A New Ulster: Poetry Day Ireland Anthology

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

Featuring the works of John W. Sexton, Margaret O’Driscoll, Bob Shakeshaft, Helen Harrison, John Byrne, Michael Minassian, Chris Brauer, Jennifer Creedon, Michael Brophy, Jack Grady, Amy Barry, Conor Smyth, Greagoir O Duil, Peter O’Neill and Mari Maxwell. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Poetry Day Ireland April 2017

A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website Editorial

Contents

Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden

John W. Sexton;

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

Four Verses after Wang Wei (701-761) Your Wife for Dust and Ashes after Li Bai (701-762) A Moonlit Night after Tu Fu (712-770) Dancers at the Enchanted Café after the painting by Rex Sexton Imagining Li Bai at the End of the Sky As the Enemies of the King On Looking into Dryden’s Aeneid A Slipped Sky

Margaret O’Driscoll; 1. The Old Graveyard 2. Inferno Bob Shakeshaft; 1. Why? 2. Safe nest to tomb 3. Life celebrate Helen Harrison; 1. Wafer / Scavenged (haiku) John Byrne; 1. Always There 2. Leading me Home 3. Refugee Michael Minassian; 1. Money, Whiskey, and a Coronary 2. Death Of The Postcard 3. Morning Mist 4. A Shelter for Words 5. Nowhere to Sleep Chris Brauer; 1. Mam an Oraigh 2. Cnoc Bréanainn 3. Trá Inse 4. The Schoolhouse 2

Jennifer Creedon; 1. Primavera Michael Brophy; 1. Morning in Guyana 2. A Policy Decision 3. Downfall 4. The Waiting Room 5. The Ferry 6. Retreat Jack Grady; 1. Dark Voyage 2. Two Refugees 3. Elegy for an Unkown Confederate Drummer Boy 4. Comfort 5. The Muse Declares Her True Geometry 6. A Final Solution Amy Barry; 1. Stingless Conor Smyth; 1. Tidal 2. Drowning Greagoir O Duil; 1.

Ashpits 2.

Lazarus in hill mist 3.

Barbed Wire Peter O’Neill; 1.

Spring Mari Maxwell; 1.

Language of the Sands On The Wall Message from the Alleycats

3

4

Poetry, prose, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Or via PEECHO Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://anuanewulster.wixsite.com/anewulster Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland.

All rights reserved The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 To be identified as the authors of their work.

ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Cover Image “Spring� by Amos Greig

5

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis.

Editorial Welcome to the Poetry Day Ireland anthology edition of A New Ulster once again the weather has shown its unpredictability and there has been snow and cold winds. I recently found out that this sort of weather is called Lambing Snow due in part to this is when the sheep give birth.

Our new website and new listings has seen a massive influx of submissions and the magazine continues to grow in strength and quality. Our regular issues will feature several interviews with novelists over the next few months something to keep an eye out for.

In some ways A New Ulster is a homage to James Simmons he started the original Honest Ulsterman and ran the Poets House first in Port Muck and then in the Republic I had the honour of working with him on several projects and attended the Poet’s House when I decided to start ANU I used The Honest Ulsterman as an example for what I wanted to produce namely a magazine for everyone with no politcal ties. I do eveything in my power to ensure that I leave my own political leanings or influences ‘at the door’ when editing each issue.

2017 has started off with something of a whimper rather than a bang political change, false news and false flag attacks make poetry more important now than ever before each poet can use their work to address social issues or fan the flames of hope.

Amos Greig Editor.

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Biographical Note: John W. Sexton John W. Sexton lives on the south-west coast of Kerry and is the author of five poetry collections, the most recent being Petit Mal (Revival Press, 2009) and The Offspring of the Moon (Salmon Poetry 2013). His sixth collection, Futures Pass, is also forthcoming from Salmon. Under the ironic pseudonym of Sex W. Johnston he has recorded an album with legendary Stranglers frontman, Hugh Cornwell, entitled Sons Of Shiva, which has been released on Track Records. He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem The Green Owl won the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007. In 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.

7

Four Verses after Wang Wei (701-761)

Bird-Singing Mountain a man lazes osmanthus flowers drop night’s silence falls on the vacant mountain the rising moon startles a bird its song breaks in the mountain stream

Magnolia Entrenchment above the magnolia canopy magnolias become lotus a red calyx unlocks the centre of the mountain the white gate of the stream maintains a solitude numberless and without order magnolias open and fall

The Hall in the Bamboo Grove alone I sit deep in the bamboo grove sometimes I speak through the lute sometimes I shout a bamboo hall so deep no one can hear no one reveals me only the knife-faced moon

Mountain Within white rocks protrude from the Jing Stream in the dulling cold red leaves are scarce though rain not visible on the mountain path merely the colour green dampens my clothes

John W. Sexton

8

Your Wife for Dust and Ashes after Li Bai (701-762) When first my hair grew lush to my forehead I broke flowers in play before the gate; and there you came riding your bamboo horse: a circled path your kingdom, greengages a game.

And here we grew up in Changgan county, two children too young for grown-up guile.

At fourteen I became your wife, so shy I kept my face a secret, bowing my head towards the shadowed corner; when called even a thousand times, not once I turned.

At fifteen I began to lift my head and swore to be your wife for dust and ashes.

Your faithfulness was a stone pillar; no need had I to climb the lookout hill.

At sixteen you went far away to Yanyudui, far away to the Qutang gorge.

In the fifth month I prayed that you had not run aground, and from the sky the monkeys shrieked my weeping.

Before the gate my back and forth had bared a patch, and little by little the green mosses took hold.

Now the moss is too deep for the broom and the leaves fall at the first Autumn breeze.

This eighth month the butterflies are yellow and a pair fly over the western meadow.

I feel they have flown straight through my heart; from worrying my face is lined and russet.

If one day you come downriver from Sanba, send first a letter to me here.

We’ll meet each other. Without declaring distance I’ll come up as far as Changfengsha.

John W. Sexton

9

A Moonlit Night after Tu Fu (712-770), written during his imprisonment at Ch’ang-an This moonlight spans the distance to my love and bathes her in her chamber at Fu-chou; and as she gazes through the silken night our children sleep, not knowing of my plight.

In the sweet mist my lover’s hair is fog, her arms are blue and cold as moonstone-jade; and till our bodies fill our wedding sheets the moon displays the tear-stains of our grief.

John W. Sexton

10

Dancers at the Enchanted Café After the painting “The Enchanted Café” by Rex Sexton Cakes made of starlight prove by the open window.

A comet scatters its trail of ancient futures.

The husband’s suit is made of weeping: a clear blue of splendid tears.

From his bracelet of gold dangle the stars.

He is joined by the wrist to the sky.

His wedding ring is a braid of his partner’s hair; she dances with blood in her glass.

A gypsy’s ghost with a violin keeps them nimbly stepping.

John W. Sexton

11

Imagining Li Bai at the End of the Sky after Du Fu (712-770) The cold wind rises at the end of the sky what do his mind and thoughts resemble?

The imminence of wild geese flying by?

Autumn’s floods have left the rivers swollen.

Literature and worldly respect are undone.

The demons are gleeful at human failure.

Talk, Li Bai, with the wronged poet of days gone; soak up, with a single poem, the Miluo river.

John W. Sexton

12

As the Enemies of the King As the enemies of the king forced the fortress doors off their hinges, the princess threw herself into the ornamental lake at the centre of the courtyard and transformed into a fish.

She made for the sluice-pipes but was inadvertently swallowed by a large pike, a favourite of her father’s that he had pampered for many years with meal soaked in blood. As the body of the princess burst between the teeth of the pike, the princess resumed her human form. But as she expanded in size the pike also began to change, for it was trapped inside a dream, the mechanism of which had now been triggered. As the ruptured body of the princess rose to the surface of the water, the enemies of the king gathered round. Out of the bloodied waters arose a man with silver skin, the surface of his flesh a perfect mirror in which the soldiers could see their own reflections. But now they were no longer men but reflections only, for their substance began to evaporate until they were simply tattoos on the skin of the silver being. Soon everything around him, the courtyard, the castle, the sloping hillside and its green fields, the towns and outlying villages and finally the whole world, and then the heavens and the heavens beyond the heavens, were transferred onto the flesh of the silver being. But the silver being was no longer a silver being, but the beginning and the end of all things, the order and the chaos, the calm and the insanity of God. I am no longer a fish, thought God, and creation resumed once more.

John W. Sexton

13

On Looking into Dryden’s Aeneid The Lethe creeps silent on the page, the sky a margin foxed with age; emerging from the silken thread dust mites trouble the written dead.

I ask of Virgil, centuries gone, but news of him they have none.

I leave them in the press of pages where the senile metre rages.

Outside the sky is fresh with rain and poetry begins again.

John W. Sexton

14

A Slipped Sky the blocked canvas … a winged zebra appears to Bridget Riley moral chocolates for the Bishop ... he selects a fudge Baudelaire … the Angel Syphilis grafts wings to his brain Jesus Potato-head stigmata lobotomy lost in the box a dress, princess, of white rats’ fur ... their eyes of pink still staring out Toxic Fox & Stricken Chicken ... a slipped sky sounds the ache horns his mind cleaved with sunshine ... the snowman sweats himself butcher-tailor; pressings from his slaughter: puts on his blood-pudding coat through spaces by wombship … from the cardboard box a mewling of kittens

John W. Sexton

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Biographical Note: Margaret O’Driscoll Margaret O'Driscoll is a very busy mother of seven and grandmother of eleven.

Her poems have been published in various anthologies and magazines and one is reproduced for a current GCSE English Literature Exam Revision publication.

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The Old Graveyard A tranquil last resting place I take in the views Down below, a winding river Above, the heavens hues We search the old graveyard For graves with unmarked stones In the stillness of September Among resting ancestors bones My grandson is looking for me Calling out my name I'm looking for my nana too But my quest is not the same Treading through clumps of wet grass I'm drawn to where you lay A stone slab at your head and feet I blink back a tear and pray Margaret O’Driscoll

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Inferno Flames fanned by the wind Spreading quickly on the ground Sparks explode like fireworks Grey smoke spirals all round A crescendo of crackling Smoke smells heavy in the air Bits of black ash falling, falling On our clothes, in our hair Blackened ground next day At the scene of the inferno Nature reclaims the land Weeks later green shoots grow

(Margaret O’Driscoll)

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Biographical Note: Natasha Bob Shakeshaft

Bob Shakeshaft has been a regular reader on the Dublin open-mic. Scene since 2004. Bobs poems have appeared in Census Anthology, 2009/2010, also, Agamemnon Dead, 2014, A new Ulster 40th. Issue. Appeared in riposte from 2004/2015.

Bob has read his poetry on Radio K.F.M. Liffey FM. And Dublin south Radio.

Recently his poem Dirty laundry was awarded 2nd. Place in the 5star awards category, Life /Death.

Bob is a member of the Ardgillan writers group for the past 5years.

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Why? Oh! Neary –Neary quite so dreary why didn’t you let their gardens grow?

With shades of pink for little girls And custom blue for boys

In barren fields of despair they grieve No harvest to reprieve

The rain of tears they flushed alone Could only feed the stone

Little ones they longed for to nurture at their teats Aching hearts still here the tiny whisper of their feet

Oh! Neary – Neary quite so dreary why didn’t you let their gardens grow?

In foreign domain you hide your shame You think you’re not to blame

No sun could ripen a heart so black So you go on and turn your back

On the prison cell you did escape The harvest you did rape

Oh! What possessed you to hate Was it a disappointing mate?

Oh! Neary – Neary quite so dreary why didn’t you let their gardens grow (Bob Shakesfat) 20

Safe nest to tomb.

Oh my precious baby when you lay in the wings of birth Held in the breath of my dreams where all seemed right To wait the time for the seed to grow and give you life Wherein my heart was full of yearning this natural rite In labour sweet I would pain thee forth had I my womb Instead some man tore my hope from safe nest to tomb The darkness of my mind won’t rest for Im woman no more Can I hold my head high in motherhood delight my chore?

Oh Neary Neary did you but know you stole the seat of my soul To leave me here in hells disharmony my trauma dies retold I speak in silent whisper to the precious bundle out of reach To make laughter and wonder at calling you my little peach I pray to some god the grace for peace to relieve These tears upon my face so hate will no longer grieve

(Bob Shakesfat)

21

Life celebrate I this precious bundle whose inner light Eyes my pale infantile face so bright My searching soul tries to comprehend This tiny softness is gentle breath held In precious whisper upon your ears I am hither – to always be loved here I will share my love…and in so giving All to one…in all the sine die receiving With all my life my true purpose is unfolding Our destiny embraced entwined is untold Love protected seeks no undue reward Other than bravely cherish toward Every step and sound sweet breath taking Mamma I am yours in the making

(Bob Shakesfat)

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Biographical Note: Helen Harrison Helen Harrison is originally from The Wirral in England, and lives in Co Monaghan. She is married with a daughter She was awarded funding in 2014, from ‘The Arts Council of Northern Ireland’, to study writing and poetry at ‘The Poets House’ Donegal, gaining inspiration and knowledge during the 7 day course.

Helen has performed poetry at the Garage Theatre in Monaghan, and at Monaghan Arts Show. She has also performed at the ‘Bray Arts Show’ in Wicklow, and has poems in the ‘Bray Journal’; has read poetry on ‘The Creative Flow’ Dundalk FM. and at Belfast’s ‘Purely Poetry’ open mic events.

She has appeared on ‘Irish TV County matters monaghan episode 20’.

Poems by her have been published in A New Ulster (issue 27).

Her blog of poetry: Words for Thought can be found at ‘poetry4on.blogspot.com’.

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Wafer The wafer-thin leaves Are now stuck in icy ground Like frozen ideas Helen Harrison

SCAVENGED They picked the ribs clean Inside the frozen carcass No waste in nature.

Helen Harrison

https://sites.google.com/site/adamrudden/poem-of-the-month-march-2015 WAVE TURBINES Inventors’ brain wave To use potential of sea Power from beauty

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Biographical Note: John Byrne John (Jack) Byrne lives in Co. Wiklow, Ireland he has been writing for almost 6 years mainly poetry; Traditional and Japanese short form and has work published in the UK, US, Ireland, in Anthologies, magazines, Ezines and journals his blog can be found at; http://john-isleoftheharp.blogspot.ie/

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Always There Inside my heart you’re always there, and forever cloud my mind, late at night when dreamtime comes, It’s you I easily find.

I hear you in the heaving waves as they crash upon the shore, calling from the ocean wind, a promise to love me more.

Your tears are the rain that falls, because we’re now apart no one can know this pain I feel from deep within my heart.

I know you’re in the stars at night, they’re your twinkling eyes they are all that comfort’s me, following my cries.

“Life goes on” ,is what they say, but it isn’t so for me, I just struggle on each day until your face I see.

For you are there, inside my heart, although I’m left behind, late at night when dreamtime comes, It’s you I’ll surely find.

John [Jack] Byrne

26

Leading me Home

Through my infant years I can remember her hand a sister’s protective hand whilst she walked briskly always leading me home In a house full of brothers our sister mattered when we were hurt, in trouble, or became lost hers was that comforting hand the hand which led us home What ever we’ve become in our path through life she shared that architecture through her influence and care, her true guidance, she was the hand to lead us home John [Jack] Byrne For my sister [Marie]R.I.P.

27

Refugee See the children, hear them cry hardened hearts will wipe an eye protective mothers hold them tight stumbling onwards through the night Borders come and border’s go through driving rain or falling snow friendly faces though unsure how much more must they endure Refugee refugee risking life upon the sea at journey’s end we wish you peace may the hell you left someday cease Pity the children walking by how many more has to die pity the mothers curse their plight stumbling onwards through the night Give them comfort share their load help them on that long hard road grant them shelter set them free without god’s grace it’s you or me John [Jack] Byrne

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Biographical Note: Michael Minassian

MICHAEL MINASSIAN’s poems have appeared recently in such journals as The Broken Plate, Comstock Review, Exit 7, Redactions, and Third Wednesday. He is also a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online magazine. Amsterdam Press published a chapbook of his poems entitled The Arboriculturist in 2010.

29

MONEY, WHISKEY, AND A CORONARY

My mother once told me the story of my birth, a cautionary chronicle of money, whiskey, and a coronary: in place of his usual fee, her doctor demanded fifty dollars & two bottles of Irish whiskey for his daughter’s wedding party.

A few days later, he paused once while running up the hospital steps, one hand clutching his chest and the other hand working the air, pushing his fingers into the rain while his heart took time to burst, then falling to the sidewalk still as an empty glass of water.

Before he hit the bottom step, I wonder, did he hear a hand slap against bare skin like the sharp crack of ice in the Hudson River or the splash of spirits on an overturned glass?

Did he hear static then his name over the hospital loudspeaker – sound a movement with white and blue edges: pincers of pain, sharp then soft like the murmur of cold cash falling to the linoleum floor.

Michael Minassian

30

DEATH OF THE POSTCARD On a creased rectangle of thin cardboard words appear indecipherable, smeared and running from rain or a teardrop; what matters is the method – the elegant sprawl of handwriting, the plaintive tone of the wounded lover, the razor slash of goodbye, the guilty rant of the culpable no matter how innocent – the quaint communiqué before the advent of the acronym, twitter, and text shorthand: the slight elevation of the aching heart a forgotten eyelash the lover’s sigh: what does open communication really mean?

Michael Minassian

31

MORNING MIST Tendrils of mist from mountain peaks touching clouds before my eyes open Steam from tea forms words I put to paper then give to the wind an offering both apology and poem

Michael Minassian

32

A SHELTER FOR WORDS The old man walks to the library a shelter for words and lost history carved into the pages of a book only he can read remembering a past each day longer each night a whimper quieter than the last.

Michael Minassian

33

NOWHERE TO SLEEP

I threw my memory into the lake but it floated to the surface unconscious and bloated.

Tomorrow I will try again mixing dreams with raw eggs, draining the lake until I am awake.

Micheal Minassian

34

Biographical Note: Chris Brauer Chris Brauer lives in British Columbia, Canada where he splits his time between writing and teaching. He has recently completed a travel memoir about living and teaching in the Sultanate of Oman, and is currently working on a book about his travels in Ireland. He is also working on his first collection of poetry.

35

Mám an Óraigh

Mud-caked, I crash through bramble, witnessing the eternal battle between light and the stones that savour the darkness, stumbling over the ancient ring that once enveloped the pilgrims as they whispered, ‘Cill Colman’, barely audible through the wind.

As they approached, pausing before the open fire, still close enough to watch the boats retreat, the Ogham stone dictated the prayer: ᚛ᚐᚅᚋ ᚉᚑᚂᚋᚐᚅ ᚐᚔᚂᚔᚈᚆᚔᚏ᚜ ANM COLMAN AILITHIR something simple, short for the soul of Colman the pilgrim in the name of those that walked before or took refuge from the storms that blew in from the harbour.

This pagan language, carved when men with blades struck stone, is countered by the cross of arcs that hints at the suffering and the faith that brought them.

36

Cnoc BrĂŠanainn

The old farmer, his cap pulled down, touches the tweed with his working man’s thumb and forefinger, further staining the brim before catching his breath and coaxing his cow by the rope.

I slip my soda bread and aged cheese into the bottom of my bag and think on the fabled Fir Bolg who escaped from distance shores to make barren land fertile.

Already warm, sweat carving a path down my spine, I bend over, cup my hands into the cold stream and brush back my hair, the water sifting through my fingers as I stand at the Marian shrine and look towards the summit.

Chris Brauer 37

TrĂĄ Inse

The cold touch of Atlantic brushes over untarnished shoreline in shimmering reflection as morning light steals across her shoulders.

Like sweet nectar, perfection plucked from the tree, this radiant awakening is like a woman’s exposed nape inviting a kiss as she looks down, cooking a simple breakfast.

Chris Brauer 38

The Schoolhouse

Slivers of timbers and angel wings are all that remain in the forgotten shell, carved out, covered in filth and threatening to collapse, claimed by an open invitation to ravage all that isn’t there, a disintegration of place where old men go to remember, reflect, and walk away.

I carry on as the wet lingers on white woolen threads, trapped in barbed wire fences and, wondering what comes next, continue on my way along the wild Atlantic shores.

Chris Brauer

39

Biographical Note: Jennifer Creedon

Jennifer Creedon lives along the banks of the Shannon in the beautiful village of Ballyleague, Co. Roscommon with her husband and three children. She has recently taken to writing when the house falls quiet at night. Jennifer has had poetry published in 'Tales from the Forest' and in an anthology for 'Into the Void'.

40

Primavera /ref no. 2017 anno domini/ Earthen secrets burst out from subterranean chokeholds - radioactive greenspreads like a raised rash over fallow forest floors and bony bare boughsSpring begins bashful; as the young girl who wears womanhood like oversized armour, hard to hold up she diminishes under its weight like the legs of a fawn newborn.

Her gait arthritic, arrhythmic cuts discordant through last year’s leaves under the canopy reincarnatethe woman old and unable sits on a bench misfit among this call to life new, renewedSpring:/as certain as death/ plays out like a tune ‘en loop’ - she inhales hesitantlydaffodil’s dust and primroses promising plumes – their sweet incense settles in her sinuses sickly- the woman seasonedkeeping time, sitting out another Spring in her Winter years.

Jennifer Creedon

41

Biographical Note: Michael Brophy Michael’s poetry has previously been published in The Honest Ulster Man, Fortnight, Poetry Ireland Review, New Irish Writing, Hibernia and Aquarius. It has also been included in a number of anthologies such as Creative Commotion, Lines Review’s Poetry in Ireland (Scotland) How Strong the Roots – Poems of Exile (England) , The Wearing of the Black (Ireland) , Europa Frlesen Belfast (Germany), “Sing Freedom” for Amnesty International (England) and Rhyme & Reason (Ireland). Michael had a collection (A Tired Tribe) published by Blackstaff Press. (Ireland) and broadcast his poetry on BBC Northern Ireland, and Ulster Television.

42

Morning in Guyana

She sings on the swing, Talks to the parrots, Digs for the tortoise and Picks ticks from the dog's ear.

She doesn’t remember The semi-detached with its Autumn carpets and radiators.

Potato crisps and chocolate Are exotic exhibits in parcels.

Here her life centres around Mangoes, ground nuts and Sticks of yellow sugar cane.

At night, veiled in her net, Safe from spiders and Cockroaches, she sleeps Oblivious of duvets.

When we return will she Be happy playing with dolls Or will she always yearn For that long day's play In bright sunlight?

Michael Brophy

43

A Policy Decision

There were Geckos on the ceiling Six or seven inches long It had been amusing at first

Watching them quarrel Over territory and stealthily Murdering moths

But they became a nuisance as They dropped from the light shade And snaked across the table.

Now the family welcomes The visits of the neighbour’s cat Placidly ignoring her when

With practised precision she Neatly punctures the skull of Yet another uninvited guest.

Michael Brophy 44

Downfall

In twos and threes they arrived To shelter in shade and wait For the sun to unfold It’s promise of gold.

Until with mimic and murmur And whispers they swarmed To where high in an oak A crow wrapped in a cloak

Cast a cold eye and then Fled as the starlings whirled And swirled and angrily Folded in on themselves.

Michael Brophy

45

The Waiting Room

The milk tea and slice of buttered Bread remained unmoved As the nurse checked the clock And announced that relief was

At least another hour away, While her Legs wrestled with The sheets and her hands tore The night gown from her waist

And they waited and watched Until the slow hands of the clock Were joined and the streetlight Had faded into midnight.

Michael Brophy

46

The Ferry

Leaving had always seemed So easy, a flourish in a drama An ending for a scene, Not the play But this was the final Performance for when The curtains opened The audience had gone Leaving the leading man With only the rhythm Of the engine for His sideways exit As the tether gave way To the twisting churn Of the wake, breaking From the shore.

Michael Brophy

47

Retreat.

Since he had retired and was At home they had weekly Confrontations Launched by the barbed sting Of a sentence or the sideways Distain of a glance.

A politician’s call to the mob Was enough to erect barriers In an uncivil war Of protest and skirmish And hidden planning For a final victorious thrust.

Until both sides exhausted Retreated to the safety of Their entrenchment To heal their wounds Review their strategy and Justify their cause.

Michael Brophy

48

Biographical Note: Jack Grady Jack Grady is a founder member of the Ox Mountain Poets, based in Ballina, County Mayo. He is a past winner of the Worcester County (USA) Poetry Contest, and his poems have been published online and in print in literary journals and anthologies in Ireland, the United States, France, and the United Kingdom. He was the first Irish-based poet invited to read at the International Poetry Festival in Marrakesh, Morocco, and he read there at its third edition in April 2016.

Dark Voyage was originally published in Outburst Magazine.

Two Refugees was previously published in The Galway Review and in A New Ulster’s Voices for Peace Anthology.

Elegy for an Unknown Confederate Drummer Boy was originally published in Algebra of Owls.

The Muse Declares Her True Geometry was originally published in The Galway Review.

A Final Solution was originally published in Live Encounters Poetry.

This is the first publication of Comfort.

49

Dark Voyage The fire has dimmed. The embers glow like a lantern on a square-rigged ship, though they weaken and wheeze, slowly consumed by the intrusion of darkness.

My life has been moored to this ship that drifts through a schematic of stars towards the dark, cosmic heart of the mother of light, but I will reach that port long before this wayward ship and its blind, hooded helmsman, forever lost on the endless Styx.

It is so still, this night; for once no wind shrieks and rips limbs from the trees, and all the birds are settled and asleep.

The only sound is the crackle and sizzle of burning wood without a breath of a breeze.

Then a moan from a meadow calls from the darkness like a desolate whale disproving the peace of a quiet sea: a cow in mourning for her slaughtered calf informs me I am not alone in loss, that the tides of this ocean carry us all to the same anchorage of grief.

What will the dry land of our discoveries hold when we find it? What will we fathom there?

What treasure of our lives will we barter with buccaneers throwing dice on the balance between heaven and hell?

Or are we bound to be reborn in a new Tortuga of plunder and murder, and why?

But the night is still and has no answer, save embers warming me yet and a cow bellowing now as if drowning in rip currents of grass, and a skull in the sky glowing with its bait of doubloons and jewels, and stars falling like fillings picked from the teeth of the moon.

by Jack Grady

50

Two Refugees In her eyes, he sees an anger harder than onyx.

In her breath, he hears a silence more thundering than drums.

In her stance, he reads the muzzled rage of ten thousand women raped in war.

Though he loves her, he dares not touch her, for fear he would find in his hands the disinterred bones of Srebrenica or she would turn to him the cold carcass of her cheek to suffer the mute contrition of his lips.

by Jack Grady

51

Elegy for an Unknown Confederate Drummer-Boy (Killed at the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee, 30 November 1864) Did he whittle wood with a jack-knife?

Did he angle for catfish?

Did he smoke a corncob pipe?

What pond did he splash into from a rope swing on a summer day?

Did he dance at a jamboree to the patter call of a hoedown with the kissing-cousinsweetheart of his dreams?

He only remains in the report of an enemy soldier who watched that drummer-boy charge to save his rebel friends before more were scythed and threshed by volleys, before more lives were winnowed from bodies, torn and shredded by cannon.

To kill a big Federal gun before the gun could kill again, he stuffed a fence rail into its mouth.

But instead the cannon killed him, spat him into a mist of blood with splinters of fence rail, splatters of flesh, and shards of his bones and his drum.

Gone, his memories – of winter with his family in the warmth of their home, of his hound-dog by his side when he hunted ’possum, squirrel, or ’coon, of the womanly kiss from his cousin when he marched off to war – gone like every trace of him.

But sometimes over Franklin a face is shaped by a cloud before a dirge of drums in thunder and the anonymous grieving of rain.

by Jack Grady

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Comfort I love how my dog breaks the rules so he can sleep beside me, the way he slinks into the room, how he eludes observation by my wife, the sentry, as she skives off in bed with her book.

I feel his comfort as he snores; so, I tolerate the stink of his farts while he tolerates his fleas, stuffed on blood as they repose, at peace with his paws.

by Jack Grady

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The Muse Declares Her True Geometry I am not counted in steps or in feet, or in meter (for that matter), or even in beats. I cannot be caught by the pause for an inhalation, nor can I be caged by rectangles or shapes.

My spirit cannot be bound by a four-line stanza, each line with four feet or three or four stresses, or by dozens of stanzas identically the same.

Don’t force me to split into tercets or couplets or box me in a sonnet. I am neither trapezoid, cylinder, nor quatrain.

I am the geometry of the soul and its sound.

I roll to the rhythms of ejaculation and death.

I am free in the ocean with every gasping breach and breath, and I resonate to the lobtail of a hungry whale.

by Jack Grady

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A Final Solution ‘When truth is replaced by silence, the silence is a lie.’

– Yevgeny Yevtushenko We, the objectionable, the offensive, the obnoxious, the censurable, no longer have free speech.

A new law decrees free speech is forbidden.

All speech, henceforth, must be PC; so, we, the objectionable, say nothing and choose free silence instead.

But, soon, we will be denied even that.

Our silence will make us suspect.

We will be interrogated, then shot with sodium pentothal, biometrically mapped and polygraphed; forced to confirm our submission in sound, not silence; to say so often what they program us to say we believe it ourselves, proven by slogans we shout from our sleep.

Perhaps they can make us believe anything – that an abattoir is heaven, a gas chamber a shower to refresh our souls – We will smile in queue long before we arrive in ecstasy, unaware of the crematoria, the bodies on their runways, the final holiday flights ascending on silent wings of smoke.

by Jack Grady

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Biographical Note: Amy Barry Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media, hotel and oil & gas industries. Her work has been published in anthologies, journals and ezines, in Ireland and abroad including in Southword Journal, First Cut, Poetry 24, Red Fez, Misty Mountain, A New Ulster. She loves traveling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, Falkerberg- have all inspired her work. When not inspired to write she plays Table Tennis. She also loves Sushi and Trampoline Jumping.

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Stingless

I am trying out my life – Once I became invisible on acid.

Stars like fireflies came scattered over my head, Angles were straight, corners squared.

Some days, I lived in blankness, My presence was not a person, No colours, no features or lights.

I hid in a twisted battle – A prisoner in my own body, cellophane-wrapped, constricted little by little.

Slowly, pain drowns and warmth gathers – Musing on coffee and Amber Leaf, my heart swells with lyrics, music; Yeats,Wilde, Kerouc and Cohen, Cocaine, candy, sweet sixteen.

Fresh tide – I am alive, As I lick my wound.

I will contribute ink, my heart filled with bloody music.

@amybarry

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Biographical Note: Conor Smyth

Conor Smyth is a writer from Bangor, County Down. He has previously been published in A New Ulster, The Merida Review and has written about music and from for Culture NI.

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Tidal

We waited. Built structures of sand Architecturally suspicious As a western sun glazed us We see the sea go out to play Our dampened path was unveiled We trudge across, excitedly Not knowing what This windswept island will reveal House few. Fields many.

A dishevelled church Long empty of parishioners Whitewashed schoolhouse Now stained with time, and sand A graveyard, occupants Hidden in the long grass We retreat with haste Worryingly wading as The sea decides to Come home early Turn our heads back To a meagre scattering of dim light As dusk dawns on Omey

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Drowning We are on the ocean Ship is sailing so far Starboard It is in danger of capsizing Captured and tossed by waves Absent captain Plankton brained and carried By a tide of salt Trying to treat the wounds Before we sink sodden Drowned by false rhetoric How about a mutiny?

And make them walk the plank?

Tie their hands with fishing wire and make them bait Chum, useless dead crap To make shit bite This crew are exhausted of tales of a flat earth, of one language and marriage and The sea being tranquil There is a tidal wave coming A big gay fuck you Landing at our shores Giving water to the old sand We shall survey the wrecks 60

Of old iron vessels Lying extinct in rusted shame While swimming in a sharkless sea

(Conor Smyth)

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Biographical Note: Greagoir O Duill

Greagoir O Duill grew up in Whitehead, county Antrim, graduated from Queen's and divides his time between Dublin and Donegal. Much published in Irish, translations to English include "Traverse" (Lapwing, 1998) and "Gone to Earth" (with Bernie Kenny, Black Mountain, 2005)

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Ashpits Dust from the ashpits Blows straight horizontal.

Discoloured snow, shoa in the wind.

The residue clogs shallow ruts.

Keep an eye out for small stones, Their gleam sifted by the storm.

Or coins which weighted the hems of long dresses, The glint of bankers’ smiles now long redundant.

As the European project fades, as skins are stretched To make the drumbeat loud, and thought is uniformed, Fear grows in corners of the mind we thought were clear And greed and simple hatred find the gate opens to the push.

Gréagóir Ó Dúill

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Lazarus in hill mist Awake, throw back the curtains to a world of white, the misted veil cold, clammy, the underside of coffin lid too close, too pressing.

Standing as Lazarus did, mist dispersing, I disbelieve the crowdscene and their noise, the stillness of the Christ, the copper tang of Caesar’s currency stinging eyes which had already paid their dues.

Someone gags to a smell I do not know, throws open the window and the door, others pale as they slowly peel the cerecloths.

A bigeyed sister reaches for the ointments that were not spared, another for the sweetmeats left over since the wake and looks about for wine. Where there is no precedent, tradition is some guide.

Gréagóir Ó Dúill

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Barbed Wire Their depredations damage my possessions, trees, shrubs, all destroyed in my hill garden, my few courageous flowers reduced to small brown balls.

With stick and stone, words raised in an anger breaking loose from its habitual schooling, I drive a pregnant ewe over a fence she cannot clear.

Her cloven hoof snags, she tumbles upside down, is caught fast in my starred wire.

Night comes; indefinite soft masses gather in the dark, cluster in solidarity, flock in curiosity or defence. I listen to recorded music, turn others’ pages, make myself oblivious to the soft voices, the sounds of their pressure on my barbed wire.

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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill

Peter O' Neill was born in Cork in 1967. He is the author of several books of poetry, the most recent being More Micks than Dicks, a hybrid Beckettian novella in 3 genres published by Famous Seamus ( UK, 2017). A widely published poet and translator, his work has appeared in Ireland and Northern Ireland ( he is a regular contributor to A New Ulster ), France, Germany, USA and New Zealand. He edited And Agamemnon Dead, an anthology of early twenty first century Irish poetry with his French publisher the poet Walter Ruhlmann ( mgv2>publishing). He is currently putting together The Gladstone Readings Anthology for Famous Seamus.

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Spring For my publisher and friend Sam Vitale

Mind like the body secretes germs of alabaster, Their claw gently smothered under the deft feel Of things, their luminance trafficking uprooted Splendour, as yet untold. They are what have you Hearkening back across the corridors and halls, To those transient places of passage, Where liminal beings lie down, seemingly all Hope abandoned, given up to the now ghostless air.

When radiant dawns awake, after the relentless Tedium of dullard Patrick's inevitable rain, And with them the ripples of Rio Murtas spring, Pooling in the gentle register of summer's rich idiom, Then among their balmy bloated warming presence, Through this early light, clarity becomes more visible.

(Peter O’Neill)

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Biographical Note: Mari Maxwell

Mari Maxwell was delighted to meet the Northern Ireland women participating in the International Women's Day Readathon hosted by the Irish Writers Centre in collaboration with Women Aloud Northern Ireland on March 11. Her work has appeared online and in print in Ireland, UK, USA and Brazil. Mari placed second in poetry in the 2015 Dromineer Literary Festival and second in Flash Fiction in the Dromineer Literary Festival.

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Language of the Sands

In the knit and weft of the sand, a ghost forest, leafless rib cage poised.

The drape of a peacock plume, wave of a feather tip.

Crone woman and her coven.

Me, spellbound.

The webbed spit-splat of a seagull.

An Africian tribal dance – lithe women sway, long necks statuesque in marbalized sand.

Patterns in the grains.

Dashund .

Driftwood, cougar, and salmon scales at high noon.

Walrus and platypus. Hawk.

Rangoli and mandala colour me in.

Dustings in the sand.

Tide and wind thrum.

Dust storm. Sand clouds.

The shift and sift.

Ghosts of tides past.

(Mari Maxwell)

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If you fancy submitting something but haven’t done so yet, or if you would like to send us some further examples of your work, here are our submission guidelines: SUBMISSIONS NB – All artwork must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not be published, and anyone found to be in breach of this will be reported to the police.

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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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Poetry Day Ireland 2017’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

April again? We managed to get our paws all over the Poetry Day Ireland issue. Where does the time fly? It seems like it was only last week when we were busy making the January issue meow!!.

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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We continue to provide a platform for poets and artists around the world we want to offer our thanks to the following for their financial support Richard Halperin, John Grady, P.W. Bridgman, Bridie Breen, John Byrne, Arthur Broomfield, Silva Merjanin, Orla McAlinden, Michael Whelan, Sharon Donnell, Damien Smyth, Arthur Harrier, Maire Morrissey Cummins, Alistair Graham, Strider Marcus Jones Our anthologies https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_present_voices_for_peace https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_poetry_anthology_-april

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LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES 978-1-909252-35-6 London A Poem in Ten Parts Daniel C. Bristow 978-1-909252-36-3 Clay x Niall McGrath 978-1-909252-37-0 Red Hill x Peter Branson 978-1-909252-38-7 Throats Full of Graves x Gillian Prew 978-1-909252-39-4 Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro 978-1-909252-40-0 A Long Way to Fall x Andy Humphrey 978-1-909252-41-7 words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne 978-1-909252-42-4 Red Roots - Orange Sky x Csilla Toldy 978-1-909252-43-1 At Last: No More Christmas in London x Bart Sonck 978-1-909252-44-8 Shreds of Pink Lace x Eliza Dear 978-1-909252-45-5 Valentines for Barbara 1943 - 2011 x J.C.Ireson 978-1-909252-46-2 The New Accord x Paul Laughlin 978-1-909252-47-9 Carrigoona Burns x Rosy Wilson 978-1-909252-48-6 The Beginnings of Trees x Geraldine Paine 978-1-909252-49-3 Landed x Will Daunt 978-1-909252-50-9 After August x Martin J. Byrne 978-1-909252-51-6 Of Dead Silences x Michael McAloran 978-1-909252-52-3 Cycles x Christine Murray 978-1-909252-53-0 Three Primes x Kelly Creighton 978-1-909252-54-7 Doji:A Blunder x Colin Dardis 978-1-909252-55-4 Echo Fields x Rose Moran RSM 978-1-909252-56-1 The Scattering Lawns x Margaret Galvin 978-1-909252-57-8 Sea Journey x Martin Egan 978-1-909252-58-5 A Famous Flower x Paul Wickham 978-1-909252-59-2 Adagios on Re – Adagios en Re x John Gohorry 978-1-909252-60-8 Remembered Bliss x Dom Sebastian Moore O.S.B 978-1-909252-61-5 Ightermurragh in the Rain x Gillian Somerville-Large 978-1-909252-62-2 Beethoven in Vienna x Michael O'Sullivan 978-1-909252-63-9 Jazz Time x Seán Street 978-1-909252-64-6 Bittersweet Seventeens x Rosie Johnston 978-1-909252-65-3 Small Stones for Bromley x Harry Owen 978-1-909252-66-0 The Elm Tree x Peter O'Neill 978-1-909252-67-7 The Naming of Things Against the Dark and The Lane x C.P. Stewart More can be found at https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/home All titles ￡10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format ￡5.00 for 4 titles.

In PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.