Anu issue 9

Featuring the works of Amy Barry, Maeve Heneghan, Oonah V Joslin, Jax Leck, David McLean, Sue Morgan, Maire MorrisseyCummins, James Owens, Craig Podmore, Rachel Sutcliffe, Gareth Writer-Davies and more.

Issue No 9 June 2013

A New Ulster On the Wall Website

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

Cover Image by Editorial

Amos Greig page 6

Amy Barry; History and Affection A Majestic Beauty

page 8 page 9

Byron Beynon; My Father at Eighty Court Farm Hawkshead The Shard The Geoffrey Chaucer Window at Soutwark Carcassonne

page 11 page 12 page 13 page 14 page 15 page 16

John Jack Byrne Lovers Connemara True Grit

page 18 page 19 page 20

Maeve Heneghan; Chongqing Memories The Return

page 22 page 23

Oonah V Joslin; PotatODE Where Charity Ends Marching Orders Eminent People

page 25-26 page 27 page 28 page 29

Jax Leck; The Doll’s House

page 31

David McLean; Just as a Madman Waiting for the nameless & haunted house Two Puppies & horses and dung-carts

page 33 page 34 page 35

Sue Morgan; Spring Lamb The Way of the Tao Where do You Go to, my lovely?

page 37 page 38 page 39

Maire Morrissey-Cummins; A Moment of Sunshine

page 41 2

Rosy Dawn Tempestuous Night Alpine Watercolour Hold me like a child Love

page 42 page 43 pages 44-45 page 46 page 47

James Owens; Abandoned House The Man Who Is Going to Lie Down among Autumn Flowers Where the river is lost in the lake When You Disguised Yourself as Munch’s Madonna Imaginary translations from the falling world

page 48 page 49 page 50 page 51 page 52

Craig Podmore; Neon Tapeworm 1,2,3,4,5,6,7. .. All Good Children go to heaven Psychosis, Prognosis Cruel to Be Kind Pin-Up

page 54 page 55 page 56 page 57 page 58

Rachel Sutcliffe Haiku Through the Seasons

pages 60-61

Gareth Writer-Davies; Fitted Kitchen Pallets The Shark

page 63 page 64 page 65 On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats

page 68

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

pages 70-71 Round the Back

Adrian Fox

pages 74-75

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 3

Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/

4

Published in Baskerville Produced in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

All rights reserved The artists have reserved their right under Section 7 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 To be identified as the authors of their work.

5

Editorial ‎ wift as a predator June has crept upon us and there are many things to look forwards S to. The Belfast Book Festival kicks off at the start of this month and I will be participating in several events.

As I write this Turkey is in the grip of a social movement. There is a growing resistance to heavy handed police tactics and yet this is only a part of it. A New Ulster is read in Turkey and I’m pleased to see that but I’m concerned by the arrests and censorships of local artists and writers. It always concerns me when civil liberties are taken away.

I’m impressed with the continued quality of work that we receive it is truly humbling. I think it’s safe to say this issue has something for everyone from the nihilistic to the comedic there truly is so much to dive into. In other news we will be launching a new project soon Canola Editions. Canola Editions is named after the Ulster mythological figure who it is claimed created the harp after hearing the wind blowing through whale sinew.

Canola Editions will deal with fantasy, science fiction and mythological material. It will deal with any format. Indeed our first release will be an ebook called The Legend of Graymyrh that’s one to keep an eye out for.

As always each issue is a collaborative production I would like to take this time to thank the poets and artists who have graced the pages of each issue. I would also like to acknowledge the contributions of Adam Rudden. Our website wouldn’t be what it is without his technological knowhow. Arizahn, who is the assistant editor and proof reader, juggles numerous hats within A New Ulster despite suffering from severe depression.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Amy Barry Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Travels to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

7

History and Affection

On the high wall, that looks to the sea, there is traditional bathing,

Irish at Forty Foot, gent’s only, often nude.

I spy two men, beach clad.

I am careful to listen as you explain, I try not to miss a thing.

My beloved and I, here steeped in history, I gaze at Martello Tower,

with Ulysses on Bloomsday.

Your arms around my shoulders, my face,

happiness coloured, whilst sea voices mimic U2 ‘Breathe,’ in my ears.

Amy Barry 8

A Majestic Beauty

She lives and breathes in the mountains, she touches the sky, holds her crown above her head.

Clouds swirl and dance around her.

A prodigious sight!

Sleet beats against the hostel window.

Alas! Alone, I plunge into this backpacking experience, a glimpse of her, curls a magical joy in my soul.

Sagarmatha!

She hears me say her name and smiles, a beauty of elegance, supremacy; triumph in her eyes, rejoicing in my spirit.

I stand on the hills of Nepal, silent, still, absorb the unruffled ambiance, I suck jaandh, it sinks into my soul, cries euphoria in my blood.

I hail those who have scaled her, and reached the peak!

‘A tribute to a true wonder of the world.’

Amy Barry 9

Biographical Note: Byron Beynon Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including Agenda, London Magazine, The Galway Review, San Pedro Review, The Worcester Review, The Whistling Fire and The Istanbul

Literary

Review.

A

Pushcart

Prize

nominee.

Recent

collections include Human Shores (Lapwing Publications) and The Sundial (Flutter Press)

10

MY FATHER AT EIGHTY

The child in him would skip to a smile; all the trees and shores he'd witnessed, his blue gaze stronger like a pulse I have grown to understand.

Byron Beynon

11

COURT FARM

On a breathless hillside nature reclaims neglected walls of stone, an absence of human warmth with damp cracks opening and entering precarious hollows tasting of salt and rain; drum-courts where Cromwell's men inflicted wounds centuries ago, now adjourned permanently as brambles, wild flowers, the patient grass return to this gradient of land.

Here the moon witnessed an embrace of couples, a ripeness of fruits, scent of honeysuckle at home with the grazing breath of cattle, with ancestral silhouettes disappearing by the first poignant tempo of dawn.

12

HAWKSHEAD

A schoolboy carves his initials on a desk, Ann Tyson nods over her bible by the fire, her lodger warmly remembers the freedom to roam the pleasure to read; in his wandering Wordsworth recalls imagination's vocabulary, the ethereal dawn of a young mind opening like a bud.

Byron Beynon

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THE SHARD

Near to Guy's where John Keats once strode by, a spire of glass developed to the heights with varying shades of sky, a vertigo through the senses to unfurl your brain.

Watching the passing of days above a city of calculated darkness, lit at night by fragments across the earth's circumference.

Translated into each metaphor, it dreams alone, piercing the air as birds reflect the sharpness of their eyes, a cool needle that threads the clouds.

Byron Beynon

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THE GEOFFREY CHAUCER WINDOW AT SOUTHWARK

'In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage To Caunterbury with ful devout corage....'

from The Canterbury Tales -

After the plaque in Talbot Court I cross the traffic-fuelled High street, with its cafĂŠs, bars and Turkish restaurant, to the river-berthed cathedral where Chaucer's window on the world is a phantom of recurrence, where words are might and language guides a vision between verse and time, spoken by people with observant eyes to wake air that was tired, and lay flesh on bones in morning sun, as musicians keen with sound sense the moment that whirls within us, a shrine to praise robustly this labour of a conscious man.

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CARCASSONNE

A rhythm of air moves in radiant summer towards the city of limits.

An emission of heat on the eastern edge of the Pyrenees, where cylindrical towers perched high on an escarpment wear geometric peaks, crenellated walls roofed in grey slate and red tile, the silent witnesses of history written within sunburned faces of stone.

Byron Beynon 16

Biographical Note: John (Jack) Byrne John(Jack) Byrne lives in Co. Wicklow ,Ireland he have been writing for almost 6 years mainly poetry Traditional and Japanese short form and have had some published success in UK , USA, Ireland in Anthologies, Magazines ,Ezines /Journals

http://john-isleoftheharp.blogspot.ie/

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Lovers I’m told you lovers from Erin’s green Isle a new passion you feel every hour and soon in the light of a lovelier smile you’ll forget the dear maid of the flower.

Remember the time in Los Angeles shades when our moments blissfully flew you called me the flower of Hollywood maids and I blushed to be called so, by you.

I taught you to sing and dance until you swayed to the light castanet I’d never allow you to roam at will or delight’s of those moments forget. although you’re a lover I fight hard to keep and you hail from that magical Isle I’ll hold you tight and with you sleep in your spell I’m forever beguiled

John Jack Byrne

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Connemara

With a fiery sky off her western shore Connemara lays down to sleep from Kylemore down to Clifden the sun sinks into the deep Upon an ocean of shimmering light a hooker divides the waves Out on the peat bogs a curlew’s cry may carry to the grave of Queen Maebh Diamond hill its long shadow cast over the village of Letterfrack and red deer steal out to graze while furtively watching their back Now is the time of fox and stoat to roam this picturesque land hunting food to feed their young from Killary to Gerteen strand Her mountain ranges kiss the stars on this Irish moonlit night rivers and lakes all twinkle and glow and Connemara’s a heavenly sight

John Jack Byrne 19

True Grit Right foot forward ,left foot back jabs to the head and face shuffling around in a ring that is square this beauty she moves with pace Brown eyes focused on the target in front her defence is second to none left foot back, and retreat aside keep moving and get the job done

It’s a lonely place inside this ring in here you rely on your wits enhancing the skills which you’ve acquired you’re a winner if you take less hits A long hard road this girl has travelled but she’s never been one to quit in becoming Olympic champion our Katie has real true grit.

John Jack Byrne 20

Biographical Note: Maeve Heneghan Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her poetry and narratives have appeared in over 70 journals in Canada, the US and Latin America, as well as in eight chapbooks of poetry, five audio recordings and six anthologies. She has also authored several travel guidebooks.

In March 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada chose Lorraine as poet of the month. She has made over 200 literary readings, from Alaska to the Patagonia. For the past decade, she has been traveling through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.

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Chongqing Memories I thought by inventing names for the rats, I would fear them less, like me, they were just busy morning commuters hurrying to be someplace else I thought by standing in a freezing classroom, shrouded from head to toe in hat, scarf and coat, it would remind me of Irish winters I thought by strolling in the hazy Chongqing hills, my thoughts would carry to distant Sunday afternoons I thought by placing an unadorned tree in a damp, shabby room, it would smell like Christmas at home.

I thought by pretending that outside my door lay the world I left behind, Loneliness would be just another word.

I was wrong.

Maeve Heneghan

22

The Return

In the absence of a common language, scents infuse the silence.

Hands, young and old together, knead, shape and fill.

Moments such as these are fleeting, for now, time stands still in the small kitchen.

Sadness, like steam through an open window, must fight to survive.

Around an abundant table, two cultures find a common ground, distance means nothing, in the breaking of bread.

Maeve Heneghan

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Biographical Note: Oonah V Joslin Oonah V Joslin was born in Ballymena and now lives in Northumberland from where she edits the e-zine Every Day Poets. Oonah has won three MicroHorror prizes and has judged both poetry and nmicrofiction competitions.

You can find out more at http://www.oovj.wordpress.com

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PotatODE

I care not if the colour of the skin be white or red or brown, bluish or pink.

The secret of real beauty lies within nourishment for flesh, soul food. I think heaven’s manna must at least relate to this blessed tuber so delicious.

Was there ever an exemplary food versatile as the lowly potato so many uses and so nutritious varied in flavour, texture, always good?

New Jersey Royals grace the month of May. Tempt us at table to a butter pat.

Remind us spring is now well underway and everything is seasonal and that King Edwards, Maris Pipers, Roosters too will soon be joining culinary ranks adding flavour to our supper tables Pentland Javelins spiking up our stew sweet Minted Charlottes decorate lamb shanks and Ballymoney Queens become our staples.

I care not whether they are boiled or baked hash browns, potato bread or mashed or roast 25

my appetite I fear is never slaked.

My all consuming passion is their boast.

Heaven for me must be a mash mountain and all the faithful would have long spoons there to feed each other for eternity as milk and butter oozed from that fountain fair, down the flanks in rivulets to where I’d eat, yet be thin and not thought greedy.

Oh God of the potato, Irish God, who blighted me with this great appetite decreed that I be born of that same sod; give us our daily tubers that we might live in a heaven where the humble spud takes pride of place in its diversity king over bread, couscous, pasta and rice superior to any sickly pud, acclaimed, acknowledged universally forever in potato paradise.

Oonah V Joslin 26

Where Charity Ends Not for the first time I’m sure not the last I am out-classed outside my proper sphere.

I fear I do not belong here at this charity ‘do.’

Don’t have the kind of house one can display ebony candlesticks; wouldn’t thank ye for a foursome of golf for a day.

I slip away feeling the only thing up for grabs here is my soul and I can’t afford to part with it.

Oonah V Joslin

27

Marching Orders We wielded broomstick handles just for fun marched up and down our street combs pressed against our lips wordlessly partisan and so did he our little playmate Sean.

But on Orangemen’s Day when we ate red strawberries and white ice cream beneath the blue sky he wasn’t there.

And when the Hibernians marched to their green field neither were we.

Oonah V Joslin

28

Eminent People The biographer watches listens interprets lives at a distance stretches existence by proxy for generations interpretations yet to come.

But judge they will misunderstand put on the veneer of their modernity.

Self-preoccupation rules the human heart and who am I posterity might ask to judge the biographer?

Oonah V Joslin

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Biographical Note: Jax Leck Jax Leck is a new up and coming poet who is not new to writing, Jax has had one science fantasy book published and another one the way.

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THE DOLL’S HOUSE Built before Titanic it sits forgotten in an attic corner the clapperboard exterior peeled and cracked the painted flowerbeds and window boxes faded in the skylight’s glare a puppy on the front step swaddled in cobwebs guards the open door waiting for visitors who never come a latch lifts the front falls away displaying Edwardian chic tiny chandeliers dulled by time no longer reflect on the checkerboard floor up, up the sweeping staircase with mildewed carpets to the nursery a swing in the doorframe kitten curled on a red velvet nursing chair beside an empty crib by an empty bed a dining room set for a feast a sitting room dressed with a Christmas tree room to room hearths with fires kitchen with food a land-locked Marie Celeste in Kelvinside Jax Leck 31

Biographical Note: David McLean David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987.

He lives there with his partner and their dogs and cats and computers. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of four full-length poetry collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010) and NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO HEAVEN BUT EVEYRBODY WANTS TO DIE (Oneiros Books, June 2013).

His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is due in 2014 from Unlikely Books. During 2013 a seventh chapbook SHOUTING AT GHOSTS is forthcoming from Grey Book Press. More information about McLean can be found at his bloghttp://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/

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just as a madman and even when the ghosts have fallen into reality like drunken gods shaking off their slumber, and even the maniac only self-harm can reassure is scarcely pacified by memory and medicine so that the cat we curl up in is ashes and anger, but i am not worried by my image stolen and buried forever in a cat's eyes, i do not know if the horses i shall pass today even care what a skull is or why we scream and pound our heads against happy padding or boring ordinary walls. the cat comes home from the moon at sunrise; she lets ghosts fall

David McLean

33

waiting for the nameless and they are waiting for the nameless, the unsayable, which is just the everyday said so badly it is unrecognizable and blood pouring out an ocean of hopeless, nipples and idiots, lethal lipstick and bitches ready to kill, they are waiting for the nameless to get naked, this is because they are missing flesh and ignorant, waiting nameless and knowing it; nothing is a living thing

haunted house the man is a haunted house and a night on fire behind the copious flesh surrounding a skeleton, like bribing a nightmare, with nothing delivered; for wherever hell is man lives there, the face of the void with his heaven broken in him, the animal who does no living the human who is his being

David McLean 34

two puppies memory is exactly two puppies and perfectly sufficient. the sun behind a heavy wait of snow dropping its mercy to cover guilt invisible and it is memory again, everything living

horses and dung-carts and Tao, regarded rightly, lets horses pull carts of shit, as the trees observe reason and nothing is rich in them, instead of the rumble of restless passion and memory incensed by all these absences; thus we arrive at last to every nothing being done, each sin omitted, night undone; there shall be a certain sun above us yet, much love yet nothing to touch

David McLean

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Biographical Note: Sue Morgan Steve Klepetar teaches literature and creative writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has been published widely in the U.S. and around the world. Steve has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Sweatshoppe Publications has just

published his book Speaking to the Fieldmice.

36

Spring Lamb The dogs don’t know what to make of it, black plastic dumped by the roadside, fox-torn, a dark trail left across the frozen bog, innards that spread like links of butcher’s best.

Downy white curls stuck to the shiny bones of a bare back like angel feathers.

The brindled lurcher circles and sniffs the air, head raised in dumb question, reminding me of that day at Lady’s Mile when the kittens were drowned, thrown without a ceremony, mewling into the sea.

The bag, not weighted with pebbles, billowed and bobbed over the rough swell, finally spiked on barnacle-sharpened sandstone, it sliced open, four blind-little-lives cast into the deep.

I circled you on the rock hardly daring to breath, my teeth bared in an unseen snarl, until slowly, I anchored the fathoms of a mother’s loss.

Sue Morgan 37

The Way of the Tao (a found poem) When I say "become water" I mean become a flow, don't remain stagnant.

Lao Tzu says: The way of the Tao is a watercourse way It moves like water What is the movement of water?

Or of a river?

The movement is beautiful it moves towards the depth searches for the lowest ground.

Lao Tzu says: The way of the Tao is a watercourse way It is non-ambitious it never hankers to be the first.

Be the last, be non-ambitious.

Ambition means going uphill.

Water goes down, searches for the lowest ground, to be a nonentity.

Water has no ego, no idea, the watercourse way.

Sue Morgan 38

Where Do You Go To, My Lovely‌?

A doorknob that grows with Alice prevents my escape khaki odours of unwashed bodies mustard coloured walls that creep press to a paltry wrist jagged glass and slash make the mannequin move No tomorrow! No tomorrow! she cries.

Children are held in Shatila bunkers.

A headless goat held high by a hundred blood-stained hands, a thousand feet that run through adobe arteries of a troubled city.

Chaos is ancient.

Chaos is the festival fanfare of Toyota horns ‘til dawn.

The ochre-limbed soldier cradles his gun at a Wimpy.

The newly-crescent moon peach-sliced, is devoured until all silence is consumed.

Sue Morgan 39

Biographical Note: Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins Mรกire resides in Greystones, Co. Wicklow. She is early retired and has found joy in writing and art. She loves to get lost in words or paint. She has been published with Every Day Poets, Wordlegs, The First Cut, New Ulster, Open Road Review, The Galway Review, Bray Arts, Notes from the Gean, A Hundred Gourds, Lynx and many online and print magazines worldwide.

She is a member of Haiku Ireland and loves to write this short form of poetry. She was listed in the top 100 European Haiku writers for 2012.

40

A Moment of Sunshine Dedicated to my Father (6 Feb 1930 – 26 Jan 2012)

At your wake I stood in line, your life gathered around me.

Handshakes of condolences warmed my numbed soul.

Hands touching hands, I soaked up the energy of all who loved you.

Months later at a window seat on the train, Spring gathered around me.

The sun-filled carriage raced through the countryside sky and sea flashed by tingling my soul with renewed energy, the weariness of Winter, of your death behind me.

MĂĄire Morrissey-Cummins

41

Rosy Dawn

The sunrise, lambent on a gilded sea sweeps across my bedroom wall.

Burnished shadows dance with the light as dawn lifts into day.

I watch daybreak shimmer held sacred in its glow.

It crimps rosy ripples beneath a blemished sky.

Silhouette pine lean into the lustre, shoulder to shoulder they stand, in the glimmer of a new morning as a village twinkles to life.

Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins

42

Tempestuous Night

Darkness, another day over, the solitude of night, our bed empty.

Sleepless, I drink countless cups of tea scratch words on paper until the dawn.

Running my fingers through my hair I stretch, easing my aching mind.

Rocking back and forth, trying to jiggle my mind to happier times, but you are not here.

How can I ever find comfort in being alone?

I remember our first date, we strolled through the woods, and as you bent to kiss me, I was sure I smelled thunder in the air.

43

Alpine Watercolour

A striking scene of distant sunlight dances snow meadows forming a foreground of liquid verdant tones.

Mountains shrouded in mist wash eerily down the hillside.

A mix of browns dropped into greens bleed with blues.

Colours spread, pooling, splaying, absorbing as one.

My brush strokes diffuse paint, unpredictably exciting as textures flow.

Inhibitions cast aside, the courage to create oozes from within, my heart ignites as light and shadows play.

I become part of my painting, crunch through the snow, watch a flock of bleating sheep trudge a path to the farmstead.

I follow a frozen stream leading to a row of cottages, log fires smoke a frigid sky.

Snow weighs heavy on branches of overlapping pine forests enveloping mountains and valleys.

Sharply defined shadows of clear transparent hues, a purity of pigment, the glaze of colour on colour brings my scene together.

44

I bask under white snow peaks, the translucence of the unpainted glows amid muted tones.

Luminosity catches my breath of images placed upon this paper.

They seize the eye, forever holding the readers gaze.

Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins 45

Hold me like a child.

Lay down beside me, let me feel the warmth of your breath close to mine.

Speak to me in soft whispers, soothe my tired mind.

Comb your fingers through my hair, ease my aching sorrow.

Cradle me to your heart, let me hear the steady rhythm within you.

Hold me like a child, let me curl in your embrace.

So much death has rendered me lifeless.

Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins

46

Love

Like swirling clouds above, my love for you has been a winding path where we both meet at the centre.

Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins 47

Biographical Note: James Owens James Owens divides his time between central Indiana and northern Ontario. Two books of his poems have been published. His poems, reviews, translations, and photographs have appeared widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming publications in The Cortland Review, Poetry Ireland Review, The Cresset, and The Chaffey Review.

He walks in the dunes along the southern shore of Lake Michigan and watches the waves and the gulls.

48

Abandoned House

Manitoulin Island, Ontario 1. she was a doorframe she was the window in his blood

2. she breathed slowly by the sink her hands in dough and thought of a tree in bloom

3. he held the phrase matrimonial privacy a mouthful of nails to hammer a stair toward the bedroom

4. a warmth in her thighs against the snow of the day sunlight quavered in a bowl of water

5. winters later he curls no larger than a loaf of bread under strips of wallpaper mewling for home

James Owens

49

The Man Who Is Going to Lie Down among Autumn Flowers Days of near-constant rain, until the grass waves pale threads in water— weather a dull bass roar in the trees just beginning to change colors, matte in the noon rain-light.

Six wild turkeys dripping as they cross the path.

A drowned mole floating in the puddle between roots of a big oak, fur clean and sleek, shiny as broken anthracite.

I’m thinking of the poet Dennis Brutus, his Letters to Martha from prison and the poems of exile. Don’t kid yourself, I think, torture is never for information, always for the pleasure of the torturer, or to assert the power of the state, which is the same thing. Then a meadow rustling under the sheets of rain, purple thistle sewn into the tangle of thick ragweed --tapestry, I think, as if that word would lift it all above the quotidian, as if it needed to be lifted.

There must be something that connects Brutus’s poems with this field, something more than the fact that I’m here now. Something.

The inclusiveness of the world. Expulsion.

James Owens

50

Where the river is lost in the lake the meeting of water and water is about silence we let silence sway on its stem in our mouths cold daylight a silver wire drawn through the air what sounds there are hold their shapes five ducks skim their images the blur blur of their wings wakes into distance the moment comes and dissolves the moment comes and dissolves at the edge of things a pulse of small waves the floating dock grieves against its moorings

James Owens

51

When You Disguised Yourself as Munch’s Madonna I dreamed you were dreaming of me.

Have I truly been myself on any other night?

If you dream of me I don’t shatter like glass -if you dream of me I don’t have to break like a mirror thrown against a stone wall.

I am deep if you look into me in the shiny mirror you carry behind your shadowy breasts -I am a clean cold spring in the forest where deer and foxes drink and birdsong drifts like mist and the images of birds skim the sky, if you trail your dreaming fingers through me.

James Owens

52

imaginary translations from the falling world 1. like young girls, one after another, trembling --each skittish tree lights and rustles under the sky’s reckless caress

2. still in the mind of the beloved a blossom trembles on the black branch after this sky swallowed the wind

3. the wind’s hem unravels in milkweed down standing yet in my mouth the true little fire of her name

4. the dandelions are white now the words i pour over them don’t release the seeds not even absolution

James Owens 53

Biographical Note: Craig Podmore Craig Podmore is from Manchester, UK. erbacce-Press published his first book, I Am a Gunin 2009 and his second collection entitled The Abattoir Heavens and The Holy Ghost back in mid 2010. His first full-length poetry collection with NeoPoiesis Press, Love Notes From A Soldier’s Diary was released in the summer of 2011. Another full-length poetry collection entitled The Hell in Me, the Hell in You was released with S A M Publishing January 2012.His material has also appeared in Horror

Sleaze Trash, Sex and Murder Magazine, Drunken Absurdity, Gutter Eloquence, Sugar Mule, Meat Songs, 1/25, SYW Magazine, Paraphilia Magazine etc. Craig is also a filmmaker and photographer.

54

Neon Tapeworm

I’m full up, My tummy full of celluloid.

I wait for the excretion Of my vacuous prayers Onto the face of this brothel Although, my lace underwear Have been soiled Before I even had time to contemplate Whether my desires made sense or not.

Next time, I will eat my face‌instead.

Craig Podmore

55

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7‌All Good Children Go To Heaven

We dreamt of a dragon fucking us.

Breathing hellfire, She sang Elvis songs, I wore a Marilyn Monroe mask whilst Shooting shadows into stagnant vein Of a pulpy nothing.

Charlie Manson on the TV; He is no longer flesh, No longer a nightmare.

I ripped her panties off with a naked blade, We wrote love letters to death in blood On the bed sheets; Eroticised by such absurdity.

Erectile homicide, 35mm orgy abuse for the famous meat – Give birth to revolver.

Shoot. Smile. Bleed. Cry. Fuck. Die. Her sex kills me like an outlaw But we love it like Christ.

Craig Podmore

56

Psychosis, Prognosis

The capitalist world is a perfect one for a psychotic existence.

All of pathos is just a suit And their Gold credit cards With their Disposable prostitutes And their lack Of empathy.

All of bourgeoisie are psychotic.

That’s why our cereal tastes Like infants’ little hearts And why our lawns Smell of formaldehyde With the purification Of baptised lies.

The masses, the populous are irrelevant But the sleaze-bags are the martyrs here, Eating guns, vacuuming unborn child For profit, abusing the needs of deluded despair.

All such beautiful people are psychotic.

Craig Podmore 57

Cruel to Be Kind

A budding rose set alight.

A butterfly’s coiled wings turned to pith Of decomposition.

You are savage my dear, Your sadism ignominious – But your heart is worth it, Such profound pain is love Like nature eating its own child To save it from the brutality of the world

Craig Podmore

58

Pin-Up

She wore blue velvet And taught you paranoia of a nuclear war.

She made you love the bomb And turned murder into sleaze.

She wore animal fur And carried a licence for a .44.

She distracted the man from the Somme, A turn on; a kill frenzy tease.

Craig Podmore

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Biographical Note: Rachel Sutcliffe

. Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from an atypical form of lupus for the past 12 years, since her early twenties. Throughout this time writing has been a great form of therapy, it’s kept her from going insane. She is an active

member

of

a

writing

group,

has

her

own

blog

@http://projectwords11.wordpress.com and has seen many of her pieces published in various anthologies and journals, both in print and online, including; thefirstcut, Barefoot Review and Every Day Poets plus the haiku journals Shamrock, Lynx, The Heron’s Nest, A Hundred Gourds and Notes From The Gean.

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A Haiku Through The Seasons

snowmen sat in puddles spring in the air

April showers sunlight blinking in the stream

first warm day the cafe spills onto the pavement

start of summer the cheerful song of the ice cream van

midday heat leafy shadows pattern our faces

summer’s here the waitress serves more drinks outside than in

summer's end the faded patchwork of the camping field 61

chill in the air only fallen leaves in the playground

sleety showers spatter the window winter calling

winter chill the bikini clad model on her fashion mag

long winter snow stretches all the way to spring

Rachel Sutcliffe

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Biographical Note: Gareth Writer-Davies Gareth Writer-Davies is a gardener living and trading in Letchworth.

He has been writing seriously for about four years and has been published widely; last year he was shortlisted for the Geoff Stevens Memorial Prize and the Erbacce Prize.

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FITTED KITCHEN granny never had coffee with the girls she kept her tea bag on a spoon ready for the next cup in the housecoat her mother passed on she dug coal from the bunker and eradicated cobwebs with lavender and a duster there were no secrets in tins she preferred homemade that would stick to your insides and keep you regular when the kitchen was fitted everything was to hand and the radio stayed on all day but the new kitchen required procedure and she liked her own ways so she let dust get sticky behind the cooker and hung up her marigolds figuring that she would last longer than the kitchen but she didn't

Gareth Writer-Davies 64

PALLETS broken up cover my cold walls the stubby bits burn in the grate stripped down the longer lengths make boxes or shelves the nails I keep on a cracked china plate there are millionaires with a million pallets making a pound on every trip and as I slice through the cheap sticky pine another two pallets are sliding off a production line but I'm saving my planet one pallet at a time on a budget with a chainsaw and a shrewd plan for benediction

Gareth Writer-Davies

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THE SHARK when the bomb exploded in the middle of a calculation the fat boy physicist put down his chalk and went to have a look outside the bending of linear truths had left the town looking much the same children splashed in the swimming pool the flag flew from the museum at the golden university the students stood untouched but the discharge of a theory is more complex than an apple on a bough and when a shark crashed through the roof of a small family home those that remained were not surprised

Gareth Writer-Davies 66

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 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS: This month, we want to celebrate the arrival of summer and the upcoming release of Canola Editions! Arizahn has toothache.

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

Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.

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

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

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Rosy Ripples by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Hay Fields by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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Kites Surf by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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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 produced a CD, ‘Violets’, a homage based on the lost lives of all who died in Northern Ireland. In addition to all of these, Adrian is also a painter and teaches poetry online at: www.adrianfox.org

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Adrian Fox runs a blog Creative Writers online blog which can be visited here; http://poartry.blogspot.co.uk/ the blog is essentially a Co-Operative of poets, artists all pooling their resources together.

As Adrian describes it “Anybody from any genre can send me writing, even before my stroke I had the vision of creating an anthology I still have that vision and that passion for writing. I’m lucky in a sense that my stroke wasn’t a severe head injury that didn’t reach my brain ha ha I think. Writers I think need a little madness, any age group can send me writing and any form of writing as this is not a poetry or prose workshop it’s a writing of the moment workshop.”

The blog offers a diverse range of work ranging from poetry to photography and always offers something to the visitor.

Here are a few examples provided by kind permission of Adrian; Sometimes I Think Sometimes I think that my happiest days Have been spent in bookshops; Especially when everything’s in bloom, When the trees have hung out Their flags on every street, And the clouds have gone AWOL Or been safely penned By that orange collie of the skies: Even then you can’t keep me From feasting my eyes On those book-shelved spines.

It’s then that I’m in my element Because, because there’s magic in the book.

Even Hewitt, custodian of reason, Was moved to heresy as he took me By the elbow in his house To tour his library, his working collection, And pointed to a buckramed book On the jam-packed shelves, “see this one?

Believe it or not, and I sense you will, Roberta and I were in Edinburgh, And as we hurried past a second-hand 74

Bookshop, I suddenly stopped and said That I needed, quickly, to go in.

I knew, somehow I just knew, That there was a book on the shelf That was somehow meant for me.

So we entered, and I went straight To it, reached for it, and took it.

Now, that’s all I can tell you.

It was there. And it was for me.”

My friend always says that we should Choose our addictions well.

I think I have. Only time will tell.

(Adrian Rice) Spring Wildflower in a Woodland Garden A melting pot of Glory-bluebells bobbing-fern unfurlingSorre; smiling-horse Chestunt fngers wavingLavender blooming-Viola hiding-Daisy dancing-Ladies Mantle beauty dew-Montbrethia stretching-Lady’s smock The Cuckoo calls-Marsh Marigold bathing-A frog hoppingTrowel resting-Plantain nesting in a wallMoss in pretty pink-Rhododendron risingI hear the gossip of their bloom.

(Tina Rock) In our visit to the blog we have only just scratched the surface, like an iceberg there is so much more to visit, to appreciate and to share. We hope you drop by and check out the rest of the work at Adrian’s blog it is well worth doing so.

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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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