ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Antoinette Rock, R.W Haynes,Marie Bashford Synnott, Canice Maher, Thomas Calder, Éanna Mac Cana, Byron Beynon, Nathanael O’Reilly, Salim Mustafa, Declan McGrath and Karen Petersen. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue 69 June 2018
A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Editorial Antoinette Rock;
1. 1974 R. W Haynes; 1. The Ghost Pelican’s Seditious Advice 2. Henrik Ibsen Walks Down to the National Theatre 3. The Superman Stands at the Blackboard 4. Business Ethics at the Border College 5. Mariachi Band Celebrates Felicity Marie Bashford Synnott; 1. Necropolis Canice Maher; 1. The Fountain Thomas Calder; 1. All the White Rooms 2. Cathexis 3. #3 4. #4 5. #5 6. #6 Éanna Mac Cana; 1. 'Och Ochón' Byron Beynon; 1. Ivan The Terrible 2. The Advntures of Robin Hood 3. A Clockwork Orange 4. Doctor Zhivago 5. Amadeus Nathanael O’Reilly; 1. Volume 2. Serenade 3. Prone 4. Grey
Salim Mustafa; 1. The Day You Were Not There 2. Mortal Bodies 3. Once You And Me Declan McGrath; 1. She is Finally Home Karen Petersen; 1. For My Late Friend Who I Knew For 52 Years 2. Galway Viriditas 3. Knock Knock 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 “Fae� by Amos Greig
“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis. Editorial So we’ve been having a heat wave with the temperatures reaching 32 degrees at one point its nice but at the same time worrying. I’m watching fields slowly turning brown as the ground isn’t getting enough water and even some small streams have dried up. I’m having to watch what time of day we go for walks I’m asthmatic so don’t cope well already had one bout of light-headedness which wasn’t fun. In other news Woodvale Park will be hosting a massive music festival including the lead singer from M People and Bass Hunter to name a few. I’m really impressed to see this as it’s a massive move to make the 11th July more family friendly and more inclusive. I’m a bit worried though to see that some have complained about the line-up, its almost like some don’t want to see change here. Just last month the Shankill Library had an event bout the Spanish Civil War and the men from the road who went off to fight against fascism that event was a part of the West Belfast Feile and this marks a long tradition of events which fall under that cross-community ethos. I’m proud to see developments like this. We’ve been involved with them in the past with the theatre and also with music and historical events. Finally, this issue has some amazing poetry and prose for your enjoyment. I believe in a shared society no matter religious or cultural background of course there are some things that even an inclusive society has to say no to and fascism is one of those things....
Onward to creativity!! Amos Greig Editor.
Biographical Note: Antoinette Rock Antoinette lives in Cavan. Her poems have appeared in Revival, The London Reader, Windows Authors & Artists Introduction Series No. 9, The Moth, North West Words, Poetry in Motion (N.I.) , Boyne Berries, Lagan On-line, A New Ulster, Skylight 47, The Blue Nib and other contemporary publications. Her poetry has been commended in the Happenstance Poetry Competition 2017 and she was also commended in the Westport Poetry Prize 2017.
1974 (Antoinette Rock) Her grandmother was convinced her soup would heat your bones. Pearl barley, swollen overnight to become transparent. Freshly dug carrots, thin bright orange discs to crunch; heavy globes of onion quartered, plucked parsley from their allotment, thin slices of Comber spuds. A Belfast bap to dunk.
Net curtains that stuck to the steamed up windows, Black Diamond coalfire blazing the pulley clothesline stretched, sagging with damp shirts. November traditions, Like the names of the faithful departed scraps wrapped in pink ten-shilling notes slipped into the Canon’s hand. And I, a young one, taking it all in, eager to consume everything, learned it nourished the soul.
Biographical Note: R.W. Haynes R. W. Haynes is Professor of English at Texas A&M International University. He recently edited the Salem Press collection Critical Insights: Horton Foote.
The Ghost Pelican’s Seditious Advice (R.W. Haynes)
Gliding works pretty well for those who can, But you, unfortunately, cannot slide Through cross-currents as you glide, So freeze, and pose like a frozen man, And let your enemies stumble on by, And watch what they do maliciously Remembering everything invisibly, The what, the where, the who, the why, And trust the power of information to Gather and organize and to condense Into a deadly coherence of sense That will broadcast all about you The modesty of nature, a deadly force To those resisting its natural course.
One never knows what a neighbor feels, Though compassion, sympathy, do replicate Some vestiges that partly indicate How life afflicts and how love surely heals, When it arrives, if it ever does. Contentment is contentment, though. I’ll take It as mercy, gratefully, for heaven’s sake, Devoutly relieved it’s not what earlier was. Let bleakness slide to some receptacle Of grimness, where the poisoned monsters sleep
And dream of boredom infinitely deep, Stupefied in outrage till the moon is full. No, I’ll take contentment: Fortune’s wheel Will fling out no more advantageous deal.
Henrik Ibsen Walks Down to the National Theater (R.W. Haynes)
The means is not the end, anxiety Is the motor, not the thing to be conveyed. The play provoking study craftily Aims at the light beyond this tragic shade. So what of long falls, or pistols fired, Of the seafaring incubus, the pastoral sheep, The rat-drowning witch, the idea-inspired Spin toward oblivion, the lure of the deep? Rehearsal recovers some aspects and some moods Of a greater vision, these suggestive acts, Rescued by actors’ inspired attitudes, Point to a theater of sustaining facts, Where we are not driven desperately to smash Ourselves to fragments in some mindless crash.
The Superman Stands at the Blackboard (R.W. Haynes)
His girlfriend clever Sophie had a brainstorm And changed her major, because she had such fun Listening to a sharp young professor perform Last Woden’s Day in Psych 101: She said her professor wore what sounded to me A lot like a Nehru jacket, as if she’d know One, and a beard-- it was psychology-And Nehru was cooking; “Note the size,” he’d go, “Of this pencil eraser. All our pleasure and pain Occurs in a brainspace of about this size; Neither region a definite domain, Which is why we eat cheese with apple pies.” So he went on, so persuasive somehow That Sophie’s a psychology major now.
Business Ethics at the Border College (R.W. Haynes)
Tarantula scholars have a special light That with a hideous glow ascertains Where outlaw spiders hold their feasts at night And shadows forth their intimate domains. The greedy feasts of crawling creatures show Resemblance to those of their nosy spies, Who creep away to write reports as though Surveillance made the primest stuff for lies. The spider, though, has better decency, Murdering in ambush, lurking in his hole, Than daytime’s sneaking, stomping progeny, Whose vicious motive is an envious soul. Our human spiders weave their own death-cages As malice grows and stupid falsehood rages.
Mariachi Band Celebrates Felicity (R.W. Haynes)
If the song of love, with its ghostly falls, Its mournful hollow brass and wounded strain, And self-appointed eminence at masked balls, Resounds nearby, you might recall the pain Of Troilus, the shaft-shocked hero of Troy, And his doubly troubled experience when he Forgot to duck, and then enjoyed his joy Till politicians set his lady free. Or you might not. When elemental force Of tide or earthquake, moon or conflagration, Opposes one’s desire in nature’s course, And hope has armed itself for confrontation, Old wisdom warns wisely: mischief never fails As vicious betrayal endlessly prevails.
Biographical Note: Marie Bashford Synnott Born in Limerick, Marie Bashford-Synnott now lives in Skerries. Married with four grown-up children, she has won prizes for plays and short stories, and her poetry has been published in various literary magazines. A trilogy of historical novels has been serialized in print, and she has published a collection of poetry and a book of translations of nursery rhymes from all over the world.
NECROPOLIS (Marie Bashford Synnott)
Tall pines, cypress, edging the precipitous pathgreen and fresh:
A sacred grove + The Catacombs of Chiusi in Tuscany built by the Etruscans, later colonised by the Romans.
The Etruscan tunnels wide, airy: human.
The Roman functional, narrow: perfunctory.
+ A labyrinth: the lamp revealing intersecting , puzzling pathways.
(To be lost forever the eternal nightmare) + Domed grave-sites, tier on tier, the bodies placed in stone coffins, wrapped in linen. A layer of lime placed on top then a layer of earth then lines of curved tiles to define each burial
Layer on layer. Row on row.
+ The air working on the rock, the bones.
Calcified, becoming one.
+
Gravestone 1.
The heart-broken father and mother of little Aurelius (four years and five days)
+
Gravestone 2.
The ancient couple in their eighties buried here side by side. ( vastly out-living the forty years of life their times granted to them)
+ And the air sweetno smell of decomposition. no draughts, no eddies just cool, calm and easeful: A pleasant and safe
resting- place.
Biographical Note: Canice Maher . Canice is an Irish primary school teacher. He is currently studying a Master’s in Education in Finland. He hopes to inspire his students to take an interest in poetry by becoming a published poet. "The Fountain" is his first poem after many years of teaching poetry to children.
The Fountain
As the water flows there, Recycling itself through the air, The sun takes some to the sky, Few notice bar the water fly.
Now imagine the fountain of a man, It’s not the sun, but life that can, Evaporate dreams and desire, Should he fail to aim for higher.
And if that water fly should land, One day upon, not water, but sand. What only he had noticed had come to be, He could not change his destiny.
The man’s fountain just the same, Plays life’s evaporation game, Where hope had once been kept afloat, Now he stands in eerie remote. . Why did the man not dare to act? When his fountain was intact? The water fly to another will hover, The man has but one to discover. (Canice Maher 28/04/18)
Biographical Note: Thomas Calder
Thomas values honesty, authenticity and emotional truth in art and always strives to communicate these in the art he makes. Having spent the better part of his creative life writing and releasing his own music, Thomas is no stranger to the struggles of fighting for what you believe is important. For Thomas, that something is Storytelling, in all its glorious and inspiring forms.
All the white rooms (Thomas Calder)
My life has become Accustomed, To these clinical rooms Where they take my blood And I am no stranger.
A second home. The nurses know my name And my illness These people have become my friends I visit so often.
I have a registered Loyalty card “Tenth one’s free.”
My plump nurse tells me Through her lisp That she has cancer And has had all her teeth removed But she doesn’t like to be morbid.
I think How selfish and small this pain of mine.
She shows me a barcode with my name and date of birth, and asks for confirmation “is this you?�. And I suppose I should say yes So I do. Not really knowing what that even means anymore.
Cathexis (Thomas Calder)
This fleshy Sag, Wants to do it. For all the expressions it’s yet to release into the world. My cloudy eyes, making life like swimming through cool milk. My wounds are trying to tell me To take more time. My head and heart Go behind my back. And speak of ways, to try and help.
Hunched over, of a morning Like broken candy cane. There are parts of me That hide around corners Trying to surprise the others Who just walk past without realising. There is another part of me It says If I were you! Man if I were you If I were you man, everything would be exactly the same. All of it would make just about as much sense. My face arranges my expressions to display a mood
I am unable to inhabit Buying me time, From the questions While I figure this thing out.
People ask more and more, If I’m going okay Which leads me to consider I am not.
Someone in the corner Is tapping jingle bells, on their teeth. And for a moment, I want to cry. For a handful of reasons. I think, For the reason That I am still sitting here With this wish.
#3 (Thomas Calder)
The hurried Truth Of young ideas So precisely formulated And strong held Without thought Awareness creeps in Through the crack of the years And shifts the hurry To the hurting places The hollow places The young idea Grows old And you with it Until you learn Young ideas Kept you going For this long.
#4 (Thomas Calder)
Beautiful and terrible man Full of human shyness A gigantic rigid hulk Covering soft cream You know How to fight And found out That strong is not solid A suffering wind Full of dying ways Flows freely within you.
#5 (Thomas Calder)
And in my dreams I am still standing in line.
#6 (Thomas Calder)
I thought you had left A message, But was sad to hear, It was only The telephone company. Again.
Biographical Note:
Éanna Mac Cana
Éanna Mac Cana. Author of 'Och Ochón'. It is inspired by the old Irish custom of keening - to lament over the deceased - which would've been performed in Irish. Éanna wrote this piece in English and worked with numerous Irish speakers / translators to ensure correct translation to Irish.
Och Ochón A lament written by Éanna Mac Cana
Translation:
Frances Morgan
Eimear Kennedy
Ruairí Ó Bléine
Dónall Mac Giolla Chóill
Frances Quinn
Dorchaíonn an spéir, tá gliogar ‘sa ghaoth
Solas an mheán lae múchta
Éan an Earraigh imithe
Níl ach dólás fágtha
Do am imeachta é
I bhfad i gcéin leat
Gan eagla a thuilleadh ort
Beidh meath go luath orainn
Teaghlach báite i ndeora
Ná díolaimis a gcuid spásanna
Greim acu ar do chosa go deireadh Ar bheagán nirt, mairfidh said
Time deemed now to take you
Far from home you go
In fear no more
Decay will soon come to all
A family soaked in tears
Do not sell their spaces
Holding your feet until the end
Strength is little but they shall prevail
Damnú ar ghalar!
D’eitil spideog isteach
Tonn bhróin orthu
Cad chuige ar thréig tú iad?
Do mháthair ag caoineadh, d’athair searbh
An raibh an mí-ádh seo tuillte agat?
Cumha ar do thuismitheoirí Tús le sean-aois an bhróin
Gan chodladh níos mó
Osclaíonn na spéartha ‘s séideann an ghaoth
Dath úr sa bhogha báistí
Cibé áit a bhfuil tú
Grá gan choinníoll thart timpeall ort
Skies now darken, wind rattles
Midday no longer bright
A spring bird has left this land
Only despair remains
But Damnation to disease!
When a bird flew in
Grief crashed like an ocean wave
Why did you leave them?
Your mother weeping, your father bitter
What bad luck did you deserve?
Parents long to be with you
An old age of sorrow begins
Sleep no longer comes
Skies depart and wind carries
Rainbows return with a new colour
Wherever you are
Great love surrounds you
Biographical Note: Byron Beynon
"Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His poems and essays have appeared in several publications including A New Ulster, North of Oxford, The Adelaide Literary Magazine, Bindweed Magazine, Poetry Wales, London Magazine, Crannog and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press), The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions) and three collections (Nocturne in Blue; Human Shores and Through Ilston Wood) from Lapwing Publications."
IVAN THE TERRIBLE directed by Sergei Eisentein Curiosity brought me to my first foreign language film, part of the Corporation’s season with eastern European, French, German, Japanese productions, that evening Sergei Eisentein premiered on TV. I recall a long curving line of people, who refused in the sublime, eternal coldness of the silent snow to let Ivan go, their fear and poverty just wouldn’t let the tyrant disappear. (Byron Beynon)
THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD directed by Michael Curtiz and William Keighley I sat in an armchair on a Sunday afternoon with Korngold’s score filling the room. Celluloid adventures in under two hours, with shadows looming large on a Hollywood studio’s wall, the fine cut and energetic thrust finalé of Basil Rathbone’s fencing arm, before the father of all swashbucklers killed his character, running away with the de Havilland girl. (Byron Beynon)
A CLOCKWORK ORANGE directed by Stanley Kubrick Early seventies in a tinplate town, a teenager from a nearby village watching under-age as the droogs performed their thuggery during a technological age. A future of violence waiting to rampage with an invented glossary, scanning censors, keeping amused those with damaged genes.
(Byron Beynon)
DOCTOR ZHIVAGO directed by David Lean Lara’s theme continues to play inside my vibrating mind as the final credits roll, an impression glassy and clutching, as events dominate scenes once they begin to take hold. A sense of unfamiliar climates, a vastness beyond a compass point’s reach, the unreal snow with rigor mortis cold, a bait before your gaze clamping a trail of cosmopolitan sounds.
(Byron Beynon)
AMADEUS Directed by Milos Forman I cannot tell whether the bare facts of his life were true or faithfully portrayed, but the music's flesh, resilient and smooth, raised not only the mind's conscious senses, taking imagination to unvisited places. The heart's tempo released, bringing solutions closer thread by thread to that unsolved mystery.
(Byron Beynon)
Biographical Note: Nathanael O’Reilly
Nathanael O’Reilly was born and raised in Australia. He has travelled on five continents and lived in England, Ireland, Germany, Ukraine and the United States. His poems have appeared in journals and anthologies in ten countries, including Antipodes, Australian Love Poems, Cordite, FourW, Glasgow Review of Books,LiNQ, Mascara, Postcolonial Text, Snorkel, Tincture, Transnational Literature, Verity La and The Newcastle Poetry Prize Anthology 2017. He is the author ofPreparations for Departure (UWAP Poetry, 2017), named one of the “2017 Books of the Year” in Australian Book Review; Distance (Picaro Press, 2014; Ginninderra Press, 2015); and the chapbooks Cult (Ginninderra Press, 2016), Suburban Exile (Picaro Press, 2011) and Symptoms of Homesickness (Picaro Press, 2010).
Volume
Relaxing into a soft black leather armchair inside the Bang & Olufsen store at Camberwell Junction I adjust headphones over teenage ears, increase the volume, close my eyes and experience U2’s I Threw a Brick Through a Window fully, completely. Tom-toms, bass, snare and cymbals boom, thunder, reverberate, crash, echo inside my skull, rhythms transport me from safe, leafy nineteen-eighties upper-middle-class inner-south-eastern Melbourne suburbia to nineteen-seventies northside Dublin angst, rage and rebellion.
(Dr Nathanael O’Reilly)
Serenade
An old man in a straw hat strolls down the middle of the street playing an accordion and singing Besame Mucho to the ladies leaning on the balcony railings high above, segues into O Sole Mio, shouts greetings to individual women between verses and choruses, dances gracefully along the gutter milking his silky baritone, hoping for showers of applause and Euros.
(Dr Nathanael O’Reilly)
Prone
I lie on my back head between a Korean woman and a Mexican woman
fluorescent lights directly above my eyes my mouth wide open hands crossed below my waist
the faces of the women inches away stare down I focus on the ceiling through a gap between heads
the Korean woman inserts a drill into my mouth you will feel some vibration suction
the Mexican woman inserts a tube into my mouth close your mouth please good
Grey
My peers and I are turning grey, our youth exhausted & deceased; mortality exposed for display.
Unable to resist our DNA, black, brown, & blonde transformed; my peers and I are turning grey.
We wake to new strands each day, evidence of age multiplied, mortality exposed for display.
We wash & brush our hair in dismay, refuse to admit we’re petrified; my peers and I are turning grey.
Aesthetics rarely come into play when grave facts are considered, mortality exposed for display.
We must accept the truth today; youth cannot be recovered. My peers and I are turning grey, mortality exposed for display.
Biographical Note: Salim Mustafa
Salim Mustafa was born in New Delhi, India and he is an author who writes in romance/tragedy genre. He is a fellow member of Screen Writer Association, Mumbai, India and his work (Indifferent Life) was appeared in “A New Ulster” April 2017, issue 55 and (The Contemporary Lover) in July, 2017, issue 58. Later his poems were accepted in Proost Poetry, Ireland and again for January issue, 2018 in “A New Ulster.” Currently, he is working on his debut novel.
THE DAY YOU WERE NOT THERE
Why you’re parted, my eyes are watered As you are not here, I have been a man with no words I stop while walking, no stubbornness remained What have you done with me? I’m helpless to return, can’t go farer Do I have options to say, it’s you, indeed
You have been untold mistress of my existence You’re the one who has looted my dreams Heart went missing with disappeared beats What’s matter dear? You turned away! Taken pain limitless, drunk in sickness Because O’ beloved I loved you
It’s no dawning, the dark is half done yet Someone remained on the roads, still he wet I must get going, I thought leaving you Miss I’m tired to remake, breaking promises What treasure you owned, O’ [Please tell me] After hurting you ruined, Ah [My heart] I’m written to live more
(Salim Mustafa)
MORTAL BODIES
Seeing you while reading your beautiful words More beautiful snap yours, no need reading at all Pushing years hard to see you in person Waiting seasons soft to walk hand in hand Being impatient, restless and breathless Calling your name, so passionate heart is
Searching miles o miles, found you far and away Looking for you, waiting for you Relieved with harmony, beyond the farness Having life to joy, boughs in the courtyard Making way autumn, crushing leaves lifeless Spring will be there, loyalty on the stake Trusting you
Talking to unknown shadows, love is it?
Learning the way crying in love, you too? Burning soul, tormenting self, Loneliness dear! Chilling sighs, empty nights, reflectivity Bear! Together will be Eternal will be SEEING YOU, yet to remain Promising Cosmos; Our love will be.
(Salim Mustafa)
ONCE, YOU AND ME
I’ve been in intermission Being patient for you As you said to “come in a while” While going away Far and away
Am I unease? Committing to see you Why am I a peace less? Why have I been aficionado? Why don’t you call me? Why wouldn’t you effort once? Please fill these eyes with peace Please filled up that barren with flowers To calling you, my world draw breathes As I’ve naps wanting for dreams Those paths are mine, you walked on Those sights are mine, you are settled in It’s an unbroken bond, don’t turn off Whispers might be there Might not be Let’s not get apart Let’s never get apart
As I’ve been in intermission Being patient for you You said to “come in a while” While going away Far and away
(Salim Mustafa)
Biographical Note: Declan Mcgrath
Declan is a software developer from Limerick. He is interested in sharing knowledge and ideas through community based approaches and is an organiser of collaborative tech meetups in Ireland. He occasionally stops writing code and starts writing words when the Internet is down.
She Is Finally Home was inspired by the women of Ireland, the men of Ireland and the Together for Yes movement, who brought their powerful and difficult stories to the referendum on abortion rights.
*** She Is Finally Home *** Was it a Love Boat or No's Ark, As stories suppressed came out of dark, When Yes went high, the No went Lowe, But the gasp of the crowd did steal the show. When the hard cases talked, the nut cases balked, When going got tough, the waters walked, Posters went up, then came tumbling down, The mountain said No, but not the town. For our sisters, our daughters, our girl friends, our mothers, Politicians did us proud, some more than others, Car horns beeped, online we weeped, Badges were beacons, when comrades we seeked. The grandads with ice cream, The lifts to the station, First jumpers were knitted, Then knitted the nation. The home to vote heroes, That came just in time, Some got Taytos, As they waited in line. Searching for truth, amongst liars and cheaters, Our guiding light was the thought of Savita, The women made fly, the women made die, They shared their stories, they made us cry. With the vote came the nerves, Came the fear of polls, But turnout they did, Both young and old. A result that shocked, Ushered in a new era, A changing land, Was instantly nearer. A girl Ireland rejected, Now knows she's accepted, No longer alone, She is finally home.
Biographical Note: Karen Petersen
Adventurer, photojournalist and writer, Karen Petersen has traveled the world extensively, publishing both nationally and internationally in a variety of publications. Most recently, her poetry was published in The Manzano Mountain Review and Pilgrimage Magazine in the USA, Orbis in the UK, and The Wild Word in Berlin. Her poems and short stories have also appeared in A New Ulster in Northern Ireland and The Bosphorus Review in Istanbul. In 2015, she read "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" at the Yeats Festival in Santa Fe, New Mexico and the KGB Bar in NYC. Her poems have been translated into Persian and Spanish. She holds a B.A. in Philosophy and Classics from Vassar College and an M.S. from Columbia University's Graduate School of Journalism. She lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico and teaches English Composition at NNMC.
For My Late Friend, Who I Knew For 52 Years Last night I finally saw you again, in a dream, in a great hall at Oxford, inexplicably, since neither of us went there --though your mother was English, your fragile, beautiful mother who you take so much after. Although you are gone forever from this Earth, what a gift to lay eyes on you and talk like old times even if you were clearly ill and pale, you were present, smiling at me, one more time. There you were, working on something in your studious way and as you looked up I knew I was gazing on someone who was not long for this world, and I woke up crying. Crying out of gratitude tho', because you came to me one last time, and that was special, although it was clear that in that world too, you did not have much time. Our dreams are ephemeral but they allow us a passage and a chance to dwell, albeit briefly, in the fullness of love with one whom we miss very much. While the nightmares of Hieronymus lurk in the shadows they do not dare to come out, the light is so strong, the light is so strong.
Galway Viriditas They called me a bogtrotter and a culchie but what did they know? missing the mysteries of the land they were the Amen of the full moon whose light cleansed and blessed us all; even the blind could find their way to Heaven. Tourists come now to look at the pretty view but the land is silent and they don't know what they're seein’: the past where starvation lay, where a boy of 10 vanished over a 5 cent candy bar...Amen... And where was the church then? Asleep on a pew. Do you know the comfort the rain brings to our tears as we stand silently in the wood? What would the world be, bereft of wildness, bereft of places of deep viriditas. These are our chapels. Amen. "Solvitur ambulando," down corcach paths hemmed by the singing insects of summer and open to the clarity of silver sea & cloud-scud: We resonate with the small, in awe of the large, seascape to landscape to homescape to grave this world is Paradise enough.
Knock, Knock
She’d moved into our building the day after the Pakistanis moved out. She had one of those unpronounceable Scandinavian names so we all called her Mary. This was the American way, to homogenize everything in the interests of harmony, so that two or three generations later people could barely remember what country their ancestors had come from. But by that time their souls belonged to Burger King and they couldn't tell a kilt from a kimono anyway.
Mary's family had settled out in the Midwest somewhere, Iowa I think it was, and she was tall, blond and big-boned, like a farm girl. She'd come to New York out of some vague desire to be where she thought the energy was and to do something, but she wasn't sure what. She had a manic way of talking but she didn't act manic, her body always seemed to be holding her back.
I was fascinated by her fragile face, that part of her looked like the actress Jessica Lange, and over the years she let me photograph her, since photography was my profession at the time. We'd get stoned in her apartment, and I'd set up my equipment and we'd shoot for a while and listen to jazz and then smoke some more and shoot again.
She had three young cats which she'd bought to keep her company. Her boyfriends seemed to come and go, so I guess the cats were a better emotional investment. One was a small tabby with
green eyes, another was all grey with one white paw and the third a fat little black fellow who meowed a lot.
While I was shooting, the grey one would sit very still and watch the strobe lights attentively, as if waiting for them to move. After all, the powerful light popping out of them was a kind of movement and she was just trying to understand what these metal things were trying to communicate. As the photo session would progress, the little black one would jump into a large, overstuffed chair and knead the worn-out fabric with its small claws while the tabby would race around and around the small room. It was nice to be stoned in the middle of all this animal energy. There was a certain kind of harmony to it.
Sometimes the music and everything would get too intense and the other neighbors would start banging on the pipes, so we'd stop. This was okay because by then we'd be so stoned I could barely recognize an f-stop from a door stop and Mary would be talking so fast I couldn't follow her--I'd just nod occasionally with this lotus eater grin on my face as Charlie Parker burned through "How Deep is the Ocean" on the turntable.
In those days I was making a decent living, more or less, but it was harder for Mary because she didn't really have a profession. She had secretarial skills and intelligence, but no focus. She jumped around so much in her thinking at times I thought she might have an attention deficit disorder but she was so friendly that people liked her anyway. It was from her that I first heard about "temp agencies." She was very enthusiastic about them, how it was fast money and how ideal their kind of concept was for people who were still a little lost as far as the career track was
concerned or who just needed to work for a while.
She seemed happy but when the winter came I’d run into her and she’d be stoned more and more, and manic, and then depressed the next day. We were in our twenties then, and I just didn't see the signs that she was starting to fall apart. New York and all its hardness and power and indifference was starting to get to her, to hurt her, to crush her, but I didn't see it.
Bit by bit the ending of these temp jobs with no future or real identity was eroding her entire personality, obliterating it, but nobody took responsibility. After all, she was just there to fill in, and was essentially invisible. If socially asked at a bar or a nightclub “what do you do?” she couldn’t answer and she didn’t know how to change that. No wonder she was miserable.
That Spring, I got an assignment and went off to Africa for a few months and when I came back I knocked on the apartment upstairs to say hello. But it was empty and Mary had vanished. My neighbor told me the horrible truth that when the landlord had unlocked the door due to complaints about a bad smell coming from her place he’d found her three little cats, all laid out in a row in the tub. They had been drowned. +++ Two years later I was in a car accident that hurt my neck and I couldn't work as a photographer anymore. The only thing I could do was to go to work for the temp agencies, just like Mary had. It was pretty awful. I didn't have control over my life anymore, and was often at the mercy of some uneducated gorilla in a suit, whose neck muscles were bigger than his brain. But even that
paled beside the endless army of women who were out to undermine–and not work with--all the other ambitious women around them in their greedy struggle for power and influence in the workplace. Feminism had come full circle and was now biting its own tail--believe me, the women were even bigger oppressors than the men.
So I found I couldn't handle the total submissiveness and vulnerability of the temp scene, or the world of power that it served. I went on unemployment and food stamps, but somehow I'm not going to let all this get me down, I'm not. I know I am stronger than Mary, and I love my cats.
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!
June 2018’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
We cannot get over just how hot it is 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