ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Adrian Fox, Jack Stewart, Natasha Helen Crudden, Faleeha Hassan, Karen Petersen, Daginne Aignend, Gareth Writer Davies, Amy Barry, Mari Maxwell, Peter O’Neill, Rachel Stanley. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 54 March 2017
A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website Editorial
Contents
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden page 5
Adrian Fox;
1. A Door into the Dark/ Undone 2. A Lonely Nation 3. A Poem of Right and Wrong 4. A Day/ A Giant Step for Mankind 5. Denial 6. Cold Front 7. Proud Purple/ Waking Dream/ Away In a Manger 8. A Method Act / High Winds 9. A Van Gogh-ism 10. Adrian’s Lament 11. The Light on the Stones Jack Stewart; 1. Sisley, Snow at Veneux 2. There is a Word in German 3. The Vatican Collection 4. Whom Are We Kidding? Natasha Helen Crudden; 1. On the Third Day….. Faleeha Hassan; 1. Black Iraqi Woman 2. Faleeha Hassan The Futility of Protesting near noisy cemetaries 3. Faleeha’s Prayer 4. Lipstick 5. Rememberin 6. The Wagon Karen Petersen; 1. In Memory of W.B. Yeats Daginne Aignend; 1. Farewell Gareth Writer-Davies; 1. Kurosawa 2. Drowning 2
Amy Barry; 1. Semblance Rachael Stanley; 1. Cat amd Mouse 2. Tell Tale 3. Cohen 4. February Morning Mari Maxwell; 1. Hide and Seek Peter O’Neill; 1. Decreased 2. Leonard Abandons Lou 3. Gated On The Wall Message from the Alleycats
Round the Back A list of sixty women writers from Northern Ireland and information on Women Aloud NI
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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://sites.google.com/site/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 “Athlone� by Amy Barry
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“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis. Editorial March is an interesting month for poetry in Ireland we have Women Aloud NI events during the start of the month and E V Greig will be reading at one of those events. We’ll have a small selection of women writers from here at the end of the issue feel free to check out their work. Lapwing Publications has a number of poetry books coming out this month as well and I’ll share more details about that as soon as I can. There’s a lot of poetic talent out there and this issue features some very impressive talent including work by Adrian Fox and Faleeha Hassan. Their work deals with very similar themes but from different angles and we hope you enjoy the work. In some ways A New Ulster is a homage to James Simmons he started the original Honest Ulsterman and ran the Poets House first in Port Muck and then in the Republic I had the honour of working with him on several projects and attended the Poet’s House when I decided to start ANU I used The Honest Ulsterman as an example for what I wanted to produce namely a magazine for everyone with no politcal ties.. Padriacc’s work is often overlooked and yet he has such a strong poetic gaze, he represents in many ways the poet in exile, the Irish Disapora and the Return. The end of 2016 was surprising for everyone around the world we saw changes in voting patterns an increase in voting and a further increase in the divide between Right and Left hopefully 2017 will be the year that we can bring together humanity to overcome persecution and abuse.
Amos Greig Editor.
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Biographical Note: Adrian Fox
Adrian was born in Kent and his family moved to Belfast in 1967 when he was 6. He experienced the rioting in Ardoyne in North Belfast. Adrian studied under Jimmy Simmons and has had his poems translated into several languages world wide. He has an MA in Creative Writing and has had work published in Poetry Ireland, Cyphers, Honest Ulsterman, Black Mountian Review, Poetry Guild and more. He has produced the Violets with the folk singer Rodney Cordner as a tribute to those who died in the Troubles. Adrian also rteaches poetry online and can be contacted at http://adrianfox.org/contact.html
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A DOOR INTO THE DARK (Adrian Fox) You had to go and leave us with a door into the dark. Sad but you had to go to that better place where poets live in poetry.
UNDONE Un-mouthed Unmoral, unable to reach the natural rhythm. Fatherless, godLess, lifeless silence.
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A LONELY NATION (Adrian Fox) Poetry is linked to your mobility. I live in a world of disabled blues So my pomes have become mom-entry. They are not a language of verse-ification but words of truth from a lonely nation. These are words from my black hole. They are not here for rhyme but reason Trying to find their way back home. This is the verb-all of a locked-in-syndrome. I live inside, outside me, it’s not my style It’s the darkness in me. It wants to be a poem, that’s all I know. This is my poetic undulating sea. I can’t even remember a detailed past so these words can only be cast out!
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A POEM OF RIGHT AND WRONG (Adrian Fox) Is poetry the savior of life? I know we need something to pull Us from the swamp of neglect. Whether that's an academic one or a moment us one? Poetry is past and future us like life is fast and furious. It meets the sound and feel of this day and drags it into sentimental soil. Is poetry the savior of life? tick the box or x it through but whatever you do make gold out of this muck. Poetry is the call of life? written there like a cave painting on the markings of road, there is one way to go and one way to know. it doesn’t matter if it right or wrong good or evil light or dark inlove or hate, all that matters is that this is a song of hope.
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A DAY (Adrian Fox) The sky is the color of a raindrop, I can’t see the day go by. The day is cold transparent grey it doesn't pretend to be other than it is, a delightful drop of today. It begins like any other and ends without event. That drop will be here tomorrow like jewels dripping down through your window pane.
A GIANT STEP FOR MANKIND Our house was the center of the universe, I was eight in August 69'. Our street was named after a mountain Etna, the street behind was Jamaica St and the one behind that was Havana. You could see right up to the Crumlin Rd. My brother had a little tin camera like something out of a lucky bag but it took the greatest photo I have ever seen. That morning my eye was the view finder blinking the moon landing on T.V. And a line of armored cars coming into Belfast for the first time.
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DENIAL (Adrian Fox) We are all made of blood and conflict we are the atom that made the atombomb, we are what is within us, we are both right and wrong. We are the first men on the moon to call it a scam. start a war tomorrow over today. we are just fickle humans playing life. please let me be? there I go again talking to myself, let me be in-between inbetween right and wrong, love and hate light and dark, good and evil. we are made of blood and conflict we flow in the current war life is lonely without a predator we need life sucked from us to feel to gush and rush to soar.
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COLD FRONT COLD FRONT (Adrian Fox) I have to dig in deep to find a purpose to find a stanza that translates my soul. My purpose is to be a silent poet a screaming din in a noiseless state.
A person that is way beyond a person a human that seeks to find humanity a man that has touched his own black hole.
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PROUD PURPLE (Adrian Fox) I see the heads of thistledown rise purple proud above the weeds. WAKING DREAM The waves swim eyes to shadowlight. AWAY IN A MANGER 'not that we become more God but we become more godlike'. Roberto Unger My web-cam shone like a star Above my manger, computer Screen, my three wise men Were on face-book waiting To give me gifts on you tube. I googled them and my stable home, I yahooed my wife In the Philippines and I seen A beautiful country and felt Life on the streets, their beautifull smiles. Isn’t it great we can do this and not feel so lost and alone. This has become My heart and soul its beCome my stable home.
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A METHOD ACT (Adrian Fox) Washed dressed and wheel chaired in a time and motion way. I woke on the conveyor of life, packed sealed and trademarked branded into disability. I don't know if I'm coming or going, which way is my destiny or is it just 12 angry men, have I done time, a lifetime? Cling filmed by a rain splattered window in a cell fenced-in-en grained locked-in but I am like Steve Mc Queens butterfly, one day I will be free. HIGH WINDS The high winds of winter are calling to me The red golden leaves want me to be free. Being alone is to essentially be, once More I go round and round into me. Through the path of leaves, 4 magpies, 2 Crows and three seagulls, the wind in my Face, scavenging for words. The green white and orange flags are still Flying in 2014. I know I’m Irish/English I lived on the streets or did they live in me? Words set me free among leaves and liveStock, the shore of the lake laps me. Humanity walks by into the shimmering sound of the Belfast to Dublin train trembling, main-lined. The bare naked trees are like a queue of people waiting, what more can I say about the balancing lakes balancing?
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A VAN GOGH-ISM (Adrian Fox) ‘Clay is the word clay is the flesh’ Patrick Kavanagh’s poetry was raised by his brother like a Van Gogh-ism. I went along the Castleblaney road For water from a well, I swept aside The debris and found pure clear water With the clear vibrancy of paint but These are only words that are pure. Kerbstones like colored flags, painted Hate like love on the ground. A world of men and monsters, dungeons Tanks and barricades, tear gas and rubber Bullets. Young men with hatred in their hearts. There are two sides to every tango like A sunset at dawn, the green so green And the red so red, blue and gold so blue. Hate blends into love like night flows into day. Life is blue and black the color of my way. Seeing the subtle change of seasons From the masters of movement. Captured in the blooms of yesterday death in a vase Of sparkled brilliance. The light of nature on the breeze A birdsong, the color of sky filled with rain like Anton Chekhov’s foreboding. The color of light on an eye the tree, the sky And the oceans detail.
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ADRIANS LAMENT (Adrian Fox) Who will love me? One half deadHunted by thought. The hunter behind cloud. Paralyzed by fear You unknown-god Stab my heart, stab My pure heart. Break this heart Torment me. Why torment me? You spiteful unKnown god? Shameless one! What do you want to Steal From me, Humanity? What do you gain By torture? Proud prisoner Of ultimate happiness Executioner god. BASED ON ARIADNES LAMENT BY FREDRICK NIETZCHE
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THE LIGHT ON THE STONES (Adrian Fox) I retrace your final journey now in a blueCar not black, alone on the motorway. Passing the maze prison, the stench of my engine Overheating is like gunpowder, spent shells Lingering your dream of Irish freedom. I climbed the mountain graveyard Above the violent divided city Above the peace line that stood between us In the living room. It was a maze Of kept graves, lawns, wreaths, flowers Names on glistening headstones. Your plot all weeds and wild grass Cries out for order. The fallen wooden cross Bears-no name but you are there. Like a sculptor with clay I reach inward, my hands As delicate as salmon wings riding whiteWater, struggling the strong current of grief. I brush the soiled tears from your eyes And you wake in me swimming and glistening In mine. My hands shape the clay moulding Our wounded past, emerging on the light on stones. Wait for me to lie down on the grass, on the weeds On the boulder you rest your head upon.
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Biographical Note: Jack Stewart Jack was educated at the University of Alabama and Emory University. From 1992-95 he was a Brittain Fellow at The Georgia Institute of Technology. Jack’s work has appeared in Poetry, Image, The American Literary Review, The Dark Horse Review, The Southern Humanities Review, and other journals and anthologies, most recently in The Gettysburg Review. He lives in Coconut Creek, Florida
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Sisley, Snow at Veneux (Jack Stewart) Snow is much harder than haystacks, not symmetrical in the drifts pushed to the side of the road. If the cold increases, it will be tinged with blue. In the early morning or early evening, as the shadows deepen, the surface looks smudged with ashes. Sisley painted it so honestly, the shallow wheel ruts and footprints dabbed with mud, the bushes capped with snow on their shoulders as if they are waiting for a train. The roofs of the houses have been whitewashed, the trees are budding with white leaves. The couple strolling toward me are still too far away for me to tell if their cheeks and noses are red. His bare hands are in his pockets, and she wears the thin gloves of the middle class. Her skirt is blue, and the sky is lavender. In this late afternoon, the snow has melted enough that the road is soft, and he occasionally takes her by the elbow and guides her around a puddle while their breaths embrace. The snow fell heavily this morning, but now the air is clear. They do not talk much. Her shawl is warm enough. The snow absorbs the setting sun, and the ground will soon begin to stiffen with patches of ice. She wants to see through falling snow again, its lace veil,
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a shower of rice coming down around her, the warmth of an arm around her waist in a silence that could hold anything, a lavender sky.
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There Is a Word in German (Jack Stewart) There is a word in German, Waldeinsamkeit, that means the feeling of being alone in the woods; and in Swedish, Müngata, the road-like reflection of moonlight on water. Those are things you can build a culture on. I won’t try to compete. I might offer a gasp. Not the word itself, which is fairly ugly, but the sharp intake of breath that is both noun and verb and likes to be left alone. Or the slower half breath only the speaker and maybe one other person notice, that means even though the snow has fallen so fast it covers even the largest stones, the sky really can be that blue.
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The Vatican Collection (Jack Stewart) Pale women collapse onto rocks or couches or into the arms of men. Blood spreads like crimson shadows under the feet of muscular gods. Crowns of jeweled leaves tilt in foregrounds. Books are open on desks or tucked under arms. Bowls of fruit. A pheasant as textured as a tapestry. A slab of fish, the light on a knife flashing brighter than crystal. Dark ringlets frame frank eyes and fall over bare shoulders. From room to room, inspiration and understanding— that, while God may be everywhere, Jesus, hanging like a bright pelt in the sky, or kneeling staring up at a mist of light, alone as he was meant to be, is not.
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Whom Are We Kidding? (Jack Stewart) It is the pillow that says he is dead. He is holding a flower in his hands the way my brother held the arrow flat against his chest when he rolled down the sand dune and then made it spring up straight when he stopped on his back. The flower will be removed when they close the casket. We would prefer wild grasses blowing round him like fringe, sand glazing the soles of his feet, scratches from sea oats on his ankles just below where he rolled up his pants— not the pastel blue satin of this pillow that would not change shape even if he turned his head.
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Biographical Note: Natasha Helen Crudden
Natasha is an Irish punk-poet, guitarist, photographer and author of poetry collections Barbed-Wire Cage and Detonation Day, and action-adventure novel Empire Evolution. She has performed on various platforms, including Electric Picnic 2015 and 2016, and is a regular performer and literary, arts, and open mic nights throughout Ireland. Natasha’s work has been published in various anthologies, including Cavan Writers Forum’s publications Babble and Drumlin Hearths, The Bogman’s Cannon, and Flarepublications. She is currently working on a second poetry collection, Ctrl/Alt/Delete, and a second novel, The Katzenjammer Chronicles.
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On The Third Day… by Natasha Helen Crudden People like us were never meant for times like these. Yet here we are, at the end of all things. The outside world would have us all be friends. But the outside world is but a half-whispered memory. It is the past. We are the present. There is no future. The explosion turned everything on its head. In the wilds of the borderlands, vital instincts kick in sooner than anticipated. Yesterday, we lived. Today, we survive. Out of the silence, Johnny Carmichael, Jimmy Carmichael’s twelve-year old, pipes up. “Da, d’ya know what they’re like, the Rep”- “Don’t mention that word to me, boy!” roars the father, his countenance pucing over. Johnny inclines his head. “Sorry Da. I was just going to say they reminded me of something I read about in books. It’s like hunting the vampires, isn’t it?” The assembly hushes. “Johnny, son”, Jimmy chokes, “did you say vampires?” “Aye, Dad.” The blood siphons from Jimmy’s chalky visage as he faces us. “I knew there was something about them bloody flag-wavers didn’t I, Jack?” mutters Mickey Casey, a purveyor of fireworks pushing for forty. “Arr”, Jack growls his agreement. Reality makes no allowance for discrepancies of judgement like this. Vampires are no more real than banshees or werewolves. But this is not the real world. In this post-apocalyptic jumble of barbed mesh and concrete bricks, reality is dead. Bravado unrolls the navy flags of twilight below the shades of our cabin off the road’s edge. The aura cracks as the door crashes open. “Lads”, pants Ben, “it’s the v-v-vamp…” He falters. “It’s them! They’ve come for us! They’re in the woods right now!” “Dammit!” chunters Jack. “I can’t find the guns!” “Leave the guns!” Jimmy interjects. “Grab some of Mickey’s bangers. We’ve no time to be at that kind of messing. Johnny, you stay here, d’ya hear me?” We rush from the cabin and face out into the night. Campfires stream amber through the trees’ ebony skeletons. We must strike without hesitation. Cowardice must not overcome. “Hey! There’s one of them now!” CRACK! A shot shatters the gunmetal sky. “What the hell do we do?” pants Jimmy. Mickey unzips his backpack, no deliberation, but sends his quarry soaring over the hill. BOOM. The bloodsuckers flee, their coven broken into a colony of scurrying ants. “Quick Ben, send the young lad after them”, he bursts out. “Send him after them with a notehere, Jack, get me a pen and paper.” Mickey’s eyes glint as he scribbles. “We’re going to invite the bloodsuckers for a rematch. Tomorrow. Noon. We’re going to finish them off.” The boy is fetched and briefed. He is charged with delivering the missive by taping it to one of the bloodsuckers’ backpacks. Once the task is relayed, he is dismissed. Twenty minutes propel the clock to ten-fifteen, and Johnny trips through the cabin door. “Did you do it, son?” blusters Jimmy, launching himself upon the boy. Johnny nods. “I did, Da.” Mickey grits his teeth in an almost-grin. “Well done, Johnny.” “One way or another, lads, we’ll have our battle, mark me.” Monday- for surely it must be Monday – dawns with the sickening lurch that accompanies dread and loathing. “Hey!” Johnny yelps, racing through the cabin door, a scrappy note extended from his hand. Soundlessly, Mickey leaps to his feet and seizes the page. A maniacal gleam splinters his eye as the roughly scrawled words take effect. 26
“Boys”, he bursts, “we’ve got them.” Noon approaches with the chuck-chuck-chuck of the ticking-over bomb as through the trees, we march to meet the world’s end. *** If ever there was a place to call home at the end of it all, it would be here, where alone, we are safe. The explosion, and the infection, the effects of yesterday, forced necessity into play. Left behind in the exclusion zone, we are the forgotten people. We have two choices- begin afresh as we are, or rejoin civilisation across the barricades. Either way, the infection must be eradicated, and the infected must be destroyed. In these dark times, our threefold banner must be our talisman, as well as our guiding light. Through the rubble, we will emerge whole again. “Here’s the drill, lads”, announced Tommy, eyes flitting back and forth, “we need to know what we’re up against. So tonight, we hike up to their camp up at the border and suss them out.” We pack up: pistols, bullets, matches, torches, flasks of lukewarm tea spiked with Jameson and blankets. It’s going to be a long night. The border is in our sights within the hour. “My guess is that they’re hiding out in that fireworks container”- Tommy nods to a shabby cabin off the roadside- “so we need to be careful. Sneak up on them from the forest and get them surrounded and remove their advantage.” Base camp is planted at the foot of the hill. Matches crack and in minutes the perfume of campfire smoke wafts upon the breeze. Fiery shadows scale the tree trunks. A stick breaks. I jump to my feet, as do half-a-dozen of my comrades. “There’s one of them now”, Tommy barely breathes. “Looks like we’re the sitting ducks after all.” Battle stations. The undead horrors flood down the hill, closing us in. We run, but we are too late. In the confusion, Tommy yells something, but it is lost in the static. A gunshot resounds in the thicket. Whoosh. BOOM. “GET DOWN!” bellows Pat, his hoarse roar drowning in the din. Pull back, lads. This is a fight we are not going to win. “They had a few tricks up their sleeves, didn’t they?” pants Eddie, as we chase the border road home. Tommy doesn’t speak. Distantly, Gina’s gentle tones envelop my memory, and I succumb. “As long as you’re one of them, Jacob, we can’t be together. I have a baby on the way, and we’ve got to think of her.” Shaking my head, I can no longer replay this scene. Not now. What’s done is done. “Lads!” Pat howls. I jolt and snap to face him. He waves aloft a scrap of paper. “This was stuck onto Eddie’s backpack!” Tommy seizes the communication from Pat’s hammy fist. “We’re to meet them tomorrow, at noon, in the woods.” From the page he tears a strip and scrawls on the paper. “Tommy”, I interject as he scribbles, “what do we do now?” Tommy flings his eyes heavenward. “We pray, Jacob. We pray.” I never thought I could stand to see my end arrive, but I’m ready. Uncertainty is all but certain. Gina is all but alive. We are all but together. We are all but a family. These are not truths. The truth is I am alone. We know what we face. No words will change that now. Words will go on, outlasting the ages. But we are flesh and blood, as triflingly brief as the flickering flame. We were never meant to survive this. We were only meant to fight. It’s time. Side-by-side, we walk from the clearing into the land beyond. 27
In the early hours of Monday afternoon, two paramilitary gangs were arrested along the border on the Butlersbridge to Clones road following a foiled plotted combat. This was a result of a seven-strong local wing of loyalists calling the eight-man squad of republican terrorists out to fight. The attack was in retaliation for an explosion both sides blamed the other for, which occurred in the early hours of Sunday morning at the site of Monday’s attack. The road had been closed for repair at the time, as had the road between Cloverhill and Ballyhaise: the site of republican hideout. Neither group were aware of the road closures, and the view from both sides was that not only had the explosion caused an annihilation of human life, but that the other side were supernatural beings: the loyalists concluding that the republican side was comprised of vampires; the republicans that the loyalist gang were reanimated corpses carrying a virus as a result of a microbiological infection from the explosion, and they had been left behind in the exclusion zone. In an interesting turn of events, the ‘explosion’ of Sunday morning was revealed to be a firework flung into the woods where both squads were patrolling by passing youths. Police from both sides of the border intervened before any violence could break out, and in the raid a box of Semtex plastic explosive was seized, in addition to six semi-automatic pistols, five shotguns and two boxes of home-made petrol bombs, all of which have been safely disposed of. Fifteen arrests have been made and the offenders have been taken into custody, charged with possession of illegal weapons, criminal damage and acts of terrorism.
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Biographical Note: Faleesha Hassan She is a poet, teacher, editor, writer born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. And she is the first woman who wrote poetry for children in Iraq. She is leading poetic feminist movement in the holy city of Najaf She got a master's degree in Arabic literature, and published sixteen collections of poetry in Arabic: Being a Girl, and a visit to the Museum of the shadows, five titles for my sea-friendly, although the later poems to the mother, Gardenia perfume, and a collection of poems for children, The Guardian dreams. It includes its Arabic prose Hazinia or lack of joy cells and freckles water (short story). ........Etc Translated poems to (English, Turkmen, Bosevih, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain and Albania) and has received awards from the linguists and translators Arab Society (AWB) and the Festival of creativity Najafi for 2012, as well as Naziq God Award angels, Al Mu'tamar Prize for Poetry, and the award short story of the martyr mihrab and institution. It is on the boards of Baniqya member, quarterly in Najaf. Rivers Echo (Echo Mesopotamia); Iraqis in Najaf and writers association. Iraqi Union and is a member of the literary women, and Sinonu (ie Swift) Association in Denmark, the Society of Poets beyond borders, and poets of the global community. Her poems and her stories published in different American magazines Such as : (Philadelphia poets 22), (Harbinger Asylum ), (Brooklyn Rail april2016), (Screaminmamas),(The Galway Review), (Words without Borders), (TXTOBJX),( intranslation) ,( SJ .magazine), (nondoc) , ( Wordgathering) ,( SCARLET LEAF REVIEW) ,( Courier-Post) ,( I am not a silent poet), ( taosjournal), (Inner Child Press),( Press of Atlantic City),
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Black Iraqi Woman (Faleesha Hassan) Shortly before my father died, he whispered to me longingly: “Daughter, treasure this, because it authenticates your heritage to our kinsfolk!” When I accepted this object, I discovered it was a stone with inscriptions I did not understand and delicate, mysterious lines. He continued, “It is a keepsake from our great-great grandfather and can ultimately be traced back to Bilal, the Holy Prophet’s first muezzin, and his father, who was the king of Ethiopia.” I accepted this small heirloom, which I carried everywhere with me in my handbag. The person who shared my life under the title of “husband,” however, threw it down the drain at our house, thinking—as he told me—that it was a fetish. From then till now I have endured successive exiles. So I wrote this poem to explain the secret of my skin color—given that I am a native of al-Najaf, Iraq—spiritually, mournfully, and poetically!
My father said: “You were born quite unexpectedly, Remote from Aksum, like a beauty spot for al-Najaf—‘the Virgin’s Cheek.’ Your one obsession has been writing, but The sea will run dry before you arrive at the meaning of meaning.” He affirmed: “During a pressing famine, I devoted myself to watching over every breath you took. I would thrust my hand through the film of hope To caress your spirit with bread. You would burp, and I would delightedly endure my hunger and fall asleep. I could only find the strength to fib to your face and say I was happy. I would feel devastated when you fidgeted, Because you would always head toward me, And I felt helpless.” Aksum! They say you’re far away! “No, it’s closer to you than your exile.” “And now?” “Don’t talk about ‘now’ while we’re living it.” 30
“The future depresses me. How can I proceed?” How can the ear be deaf to the wailing from the streets? Aksum, you have colored my skin. Al-Najaf has freshened my spirit. She knows and does the opposite. She knows that I inter only dirt above me, and That I deny everything except spelling out words: M: Mother, who went walking down the alley of no return. F: Father, who hastened after her. B: Brother, who never earned that title. S: Sister who buttoned her breast to a loving tear, no matter how fake. ………………….There’s no one I care about! The trees tremble some times, and we don’t ask why. My life surrounds me the way prison walls surround suspects; I am the victim of a building erected by a frightened man. With its talons time scratches its tales on me, And I transform them into a silent song Or, occasionally, a psalm of sobs. Father, do you believe that--the roots have been torn asunder? Fantasies began to carry me from al-Najaf to Afyon And from Afyon to nonexistence, Yellow teeth stretching all the way. “History’s not anything you’ve made,” One American neighbor tells another. He’s surprised to see me. “Who are you?” he asks when he doesn’t believe his eyes. Would he understand the truth of my origin if I told him I was born in al-Najaf Or that Aksum has veiled my face? 31
I have walked and walked and walked. I’m exhausted, Father. Is your child mine? Show yourself and return me to the purity of your loins. Allow me to occupy the seventh vertebra of fantasy! Don’t eject me into a time I don’t fit. I need you. I ask you: Has my Lord forbidden me to be happy? Am I forbidden to preserve What I have left And sit some warm evening Averting my ear from a voice that doesn’t interest me? Answer me, Father! Or change the face of our garden So it changes . . . .to what they believe! By Faleeha Hassan Translated by William Hutchins
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The Futility of Protesting Near Bustling Cemeteries (For the Most Important Person in My Life, My Son Ahmad) By Faleeha Hassan Preamble: Take my spirit for your shirt And use my heart’s arteries for shoelaces. Poem My spirit patched with raw dreams, My soft body blemished by war’s scars, My heart crushed and crunched like Leaves under foot— These are the sole signs of my existence In a room that awaits a hurricane That dreams of unleashing its gales. My son, Let me say tonight, Objectively, That I can’t do anything more. What happens, Happens all the time. What doesn’t happen, Never happens, But we always paint a comely face On life’s hideous visage. Translated by William M. Hutchins
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Prayer Faleeha Hassan I beg You, God, Help us: We who are children just turned forty, We who still don’t know how to shake the gooey skin from our pithy words. We haven’t wandered aimlessly with a dog Merely Because our grandfathers’ bones have been filling the cemeteries that our streets demand. We haven’t drunk coffee, Because the noise of their artillery really didn’t allow us to sleep. Please, God, When you are nigh, we shouldn’t dream of sheltering under blankets; We want to see no matter what You have in mind for us I beg You! Don’t make matters go from bad to worse! We're still kids-Forever. _______ Translated by William Hutchins
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Lipstick (Faleeha Hassan) A Babylonian once told me: When my name bores me, I throw it in the river And return renewed! ****** *Basra existed Even before al-Sayyab* viewed its streets Bathed in poetry As verdant as A poet’s heart when her Prince pauses trustfully to sing While sublime maidens dance-Brown like mud in the orchards Soft like mud in the orchards Scented with henna like mud in the orchards— And a poem punctuates each of their pirouettes as They walk straight to the river. I’ve discovered no place in the city broader than Five Mile. He declared: I used to visit there night and day, When sun and moon were locked in intimate embrace. Then they quarreled. The Gulf’s water was sweet, Each ship would unload its cargo, And crew members enjoyed a bite of an apple 35
And some honey. The women were radiant; So men’s necks swiveled each time ladies’ shadows Moved beneath the palms’ fronds. These women needed no adornment; By Faleeha Hassan Translated by William Hutchins …………………………………………………………….. * Basra, also written Basrah is the capital of Basra Governorate, located on the Shatt al-Arab river in southern Iraq between Kuwait and Iran. It had an estimated population of 1.5 million of 2012. Basra is also Iraq's main port, although it does not have deep water access, which is handled at the port of Umm Qasr. The city is part of the historic location of Sumer, the home of Sinbad the Sailor, and a proposed location of the Garden of Eden. It played an important role in early Islamic history and was built in 636 AD or 14 AH. It is Iraq's second largest and most populous city after Baghdad. Basra is consistently one of the hottest cities on the planet, with summer temperatures regularly exceeding 50 °C (122 °F) * Badr Shakir al Sayyab (December 24, 1926 – 1964) was an Iraqi and Arab poet. Born in Jekor, a town south of Basra in Iraq, he was the eldest child of a date grower and shepherd. He graduated from the Higher teachers training college of Baghdad in 1948 Badr Shakir was dismissed from his teaching post for being a member of the Iraqi Communist Party. Badr Shakir al-Sayyab was one of the greatest poets in Arabic literature, whose experiments helped to change the course of modern Arabic poetry. At the end of the 1940s he launched, with Nazik al-Mala'ika,and shortly followed by ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Shathel Taqa, the free verse movement and gave it credibility with the many fine poems he published in the fifties. These included the famous "Rain Song," which was instrumental in drawing attention to the use of myth in poetry. He revolutionized all the elements of the poem and wrote highly involved political and social poetry, along with many personal poems.
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Remembering
I remember I was born there, Near a lingering dream, When my mother, alone with her passion, (I ‘m alone still, an orphan ) Arranged her dreams in boxes called “us" And then returned the next morning to Press her eyes to shed kohl, While she slept, we lay as naked as a freshly washed tunic Inhaling alienation as we dried.
..................................
Faleeha Hassan
by
Translated by William M. Hutchins
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The Wagon by Faleeha Hassan So Like a man inured to failure, We climbed aboard the wagon, And The driver, only the driver, Began to listen as the cadence of our deprivation —Thud. . .. Clunk. . . and so on-Infiltrated the wagon’s pores, Starting with that first dirt road. Our lives’ parasols disappointed us When we shared sorrows Without fancy titles, while Reaping lethargy and frustration. It wasn’t only the driver, or The horse, or Our heads That looked meager; The wagon’s outlook did too.
Translated by William M. Hutchins
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Biographical Note: Karen Pettersen
KAREN PETERSEN, adventurer, photojournalist and writer, has traveled the world extensively, publishing both nationally and internationally in a variety of publications. Most recently, she was published in The Malpais Review in the USA and Antiphon in the UK. In 2015, she read "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" at the Yeats Festival in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She is currently at work on Four Points on a Compass, a collection of her poems from overseas. She holds a B.A. in Philosophy and Classics from Vassar College and an M.S. from Columbia University's Graduate School of Journalism.
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In Memory of W.B. Yeats (Karen Pettersen) I see the sorrows on your haunted face never knowing what they have brought for you But the time has come, a kind of race to put life, not death in its place and live out your days, one by one not with a measured gaiety but with passion as your pace. I see your reticence, the studied gaze of one who’s lived with emotions closely held for whom neither love nor hate could really faze– yet there in your eyes behind it all, behind your gentle sigh, a call a plea for forgiveness, for escape from those terrible long nights and days. So live the living, and leave the dying to the dead love to love and be loved, raise your bowed head for there are those who see you thus and dare a smile to cross your soul.
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Biographical Note: Daginne Aignend
Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music, photography and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne started to write English poetry five years ago and posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her website. She has been published in some online Poetry Review Magazines with a pending publication at the Contemporary Poet's Group anthology 'Dandelion in a Vase of Roses'.
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Farewell (Daginne Aignend)
'Life is not what I dreamed of My aims were not sky-high I just wanted to sing perhaps have my own Youtube Channel I wanted to live with my family in peace So sorry, that I hurt you but I can't' His last words, scribbled on a small piece of paper Severe harassment at school Throbbing, mobbing until his last nerve broke and disconnected the brain No impulse to the heart No breath No nothing ...
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Biographical Note: Gareth Writer Davies Gareth Writer-Davies Commended in the Prole Laureate Competition in 2015, Specially Commended in the Welsh Poetry Competition and Highly Commended in the Sherborne Open Poetry Competition. Shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Erbacce Prize in 2014. His first collection Bodies was published by Indigo Press and his second Cry Baby will be published this year: http://www.indigodreams.co.uk/garethwriter-davies/4587920255 https://goo.gl/images/NYdPL4
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KUROSAWA Tretwr Court, Wales (Gareth Writer Davies) The fortified house is built around a square With sloping rooves and a balcony tied into the eaves Rain drips from the rooves And in the courtyard, the tethered horses steam I am here to admire the medieval hall of dragons And through the hatched windows The ruined castle is picturesque, as on cue blue sky Appears over Bwlch But my mind, is occupied by samurai The long death of Toshiro Mifune, in a cloud-burst of arrows I should be thinking of Welsh princes And the thousand year struggle with the bloody English Maybe, I lack hiraeth And find it easier to side with a rising sun The rain returns The scene fades to black and white And as the horses are unleashed I hear a small voice call "action" Ready to die, a hundred samurai ride out Banners unfurled, swords sharpened, breathing fire
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DROWNING (Gareth Writer Davies) Death by water Is usually accident or misjudgement or freak wave Enforced Like the decency of the regimental gun Or the judgement of hemlock A slow business Loading your pockets with rocks, folding underwear Upon a lonely beach Not for the impulsive But a thoughtful weighing of odds, before meeting God Three times A drowning man comes up for air Three times He sends himself under The walkers on the beach Wave, call As if from this deed of de-creation (the return to the salty solution of water) Something could be made Like a diplomat between this world and the next And a current that could take one anywhere Three times A drowning man comes up for air And there is a stern, undramatic dignity in that
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Biographical Note: Amy Barry Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media, hotel and oil & gas industries. Her work has been published in anthologies, journals and ezines, in Ireland and abroad including in Southword Journal, First Cut, Poetry 24, Red Fez, Misty Mountain, A New Ulster. She loves traveling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, Falkerberg- have all inspired her work. When not inspired to write she plays Table Tennis. She also loves Sushi and Trampoline Jumping.
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Semblance (Amy Barry)
What I want is to hear my heart beat like lusty fire and see my fingers reach out to touch your breath. What I want is to embrace you, And my feverish lips to kiss you with urgency like the desire of a storm. What I want is to make love to you And be lost in this chaos of romancewhere beauty and passion erupts like the rising sun.
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Biographical Note: Rachel Stanley
Rachael Stanley has published poetry in Ireland and overseas. Her work has been published in Static Poetry volumes II and III, Everyday Poets, Wednesday Haiku at Issa’s Untidy Hut, Riposte, The First Cut, News Four and A New Ulster.
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Cat and Mouse (Rachel Stanley) When death comes knocking on my door she will ask me if I’m ready and perhaps I’ll tell her to go away or I may say,yes I am ready for oblivion. She might chuckle to herself, ha ha, she is going to be in for such a surprise when she discovers I’m only a phantom, just an ending of a one act play. She might be careful not to let me overhear her, she could say, no point making her over familiar with me while she is still alive with this thing called life coursing through her veins. Perhaps I should pull the plug on her, take her by surprise, not give her any time to think, not give her time to welcome me or give her time to die before she dies, to become a pure vessel for emptiness.
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Tell Tale (Rachel Stanley) From east to west fireworks light the sky, from Hong Kong, to London to New York, everyone in a frenzy of celebration longing for renewal. Resolutions arising like morning sunlight and fading in the dusk with the setting sun. All night long corks are popping as fake paradise takes hold numbing the sharp edges before the harsh cold bite of morning light. New Year’s day in its ghostly silence tells its own story, strips away the façade of the night before and stands before us like an accusation.
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Cohen (Rachel Stanley) White horses glide across the sands In the ballroom, a Middle Eastern melody plays And I dance with you on the ocean And we sing to the stars. I watch you as a young man Glide across the floor And I listen to your seductive voice Sing ‘Dance Me to The End of Love’. Farewell poet and musician May you dissolve into the flame Of eternal love, into never ending bliss.
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February Morning (Rachel Stanley) At first you took me by surprise, Mimosa tree and then you pulled me like a magnet across the chilly February street to stand in wonder before I captured you on camera so that in days to come a shaft of memory would bring me back once more to the great surprise of you with your vivid yellow flowers and soothing green leaves lighting up the morning and enhancing the granite grey wall beneath an expansive azure cloak, a riot rich in colour. yellow, green, grey, and blue fulfilling the promise of spring.
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Biographical Note: Mari Maxwell
Mari is thrilled to be reading at the International Women's Day readathon in collaboration with Women Aloud Northern Ireland at the Irish Writers Centre on March 11, 2017. Mari’s work has appeared online and in print in Ireland, UK, USA and Brazil. She placed second in poetry in the 2015 Dromineer Literary Festival; and second in flash fiction in the 2008 Dromineer Literary Festival.
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Hide and Seek by Mari Maxwell Stretch you out naked. Writhe. Bide. Call yourself a ride? Goosebumps and hair follicles rising. Yes. Pores sinking, cavernous. Yes. Yes. Pools of sweat. Yes. Yes. And Yes! Tangy. Bitter. Caustic. Crank those chains and wheels Turn. Turn. Turning. Slating into place, pins and crank embrace. Disengage. Repeat. Joints pop, snap, crunch. Will you plead or squirm? Jitterbug – Hyperventilate Crocodile tears? I want to rock your psychopathic world. Let’s play. My game. My rules. And I am saying no. No. NO. Can’t hear you. Nah-nah nah-nah nah-nah. Coming, ready or not.
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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill Peter O' Neill ( 1967 ) was born in Cork and lived in France for the majority of the nineties, an engagement which persists through the French language, mainly by his works of transversion and translation with poets such as Baudelaire, Mallarmé and Rimbaud. He is the author of six published full length collections of poetry: The Dark Pool and Divertimento the Muse is a Dominatrix both published by mgv2>publishing, in France: The Elm Tree, The Enemy – Transversions from Charles Baudelaire and Sker published by Lapwing in Belfast. Kilmog Press in New Zealand brought out Dublin Gothic in a limited hand-bound edition of 40 copies, in 2015. His academic background is in philosophy ( BA) and comparative literature ( MA), he studied both disciplines at Dublin City University. In 2015, with his publisher in France, the poet Walter Ruhlmann, he edited And Agamemnon Dead, an anthology of early 21st century Irish poetry. The anthology was launched at Donkey Shots, Skerries First International Avant Garde Poetry Festival in 2015. The majority of contributing poets read, including many poet- editors representing a wealth of independent poetry publishers in the Republic of Ireland. Including, Arthur Broomfield Outburst, Paul Casey Ó Bhéal, Christine Murray Poethead, Peadar O' Donoghue The Poetry Bus, and Colm Kearns The Runt. From this event sprang The Gladstone Readings, which he organised as an event for local poets to meet once a month alongside more established and internationally known writers and poets. In 2016, Fingal Arts made him the Writer in Residence at the Boathouse in Loughshinny. There he wrote mare nostrum published in parts in Levure Littéraire and A New Ulster. This book is concerned with the existence of an ancient Roman trading post at Drumanagh Promontory in the first century AD. 2017 sees the publication of his seventh book More Micks than Dicks, a hybrid Beckettian novella in three genres by Famous Seamus in the UK.
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XXXIX. – The Exquisite Cadaver Transversion from the poem by Baudelaire
(Peter O’Neill) Remember the ideal object which you discovered That beautiful summer morning, Dear soul: By way of the path where you found that exquisite Cadaver lying on a bed of pebbles, Her legs in the air, like some old tart, Burning and stewing in poisons, Her belly slit, almost nonchantly, Pouring forth all manner of noxious gasses. The sun burns down on the decomposing Body, as if searing a steak, Rendering back a hundred- fold to Mother Nature, What she herself had first conjoined. And the sky looks upon the superb carcass As it would upon a flower of Evil, The rigor mortis encroaching to such a point That the very earth around it has been scorched. Great Blue Bottles swarm in convoys, BuZZing out of the gaping cave, Cyclopean... While a treacle of feasting larvae thickly drip, Making of the stain a macabre Persian carpet. The process of decomposition rose before me, Falling in waves, and which I perceived in a kind of Pointillism, so that, wave-borne, The corpse seemed to come alive and multiply before me! This alternate universe was announced in atonal chords, And hit me with all the fever of a jungle humidity, Or, like the sporadic grains, scattered by a winnower, Whose rhythmic movements spun me in a dervish. The effaced shapes and forms were as if but a dream From a preliminary sketch, slow to arrive, 56
And which the artist, not being able to rely on memory, Had then to resort to the magnetism of specific photographs. Behind the rocks an unnerved dog Looked at us both with a ravenous eye, Trying to deduce the auspicious minute When he could rip apart some rotting flesh from the bones. -
And yet, You now would appear to be not so dissimilar to this horror, This putrid infection, At one time Star de mes yeux, You my one time, all consuming passion!
Yes! After the last rites have long ago been pronounced upon us, O You, my once graceful Queen, When will you now, in your own time, Wallow with these bones upon the grass? So, my great Beauty! Whisper then to the vermin How you will cherish their kisses, While I guard for eternity this sublime image, Of all of our decomposing Love.
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Lambay (Peter O’Neill) great fan of light brushing over the thin film of water scene from out of the Apocalypse the illuminated manuscripts as done by the monks the dead giant of a figure the fingers of the peninsulas
the aqueous luminance your spirit 58
fire and in one deft stroke the beast is expulsed
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Ardgillan Sequence
1. Rebecca she runs upon the open green the Black Hills as a back drop with a field of crows for company as she chases them all six years of her pell-mell under the sun the burst of wings takes flight
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2. Oak Leaves the small green palms of the outspread hands float above you the branches upright moor the vessels upon the blue craft of the sky
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3. Lichtung the slender trunks in legions are elephant above the spiralling cymbal the sun crashes through the top-most branches flooding the floor of the forest in a riot of shapes and shadow there all manner of stories
and tales are born
to animate future generations
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4. The Citadel from the verdant tower of the top-most dwelling the polyphony of the chirps warbles and chatter sing the sky dwellers in winged symphony offer air-ward the news that the petals and leaves are fall
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If you fancy submitting something but haven’t done so yet, or if you would like to send us some further examples of your work, here are our submission guidelines: SUBMISSIONS NB – All artwork must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not be published, and anyone found to be in breach of this will be reported to the police. Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Please include your name, contact details, and a short biography. You are welcome to include a photograph of yourself – this may be in colour or black and white. We cannot be responsible for the loss of or damage to any material that is sent to us, so please send copies as opposed to originals. Images may be resized in order to fit “On the Wall”. This is purely for practicality. E-mail all submissions to: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to “A New Ulster” (name of writer/artist here); or for younger contributors: “Letters to the Alley Cats” (name of contributor/parent or guardian here). Letters, reviews and other communications such as Tweets will be published in “Round the Back”. Please note that submissions may be edited. All copyright remains with the original author/artist, and no infringement is intended. These guidelines make sorting through all of our submissions a much simpler task, allowing us to spend more of our time working on getting each new edition out!
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March 2017’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
March is International Women’s Day and Women Aloud NI. Where does the time fly? It seems like it was only last week when we were busy making the January issue meow!!. Well, that’s just about it from us for this edition everyone. Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.
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We continue to provide a platform for poets and artists around the world we want to offer our thanks to the following for their financial support Richard Halperin, John Grady, P.W. Bridgman, Bridie Breen, John Byrne, Arthur Broomfield, Silva Merjanin, Orla McAlinden, Michael Whelan, Sharon Donnell, Damien Smyth, Arthur Harrier, Maire Morrissey Cummins, Alistair Graham, Strider Marcus Jones Our anthologies https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_present_voices_for_peace https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_poetry_anthology_-april
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Sixty Northern Irish Women Who Write
1. Belfast Girls (Gerry McCullough) 2. The Butterfly Cabinet (Bernie Mcgill) 3. The Faerie Thorn and Other Stories (Jane Talbot) 4. Inish Carraig (Jo Zebedee) 5. Selected Poems (Moyra Donaldson) 6. Malcolm Orange Disappears (Jan Carson) 7. The Bones of It (Kelly Creighton) 8. Still Dreaming (Ellie Rose Mckee) 9. Death & Co. (D.J. McCune) 10.Liza’s Avenger (Erin Burnett) 11.All of Us There (Polly Devlin) 12.Trapeze (Lynne Edgar) 13.Contemporary Problems Nos. 53 & 54 (Rosemary Jenkinson) 14.Eden Burning (Deirdre Quiery) 15.Widows’ Row (Shirley-Anne McMillan) 16.Mary Blachford Tighy: The Irish Psyche (Averill Buchanan) 17.Rise of the Darkwitch (Ziv Gray) 18.The Godforsaken Daughter (Christina McKenna) 19.The Glass Shore: Short Stories by Women Writers from the North of Ireland (Ed. Sinead Gleeson) 20.The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir (Lesley Allen) 21.An Unbidden Visitor (Dianne Ascroft) 22.Pony Palace Camp (Pauline Burgess) 23.Playing with Fire (Mary Larkin) 24.Milk Teeth: Poems (Julieann Campbell) 25.Midnight Solo (Deirdre Cartmill) 26.Solstice (J.S. Comiskey) 27.Rain Spill (Jenni Doherty) 28.Boom Chicka Boom: A Book of Stories and Rhymes to Share (Liz Weir) 29.The Lie of the Land (Elaine Gaston) 30.Contemporary Irish Traditional Narrative: The English Language Tradition (Clodagh Brennan Harvey) 31.Just Suppose (Maura Johnston) 32.Snugville Street: The Sun Reaps What the Rain Has Sown (Angeline King) 33.Where The Three Rivers Meet (Aine MacAodha) 34.Speaking Norn Iron As She Shud Be Spoke: A Guide To The Language Spoken In The North Of Ireland (Doreen McBride) 35.Large Mammals, Stick Insects and Other Social Misfits (Felicity McCall) 36.Martha’s Girls (Alrene Hughes) 67
37.Waltzing With the Earl (Catherine Tinley) 38.Living Inside the Revolution - An Irish woman in Cuba (Karen McCartney) 39.The Dangerous Edge of Things (Freya McClements) 40.Golddigger (Hilary McCollum) 41.Demon’s Daughter (Ashley McCook) 42.To Call Myself Beloved (Eina McHugh) 43.Tribe (Mary Montague) 44.Almost Dancing (Heather Newcombe) 45.Belfast Days: A 1972 Teenage Diary (Eimear O'Callaghan) 46.Taking Flight (Sheena Wilkinson) 47.The Lost (Claire McGowan) 48.A Limited Justice (Catriona King) 49.Dílis (Réaltán Ní Leannáin) 50.Edge of Heaven (R B Kelly) 51.Forest of Ancestors (K.A. Denver) 52.The Celtic Curse: Banshee (D.J. Doyle) 53.Fermanagh Folk Tales (Doreen McBride) 54.The Accidental Wife (Orla McAlinden) 55.Bohemian Tales (Dominique Hoffman) 56.A World of Our Own (Eileen McCallan) 57.The Blacksmith’s Wife (Anne Doughty) 58.Dancing in Puddles with the Cailleach (Jenny Methven) 59.The Last Fire (Helen Harrison) 60.Vinnie’s Wilderness (Janet Sheperson) This list features women from all over Northern Ireland, but is by no means exhaustive. It’s worth noting that many of the above have written other books too. Now, extrapolate the numbers up for every other country in the world. From Angélique Jamail to Jhumpa Lahiri, there’s simply no excuse to ignore the wealth of literary material that’s being produced by women! One project that’s aiming to highlight what Northern Irish women writers in particular bring to the reading table is Women Aloud. They’re running events from March 7th to March 11th 2017, so why not check one out? Find out more about Women Aloud: Facebook https://www.facebook.com/WomenAloudNI/ Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/list/show/97940.Women_Aloud_NI Website http://www.womenaloudni.com/
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LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES 978-1-909252-35-6 London A Poem in Ten Parts Daniel C. Bristow 978-1-909252-36-3 Clay x Niall McGrath 978-1-909252-37-0 Red Hill x Peter Branson 978-1-909252-38-7 Throats Full of Graves x Gillian Prew 978-1-909252-39-4 Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro 978-1-909252-40-0 A Long Way to Fall x Andy Humphrey 978-1-909252-41-7 words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne 978-1-909252-42-4 Red Roots - Orange Sky x Csilla Toldy 978-1-909252-43-1 At Last: No More Christmas in London x Bart Sonck 978-1-909252-44-8 Shreds of Pink Lace x Eliza Dear 978-1-909252-45-5 Valentines for Barbara 1943 - 2011 x J.C.Ireson 978-1-909252-46-2 The New Accord x Paul Laughlin 978-1-909252-47-9 Carrigoona Burns x Rosy Wilson 978-1-909252-48-6 The Beginnings of Trees x Geraldine Paine 978-1-909252-49-3 Landed x Will Daunt 978-1-909252-50-9 After August x Martin J. Byrne 978-1-909252-51-6 Of Dead Silences x Michael McAloran 978-1-909252-52-3 Cycles x Christine Murray 978-1-909252-53-0 Three Primes x Kelly Creighton 978-1-909252-54-7 Doji:A Blunder x Colin Dardis 978-1-909252-55-4 Echo Fields x Rose Moran RSM 978-1-909252-56-1 The Scattering Lawns x Margaret Galvin 978-1-909252-57-8 Sea Journey x Martin Egan 978-1-909252-58-5 A Famous Flower x Paul Wickham 978-1-909252-59-2 Adagios on Re – Adagios en Re x John Gohorry 978-1-909252-60-8 Remembered Bliss x Dom Sebastian Moore O.S.B 978-1-909252-61-5 Ightermurragh in the Rain x Gillian Somerville-Large 978-1-909252-62-2 Beethoven in Vienna x Michael O'Sullivan 978-1-909252-63-9 Jazz Time x Seán Street 978-1-909252-64-6 Bittersweet Seventeens x Rosie Johnston 978-1-909252-65-3 Small Stones for Bromley x Harry Owen 978-1-909252-66-0 The Elm Tree x Peter O'Neill 978-1-909252-67-7 The Naming of Things Against the Dark and The Lane x C.P. Stewart More can be found at https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/home All titles ￡10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format ￡5.00 for 4 titles. In PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.