a live coal.

For the first time in years, Lily felt a fever.

The memory of that encounter lingered with Lily, even when she lay in bed beside her fat pensioner husband. He grumbled in his sleep, probably dreaming about butterflies, otters or flora and fauna that grew in Belfast bogs.

Lily stared up at the ceiling and placed her hand on her breast, touching the spot that the young man touched, hoping to reignite some of the heat.

The stranger didn’t appear in the library the next day or the day after that, but when he walked through the double doors on Thursday afternoon and their eyes met, Lily felt the fever again.

First came the flirting, the furtive smiles, the winks, the long, lingering glances, then an encounter in the aisle dedicated to geography. It started with a touch, then a flash, a blush, and at five Lily locked up, leaving the young buck up in the first floor, a lock in at the library, and the lust he unleashed on her was so strong she thought the entire building would shake, rock, and rumble.

After thirty years of marriage to that bird-watching bore, Lily finally had her life back. Mark had flattened her in a book, but with Michael the flower emerged resplendent. Michael became the bee craving her nectar.

A fever for him burned inside her. Soon the fever became a fire, and within a week they were falling into the flames of a full blown affair.

More lock-ins followed, then secret rendezvous beneath the quiet piers of Larne’s harbours, behind the Ulster Bank, behind the bus station.

She was a girl again and she burned with excitement when Michael sent her 27

texts. Meet me here, meet me there, and of course she met him everywhere.

After the dirty deed they basked in the afterglow of sex. There were no tearful promises, no soppy confessions or sentimental vows. She appreciated that reticence. Talk, she learned with Mark, was as insubstantial as air. Words and assurances disappear with the wind, but actions endure. The passionate kiss, the hard embrace, the tug and the touch, they remain like craters.

Michael didn’t deceive Lily like Mark did. He offered her nothing, made no plans for weekends away or lifelong commitments. All they had was now, two flowers soaking up the sunlight.

Lily learned never to trust passionate promises. Look where that landed her. She’d rather bask in the moment and savour the silence.

Weeks rolled by and the blaze of lust continued to burn. Mark Gorman noticed none of it. He was rarely home anyway, always away on some expedition to the east or south of the Northern Ireland, seal-counting, bird-spotting, lifting litter off beaches. At one point Lily wondered if her husband might be having an affair of his own, but she quickly dismissed the idea. Who in their right mind would want a flabby, wrinkled old bore like him?

One weekend, Lily invited Michael to the bungalow in Ballygally. Her husband was busy chasing butterflies around the marshes of Lough Neagh, and the lovers laughed at his expense, describing a gross geriatric tromping and stomping through the mud while his wife was romping in bed with another man.

They frolicked at night, in the morning and the afternoon, and after Michael showered the sweat of sex off his long, lean body, he put on Mark’s dressing gown, poured himself a generous measure of expensive Irish whiskey from Mark’s drinks’ cabinet and sat down in Mark’s armchair to watch the Saturday sport.

Lily kept to the kitchen, cooking a fry for the half-time interval. She heard Michael roar and shout from the living room, angry at the wayward ball and all the legs kicking it in the wrong directions. He entered the kitchen, filled his glass with another generous measure of Mark’s whiskey, smelt the Cookstown sausages sizzle and gave Lily a playful smack on the arse on his way out.

He resumed his roaring, following the football with the fanaticism and fervour only a young man can deliver.

Serving out the sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, soda bread and black pudding on her best china, Lily realized that this was the life she wanted: a Saturday afternoon with a virile, voracious man, a man who’ll take what he wants, be it whiskey or woman, and not think twice about asking for permission.

He seized life with both hands, unlike that lumbering lump she married.

In the evening, following a frenzied post-football fumble on the sofa, Michael and Lily relaxed in the living room. He’d drank most of Mark’s 28

sumptuous whiskey but still he filled the glass.

The lovers lay in each other’s arms and stared out the window, gazing at the sunset over the sea and the pastel pallet of clouds cast high in the sky. Over the years, Lily had grown bored of the view - the same horizon, the same hazy outline of the Ards Peninsula, the same cluster of birds rising and falling in the air. It all became quite stupefying, but now, with a lusty lover laying beside her, she found it utterly enchanting.

Mark’s whiskey loosened Michael’s tongue. He fixed his eyes on the sinking sun and revealed facts about his life, how he’d love to live in a house like this, but he had to crash at a mate’s flat or at his mother’s house, and there was no room for him there because of his two teenage sisters and their screaming babies. He sometimes slept over at his da’s flat in Coleraine, but the auld man was an alcoholic. Eight tins of Harp and a barrack buster of cider every night, and if he’s on the vodka then watch your step because he’s a nasty bastard on the spirits.

Michael had nowhere else to go, and again he said while he admired the seaside sundown, “I’d do any’hing for a place like this.”

The fading sunlight cast a soft golden glow on Michael’s skin. His glassy eyes fixed themselves on the horizon, looking deep into the distance, as if searching for a secret in the line dividing sea and sky.

Lily fell in love with him then. She wanted to give him everything he wanted.

The only thing standing in her way was her husband.

IV Now that Lily gave her heart to Michael, she found herself hating Mark more and more. Her heart was an ocean again, but that ugly, useless lump was the anchor that kept her tethered to the shore of their loveless marriage.

She tolerated him before, but now she despised him. Every little action, the way he ate, the way he cleared his throat, it all intensified her antipathy towards him. The sound of him eating, the sound of him breathing, the sound of his silence when he sat in that armchair and stared at the sea; it all infuriated her.

Soon, the very sight of him made her feel physically sick.

She didn’t want to waste another year, another month, another day of her precious life with this cumbersome old codger. She wanted Michael, vivacious Michael, the man with fire in his eyes. In Mark’s eyes, the emerald sparkle vanished long ago, replaced by a vacancy, an emptiness. He had turned away from life. That fat old goat had started the downward slope towards death. Lily decided to expedite his arrival at that dark destination, before he sucked the last gasp of life out of her while she had another chance at happiness. He took her life once. She’d never let him do it again.

Soon it was summertime, the season of their anniversary, her birthday, and 29

the month when the razorbills came back to their breeding grounds.

Lily proposed that instead of sitting in with a bottle of white wine and a rump of roast beef as they always did on their anniversary, they should drive to the Isle of Muck and scan the skies for razorbills.

The idea appealed to Mark greatly. He held her in his sights and smiled.

Lily thought she saw a twinkle in his emerald eyes, like a flame resurrected from a long dead fire, but she didn’t delude herself. That glimmer was just light reflecting from the setting sun.

They drove along the tight snaking roads of Antrim’s coast in Mark’s battered old white Skoda convertible. He blathered on about journeys they shared years ago, midnight drives to Murlough beach, bog walks in Ballymahon, bat-watching in Balloo. He reminisced fondly.

“Yes, I remember,” Lily mused as she watched the waves. In truth, she’d rather not recall that romance. It was from a time when she was young, blonde and beautiful, before Mark caught her in his web of promises and entangled her in this terrible loveless life.

They arrived at the Isle of Muck just was the sun sank below the sea and tossed final spears of daylight out into the darkening sky. Stars twinkled in the twilight. Castor and Pollux showed their faces.

“Our wee island” Mark mumbled as he put his hands in his pockets, approached the edge of the cliff, and stood still like a sentinel guarding Ulster’s shores.

The dying light reached out and his shadow stretched behind him. He seemed like a sundial on that verge. How time had changed him.

Thirty one years ago, half his lifetime, he’d stood on that very spot; swearing vows before the stars, the earth, the sea, the only gods he’d ever followed. Now he found himself here again, with a girl he knew he failed. Her dreams had turned to dust, and he hated himself for it.

Waves crashed against the shore and wind swept up from the sea to caress his wrinkled skin.

Maybe today was a day for redemption, maybe all those years of silence, distance and disdain could be washed away. Maybe they could start again.

Mark breathed deep draughts of the salty sea air and closed his eyes. He remembered every word that he said thirty one years ago, and he’d say it all again.

He’d swear to love her forever, to never leave her side, and he’d say sorry, sorry for not giving you the life you wanted and for not being the man you wanted me to be.

He turned, ready to offer his hand, but Lily was already giving him hers, both hands, palms flat and pushing so hard against his chest that he was propelled back, over the edge of the cliff and into the arms of the roaring ocean.

The world tumbled as he fell. Waves, rocks, stars, Lily, the sounds of cawing birds, all tumbled and turned in one terrible blurring cycle as Mark Gorman plummeted to his death.

30

V Lily walked home under the cover of darkness, but she felt as bright as a beacon. Her entire body bristled with an amazing energy - ecstatic, almost euphoric. It was the sensation of freedom.

After years of captivity, the caged bird was finally free, and she felt colour coming back into her life, crimson red, carnelian, scarlet shades of the flower she used to be.

Two hours later, she returned home and phoned Michael, not to tell him about her liberation or her husband’s tragic accident and fortunate fall, but to invite him over. Let him recline in Mark’s chair. Let him drink Mark’s whiskey, wear Mark’s robe. They all belonged to him now. But the bloody boy refused to answer his phone. He didn’t answer when she called ten minutes later, or twenty minutes after that, or five minutes after that. She decided to call it a night and contact him tomorrow. Besides, her feet ached from that trek between the Isle of Muck and Ballygally. Her bed beckoned her, but even though she was exhausted, she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even close her eyes. The excitement of tomorrow and a new life unencumbered by that slug of a husband kept her awake. She stared at the ceiling. Her heart hammered in her chest. She listened to the ahh-ing sound of the ocean. Soon, she and Michael would be crashing into each other like those waves.

A new day dawned for Lily, her first day of freedom. She resisted the urge to dump all those items associated with her old life: photographs of moths and birds that Mark had taken; paintings of forests and waterfalls from every corner of the six counties. She wanted to burn them all and wash her hands after, but that might seem suspicious to the PSNI. She’d have to call them in a day or so to report her husband being missing. But that could wait. Not today, maybe tomorrow. He usually went away on adventures around the province, so she’d just tell the police that she assumed he was in the wetlands or the Mournes. Then she’d turn on the waterworks and pray for his safe return.

For now, the paintings, prints and photographs could stay. The least she could do would be to remove her wedding ring. That band of gold that had bound her for 30 miserable years. With a lot of effort and some lubricating drops of Fairy liquid she pulled the ring off her finger and set it by the kitchen sink.

Michael didn’t answer his phone in the morning, or in the afternoon, or in the evening. Lily became anxious. What if he was with someone else, someone younger? She called him again to dispel her doubts but the phone rang and rang and rang.

Her mind spun in circles and her stomach tied itself in knots as Lily 31

considered that yet another man had deceived her. She sat in the living room, staring out the window and drifting into daydreams. She noticed neither the sea, nor the sky, nor the birds gathering in her front garden.

Only when one of them landed on the windowsill and tapped its hard beak against the glass did Lily snap out of her reverie.

She gasped to see such a strange seabird. What a beak - flat and black and curved at the tip with thin white lines running down the bill. Beyond that black and white bird, more were congregated in her garden. There were at least twenty of the dark feathered fowl, all of them staring in through the window: staring straight at Lily with their beady black eyes.

Did she fall asleep? Was she dreaming? Lily got up off the sofa and carefully retreated from the living room, her eyes locked with the dark constellation of all the birds’ eyes. She slowly closed the door, just in case they smashed through the window and attacked her with those brutal black beaks.

A new horror greeted her.

There were footprints on the floor, mucky footprints leading from the front door, down the hall and back again to the kitchen.

Why did Lily follow that dirty trail of footprints? Was it because she didn’t dare to believe what might be, because she had to confirm the impossibility what might be?

With a beating heart she opened the kitchen door, knowing deep down what awaited her.

Her husband, Mark Gorman, a corpse covered head to toe in oozing muck, a man of rotting flesh and mud, a man with two eyes that sparkled like Castor and Pollux. He extended a mucky hand and held up Lily’s wedding ring, a band of gold muddied by the mire of his fingers.

He didn’t speak, but slouched forward, reaching out with the ring.

Lily fell to her knees, mesmerized by the sparkling stars of her husband’s eyes.

The mud embraced the flower, and outside all the razorbills cawed and cackled in celebration of their union.

They flapped their wings and rode the wind back to their breeding ground, back to the cycle of life, love, death, and muck.

Peter F Fahy

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Biographical Note: Adrian Fox Born in Kent, England of Irish parents, returning to Belfast in 1967, Adrian has an M.A. from Lancaster University and The poets house, Donegal. He was taught by the great poet James Simmons.

Adrian’s poems have been published by Cyphers, Poetry Ireland, the Honest Ulsterman, and The Black Mountain Review, as well as four collections by Lapwing and Lagan Press.

His poems have been translated into Hungarian; and whilst in Hungary, Adrian taught in the main university as part of a peace programme in 2003.

He has also produced a CD, ‘Violets’, a homage based on the lost lives of all who died in Northern Ireland.

Adrian is also a painter and teaches poetry online at: www.adrianfox.org

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REFLECTIONS

Everything is unfocused In the supermarket window.

Everything is doubled or Trebled in this xmas mayhem Spree, it looks like last year And the year before And the year before Before are ganging up And consumerism Is after me.

Adrian Fox 34

INNER MUSIC That line from an Akmatova poem Comes to me like a refrain sung And overdubbed with my Fathers 78s.

Old recorded records trampled By regimental order, On the morning of internment.

I woke at 6am just before The front door was kicked in.

I looked out the window And never saw so many people (neighbours) running for cover.

I can still hear the scrapes and crackles of those old 78s breaking under hob-nailed-boots.

I’m not saying who’s to blame, or if anyone is to blame, the irish were wronged and the english All I’m saying is, I can hear The music of humanity.

Adrian Fox 35

EMPATHY We live in a dog eat dog world but I' m not barking or biting back.

It's survival of the fittest and I aint very fit, I live each day on honesty-these words are my only truth. Poetry and art are all i have so I give them away for free-wev'e got to give to get so when will you see me?

Adrian Fox 36

THE WRONG ROAD

In the ring of Gullion on the coastal route.

The road I took as a boy With my heart in my mouth.

Past the customs and excise My dad went on the run, he Died before the peace process So I think he’s still running.

Interned now not by a special powers act but by earth. Nothing much has changed , I almost remembered/forgot to turn right.

Adrian Fox 37

Biographical Note: Aine MacAodha Aine MacAodha is a writer and amateur photographer from Omagh, County Tyrone.

Her essays, poems and photographic work have appeared in issues of Luciole Press and Pirene’s Fountain, and her poetry has been published in online magazines including Argotist Online, Arabesque Review, Shamrock Haiku Journal, The Herald, Celtic Myth Podshow, Debris Magazine and recently in The Toronto Quarterly, Glasgow Review.

She has also featured in the first two issues of soylesipoetrymagazine that are also translated into Turkish, and has poems in a couple of issues of Thefirstcut, Outburst Magazine and Issue 2 of A New Ulster.

She has two poetry collections published: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1188920.Aine_MacAodha http://ainemacaodha.webs.com/index.htm

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To my children when I’m gone some mountains are higher than others winter can cause frost bite. without a bit of darkness we may not appreciate the light afterwards.

Remember the good in the world the take your breath smiles the smile from a stranger in a strange place the beauty in a daisy chain the elegance in a buttercup the wonder of a webbing spider the warmth of a heart when another's fiery arrow hits it love and goodness costs nothing hatred causes illness treat the nature around you with respect treat your spirit with kindness others too manners are easily carried.

On your path through life take a road that you love.

On that road I hope you meet the Celts visit your ancestors visit ancient sites and stone circles take a moment to wonder at the bog underfoot.

I hope you meet the old woman of Beara she’ll understand your emotions your battle with self, age.

Seek too Lao Tzu, Zen masters, Jesus, argue with them listen to their words, all leading within shake their hands.

Take solace in the ties that bind in blood and spirit, love them always and remember what you throw on life’s waters will drift back to you so always throw good.

Aine MacAodha 39

The singer sewing machine

My sister and I shared a wee room bunk beds newly bought lined the wall with a ladder to ascend.

Mothers sewing machine stood by the window the large pedal reminded me of a see-saw.

She’d pedal with one foot; her hand on the smaller wheel; steering the ship of material onto fast needles going up and down.

She made curtains for the whole house neighbours got kitted out too.

Mostly I remember her creating for me a pair of bell bottomed trousers fashioned out of an old pair of curtains. Roses falling to my feet in a flair of flower power any hippy would have been proud.

She loved that sewing machine, it took her off on journeys and me over the road to sleep.

Aine MacAodha

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Biographical Note: Michael Mc Aloran

Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). His most recent work has appeared in ditch, Gobbet Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, Ygdrasil, Establishment, Carcinogenic Poetry, Primal Urge, A New Ulster, Stride Magazine, The Galway Review, Mad Rush, Slit Your Wrists E-zine, Unlikely Stories, etc. A second full length collection, 'Attributes', was published by 'Desperanto' in 2011.

'Lapwing Publications, (Ireland), also published a collection of his poems, 'The Non Herein', in 2012 & The Knives, Forks & Spoons Press, (U.K), will release 'Emblems' and also an ekphrastic book of text/ art, 'Machinations', with Aad de Gids.

He also has two projects forthcoming from Quarter After Press.

He edits Bone Orchard Poetry, a webzine of the bleak/ the dark/ the surreal and the experimental: http://www.boneorchardpoetry.blogspot.com

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#16-

Head non-vast…echoes…limpid kiss…ashen/ echoing…

Vertiginous silence…the heart’s convulsive…seethe eye solder eye…

Sickle/ breath of…break none dead else…violent/ lightless…

Arachnid speech…breath or less…adroitly as…erased dreaming…

None no nothing more…none nowhere…grind till mockery/ salve…

Flesh broken vestibule…steel winds…cataract/ amphetamine…

Speech clouded…embers/ embers…traces…nothing for what else…

Burning walls…what echoes now…sun of fading laughter…

Michael Mc Aloran 42

#26-

Dishevelled silence of…night/ erasure of…latrine breath…as if to…

Belly of rats/ death’s head…silence/ breaking teeth…alone…

Rupture of breath held…bloodied/ saffron ice…absently…intricate…

Till none abound…trace of the light’s liquid…tears/ unlike…

Vault/ black sky/ elsewhere…dreamed thin…lest unto rot…

Blight of…of bound bones…flesh of catascope…stillness…

Collapse of/ violent emptiness…reckless heart/ shadowy the eye…

Gallery of skinned meat…raped flowers/ hollow alack…(nothing)…

Michael Mc Aloran 43

#31-

Opulent sky of nothing/salient/ erased spine of words…

Wiped slate the cleaner pulse/ absent…lock/ shock of sky/ foreign…

Heart dead awakening/ viscous…spleen of nothingness/ drought of…

Void/ jocular…headless/ splice/ laughter…breath collapse…

Butchering silence/ vapours/ colours/ a door ajar…a vacancy of…

Elusive…crack in skull…surrogate fuck…collapsed sky/ absence/ redeem…

Entity wish/ forage/ forget it/ lest there was/ fragrant absence…

Cut where the slash hook…(mark)…erased unlike scars revisited…

Michael Mc Aloran 44

#40-

Stick/ stench/ sticks and bones/ stones of love/ dread/ hazes…

Corners of light/ (pissed upon)/ rattle rattling of bones/ drag into the night…

Chime of dead earth/ come now/ there/ the winds have it over-ward…

Traces/ clasp of septic nights/ dreams now forsaken/ winds/ exposed…

All of which were…some way/ lapse…nailed in/ abated…

Desolate arsenic smiles…to come ashore/ while one is buried in/ sands…

Michael Mc Aloran

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Biographical Note: Gareth Writer-Davies Gareth Writer-Davies is a gardener living in Letchworth, England. He has been widely published over the last couple of years in magazines such as Global Tapestry Journal, Fourteen, The Delinquent, Carillon, Sarasvati etc.

In 2012, he was shortlisted for the Erbacce Prize and The Geoff Stevens Memorial Prize

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BRAVE I am in a good place red poppies and silver birch greeting the morning with an honest curse comfortable citizen Joe is building bad karma I am sunbathing in last night's beer and the warmth of the glitterball my head relaxed on another day it's keep out respect the funeral bouquet but a solitary dancer has a rhythm of his own today I break new ground disturbing the millennium churn of gravel and sand and clay learning the patina of lead tomorrow remember me as one of the supporting cast dirt under my fingernails and a face like a slapped arse don't worry I am in a good place

Gareth Writer-Davies

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MORSE CODE island life gets the measure of a man down to inches the rib of brine that holds back Islay bobs with mines there are bullets on the beach he has proposed to several women Eric is a cool one considering each dry crack of breath each insult to the common man his jumper is heavy with rain clouds and tea Spain is lost and iron man Joe is just a little pornographer but Eric is cooking up a yarn he asks his publisher for one more summer and the strength to change his typewriter ribbon in return he will drag the present screaming into nineteen eighty-four Eric on the jetty waiting for the mail boat in his trench coat knowing that the next storm could bring the wires down

Gareth Writer-Davies

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WINTER last night it froze today I search for windfalls the sky is thoughtless disorderly by the fire we take turns to stir the pot slow down winter scratching the hill knocking over sheep slow down sleeping by the fire cherry red cobwebs the spring watch raindrops we wake sweet relaxed melted 49

GENETICS my sisters have blue eyes my father stood like a thorn tree bilious in a high wind his eyes green next to the sea blue when the clouds stole away your eyes are sweet like molasses black as a sweetheart tattoo when the earth rotates out of time or the shouting starts you absorb the hit my father stood like a hazel tree a policeman retired to the sticks you sit with me holding me watching me

Gareth Writer-Davies 50

MY SAPPHIC FRIEND unlikely but you are the Queen top trumps ready to drink and shag any girl under the table never mind the glovemaker's son he left his wife no books and a bed with no springs truth or dare your body breaks into fractions one glamour pussy two psychic breasts one still beating heart Sappho let me take you away from easy credit websites and the fraud of translations don't leave me an old man caught short

Gareth Writer-Davies 51

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! You can also order hard copies of “A New Ulster” signed by the Editor himself for the bargain price of just £5.00 per copy for black and white, £7.00 for full colour (plus P&P).

Watch out however, as numbers will be limited. If you would like to purchase a copy or three (hey, I’m feeling optimistic today!), then please contact us with the details of your order via e-mail at: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: Purchase request (name of customer here).

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JANUARY 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS: So it would appear that we all survived the Mayan Apocalypse!

(And hopefully the New Year hangovers too…)

Our proof reader is finally back at work, having beaten the black dog in a vicious battle of claws and teeth. Regrettably, this means we are not allowed to make up words anymoire. Some people have no sense of adventure. Spot the one we did slip in, and drop us an e-mail to have your name mentioned in February’s edition…

Thanks 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”.

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

Here's to a Happy New Year and many more issues to come. Oh, and bears still cannot be trusted…

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Biographical Note: Adrian Fox Born in Kent, England of Irish parents, returning to Belfast in 1967, Adrian has an M.A. from Lancaster University and The Poets House, Donegal. He was taught by the great poet James Simmons.

Adrian’s poems have been published by Cyphers, Poetry Ireland, The Honest Ulsterman, and The Black Mountain Review. He also has four collections published by Lapwing and Lagan Press. His poems have been translated into Hungarian.

In Hungry, Adrian taught in the main university as part of a peace programme in 2003. He has also produced a CD, ‘Violets’, a homage based on the lost lives of all who died in Northern Ireland.

Adrian is also a painter and teaches poetry online at: www.adrianfox.org

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By Adrian Fox

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By Adrian Fox

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“What Kavanagh Seen” By Adrian Fox

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By Adrian Fox

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ARTEMISpoetry

I received a review copy of the latest issue of ARTEMISpoetry. ARTEMISpoetry is a bi annual magazine released in May and November. Submission guidelines are below.* The current issue of ARTEMISpoetry contains an article which looks at the poetry of Homer and its relevance to modern society. This is a subject that I'm particularly interested in and which I also wrote on. The magazine only publishes women's writing, poetry, prose and also artwork and is published by Second Light Network. There is plenty to read in the current issue from poetry and also essays on various matters. The artwork is impressive and the overall quality of the magazine is impressive. Issues are priced at ÂŁ5.00, and back issues are available in PDF format at ÂŁ4.00 each.

They are currently looking for submissions for the 2013 issues and submissions are open to non members.

Any submissions should be sent to: Dilys Wood, 3 Springfield Close, East Preston, West Sussex, BN16 2SZ Envelopes should be addressed to ARTEMISpoetry. They accept poems by women of any age. Poems should be typed, or if written, then very neatly. Each poem should commence on a new page, headed "Submission for ARTEMISpoetry".

Please SEND TWO COPIES. Do include your name with each poem and include your name and full contact details in your submission. Long poems are considered. Submit up to 4 poems to a maximum of 200 lines in all.

The magazine is also open to new artwork. Artwork: Issue 10 deadline is 31 March 2013 black/white photographs or line-art, maximum of 4 pieces. They are looking to include a wide range of subject-matter and style.

Finally they also accept letters with a word limit of 100 words all entries are sent to the same address. For more details, check out their website: http://www.secondlightlive.co.uk/artemis.shtml *Review submitted by Anonymous. The current issue of ARTEMISpoetry can be bought here: http://www.poetrypf.co.uk/shop.php?sort=ur#anart24

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Purely Poetry “Open Mic” Night Due to the recent unrest, the last Purely Poetry “Open Mic” Night was cancelled for people’s safety. Colin Dardis has kindly reorganized the event. It will be taking place on the 11th of January at the Crescent Arts Centre, Belfast.

The event will be BYOB, and is an excellent opportunity to hear some amazing local poetry or even to take part yourself. New readers are always welcomed, of all styles of poetry.

Just register at the start of the night if you want to read, and names will be drawn out from the hat at random throughout the night. You can read your own work, personal favourites, or just come along and enjoy listening to the talent on show.

Doors open 9.00pm Start 9.30pm *Review submitted by Amos Greig. Tickets can be purchased on the night for £4.00 or ordered online at: https://crescentarts.ticketsolve.com/shows/126519472/events

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LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT, NEW And FORTHCOMING TITLES 9781907276798 Martin Domleo The Haunted Barn: A Novella 9781907276804 Helen Soraghan Dwyer Beyond 9781907276811 Richard Brooks Metaphysical Flaw 9781907276828 Martin Burke For / Because / After 9781907276835 Gerry McDonnell Ragged Star 9781907276842 James O’Sullivan Kneeling on the Redwood Floor 9781907276859 Una ni Cheallaigh Salamander Crossing 9781907276866 Teresa Lally Doll 9781907276873 Lynne Edgar Trapeze 9781907276880 Paul Tobin Blessed by Magpies 9781907276897 Laurence James Deliquesence of Dust 9781907276903 Marc Carver London Poems 9781907276910 Iain Britton druidic approaches 9781907276927 Gillian Somerville-Large Karamania 9781907276934 Martha Rowsell Another Journey Like This 9781907276941 Kate Ashton The Concourse of Virgins 9781907276958 Martin Domleo Sheila 9781907276965 Tommy Murray Swimming with Dolphins 9781907276972 John O’Malley Invisible Mending 9781907276989 J.C.Ireson The Silken Ladder 9781907276996 Mariama Ifode Senbazuru 9781909252004 Keeper of the Creek Rosy Wilson 9781909252011 Ascult? Linitea Vorbind hear silence speaking x Peter Sragher 9781909252028 Songs of Steelyard Sue J.S. Watts 9781909252035 Paper Patterns Angela Topping 9781909252042 Orion: A Poem Sequence Rosie Johnston 9781909252059 Disclaimer Tristan Moss 9781909252066 Things out of Place Oliver Mort 9781909252073 Human Shores Byron Beynon 9781909252080 The Non Herein Michael McAloran 9781909252097 Chocolate Spitfires Sharon Jane Lansbury 9781909252103 Will Your Spirit Fly? Richard Brooks 9781909252110 Out of Kilter George Beddows intro x Jeremy Reed 9781909252127 Eruptions Jefferson Holdridge (out soon) 9781909252134 In the Consciousness of Earth Rosalin Blue 9781909252141 The Wave Rider Eva Lindroos (out soon) There are other new works in various stages of preparation.

All titles £10.00 per paper copy Or In PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.

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