ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Chitralekha Sreejai, Enda Boyle, Ray Whitaker, Lynda Tavakoli, Marc Carver, Michelle Gibb, Bob Shakeshaft, Stuart Kilmartin, Jude Cowan Montague and Richard Halperin. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue 66 March 2018
A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Editorial Chitralekha Sreejai;
1. Mindscapes – A trip to Glenveagh Castle Enda Boyle; 1. Bus Route 212 2. Bookshop Visiting 3. Talking to the dole-officer about intellectualism 4. Robins 5. Inventory Ray Whitaker; 1. Coyote 2. Unintentional 3. Just A Few Steps From The Woods Or Doctor Jimmy And Mr Jim Lynda Tavakoli; 1. Crossing a Line Marc Carver; 1. Head 2. Judas Michelle Gibb; 1. You’re All Heart 2. Take A Moment 3. My Women Gathering 4. Maidens 5. Once In A Lifetime Opportunity Bob Shakeshaft; 1. Wounded Earth 2. True 3. To Be 2nd 4. Thoughts Stuart Kilmartin; 1. We are the devils we create ourselves 2. A Land Lost to the Cross 3. Nothing and Everything
4. The Problem of Artistry 5. The Distant Dream Land 6. Guardians of the Sea Jude Cowan Montague; 1. Oban Mapping 2. Cave Hill 3. A Letter Arrives and it’s For Me 4. The Dancing Song of the New Dawn 5. After Midnight 6. Wow, you look amazing! Richard Halperin; 1. Blown Away On The Wall Message from the Alleycats Round the Back
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 “Echoes� by Amos Greig
“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis. Editorial Usually I try to keep the magazine apolitical however this is a special occasion this Good Friday is the 20th anniversary of the Good Friday Agreement. I’ve seen some people saying that it wasn’t a good deal or that it is a failure. The date also represents the 20th anniversary of The Wedding Community play organised by CAF and featuring almost every community theatre company from Belfast and beyond. This was the largest cross community event of its kind and was a logistical nightmare but we all pulled it off. We used two houses in East Belfast one in the Protestant community and one a few streets away in the Catholic community (I hope for a day when those distinctions are in the past) each house featured three scenes and the audience got to see each meaning we had to perform them 6 times a day. The wedding ceremony was held in the Presbyterian Church in Rosemary Street and we switched to a musical for this side of the show. The final segment was the reception and the audience and cast were scattered through the room thus making them part of the ‘family’ the overall effect was challenging. The final performance coincided with the agreement having been announced and Martin Lynch read out the announcement in front of a full house to rounds of cheers and applause. The last 20 years haven’t been perfect due in part by failings of our politicians failing to move beyond the past. I’ve seen bombings, shootings and more, I’ve witnessed some of the greatest acts of depravity here and have enjoyed the relative peace afforded to us by the GFA. It’s not been without its ups and downs though. In 2001 my wife and I engaged in one of the first Nonsectarian mural projects in Denmark Street working with the children from the community. Here’s hoping to closer community ties going forwards and a further 20 years of peaceful coexistence.
Onward to creativity!! Amos Greig Editor.
Biographical Note: Chitralekha Sreejai
Chitralekha Sreejai’s writings have appeared in some of the widely popular Indian magazines like Woman’s Era and Alive (Delhi press magazines), The Khaleej Times online (UAE), The Galway Review, Eastlit, A New Ulster and Writer’s Ezine. Her poem in Writer’s Ezine was chosen for their ‘Exceptional poem award’. Her first book of poems ‘The divine hand in the dark’ appeared in 2010. She received her PhD in Sanskrit from India. Formerly a resident of Ireland, she has currently moved back to her native land in India.
Mindscapes- A trip to Glenveagh Castle (Chitralekha Sreejai) Ireland has many fairy tales buried in the mysterious interiors of castles. One can find castles of significance in almost every County. Each one has a unique tale and bring to the mind, the shattered picture of the country folks forced to abandon lands, the might of a powerful rule and mysterious tales hidden like the deepest secrets in its recesses. The trip to Glenveagh and its castle was almost without the slightest judgement of the possible routes. The car moved for long amidst a stretch of deep deserted mountains. Before long, we decided that we had almost lost all possible directions back to a sane world. It was ethereal though, the mountain lap; the solitude was deep long and scary; only the wind, the mountains and ourselves. Well, I wasn’t feeling very excited at this. Adventure is fun until the point of getting almost lost. Sunlight reflected like from an ethereal world up the mountain into the steep curves and roads. All along brown rocky mounds and barrenness. “Is it even part of Ireland?”, I asked. Not a grass, not a shrub! The route tracker gained its lost voice again much to our relief. Feeling the light upon the windshield my mind wandered in a haze with the moving car until light and the land seemed more worldly and belonging. A few minutes later, we found ourselves on a long seemingly untrodden path. The trees were still much leafless. The road wound and stretched. The wind was slightly chilly and the sun just lazily clinging to the clouds. The perch was flanked by rock stones upon which the skies still left some snow. Quite a forgotten path! Even the season seems to stay a little longer reluctant to leave even when the other has edged in. I quietly relished in the unexpected mix of things. A balmy sunshine the still sombre wind remindful of the gusts of the winter and the long winding road; a kind of spell locking one inside. The clouds bumped on a tall peak and rested there a while. My daughters gathered the snow in their gloved palms and smiled. The Glenveagh visitor centre has tickets for the bus ride to the castle as well as walkways for the trekkers. We decided a walk wouldn’t be worth with children and moved to the bus station.
We walked past the pines, the birches and the broad-leaved trees neatly arrayed in the walker’s route, the mind a bit undecided and clambered on the bus one by one. The bus meanders through narrow pathways to an open landscape with stunning view of glens and hills. The blue water of the Lough Veagh flowing placidly by, seemed extremely unreal like painted or embossed over the landscape. Yellow flowers intervened. The hazy sunlight played on the blue stretch of water. A couple of minutes later we alighted at the castle premises. The tearooms at the Castle looming from amidst broadleaved trees with rocklike pillars and beams looked typically like the ones painted in the mind influenced by the fairy tales of childhood. They open daily in the springs and summers and then every weekend through the winter and provides visitors with tea and delicious home baking. Famished as we were we devoured the luscious cheesecakes, cream, strawberries and all. The castle was built in the 19th century and holds in its interiors the stories of infamy and curses. The estate was the result of several small holdings purchased by Captain John George Adair. On a cold April, Adair is said to have evicted more than two hundred tenants for merely improving the aesthetic aspects of the estate. The cruelty is remembered throughout Donegal and Ireland and it is said that a curse was placed on the castle due to the cruel evictions. None of the subsequent owners bore any heirs to the family name. The castle stands embossed against a deep blue sky in such grandeur that all the bitter tales and kingly pride comes gushing forth in an instant. I pulled out my camera and took a couple of shots from various angles. The castle is a four-storey rectangular structure with a garden surrounding and a beautiful view of the wild rugged hills the placid lake and the painted skies beyond. We took a walk in and around although the guided tour inside wasn’t offered then. The garden had an immense collection of exotic plants and a cultivated organised view in sharp contrast to the wild landscape beyond. We thought to walk back to the visitor’s centre. 4 kilometres wouldn’t take much time, was our thought though half way through we realised it wasn’t a good idea. A gate opens to the gardens and the walk begins through its side. Huge luxuriant leaves of exotic plants and green slimy mud banks along the garden walk was extremely novel to me. The narrow path broadened out and we stopped by to take many photographs. Unfortunately, the camera wiped itself out many photos of that trip. The walkway from the garden converges to the road by the lake. Narrow gravel laden the walkway now is beautiful by the side of the lake. We walked in the bliss of a good
wind smothering our face and the placidity of the skies hills and the blue beside. My little one was chirpy and walked happily huddled in a jacket for some time. Deep solitude and a splendorous scenery along the walkways are the best options to explore the rugged landscape. The trees were mostly dry. We picked up the pines and pebbles on the way. Trees were both leaved and leafless. Water flowed over the pebbles smoothening out and leaving a kind of translucent light in each one of them. Somewhere snow still lay sandwiched between the mountainous edge and the stones. The wind followed us howling and whistling occasionally. A couple and their toddler wave to us as they passed by. An old woman stopped to admire my little ones puffed up face. An hour went by happily. The little one started getting restless as obviously her legs ached. It wasn’t long before my back too started terribly aching carrying her up the elevated pathway for some goodtime. You don’t notice the elevations and angles of tilts in a walkway until you need to carry a toddler miserably up all the way! Well, by the time I started to curse the hour in agony the bus loomed from behind. Grappling for support I somehow edged in. I’m worried about not having the return tickets. But it was all fine here in this hospitable land. We had to just pay for the tickets and seat ourselves comfortably in relief. The hum of the bus wending back was at that moment, I decided, the best sound and feel I had in quite some time! Back home, I found I had lost half the photographs. Thankfully my mobile stops faithfully by my side yet I missed all the good shots of the castle and around. Some trips are strange. Caught in a sultry midsummer haze back in India I have often wondered why of all the beauteous landscapes of Ireland the surreal light from the lost way enroute the castle endures. It was mysterious, the place, the light, the feel; the mind and thoughts come to a quizzical end at the point.
Biographical Note: Enda Boyle Enda was Born in County Derry in 1994 and educated at The University of Ulster and Queen’s University Belfast.
Bus Route 212 (Enda Boyle)
On leaving the station the driver pulled into a stop to tell us the front wheel was banjaxed. A member of the hen party near the back took this opportunity to go outside and boke. Her pink haired and lip- pierced Companion began to shout about how it was hard to beat. A mother turned to her teenage daughter if she ever behaved like that she would be battered The bus conductor informed us that we would have to make an emergency stop in Ballymena. A gentleman reading the Daily Mail sighed before claiming the whole journey was a bollocks
After another half-hours unsafe driving we reluctantly stopped in the satiation in Ballymena. As we would be waiting a long time we went to the chip shop, it was apparently hard to beat. The pink-haired women objected strongly claiming the smell near made her want to boke. Mail Man found this funny he began impersonating her and generally acting the bollocks. Her friend took this badly she told him to behave himself unless he wanted to be battered. The bus conductor intervened telling them to relax it was late and everyone was banjaxed. Later as a gesture of peace pink hair passed a flask saying Glen’s vodka was hard to beat. Mail Man sulked at first before taking a sip and grudgingly apologizing for being a bollocks. Pink hair accepted saying she realised that nobody wanted to spend Friday in Ballymena. However, her friend began to whine about how the vodka made her crave something battered. She claimed she could not possibly cross the road as her heels had left her feet banjaxed. Mail man offered to go over for her adopting a tone of concern that made me want to boke.
And so I was stuck on my own in with two women fresh from a hen party in Ballymena. I tried to make conversation before realising that the drink had left their syntax banjaxed. And every time they tried to make a coherent point it got lost in a gush of bollocks. After a full ten minutes of listening to this inane nonsense my head felt battered I finally learned that sometimes an awkward silence between strangers is hard to beat. To my horror they also asked me to stand guard while they went into the bushes to boke. Mail man returned much latter than he should have claiming the shop’s fryer was banjaxed. As a result we would have make do with a bag of pork pies and sausages only half battered.
He claimed he had not gone for the curry as the picture made it look like pea filled boke. However to compensate the shop had thrown in some potato bread a delicacy in Ballymena. This worked wonders for lifting our mood and we all agreed the bread was hard to beat. Pink Hair had lapsed completely into vulgarity at this point said it was the dog’s bollocks.
At last the bus conductor told us we would be going home in a bus that was not banjaxed. He gave us a smarmy apology telling us we would be compensated clearly talking bollocks We knew we had as much chance of getting money as we had making soup from boke Still we had to admit that the feeling of getting on that bus at last really was hard to beat. For hours we had stood in that station with the wind and rain leaving us beaten and battered. As the bus speed along I took one last look and then gratefully said goodbye to Ballymena.
Bookshop Visiting (Enda Boyle)
Down the back-ally of a recession-ravaged High Street wasteland wedged between a Boyles’ betting shop and a branch of Poundland an undistinguished single story second hand bookshop waits with its door ajar ready to welcome sauntering punters, browsing bibliophiles and even the odd rare book hunter. They’ll navigate the labyrinthine shelves goggling in amazement at what can be found between the Martina Coles and Dan Browns. The casual browsers will flick though the copies of Enduring Love and Jude the Obscure while the vulture-eyed collectors determinedly flit between sections seeking out second printing editions of The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke pausing only to peruse though an incomplete set of Somerset Maughams. Often I’ve explored this haphazardly organised brick a brac, frequently drawn towards the unusual occult biographies, botanist’s handbooks, old almanacs, once- upon- a -time bestsellers. The best books have pages covered in scribbles you can pluck them from the shelves and find messages marking out Birthdays and Christmases and margins crammed with spidery exam notes. We eschew the pristine, the new and the ordered in favour of the comfort of clutter, the evidence that we lived.
Talking to the dole-officer about intellectualism (Enda Boyle)
Not for the likes of him the daily grind our boy’s all about the life of the mind. After three years of wit, grit and graft he’s at last got his just reward, a B.A.
Nine months after he donned his gown and bade farewell to the halls of privilege he finds himself languishing on the dole and attending a work focused interview.
On hearing his options our hero gulps. He an Augustus Gloop of the uni library who gorged on Goethe and hovered up Hagel, who made mincemeat of Marx,
Who came very close to getting a first has been offered a job in adult education He’s enough knowledge to fill a computer And they want him to waste it on teaching
Dismissing the idea with all the subtlety Of a sack of spanners being dropped From an industrial sized scaffold tower
He leaps out of his seat and heads home
On the way out, our man turns his head And promises to keep up the job search Leaving his officer to cry and wince Declaring to God she’ll throw at fit.
If she comes across another work-shy Overeducated middle-class wee shit.
Robins (Enda Boyle)
No blackbird has ever nested in my parent’s garden Instead we have Robins hiding among the hedges. While they sometimes flock in couples and trios It is much more common to spot one on its own
Smaller than a blue jay, gentler than a magpie Their humble brown feathers and grey ruff Draw attention to their hell-licked breast
On clear November days Robins are visible resting on Autumn-Sheard branches their marble round eyes fixed on the house.
Growing up I saw Robins as waiting birds, While crows and wrens crowd the skyline battling for space on planks of the fence Robins sit, patient and detached sentries Until winter comes and snow drifts in While the other birds depart they stay chirping against the gathering dark.
Inventory (Enda Boyle) Among the items I left in a small blue rucksack. Stored in the cubbyhole above the television of your second floor redbrick Galway flat include: One burgundy extra-large pullover jumper, a 200-gram bar of Dairy Milk Fruit and Nut, a half empty bottle of 2015 Oyster Bay Merlot and the Pan Macmillan Collected W.B Yeats.
The Jumper because you admired it warmth. The chocolate bar because it is your favourite. You paid for the wine, so you should keep it. I have left you the Yeats to remind you of the hours we spent giggling at the old man’s stately pomposity, Cast a cold eye on life.
The cold eye deceives, how could it not? It is constantly pulling back to take in the full panorama, history, geology archaeology, geography and Deep Time.
As for myself I prefer a close-up view, like the one from your spare bedroom of the bend in the river Corrib at dusk. Or the last corner of the eye glimpse of the city as I got on the early bus North.
Biographical Note: Ray Whitaker With two books of poetry to his credit, “ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Poems From The ‘Nam’ [212 pages, 03/2015], and “23, 18” [90 pages, 10/2015]; Ray has been writing poetry since he was seventeen. Holding a Bachelors in Music Education, Ray has been living and writing creatively since college. Ray is a member or the North Carolina Poetry Society, and The North Carolina Writer’s Network. He has twice been a 'Writer-In-Residence' at Weymouth, Center for the North Carolina Arts and Humanities. He is currently doing readings at the fine independent bookstores that carry his book around the state.
COYOTE (Ray Whitaker) When they run thru my country backyard Theo looks out the long window Knows they have a freedom he doesn’t However, they don’t trick him… Theo knows he has better dog food At least twice a day.
UNINTENTIONAL (Ray Whitaker) Tall old tree falling in last night’s storm Became firewood keeping a home warm The rain wasn’t thinking about Falling from the sky, washing the split oil away Rain drops on it, the makers of the wooden desk didn’t intend For the set of new small speakers to resonate within the wood. The hole in the roof Wonders not about someone having to fix it. The respiratory therapist breathing for her, saving her life in the ICU Put him in touch with his own white light In receiving the gift of new extended life, she Did not know that it would consign fresh strength and close distances The tears of joy when sharing this personal moment with her group Brought the entire room into closer relationship. In his giving service to her, that powerful example Would move the light forward to many other’s lives. The storm that blew through cleared the creek’s pile of drifted wood And trout swam easily to the next pool Minnows darted inbetween the heron’s legs Becoming an older fish’s future meal Warm rain unfurled the azalea blossoms there at the woodpile Dressing a workplace into a beautiful spot Sheltering, in admist the storm, on the porch Served intimacy to the couple standing there. She felt for his hand.
JUST A FEW STEPS FROM THE WOODS, OR DOCTOR JIMMY AND MR JIM (Ray Whitaker) Mist slowly rises from the fields Winter’s cold makes it rise ever so slowly In stepping out of the wooded tract Finally wanting to be seen. The fields remind you about Who’s minding the store. Those woods are the personality somehow meshing Producing beyond, interactions, not just about mere socially acceptable behaviours. A gentle cool breeze moves the mist Winter’s breath responding to the song in your head. All the while a song has run through your head Chords have been moving into the lungs producing easy breaths. Hearing a piano solo, then the rest of the band coming in Your easy breaths synchronize to the beat, excited, you hold it dear. Mist slowly rises from the fields Winter’s cold makes it rise ever so slowly Now stepping back in the woods, going yards and yards in Had enough of wanting to be seen. Where’s Doctor Jimmy, where’s Mister Jim Seeing the duality, wondering just which one is really him. Being different from all the rest, well… Sometimes a mercifully present part of being human. Seeing that others only show you what they want you to see It’s just who is minding their store. Do you see that you’re the one stepping out Of the muck of madness. Inspiring me, God; sends Jesus; who conveys a signal To wake up and move into the light. Mist still slowly rises from the fields Winter’s gently cold breeze makes it waft ever so slowly On the edge of the woods, coming back from yards and yards in Still reluctant to be seen. Doctor Jimmy merges with Mr Jim
Separate conflicted personalities move as one into a shield wall. Thru the damp swamp of creation Onto the earthen shore, standing solidly. The addict vs the masterful self, the anxious vs the ideal vision Of self, its tension has become relaxed. The four hundred year old longleaf pines sway gently In winter’s cool breeze, creaking, slightly complaining. Who’s minding the store no longer as important As being in the store with everyone who is wearing live animals as hats. Mist slowly rises from the fields Winter’s cold makes it rise ever so slowly In stepping out of the wooded tract Finally wanting to be seen.
credits: Dr Jimmy is a song from the rock opera Quadrophenia. Quadrophenia is the sixth album by the English rock band The Who. [Some think that this a better rock opera than “Tommy” that got more notoriety] Released on 19 October 1973, Quadrophenia is a double album, and the group's second rock opera. Its story involves social, musical, and psychological happenings from an English teenage perspective, set in London and Brighton in 1964 and 1965. The name is a variation on the incorrect popular usage of the medical diagnostic term schizophrenia as multiple personality disorder to reflect the four distinct personalities of Jimmy, the opera's protagonist—each said to represent the personality of one member of The Who. The title also referenced the Quadraphonic sound schemes then being introduced.
Biographical Note: Lynda Tavakoli . Lynda Tavakoli lives near Lisburn, County Down where she teaches special needs in a local primary school and facilitates a creative writing course at the Island Arts Centre. Her literary successes include short story and poetry prizes at Listowel, the Mencap short story competition and the Mail on Sunday novel competition. Lynda’s poems have been included in a variety of publications including Templar Poets’ Anthology Skein, Abridged, The Incubator Journal, Panning for Poems, Circle and Square, The Honest Ulsterman, A New Ulster and Live Encounters magazine. She was selected as The Irish Times Hennessy poet of the month for October 2015. Lynda’s poetry and prose have been broadcast on BBC Radio Ulster and RTE Sunday Miscellany. She has written two novels Attachment and Of Broken Things and has been the recipient of both the Tyrone Guthrie and John Hewitt bursaries.
Crossing a line (Lynda Tavakoli) I suppose one of the definitive aspects of being a parent is the acceptance of who our grownup children eventually choose as a partner. In an ideal world we might have in mind someone with the qualities each of us might espouse: honesty, kindness, empathy, tolerance perhaps, with a sprinkling of humour and intelligence thrown in for good measure. We can all make our own list, most of which is wishful thinking considering that realistically stuff like that is mainly beyond our control. Someone a lot wiser than me, (my father), once said that the trick was to welcome any prospective interloper graciously into the fold of the family while keeping your fingers firmly crossed under the table and keeping your mouth closed.
While this obviously prudent view of the world is what I have tried to pertain to since adulthood, I’m not so sure if that forbearance would withstand the pressure of my daughter deciding to bring home someone who in the course of a conversation about immigration around the dinner table came out with, “Why are we having all these people from s--thole countries come here?” I wouldn’t have to think too long about where that particular person’s mind-set is and why they might think it acceptable to offer such defamatory, vulgar and insulting opinions even in a small private gathering. In fact, my first thought would probably be more along the lines of, “Can’t you see that this sort of rhetoric is only demeaning to yourself and not to what you have just tried to degrade?”
In ‘An American Dream’, a recent Channel 4 series about Donald Trump that followed his life from youthful entrepreneur to President of the US, I was struck by how much more articulate he was at the beginning and yes, even how vulnerable he seemed at times. Certainly, there was a sense of arrogance and superiority about him even then, traits that have seemingly been nurtured ever since, but what intrigued me about the younger Donald were his values, or should I say, lack of them. Where does the absolute belief stem from that the only things of importance in life are one-upmanship and how much money you have in the bank? But even above and beyond the narcissistic tendencies that are portrayed now on a daily basis through his Twitter posts, Mr Trump’s lack of awareness or understanding of the human condition in all its forms
is, in my opinion, the most offensive part of his character. I am trying to be charitable here when I say that I hope part of the reason is simply a lack of education or blatant lack of will rather than some kind of terrible void in his personality that does not countenance empathy to any degree.
In my life so far I’ve been fortunate to have experienced and enjoyed living in a variety of different cultures. In the past I’ve spent a number of years in the US, the Middle East and of course, the UK, my home. Not a single village, town or city in any of them would I describe as a s--thole despite many of their features being at times dubious in the extreme. Why? Because when you start to value something simply by how it looks or how it benefits you, and not by its beating heart - the people who keep a place alive - then there is something terribly, terribly wrong with how you see the world. Yes, to me it’s that simple.
As I get older the sheer speed of technological advances and the power of the internet are becoming an increasing source of worry but I’m determined to hold on to the one thing that means the most to me – integrity. It’s a dying word. Now, sadly, a kind of dirty word. A word that is being trampled underfoot so fast that it hardly has time to come up for breath anymore but I am holding on to it for dear life. I offer the word integrity to Mr Trump with a free definition: ‘the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles that you refuse to change’
A big part of me wanted to write an outraged and angry article in my response to the almost incomprehensible outpourings of ‘the most influential person on our planet’. Then I thought it would simply make me an accomplice to the ignorance that shaped such toxic thoughts in the first place and besides, that type of childish ‘he said, she said’ sort of exchange is selfperpetuating and solves absolutely nothing. So in the end I simply just want to believe that there is still some hope that Mr Trump can prove himself to be the strong and benevolent leader that surely he could and ought to be. But I’m not holding my breath.
Biographical Note: Marc Carver
Marc has had ten collections of poetry published and over two thousand poems published on the net but all that really matters to him is that people enjoy his work.
HEAD (Marc Carver) I looked at the back of the man's head on the plane his daughter kept trying to get his attention but he wouldn't look up from his book or whatever he was doing. I stared into that fat head and told him to spend some time with his daughter. Straight away he started to look and talk to her. If I couldn't do one thing else in my miserable life at least I did that.
JUDAS (Marc Carver) I stared at the last supper on the wall of that church in Milan desperate to find some meaning in it the betrayal that had to come. It should have made him a hero he had to do it so everybody could have a shot at redemption but nobody sees him it that way his name goes on into history and always as a traitor.
Biographical Note: Michelle Gibb
Michelle Gibb is a Life Coach, writer and poet who currently lives on the north coast of Ireland; she is a member of the Flowerfield Writers Group. Michelle works with individuals and professionals who are ready to break free from limiting beliefs and discover a life that is truly theirs. As Michelle says, “Treasures are found in each and every human being. When you see a treasure in someone else it is a privilege, they might not have seen it yet so let them know.” You can find out more about Michelle at Michymodo.com When she’s not working Michelle can mostly be found walking, twirling, dancing, skipping or swimming around in nature like a wild and crazy woman with her faithful hound Django or writing her recent musings and poetry.
You’re All Heart (Michelle Gibb) The Heart whispers, the head shouts. The Heart breathes deeply, the head hyperventilates. The Heart has all the time in the world. The head doesn’t have the time. The Heart is patient The Heart is wise The Heart is funny The Heart is real Listen, it’s there, every day for you, with you, Love You Thank You
Take a Moment (Michelle Gibb) I sit in the sun; the heat soaks my pores, as the moisture from the earth soaks through my drawers. The breeze ripples over the lush grass so green, and the trees gently nod coz they know where I’ve been, and where am I going? and what are my plans? who cares coz right here, right now, I’m just grand. I flow with the wind, turn my face to the sun, shift position, resettle, so my bum won’t go numb. Then a cloud passes by and withdraws my heat, maybe time to return socks and boots to my feet? And give thanks for the moment that I had today, my infinite being blessed in every possible way.
MY WOMEN GATHERING (Michelle Gibb) Your hear them before you see them, they come from near and far groaning, creaking, chitter chattering they all get out of the cars. What about ya? How are you?! the hugs go all round. Unpack, organise, welcomed, smiling all are safe and sound. “I can’t believe that blah, blah, blah.” “What on earth did they say that for?!” Chitter, chatter, unpack, organise and they are finally all through the door! Catch up, organise. I watch and listen as they have a good look all around, kettle, cuppa, scope the locals, their feet barely touch the ground. Barings got, so next on the list we need some food in our bellies. Organise, chat, chop, peel, dice all giving it some welly! I sit back observe and listen coz everyone takes their task. Giggle, cuddle, chat, cook, simmer “Who brought this stuff in that flask?!” “Where was this put?” “Where does this go?” “What eejit brought this with them?!” Caring, loving, laughing, cooking creating our own piece of heaven
MAIDENS (Michelle Gibb) Something big is coming feel it shifting in the air the winds of change upon us all maidens dark and fair. Speak well fair maidens one and all, sleep well those maidens dark. The winds of change will touch us all and waken in our hearts Sit a while ye maidens all for now’s the time for change then thunder moves us one and all to find our final claims. To battle all you maidens, to battle we are called, and love and beauty reign again. The reign of ego falls. Do you feel it in your senses? Can you smell it in the air? As one we rise a powerhouse. As one, all dark and fair and rock and stone and land and sea shall gather to our aid. All flora, fauna, plant and tree to battle never fade. The mountains rise and sea shall swell, a battle fought in heart, the reason maidens shall prevail. The fallows fall apart. The time of love and beauty. The mother and father unite. The hearts are calm with peace at last and no more need to fight.
Once in a Lifetime Opportunity (Michelle Gibb) Rays soar high, air lilts. Pleasing twitters scattered whisps. Dawn chorus perfect complement golden glisters. Distant engine hums and choughs. First train off and away. Civilisation starting, beauty best shared. Time too, though just for now, this time. Gentle breeze stirs senses, welcome overwhelm. So content such happiness. Best hope new day. Sunrise Beam bright
Biographical Note: 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.
Wounded Earth (Bob Shakeshaft)
Eyes cavern sleep Never to open To dawn or dusk.
Stillness washes over Silence‌ your form A mask you wear.
Pain freed its shackles To dark-oak box Slow roped into stygian -
Gaping wounded earth Covers your chest In soil heavens justice ends.
Is the world compared? When a spirit has winged To lie in requiems cold -
Grave steps Grey sentinel walls Sorrow leads the way.
True (Bob Shakeshaft)
I remember porridge for breakfast every morning. And yes the habit remains. I remember my first long pants. I was told I was now a man. I remember peelings wrapped in newspapers. To stretch the meagre coal. I remember an outdoor toilet. And the newspaper squares on a wire hook. I remember the cream on the top of the milk bottles. Pure heaven on porridge. I remember shoes that let in rain. And the feel of cold damp feet. I remember collecting mineral and stout bottles for return. What precious pennies. I remember a single light on the landing. Letting dark corners have no fright. I remember mothers Gur cake. And the comfort to an empty belly. I remember the 6 pairs of shoes I had to polish. I missed my playtime. I remember having to empty the potty. That acrid smell lingering on me. I remember homemade blackberry jam. Spread on thick cut batch bread. I remember picking those blackberries. Those thorns imbedded in bluish fingers. I remember the joy of toasting bread on an open fire. My face red as the embers. I remember the wellie boots and the welts on my legs. The cold when sockless. I remember my grand-dads first visit. A heavy laden barrow of fruit and vegetable. I remember playing football in the street. And the almost broken windows. I remember being told Christmas was make believe. Father lost his job. I remember the smell of hot coco at bedtime. Sleeping snug in torn blankets. I remember Christmas without turkey. Father left for England. I remember buying broken biscuits. And the joy of an unbroken Mikado. I remember collecting firewood from Craigie’s Estate. Nature’s kindness on cold nights. I remember the dinner- house queue. And the hollow feel of being hungry. I remember bath night for six in the same water. The big towel dried over and over again. I remember the night my son was born. A bright beautiful woman made it seem so easy. I remember Nelsons pillar being blown up. Yet it didn’t disturb my sleep. I remember collecting mineral and stout bottles for return. What precious pennies. Ah yes I remember it well. It harbours deep in my psyche.
To be (Bob Shakeshaft)
Unconscious mind is like a barnacle Suctioned to a sea-rock Covered in sea-weed darkness It cannot see truth Unless it washes off The blind rock of ignorance Allowing light reveal The path to fullness
Thoughts (Bob Shakeshaft)
Life
Flash of a falling star It is the breath of a lover It is shadows fading in sunset It is love in the duality of two It is glorious it is life
Silent moments
That look in your eye springs from your soul Over-flowing love washes me No words Enchanting silence in sensational satiety You loving me
Darkness
Runaway thoughts blacken my brow Rest me Reflect Redress Replenish Renew my vision
Seeking
The drum-beat of the heart The whispering spirit The senses aware The mind still The self The bliss
This dream and darkness of the mind cannot be dispelled by the sunbeams shining shafts of day, but only by an understanding of the outward form and inner workings of nature. Lucretius 1st. century.
Biographical Note: Stuart Kilmartin
Stuart Kilmartin is an Irish writer from Co. Galway, Ireland. He attended university at NUI Galway where he graduated with a BA in English and History in 2015. In 2016 he graduated with an MA in English Literature from NUI Galway as well. He is a writer of poetry and prose. His poetry has appeared in the Qutub Minar Review & A New Ulster.
We are the devils we create ourselves (Stuart Kilmartin) We are the devils we create ourselves. We are the monsters that haunt the waning moments of midnight’s end. We are the catalyst to the fiery destruction of days to come. We are the demons that feast upon the remnants of decayed matter. We are the beasts that wield dominion over life and death. We are the masters of technologies, both terrific and terrible. We are the purveyors of secrets without truth. We are the harbingers of knowledge and ignorance. We are the horde that taints and tarnishes. We are the creatures that inspire fear and hatred. We are everything, and we are nothing.
A Land Lost to the Cross (Stuart Kilmartin) Imagine if you will: a land of lush green. Where crystal rivers flow to memory’s end And meadows delight, while mountains are filled with might. Her forests are overflowing with wonders and mysteries. Sprites skip merrily through the tall grass And the Banshee roams across the foggy moors. All across the land, from North to South, Her people revel and sing to her beauty.
Now, imagine if you will: a cross. The cross blackened the crystal rivers and filled memories with lies. The meadows became barren, while the might of the mountains dissipated. Instead, stone structures stretched to darken the sky. The cross robbed her forest of wonders and mysteries unknown. No more shall Sprites wander through the grass. No more shall the Banshee wail. All across the land, from North to South, Her people kill and condemn each other for this cross.
Nothing and Everything (Stuart Kilmartin) Journey with me across an ocean of shining stars. Gaze in wonder at shimmering nebula and cosmic supernovas as they illuminate the vast nothingness of the empty vacuum that is space. Cast your life’s worries in the chasm that stretches to the universe’s end. Your earthy problems have no weight here; You are free as free can be. Free in the dark void’s heavenly skies.
The Problem of Artistry (Stuart Kilmartin) The artist sits and lies. He ponders and waits. Where shall inspiration strike from next? What seemingly trivial detail shall spark a thousand fires in my mind?
The artist labours and works. He agonises and worries. What can he do when the words strike not? How can I stir creativity in my mind’s meadows when it naturally eludes me?
The artist mulls and muses. He lumbers and lazes. When to give up on words and verse? Will they ever sustain my being, or am I destined to discard it all?
The artist saddens and trudges. He types and types; but writes nothing. He grows older, but none the wiser. He lays alone wondering of artistic pastures not yet travelled; stories of myths not yet told.
The Distant Dream Land (Stuart Kilmartin) I met a traveller from a distant dream land Who said – “In faraway pastures, unscathed by human hands, Lives a paradise of tremendous wonders. Peaked mountains stretch high towards the heavens And streams of water flow clearer than the most crystal of glass.” “Here” said the traveller, “death exists not. But the vigour and vitality of youth are ever-present”. I begged with the traveller to take me to this oasis. He told me, with a faceless expression that bespoke disappointment That those who may enter the distant dream land have already found it.
Guardian of the Sea (Stuart Kilmartin) Though we don’t believe anymore, There is still a watchful guardian of the sea. It clings and crawls from rock to rock in search of lost souls. It watches like a silent protector for any signs of distress. Castaway pieces of debris enlarge its reach. While its eye looks ahead to distant shores.
Biographical Note: Jude Cowan Montague
Jude Cowan Montague worked for Reuters Television Archive for ten years. Her album The Leidenfrost Effect (Folkwit Records 2015) reimagines quirky stories from the Reuters Life! feed. She produces 'The News Agents' on Resonance 104.4 FM. Her most recent book is The Originals (Hesterglock Press, 2017).
Oban Mapping (Jude Cowan Montague) Little Ian Robert, on the shallow beaches, waving seaweed, running past the harbour, up to the Dog Stone, round Pulpit Rock, circling McCaig's Tower on Battery Hill, pedalling down Ardconnel, Craigard, Dunollie, past Glenmore, Glenshellach, Gylen, Ganavan, skidding through Benvoulin and Breadalbane braking at Corran Brae, Ben Cruachan, Morvern, dallying in Drimvargie and Dalriach. Echoes of the overkingdom, Ulster and Argyll, going back and forth, ferrying the Firth. Who was who? Quoth the Stone of Destiny. Big Ian Robert on the west side of the straits, waving back bladderack from red Cushendun.
Cave Hill (Jude Cowan Montague) That hill ate my granny. I remember that day! That cave opened its attitude, 'O' and in she went, whistling. She went into the dark with her knitting in her stockings with the extra strong gussets and her white hot mints but she never came out. She was a woman of the mountains returning home. I peer over the ledge at the urine and emptiness. Oh yes. Granny was here.
A Letter Arrives and it's for Me! (Jude Cowan Montague) I'm happy this morning because I got my results, the best results I ever had and they're making me smile like a sunny day in winter. Winter's are great, especially the socks. I love wool it itches it makes me feel I'm alive. Isn't life great, oh, so great, isn't it, isn't it? When things work out I have to scratch my armpits. These are exactly the results I wanted. The best results I could hope for. The very only totally right for me ones, it's as if the universe knew. The universe does know, doesn't it? It does know what it's doing?!
The Dancing Song of the New Dawn (Jude Cowan Montague)
I'm on the lawn looking backwards but the sun is coming up anyway. Since I was a child and my dad said, It's yours, son, I have had a special relationship with this time of day. I stand on the blue-grey grass with my toes full of daisies and don't know what to do anymore. Because you'd already left, and not for work this time, and there was only anger in the fridge next to my own head.
After Midnight (Jude Cowan Montague) The birds woke. They began shouting in my ear. I don't know what woke them. Was it fear? A tling-tzing-tring and a slap then a pause. Dead. A brood from the horizon. Wings glanced my head. They shrieked softly. Softer than sadness. And high. I looked towards the nothing trees. Why? I could see no why. The chatter inside was a clamour of pain. I shook from the sound of a train but there was no train only the space of shrill birds who had woken me with their cries. I can never shut my dreams on their whistling lies.
Wow, you look amazing! (Jude Cowan Montague) With his credit card he hired the best costume I had ever seen. It made mine look so shabby, even though I had spent all the week pleating, stitching and praying with my toes crossed. Wow, you look amazing! But I knew he was lying, it was written all over his T-shirt. I AM A LIAR, it said. It was the best part of this best costume. If I Iook shabby, I said, what about you! There's a flaw in your poem, he said, why would a T-shirt need to be hired and with a credit card? I didn't think of that, I replied, and his costume vanished. In sympathy, mine vanished too, which was annoying as it had taken such an effort and so long to make. Suddenly, there were only two of us on the dancefloor. We stood looking at each other, naked as a berry, which thought made us hungry, so we went to the fridge and ate frozen raspberries, shouting, Stay back! to the police.
Biographical Note: Richard Halperin
Blown Away (Richard Halperin)
An hour ago is gone forever. It has been stolen. But one can say, ‘I have painted my picture.’ And if one has, one has.
Others have, And there they are. Timon of Athens. ‘As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams . . .’
There is no ago in them. I ate them. They are part of me. They were always part of me.
‘She moved thro’ the fair.’ She is still moving thro’ the fair. Thank God for that.
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!
March 2018’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
Can you believe it has been 20 years since the GFA was signed? 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 https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_women_s_anthology_2017