ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of. Ruth Elwood, Majella Haugh, John Doyle, Steven Klepetar, Peter O’Neill, Ellen Flaherty-Rice, Alisa Velaj, Jax Leck, Clara Owen, Jack Grady and JÓZSEF BÍRÓ Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue 59 August 2017
A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Editorial Ruth Elwood
1. 2. 3. 4.
Old Maid Yeah I Have Days The Best Policy In the case of my funeral
Majella Haugh; 1. Australian Trinity 2. Explorers John Doyle; 1. On Listening to Mermaid by Brian Bennett and Alan Hawkshaw 2. County Carlow 3. The Acts of the Saw 4. Quid Pro Quo 5. The Humming Blue and White of Dusk Steven Klepetar; 1. Amphitrite 2. Burning a Hole in the Sky 3. Wine After Beer 4. Beyond the Gates of Stone 5. Yellowshirt Peter O’Neill; 1. Being Towards Death 2. Man Ray 3. The Literality of Dreams 4. Anguish, Transversion from Mallarme 5. November Ellen Flaherty-Rice; 1. Sean 2. Magdalenas 3. Covenant 4. Lioness 5. Ice Alisa Velaj;
1. Aria of a confounded lady 2. Hymn to a Flammea 3. My Mirror’s Miserable Memory Jax Leck; 1. Reclamation Clara Owen; 1. The Student 2. Delores 3. The Yellow Flower Jack Grady; 1. Venus on a Dune 2. Chesty of Nagasaki 3. User Friendly 4. A Toddler in Eden 5. Wreck of the Deep Space Columbus Mission 6. Even in Godforsaken Mayo 7. Lowly Waiter, Sommelier and Maitre D’ On The Wall Message from the Alleycats Round the Back
JÓZSEF BÍRÓ; 1. Visual poems
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 “Marina at rest� by Amy Barry
“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis. Editorial I apologize for the delay in getting this issue out I am afraid that due to factors out of our control we lost internet access for a while meaning no email, no social media and no work. Our connection has been repaired however there are still a few glitches with the up and down speed. Putting words together in a coherent pattern can be challenging enough, focussing on the editorial process is also difficult combine that with waiting for test results for cancer and a genetic defect made the task even harder. Any way after months of unknowing (hah!) I finally got my results back. I do not have cancer or the genetic defect of the MSH6 gene which runs in the family, with that worry no longer on my mind I can get back to focussing on poetry and prose again. What then should my focus be considering how few words I allocate to myself each month for musing and discussion? How about the 1910 political turmoil caused when the British Liberal party attempted to raise taxes on the wealthy to support the rest of British society? The fact that the house of lords rebelled and blocked it and how the Conservatives would manipulate the political system here to gain the majority in parliament? No too much like politics sadly and that is something I promised to keep out of ANU. How about the increase within some circles were quite often Cis White anonymous ‘social commentators’ attack the positive changes within media portrayal of over ethnic identities. Examples include comics, movies and now tv. Marvel has been on the receiving end of such tirades and now so has Star Trek. I suspect that many of these commentators are just trolling to get a response still it happens. Take Star Trek Discovery the show will feature a female captain and a female first officer and commentators have attacked the show saying they won’t watch someone who can’t speak good English or “Oh no another person of colour and or woman taking a man’s role”. Some even cite Turnabout Intruder as examples that in canon women can’t command a starship. They overlook Janeway, Rachel Garrett, the Captain of the Saratoga and many more. Worse Trek in a show about social and racial diversity which makes you wonder what show have they been watching.
Amos Greig Editor.
Biographical Note: Ruth Elwood Ruth Elwood is a nineteen year old from Galway, Ireland. She is a first year student of creative writing in the National University of Ireland Galway. She has read several times at public readings and her work has been featured in the popular blog Poethead and the Rose online magazine. Her work was also featured in NY literary magazine. Most recently, her work was featured in the literary blog cold coffee stand. .
Old Maid (Ruth Elwood)
How many of you do I have left? Time is cracking on I say goodbye to another one Freezing is an option But is it one for me I want a baby It’s corrupting my mind Man child is all I find Am I ready to give up On a dream? Let happiness fade Be the eternal Forever and always Old maid
Yeah I Have Days (Ruth Elwood)
Yeah I have days Where I cry for no reason Where I scream On the inside and out Days where my Mirror is my punching bag
Then glimpses of glee change it all Break the fall That’s the thing to take A smile induced from a cute puppy Rather than wanting the mirror to break The distinct taste of dissolving candyfloss Not the acidic one of loss
The best policy (Ruth Elwood)
I told the truth Now you won’t look at me the same Won’t touch me Or say my name I do not have regret in my mind It was time you learnt the capabilities of your kind The potential to wound hurt maim To leave a woman in an explicable state of shame I’m sorry to inform you my dear son I only don’t want you to do What Dad did to Mum
Y7y0 .In the case of my funeral I want this to be read I’m disappointed I can’t read it myself But oh wait I’m dead There are just a few requests And advisories on how to behave When I’m the one sitting in the grave First of all no month’s mind I’ll still be dead in thirty days I think you’ll find
A piss-up after is not what I want If that does happen I swear to you With my ghostly powers I’ll haunt
This final note is regarding any speech or words to be said after me I sure as hell wasn’t a saint Sometimes I was a right B~~~~ And that’s okay I was only human at the end of the day
Biographical Note: Majella Haugh
Majella Haugh is based in Limerick City. Her work has been published in Irish and UK publications and she is now working on her debut collection.
Australian Trinity (Majella Haugh) 1:A way of smiling of waving head tilted looking at the rectangle on a long stick saying cheese! Typing head bent world adventure..... Everything captured by a sunglasses emoji. Sand and sea irrelevant when your seen by everybody on Bondi/Great Barrier/Ayers/Darwin/Tasmania living the....... 2:Can you wait until I have satisfied the beast. Look these 18hr days are my apprenticeship. Prestigious firm? Yeh Cool? Like an episode of Suits. Some day soon I'll be able to exhale. A partnership? You know that's a real possibility. Then we'll have everything. A house in Rose Bay plus a desert retreat near Ayers rock. Then you and me babe will really be living the god damn dream! 3:At the centre the sky tormented cloudless - barren. Underneath an old tree long dead disappearing bare footprints towards Uluru. It's name passed down in a language still clinging to it's precipice. Sacred this rock to the Anangu. For more than 10,000 years.
They see it every night changing colour walking with their ancestors in dreamtime.
Explorers We came pushing through hydrangeas and old galvanised sheets. Leaving behind wasps in watery bottles to see to explore a once great estate. Marrying under it's exotic heart shaped leaves when we were 8. Our wedding feast fallen apples and odd shaped pears. Booty taken from behind the brick walled orchard our flag of conquest a striped red t shirt billowing on top.
Biographical Note: John Doyle John Doyle, 39, from County Kildare has recently returned to writing poetry after a considerable absence. He was educated at N.U.I. Maynooth, and is influenced by a diverse range of writers, many of whom do not adhere to canonical peccadilloes.
On Listening to Mermaid by Brian Bennett and Alan Hawkshaw (John Doyle) Dusk; coolest blue, buildings shine in cobalt glass and the lives of legs in windows cut from above the knee, shaped - in a city's sketch of stars, locomotives, thickened black-hole smell, and the secretaries' heels click their codes on streets breathless in watching glass
County Carlow (John Doyle) Bagenalstown is inches from our grasp; these ballads of signs mutter Muine Beag i nGaeilge, in brands that read like ancient scrolls one of landed gentry, the thunder of horse and cart, the other - of native serfs, clothing ripped on sanguine briers; we make contact - fingers taunt escaping sun and names of pubs like 40s westerns; John Ford reclines his t-bone shoulders propping-up a glow-filled bar. Rains are trotting fast, grazing leaves as consuls of light, in towns where petrol pumps form armed guard, and the nickel-coloured rains fall like bullets, from Ford's Americana pocket; prospectors lined-up, pans emptied of promise in County Carlow the hills are suffused in citrus evening's death; we ride on; begging gold from slot machines in snake-oil chip-shop windows
The Acts of the Saw (John Doyle) Each plot comes to pass, you respond through burning cork on wine-hue nose, every move perfumed of ancient ash, of weathered beech, and plywood drone delectus in wanton leer of stumps; I studied your craftsmen, their hands as wide as Nile, water’s gleam exchanged for song through Coke-bottle grasp, the pitted rust like blood the saw would shed each severed roll solved winter's lifeless-chill, thickened rumps amassed like tribal heads, faceless; I salute your masters, ancient, their wildness abound, men who tamed jungle, men whose skin sizzled with lime, and the men who tamed and gathered oak, their faces tanned in galleries behind me; my thumbprints hum scorched in awe, sensing their steely curtain's bow
Quid Pro Quo (John Doyle) Inlets have pressed their meanings all day, green, green breath of sky, the hill-side burnt ochre, and the sea, obedient to its glass-circled moon, while the gulls have abandoned us, briskly amused by nets of herring; we dip below secret lines of grass, wheat tickling our skin making us wild, and hungered. In a howl of minutes water mellows our heels, loose dogs sniff, then rustle past, and we wonder, briefly, how deeply this sun wounds our seeping sky, how light burns its circles like the perfect hands of craftsman, yet, nothing gives up its ghost, no, nothing, ever; we touch water's edge, wash clean our lives, left pressed on grass, our pants stay turned-up leaving pools along this coal-fired pier, not quite lovers yet - but something burns, something breathes, we will find it lurking in each other, like the glass promenades look-up to seek their moon
The Humming Blue and White of Dusk (For Ennis Magill) (John Doyle) Twilight, my awoken tongue moistens in unsolved shapes like the jagged Kenyan bush enunciates our dipping sky; on summits near Kilcock I watched Ennis latch his hay-shed gate, a crack of gliding vowels left his Antrim-mellowed throat, syllables like smoke - pressed on death-less sun; the radio hummed in bumble-bees of fret-less bass and Bantu chants, moon breaking rank, skimming his hay-fattened shed this humming blue and white of dusk the crimson-skin of drunken eve and Evening Press lozenge signs; A half, maybe quarter-shaved Bob Dylan drove pick-ups through the sighs of stiff-skinny grass, arched away from corn-fed breath, April 1986, occult cants and migrant sounds like crimson skin when blood starts to clot; Dylan's clean-shaven now, and showered, the scrunch of gravel and his face a Hinomaru of clotted tissue; I share relics of confab with Ennis, his throat cleared, mine a gargle of mingled chat, the fretless bass humming like us - lost in African skies; the plovers and snipes drift out of span, slowly on Kildare troposphere.
We'll carry its moon from silver perch, the sky and hermit stars as tattered crosswords, full of fives and nines across - a couple of letters soon scribbled in
Biographical Note: Steven Klepetar Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including four in 2016. Recent collections include Family Reunion (Big Table), A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), and How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps).
Amphitrite (Steven Klepetar) A woman glides through wavelets and slick sand, a black snake wrapped around her upper arm. Today she speaks the language of wind. By a green lighthouse, ravens leap from a pine branch towards the sea. Their blackness blots the sun; fiery eyes boil water to smoke. She loves a god who is not there. The snake, with its crimson tongue, tastes her longing in salty air. By tomorrow, she will forget her name, the sensation of skin as it prickles in wind and sun. Ravens shape an absence, a furnace churning with heat. Flowers spring up beneath her heels, then stretch toward darkness as they wither and die. Their blackness blots the sun. Ravens taste the salty air, leaping from a pine branch towards the sea.
Burning a Hole in the Sky (Steven Klepetar) How smug we were in our safe city when all the crimes happened on someone else’s street. Our trees never died, and they were full of mourning doves. They were full of leaves that rusted beautifully in fall. They smelled like forests and never dropped their heavy boughs on our roofs. Our lawns glistened in morning dew. We were all the same age, had similar names, and we jogged through the neighborhood waving our hands as we passed each other by. We had legs like steel springs; we ate eggs and laughed at faces we saw on the other side of the hill. Nobody told us this fog would come to burn a hole in the sky. Then our doves began to die. There were feathered bodies scattered in our yards, and cats went mad and trees bowed and men marked each one with a red X. Chainsaws screeched their songs, bit into the flesh of our ears. We were told to move, first a few families, then all of us together on the train. Helmets flashed in the sun; we were thirsty and cold. We were told nothing, but the hills rose before us. They were shadows of shadows and we, whose feet had walked safely everywhere, were no longer at home.
Wine After Beer (Steven Klepetar) Even if you live in this house with its crumbling walls, even if the roof leaks. Someone is always there to give advice, like “count your breaths,” which, they say, will take you outside yourself. My father advised me to drink wine after beer, but never the reverse. Bier nach Wein, das soll nicht sein[i], he would say, even as we covered all the mirrors so ghosts couldn’t enter through the passageways of light. He was a candle to me, that man, with his failures and his certainties. He couldn’t drive a car, drive a nail, needed a handyman to change a bulb, but he knew the birth and death dates of every writer, philosopher, and king. Someone told me to count my breaths, I’m serious about that. And I did, until the numbers meant nothing, just marbles on my tongue, like so many other things I’ve learned. Just bubbles of air, nonsense syllables that left me staring at the wet spot on the floor. When I returned to my body, I drove to town, brought back beer and wine, which we drank
in exactly the right order. The world turned slowly, and while my dad did not understand it anymore, snapped neatly into place.
Beyond the Gates of Stone (Steven Klepetar) Now homecoming is all: it falls like a blow‌ Neruda Always he is coming home, as if that place still exists, sailing the drunken sea to a familiar shore. The same birds welcome him, the ones with black feathers on their tiny heads, and women’s faces so like the girls he swam with stroke for stroke past breakers in an open cove. The same trees wave in a wind scented with smoke and grilling flesh, the same fish flop into nets as fishermen ride the tides in blinding afternoon. Always the island recedes, a film played in reverse, a mirage swirling away in dry desert air. Then he weeps in the language of men, he who has spoken so long in a thousand tongues. His voice has turned to sand, his callused hands too rough to feel any strangeness in the spiral shells he finds. He is coming home, back to the center of his life, which is always a leaving, a setting forth, another anxious journey far beyond the sullen gates of stone.
Yellowshirt (Steven Klepetar) Fremantle, Australia A woman with a shopping cart screams at a man in a yellow shirt for touching her son as they rode up the escalator. Yellowshirt screams back, cursing her. Shop girls, young and slender as reeds, go scarlet, as all of us stare, pushed back by their voices, stunned, silent, and ashamed. The woman’s rich syllables hang in the air, an accent I can’t make out in the din, not Australian surely, maybe Eastern European or Greek? Her son, barely visible through the crowd,, clings to his father’s beefy hand. That big, mild man tries to calm and direct his wife gently from the shop into the cool, damp air on the high street. He follows her toward the door, but when Yellowshirt shouts “You people don’t belong here” it’s as if someone threw a switch. The husband’s eyes go coal black, burning beyond his control, and he hurtles back, stout finger gesturing just beneath the other fellow’s nose. “You deserve to be hit!” he shouts, sweat glistening on his forehead. “For touch my son, for say such thing to us, you deserve to be hit ten times!” Yellowshirt raises both hands to protect his face. He cowers and backs away. Then the husband’s rage subsides, draining from his eyes, his fists. A great weariness comes over him as he struggles to breathe, stepping toward his family without another word.
Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill
Peter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967. He is the author of seven collections of poetry, his most recent being More Micks than Dicks, A Hybrid Beckettian Novella in 3 Genres, Famous Seamus, London, 2017. He has just completed editing The Gladstone Readings, an anthology of contemporary writing, and which will be launched in The Gladstone Inn on the 23rd of September, in Skerries, north county Dublin ( Famous Seamus, UK, 2017). His Dublin Trilogy, comprising of The Dark Pool, The Enemy – Transversions from Baudelaire, and Commuting with Baudelaire is due to be launched in Paris on the last weekend of November ( 2017 ), also published by Famous Seamus.
Being-Towards-Death (Peter O’Neill) Futural in our present, eternally present In our past; in essence we are ambiguous In our relation to time, like all creatures Keeping a watchful eye on the horizon. Such is the nature of drama, which is not Species specific. The wolf’s ears might pick up With the attention of a Wagnerian at Bayreuth, and while there may not be Any actual orchestration, death is still Announced as potentiality. Roofs might give way; fire storms ensue; And moments after, lightly threading heels May resound across the paths harmless. And to the thrill of a woman’s laughter.
. Man Ray (Peter O’Neill)
Nail your eye to a metronome, And watch it inscrutably tick off all Of the days and the weeks. Or, cover the sky With your diaphanous lips, those
Ultra-glow labials, glistening in the sun. Like the cochineal, crimson stains the bug Of your sarcophagus folds, their Membranous rolls, mantis like devour me.
L’oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche, L’oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche, L’oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche. The event horizon has been localised Upon your lips. Don’t speak! But rather Let us be drawn in together, into this dark matter.
The Literality of Dreams (Peter O’Neill)
‌It is at this frontier that we realise that man defies his very destiny when he derides the signifier. Lacan
Carve out the exegesis of the letter. Your burning foot imprints its form Upon the mind. The flaming coals asunder Are untouched, unspoken, like the fingers and tongue.
We are at the very frontier of signs. The doors and gates announce, through their Very presentation, the well-trodden paths, Which are littered with the excrement of language.
Talk through the shit. O holy scrolls! Bring back the papyrus. Raise up the image. See, the crow flies; now wing it!
Or, rather suffer once more the crushing annihilation Of the sweetly unutterable; Wallow, rather, in a veritable sea of literality.
Anguish (Peter O’Neill) Transversion from Mallarme
I do not come to tame your body tonight, O beast, in whom ride the dream of the species. Nor, through the incurable boredom, where my kisses originate, Will I plunge into the sad tempest beneath your discoloured crown.
Instead, I only ask of you, who are more certain than the dead of the void, to grant me the deepest, dreamless sleep, So that I may storm the unknown depths of this inextinguishable remorse, From which you can taste only the bitterest truth.
Like a panther, vice prowls around my natural estate Just as you are scarred also by its sterility, And from which your stone breasts are accustomed to its lecherous touch
By a heart from which the claw of crime could never wound, I who have been pale, defeated and eternally haunted by its shroud, And, who is afraid only to die while sleeping alone.
November (Peter O’Neill) For Argo
My doom craft in memory laced with silken Shades of both resolute dream and abiding nightmare. Yet, the detachment is subtle, a temporal recompense For keen genetic and spatial dis-repair. At one remove from paradise is a moderate enfer. The days neither assail nor harbour, but breach The hills like the vision of those migrating birds Over the Black Hills to Africa. Fugitive beauty, I try to find you in the evening, There above the folly on the hill, where I can observe The plough furrowing through the black sea of the sky and of the night. Or, hidden in the look of the accompanying hound, Jettisoning its astonishing private fear and secret anguish, Through the spirit in the eyes whose trust alone is absolute.
Biographical Note: Ellen Flaherty-Rice Ellen is an unpublished Poet with roots going back to Galway, Ireland. She most recently returned to writing after her son, who Ellen gave up for adoption in 1979, reached out and found her after a 20 year search. These poems are a few of the results from this reunion.
SEAN (Ellen Flaherty-Rice) With hesitant steps Battle weary and worn He clawed at the door of a heart that had torn Into a shattering of pieces For her boy left behind An echoing canyon of Grief did he find Determined but gentle as he Raised his Mom’s soul He began mending the fissure of Her heart’s gaping hole She slowly recovered to Observe this bright boy Who was rescuing her life With resolute joy And she welcomed him back With a ferocious mom’s love A twenty year journey Orchestrated from above But this story’s not over A mere one week begun As they rediscover lost years A Mother and her Son
MAGDALENAS (Ellen Flaherty-Rice) We danced at the boundaries At the peripheries of life Tender on the surface Raging internal strife Weary hearts trembled Ghosts haunted deep inside The outside world raced Against a clueless divide Of moms with their children And moms left with ache Buried in sand out of reach A tide ready to break I’ve heard unsung war cries I have led the great horde Of so many childless mothers Wielding blistering swords But now I gather petals Of flowering tears To bring news of great comfort To alleviate the fears A mom’s bond so sacred Cannot diminish with hope I’m here to pull tight On the unravelling rope Guarding lost souls I now cradle the song Of sweet solace and joy To keep you balanced and strong To keep fighting the fight To travel the road Which will lead your heart home Where serenity can unload All the burdens you’ve carried For so many a year Your light can now flicker Brighter now, freer and clear
COVENANT (Ellen Flaherty-Rice) The guarded heart leads Quick footed and sure A prepared rabbit run From the bait of allure Leary and armored Always drawing first blood Against imagined attack Mired ready in the mud Come dance said the devil Whispered sharp in her ear It’s the only way out To alleviate the fear Of reliving such heartache Which you barely survived Take a walk in the dark You're no longer a child So a hastily made bargain Was struck in the night The protection it offered Held true under light Of day and of night Chosen few would get close To the barbed wired chamber Of her heart's haunted ghost An existence mechanic A constant foot race Against the ache in her chest Toward a time out of place
LIONESS (Ellen Flaherty-Rice) She breaks through the dawn Over a lavender field With earth mother charm Tempting flowers to yield A gentle, sweet heart As soft as the breeze But a gale wind of strength When brought to her knees With the force of her nature To command the high seas She won't be kept down Arising with ease To confront any threat To family and kin She'll wield righteous ire With a shattering grin The wind at her back The heavens hers to call Over blistering skies One by one they will fall To the lioness' paw Protecting her den Of fragile young souls She'll do battle again Daughter of my soul So courageous and bold I'm the eye of the storm Shelter to the heart I now hold
ICE (Ellen Flaherty-Rice) An unveiled throne Destroyed in her wake Heart shattered into rubies As dark as her fate Satisfied no longer With despotic status quo She set trail to the fire Ignited against her foe Bone's marrow cried out To lap at the blood So hastily spilled by A seventh nation's flood None safe from her wrath Wrought gates she did breach From the fists of her fury Holy hell held the leash Hail to an ice queen From a time long ago Now a fading backdrop To a distant echo
Biographical Note: Alisa Velaj
Alisa Velaj has been shortlisted for the annual international Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in UK in June 2014. Her works have appeared in more than seventy print and online international magazines, including: FourW twentyfive Anthology (Australia), The Journal (UK), The Dallas Review (USA), The Linnet's Wings (UK) The Seventh Quarry (UK), Envoi Magazine (UK) etc etc. Velaj's digital chapbook "The Wind Foundations" translated by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj is published by Zany Zygote Review (USA). Her poems are also translated in Hebrew, Swedish, Romanian, French and Portuguese. Alisa Velaj’s poetry book "With No Sweat At All" (trans by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj) will be published by Cervena Barva Press in 2019.
ARIA OF A CONFOUNDED LADY [after a couple of double gins] (Alisa Velaj) (It took Scott ten years to realize that Zelda was insane. From "A Moveable Feast", by Ernest Hemingway) Hey Scott, that's the third gin you're downing tonight! Trinity is not a blessing to put brain to sleep. I and you prayed to Jesus all the time, and followed the wrong roads right from the start. Ariadne's thread – my fate and yours... Zelda's shadow still lingers in the pupils of your eyes, just like that, free of any worries, free of any regrets, apparently... The penitents are my soul and yours, Scott, for failing to ever see the impossibility of it all; too blind to see the darkness, in which certain beings, so akin to the human breed by head and limbs, go left and right without a sense of direction. I swear by the seven archangels, my friend, (Lord, forgive me for being powerless to blacken or whiten a single strand of hair), I swear to you by their soul, Scott, Zelda was my daughter and sister. Yet, my dear, I didn't know she was a mother. That I didn't know! To her first-born daughter – the seed of your high mood and her low wits we couldn't introduce the sky even as pure nostalgy... Amazed in the fields, where no one can deprive nightingales of their singing rights, same as a bird born in encaged freedom, the poor girl grew afraid of light. This is what I wanted to tell you tonight, Scott, as I have now dried my second double of gin and your eyes gaze at me burning with curiosity. I would like for once to make love with you, Scott,
for the sake of our sick passion. We'd then oust from our hearts once and for all Zelda's tune and the taste of nothingness... HYMN TO A FLAMMEA ... The whole of me is a flammea, when the sun's disk at sunset is a glowing ember yonder the islet. ... Without a flammea, every dusk is a widower. ... The fog over the valley cannot smother the flammea ... I'd so often wait for you at dusk hours a flammea being the eye-witness. ... Three flammeas are three promises in the grove of loneliness! ... Give me a single flammea and I'll then bid farewell to my boreal nights! ... Not even the most froward raven would dare look straight in the eye of a flammea! ... Only the phoenix** will rest on the flammea through eternity! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------** phoenix - a mythical bird that burnt itself to death to reemerge from ashes every 500 years. Only one phoenix lived at a time.
MY MIRROR'S MISERABLE MEMORY (Alisa Velaj) Mine - this mirror's miserable memory. So singularly in you, o fledgling of ours, in azure rags of redemption, Love could find no room! Lilacs and oleanders are now in bloom all around, in the homeyard neighboring the grove and in the groves neighboring the homeyard. In this season, when every flash of the eyes gives birth to an inflorescence, a single flower, a lone one and nothing else, resembles the miserable memory of my mirror that looked at many, yet sheltered none!
ARCH (Alisa Velaj) Blasting in my ears, so many violins and musicians, stunned like birds; Swarms of people never ever stunned by greeneries; Leaves of grass have now grown over their heads. Deep in my soul, myself echoes arched like a violin.
Translated from Albanian by ARBEN P. LATIFI
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.
RECLAIMATION
Thru the archway lies a velvet sofa A carved rocker surrounded by rusted metal beasts Giant log baskets topped by wicker trugs A distressed fire dog atop a sea chest Wormed bookcase reclaimed by who for whom A temporary rescue to languish in the elements Targeted by gulls and nesting mice What is this reclaim, recycle upscale about? Should we not recognise these things for what they are? The junk of our lives and as such We should wield the knife with merciless generosity Providing space for future homeless paraphernalia Still waiting on shelves and screens Gleaming, screaming, seducing us. Jax Leck Š 2017
Biographical Note: Clara Owen Clara is currently completing a PhD in psychology at the University of Huddersfield, England and has a strong devotion to creative writing in her personal time. She enjoys writing poetry as an avenue of expression, reflecting on her inner feelings and attempting to capture the experiences of those around her. This is Clara’s first submission, though she is working towards publications in social science journals.
The Student (Clara Owen)
Alone. Alone I ponder. Detached from the roots of an automated spirit; the fancy free weekend excursions. Instead I sit in squalor. Not a squalor of filth nor poverty; but one fabricated by books, papers and everlasting commentaries. Narratives from those who have once sat where I am today. Though they do not speak, not so much of an utter of the torment I feel now. The unspoken unpublished literature. On the confined casket of academic existence.
A prisoner of my own ambition. I fear I am not one person; but rather two. I am both the victim and perpetrator. An endless game of cat and mouse seethes through me every day. Blacklisting myself for indulging in the sanctuary of social normality. Gradually becoming a master of penance.
My head is heavy and thoughts disorientated. It is a competition; which can scream the loudest. To quit, to give up, to let go‌ only to be left with guilt and wonder. If I stop I fear that my mind will become barren;
a vacant cerebral cloud of nothingness. An inhabited psychic craving stimulation. A momentary glimmer of hope presents itself; almost like a mirage in a water ridden desert.
Why do I struggle; why do I fight? The terrains of human motivation are intangible and uncharted. A subjective insight with no definitive answers. So, alone I ponder. In solitude. With a pen in my hand. Waiting again for the conflicting lectures presented by my inner self.
Dolores (Clara Owen)
Auroral castings of a hopeful blossom, desperately seeking to disavow. The sound. That sound. A pandemonium uproar. One cry from the angels trumpet, reaps a requiem of lost souls. Clawing. Scratching. Mauling. Ania is here. A once vibrant recess of a heart, is now nothing more but a beaten, fragmented splinter of essence. An empty shell of forsaken fortune. Stripped of all sentiment, desires and love. A glacial pool of cellular remains. Pleading and clutching the pendulum as it swings. Silence. Immured in the cocoon of solitude, she waits to be re-awakened by another.
The Yellow Flower (Clara Owen)
Here I am. I am here. Always watching. An enchanting aura allures a compelling duress. Behold, the stirring of the seasons, as one pirouettes into the next. I see the eminence of the sun. Its golden triumph radiates over the sombre abyss, like a shield sheltering the budding zest of spring. I hear the quivering of the leaves. The chatter and rejoice of a looming tempest, on a quest to purify the polluted wastelands, like a cleansing cataract bestowing vitality to those in need. I taste the sweetness of the breeze. The aroma of heavenly filled bundles, on a voyage to exhilarate the wilderness, like an edible bouquet of curiosity, sweeping the prying palate of the valley. I smell the youth of the dew. The balm of a radical new wave of recruits, like warriors on a mission to strengthen the heart of the meadow. I feel the earth pulsate. The eternal consciousness of the planet, like a congregation of energy, in unity, rising and falling together. So here I am. I am here. Safe in the harmonious sequence of life, like an everlasting jewel, in a spectrum of prismatic beauty. Forevermore.
Biographical Note: Jack Grady
Jack Grady is a founder member of the Ox Mountain Poets, based in Ballina, County Mayo, Ireland. His work has appeared in anthologies and journals, either online or in print, in Ireland, the United Kingdom, France, the United States, Canada, Portugal, and Indonesia. His poems have been published in Crannóg, And Agamemnon Dead, A New Ulster, North West Words, The Worcester Review, Poet Lore, The Runt, The Galway Review, Live Encounters, Mauvaise Graine, Algebra of Owls, Skylight 47, The Irish Literary Times, Outburst Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Poesia a Sul 1, and 21 Poems, 21 Reasons for Choosing Jeremy Corbyn. In April 2016, he read in Morocco at the 3rd annual Festival International Poésie Marrakech, as the poet invited by its committee to represent Ireland. He has also been invited to represent Ireland at the 3rd annual Poesia a Sul, in Olhão, Portugal, in November 2017. His collection entitled Resurrection will be published in the autumn by Lapwing.
Venus on a Dune After a Frank Eck photograph of Lynn Karrol in 1961 She mimics an hourglass with her hand in the way she funnels sand over a dune. Is she teasing the photographer, is she timing the photo-shot, or is she mocking the temporal limits of Man? Tints from the goldenrod kiss of sun in her hair splash a hint of coral over the strand of her skin. The white womb of a seashell lies abandoned nearby, a simulacrum in miniature of the divine cradle that once rocked this model, whose breasts are naked but sheltered by the whispering sphinx of her smile. Pelvis and buttocks, hips and thighs, are caressed by pull-on Capris, cropped at mid-calf. Her floral-print, sleeveless blouse, discarded, adorns erect spears of beach-grass. Neptune honours her divinity with his salt fragrance of the sea – a fresher gift, more appropriate for her, than frankincense and myrrh – while aperture, shutter, and lens immortalise this hatched marine blossom, too perfect for constraint of seashell or Time; too perfect for impermanence, too perfect for mine. by Jack Grady
Chesty of Nagasaki In memory of my parents She named him Chesty, Chesty of Nagasaki, his chest jutting out with Parris Island pride, his back rifle-straight at present arms, his smile a salute every time she passed by. Tidal waves she incorrectly called tsunamis then, and that is how she described word of war’s end, shouting up from the streets to sweep her from her seat – headphones at her switchboard left dangling, voices squawking without answer – to surrender herself to a sea of caresses and shoals of men’s lips fishing for a kiss, for never could she resist a party or dance or the fawning of men and the multitudes of men soon demobbed from flaming skies and bloody beaches and seas to return and jive to big bands and jitterbug, to make love and drink whiskey and beer. But, when the city’s head was at last too sore for more, soldiers and sailors, civilians then, staggered back to old jobs, making clocks and screws, drill bits and shoes, cable and pressed steel. In months they would have offspring to feed from girlfriends or wives they had returned their lives to or from the strangers decency demanded they make honest for their sins. But not she. She remained free, despite the intentions of too many to count or to choose from – so many men that her head still danced even back in the harness of her switchboard. But then came Chesty, direct from Nagasaki,
months after the bomb had been dropped; one of the last Marines shipped home with medals and ribbons when no-one would notice but she. And she joked to her friends about the teasing fool she named Chesty and how he called her his ‘delaquint’, when what he meant was juvenile delinquent. Chesty, you must guess, was no master of words. But oh! How Chesty could dance! by Jack Grady
User Friendly You’ve turned your heart into a computer and designed it for random access. You’ve bought into the engineers’ buzz words; so, the software is user friendly. The shine of a lover’s eyes is the command for your face to display an Apps array and to choose for that lover the App to use. Your programs are simple to learn and easy to take for granted. But, if ever your computer is purchased, the buyer will discover a flaw: Instead of silicon, it has tears; overused, it short-circuits. by Jack Grady
A Toddler in Eden My dad was almighty. He made the world. He slew both bogeyman and wolf. He threw me into the sky and caught me as I fell. He blew life into a yellow balloon so it could bob in the breeze while I held it by its string, but strangely he warned, ‘now, don’t let it go’. Thus came the birth of my first question: Thus came my first Why? And, to the answer he offered, he received in return a broadside of whys – so many whys he could not answer, even if he tried. Then, I heard the balloon whisper. Then, I heard the balloon speak: I come from the sun. You can see it in my shape and my colour too. If you let me go, I can fly away home, and your father will fetch me back to you. I released its string. I set the balloon free, and, without wavering, it rose out of reach of my father and my toddler screams, over tenement porches and the city’s flat roofs, where the wind thieved it forever from my view. But a truth exposed by the balloon and its lie had given me a new father as I fell from another sky. by Jack Grady
Wreck of the Deep Space Columbus Mission The ship has the colour of ash, flicked from the butt-end of space; a face of agony, teeth smashed-in, bludgeoned by fate for daring to land. A crewman’s ribs in the greenhouse-hold gleam white behind vines, desiccated and dead; but, when alive, intended to thrive in a new plantation for Imperial Earth. Much time has passed since this craft skimmed over the lights of Centaurus to wreck itself where indigenes would finally find this abode of skulls, this vessel with flags of claim and conquest, this wart defacing the skin of their globe. They laugh with relief when they listen to rock band recordings and promises of peace. Though they don’t understand a word, they sense they are lucky this crash has spared them the bother – the need to commit murder to escape discovery and colonisation, ethnic cleansing or genetic modification, their world renamed in another language for the advance and glorification of an invasive species called Man. by Jack Grady
Even in Godforsaken Mayo The ground is a sodden sponge, the sky a soiled and suffocating sheet. Summer, if it comes at all, is a tease, fleeting as a mermaid or a siren’s song, to suck sailing spirits into whirlpools to drown. But, once, I was greeted by a beacon raised over the horizon in evening – the brilliance of cinnabar and crimson in a sun surfing through swells and rolling breakers of clouds – and I was astounded to see life can be joyful, grief relieved.... by Jack Grady
Lowly Waiter, Sommelier and Maître D’ Collared doves greet me with shouts as I emerge from the house to serve them their bread, while a magpie, robed with enough royal blue to prove its right to roost alone and aloof from that rabble of rooks flocked upon the roof of my neighbour’s house, looks down upon me from the throne of its streetlamp. With a feeder restocked and suspended again from a Himalayan birch in the garden, I marvel from my kitchen as the ground outside comes alive with rolling swells. But it is only a riot of copper finches hunting an ocean of seeds hammered from the feeder by the boldest rook’s beak. A gourmand of a cat appears near a dozen feasting doves and triggers a panic of wings that slaps the air in a wild retreat to a sanctuary of leaves. But she pays them no heed. Age has taught her they are not worth the bother. So, instead, she will laze in sunlight on the grass as long as the sun remains or mew at the window when her stomach clocks in with hunger. I, her obedient slave, will let her in (yes, through the window), perform my duty as maître d’ by seating her at her dish while the white bib of her chest suggests a serviette in place; and, before the waiter in me can serve my cat Lady Molly her meal, I will become her sommelier with a carton of cream and pour a bit into a bowl well below its brim so she can nose the aroma and bouquet. Only then will she grant me the honour: Only then will she deign to drink. by Jack Grady
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!
August 2017’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
August is here and the hot weather has vanished. We had 53 submissions this month. 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”.
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
Biographical Note: JÓZSEF BÍRÓ ( - poet / writer / visual artist / performer and editor - ) JÓZSEF BÍRÓ was born in 19 may 1951 / BUDAPEST / HUNGARY poet – writer – visual artist and performer 1975 to present organizational memberships : Hungarian Alliance of Writers / Art Foundation of Hungarian Republic / Belletrist Assotiation / Nine Dragon Heads International Artist Group – ( South – Korea ) / etc.
published works - ( books ) : SPACE PERCEPTION – ( poems ) – ( 1986 ) VENUS’S FLAY – TRAP – ( poems ) – ( 1989 ) TRISMUS – ( poems ) – ( THREE BOOKS TOGETHER ) – ( 1997 ) TRAKTA – ( mini( ature ) – proses ) – ( 2003 ) ASIA – ( poems ) – ( 2005 ) MIRRORBONFIRE – ( poems ) – ( 2006 ) SELF ACTING – ( - continuous oppositions / visual poems - ) – ( 2007 ) KADO – ( 36 haiku ) – ( 2007 ) DEATH OF MY DEATH – ( poems ) – ( EIGHT BOOKS TOGETHER ) – ( 2008 ) MUKKEUM SI – ( 81 haiku ) – ( 2009 ) SMALLIMPORTANT – ( poems ) – ( in memoriam to my poetfriend GÁSPÁR NAGY ) – ( 2012 ) BACKSTAGE – ( 2 poems and 1 essay ) – ( 2012 ) WELCOME – ( 108 haiku ) – ( 2013 ) QUABEL – ( visual poems ) ( REDFOXPRESS – IRELAND ) – ( 2014 ) CONTEXT – ( mini( ature ) – opera – [ libretto ] and attendant poems ) – ( 2014 ) STROMATOLITE – ( poems ) – ( FIVE BOOKS TOGETHER ) – ( 2014 ) MINAMOSOGNO – ( mini( ature ) – opera – [ libretto ] – hungarian language ) – ( 2014 ) MINAMOSOGNO – ( kurz – oper – [ libretto ] – german language ) – ( 2014 ) TOP SECRET – ( poems ) – ( 2015 ) MAWKISCHCIRCLE – ( poems ) – ( 2015 ) SCORRERE – ( visual poems ) ( VISUAL EDITIONS of OFFERTA SPECIALE – ITALY ) – ( 2016 ) WELL – ( visual poems ) ( REDFOXPRESS – IRELAND ) – ( 2016 ) THEN AND NOW – ( 18 poems and 3 photos ) – ( 2016 ) 300 – ( poems ) – ( 2016 ) PROBABLY – ( poems ) – ( 2017 ) SOMETHING ELSE – ( poems ) – ( 2017 ) creative works : 9 individual exhibitions more than 700 group exhibitions around the world more than 90 single ( live ) – performances around the world
In remembrance of Erno Szabo Endrodi
Visual poem
Illusion
In remembrance of Kazimir Malevitch
Language lesson
Soft
In remembrance Kurt
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.