ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Amy Barry, Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrรกn, Sera Csatt, Patrick Joseph Dorrian, Francis J Kelly, Kay Kinghammer, Fayroze Lutta, Maire Morrissey-Cummins, Ben Nardolilli, Walter Ruhlmann, Ian C Smith, Felino Soriano, Rachel Sutcliffe and many more. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 13 October 2013
A New Ulster On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Cover Image by Editorial
Amos Greig page 6
Amy Barry; Unexpected Encounter Tsunami Gloom Redolence of the Orator All for nothing The Silent Storm The Angels of Pigalle A ten year old Syrian Child
page 8 page 9 pages 10-11 page 12 page 13 page 14 page 15
Ahimsa Timoteo BodhrĂĄn; In the warm of the gallery space Nueva York/Lenapehoking: Triptych Fire (and Turquoise)
pages 17-18 page 19 page 20
Sera Csatt; Nail Salt Water On my Shoulder
page 22 page 23 page 24
Patrick Joseph Dorrian; The Modern Testament Leger de Main The Goldfish Bowl The Flag of Ulster
page 26 page 27 pages 28-29 page 30
Francis J Kelly; Discoveries and Distance And Whatâ€&#x;s New To-Day New House Unkown Secrets Kept Alive Who were hanged on that Gallows Hill?
pages 32-33 pages 34-35 page 36 pages 37-38 pages 39-40
Kay Kinghammer; For my sister Greif Gold is:
page 42 page 43 page 44
Fayrose Lutta; Let me clear my throat before I begin..
pages 46-48 2
Maire Morrissey-Cummins; Four Poems
Ben Nardolilli; Seven poems
Walter Rhulmann; Divine Bathroom Diving Precious Willy
page 63 page 64 pages 65-66
Ian C Smith; At the end of the day Poet as ageing narcissist The Pre-Tasmanians Unreconciled
pages 68-69 page 70 page 71 pages 72-73
Felino Soriano; Espials
Rachel Sutcliffe; Absence Clouds
page 79 page 80
Neil Ellman; Crystal Hearts of the Revolutionaries Purple Forbidden Enclosure
page 82 page 83 page 84
On The Wall Message from the Alleycats
John Jack Byrne; Johnâ€&#x;s work can be found
Maire Morrisey-Cummins; Maireâ€&#x;s work can be found
Round the Back Young writers section
Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 24 Tyndale Green, Belfast BT14 8HH Alternatively e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org See page 52 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/
Published in Baskerville Produced in Belfast, 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.
I would like to thank the Arts Council of Northern Ireland and the National Lottery for supporting my work as a poet, artist and editor through the SIAP scheme.
Editorial Happy October everyone! I have launched this issue on the third to coincide with National Poetry Day! This seemed to be the right choice as we launched on that day last year. This issue is something extra special: it is our first attempt at a truly interactive publication. Hidden in the pages of the online copy are links to audio files. These files were recorded by poets who are part of the wider ANU family. Indeed one of these audio files is a recording of a poem that features in this very issue. Of course, as with every technology there may be teething problems! We have poetry, hagia, artwork and also short stories this month. We here at ANU are always impressed by the quantity and quality of the work that we receive. We hope that we do it justice, and welcome feedback from our readers and contributors. Please feel free to leave us your thoughts on our Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/ANewUlster. It is with sad news when we heard about the passing of Tom Clancy at the age of 66. I admired his workmanship as well as the passion and drive that he had for multimedia platforms. Indeed Tom Clancy was one of the first pioneers of strong narratives in computer gaming setting up his own company Red Storm Entertainment back in 1996. Many of his novels, his world settings became computer games and his name is synonymous with certain franchises. I have made great use of social networking this week mostly to post about poets and writers who I saw as being an influence. My plan was to use this as the build up to the launch of this issue I hope that you enjoy exploring each page as much as we enjoyed editing them. Oh and here is the first audio file https://soundcloud.com/seaviewwarrenpoint/haiku-from-bamboo-dreams-by
Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity! Amos Greig
Biographical Note: Amy Barry Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the Media, Hotel and Oil & Gas industries. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Her poems have been read ans shared on the radio in Australia, Canada and Ireland. She loves traveling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work. When not inspired she plays Table Tennis.
Unexpected Encounter (Amy Barry)
She never sees it coming, a blue tit falls at her feet, she lifts it, holds in her hand, pats gently, a charming bird, affection unexpected, unthinkable, impact- a brief divine moment, soft eyes look into hers, time to leave, such a shame, it flies, fades away in autumnâ€&#x;s blue sky.
The tsunami gloom (Amy Barry)
Here and there on the stripped land, where once the flowers smiled, far and wide, green dark algaes and ripped up corals stand together. The dank odours, black earthy wet mud, waft across the thick dull night, faces wear mournful masks, like characters in a tragic opera, desperate to rekindle hope. I journey in the dark, wet cold air embraces my body, my ears burn, my blood rushes to the anguished cries of slow death, I feel trapped, almost dead.
Redolence of the Orator (Amy Barry)
He inhabits the air with energy and sensuality. Words vibrate, a great storyteller. His voice ignites like the scent of a storm. Some listen, their mouths gape wide, indelicately open. I wonder what it is like to sleep in the same bed, to hear each otherâ€&#x;s breathing, to inhale the scents of each other, to press my face beside his head, and keep it there forever. To ravish his intelligence, to violate his vulnerability. To tremble with unrestrained love, the fullness of a womanâ€&#x;s pleasure, as I've never had before. Watching him, I have no idea if this is madness. Fate can be magical, abstract, mysterious, left to chance.
His presence, a recorded impression of words, pounding on my poetic memory. I donâ€&#x;t know if he has a sweetheart, to ask would be pointless.
All for nothing (Amy Barry)
Laid out in a red wedding sari, her life frittered away as easily as scattered dust. Weeping like a child, he whispers her name over and over again. How do we justify this?
*A tribute to Savita _________________________
The Silent Storm (Amy Barry)
Feral hearts speak without words encumbrance, the same tenderness, the same yearnings. A mystifying power fills, huge, engulfing, a male presence, spine-tremors, vibrate her nerves, senses swell, senses explode. Clouds condense as stormy showers, frenzy dance, overlapping waves, echoes of joyous rainbow linger in her blood.
The Angels of Pigalle (Amy Barry) Men breathed out their names, untamed urges flared, uninhibited spirits, fervent masks melted into heady excitement, promises made in the sweat of the roaring night. A sniff of music and flesh. Fingers traced, inch by inch, hips, hands twirled and weaved, curled images that went unsaid, unasked, in a few fevered seconds of moaning and wettish release. The same bodies, ended in another. I stood still, listened to their voices, gentle, coaxing. Sometimes I heard them, like a childâ€&#x;s laugh, teasing and triumphant, crowning some moment of glory. My eyelids fluttered, suspended between sleep and wakefulness.
A ten-year old Syrian Child (Amy Barry)
Dust clouds swirl on pools of sticky blood. Bullets fly inches above her head. Muffled, strangled cries. Maggots on decomposed bodies, severed heads and limbs. Her fingers rake through bloodied bodies, her gaze darts frantically around. Her father‟s bootsPapa‟s dying breath, did he recite the Shahadah? Sounds of shelling, shootingfunnel in her ears, replay in her head. She doesn‟t have time to moan or whine about her fate. She has little choice.
Biographical Note: Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán is the author of Antes y después del Bronx: Lenapehoking and editor of an international queer Indigenous issue of Yellow Medicine Review: A Journal of Indigenous Literature, Art, and Thought. His work appears in Brand, Envoi, Iota, Markings, Other Poetry, Poetry Review, The Red Wheelbarrow, Revival, Sable, and The SHOp. Having completed a second manuscript, South Bronx Breathing Lessons, he is now finishing Yerbabuena/Mala yerba, All My Roots Need Rain: mixed-blood poetry & prose. *Please excuse the state of the above bio – we have gremlins. (Arizahn)
In the warm of the gallery space (Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrรกn)
I fail to see the beauty of brown skin on concrete.
this street you have kept warm. the store entrance you have made your home for the night.
Perhaps I am not an artist of the people, only someone too close to care.
misting between the tiles, we emerge from our joint shower, explore reassure with touch.
Cropped in, still stills,
one day disappear, not see you again.
right angles and tax refunds,
i visit the places in which i knew you, 17
so little to spare
hold your poems and letters for safe-keeping watch for your name in periodicals
if only a nickel and dime check the web from time to time, keep your memory alive.
could do it.
Nueva York/Lenapehoking: Triptych (Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrรกn)
Hunts Point, Mott Haven, and Soundview are not just the homes of dead rappers.
How many of us died here ; how many still in the service of whites?
human history II
Angels tell us: Ellis was not the only island.
Fire (and turquoise) Ahimsa Timoteo BodhrĂĄn People died for your eyes, and for the color of my skin. How can the color of sky be wrong? we were different once: hair, textured; features strong. still we reflect the shape of this land, slow features and round hills, ankles jutting out to form deep crevices from our panting. I box your hair into section, twist into dread. Fingertips and knuckles remind cheekbones: not all has vanished. I cradle your skull against my chest We werenâ€&#x;t always afraid of dying. You breathe. Perhaps there are still enough spirits waiting for our dance. What we burn, returns to us. I find you in the ash.
Biographical Note: Sera Csatt
Sera Csatt is an independent scholar specialising in pre-Christian esotericism and mystery cults, Sera has travelled extensively throughout Britain, Scandanavia and Ireland. She also enjoys cookery and equestrianism.
Nail (Sera Csatt)
The year began With crowded lines Of study; That on first perusal You assured us would dwindleTo three stalwarts, yourself and an old dog asleep by the door. Your first action on entry Was to hang the map: Written in German on the smooth wall. You always brought a hammer And half a dozen nails on the first day.
Salt Water (Sera Csatt)
Right now, if you are still standing, Then you are standing Between the worlds: Fever tethered in place By the aftermath of my responsibility. For three days you have hung Whilst we dose you, walk you, Lance you, bath with salt water and Bleed you â€“ ever trusting; Offering up your hoof For the hurt. Tomorrow, tomorrow, perhaps All will have healed. Perhaps not.
On my shoulder (Sera Csatt)
Every Sunday the same bus But a different dress for me. We came for lunch; Ham sandwiches and iced fingers With butter from the corner shop, It was all drowned with tea. You told your stories Of the big ships in the war, The posh members at the course, And your childhood tabby That never missed a rabbit. But best of all the story Of the wee man on your shoulder; The one you kept a corner, A crust, a drain of tea for. The unseen guardian That I have inherited somehow.
Biographical Note: Patrick Joseph Dorrian Patrick is Belfast born bred and buttered as McDowell would say. He retired from teaching in 2007 after 30 years struggling in west Belfast. Patrick is married to Frances and they have 3 offspring all adults now. He has dabbled with poetry for several decades as a means of escape and last year Patrick had a poem about Palestine published in a magazine in Europe, his first publication.
The Modern Testament (Joseph Patrick Dorrian)
In this modern era what have the children Of Abraham been up to? New Acts Of His apostles, new Messiahs come To save: new ways of being martyred. Should the first book be called "Pogrom"? A tidy word hiding a lot of pain In the sorting of the wheat from the chaff Perhaps the second should be called "Forced Exile": native peoples driven From ancient homelands; even today In the forests of the Amazon as much as in Palestine Drones, like Archangels, provide Pillars of Fire by night and Pillars of Smoke by day: Driving the distraught, the desperate from their homes: What then of Yahweh? He's suited And tied, clean shaven, speaking in tongues Broadcast to the narrow mindset Prepared to lie to save His world?
Leger de Main (Patrick J. Dorrian) Nothing is what it seems, it seems; A may be moved to C, you see because A does not appear to be close enough to bodily perfection. Good old hyperbolĂŠ, a little manipulation, an exaggeration of talent, accomplishments on a cv perhaps, it's perfectly natural to cheat to win. Can't see the mirrors for the smoke; the paper in my hand is not a contract but a list that keeps expanding and we, like parallel lines, stand aghast at each other. So nothing is as it seems. Stormont, sits expensively, like a Hollywood decolletage; proud but false, pointed but impotent, full (of promise) but unable to feed.
The Goldfish Bowl (Patrick J. Dorrian)
Living in Belfast, can at times, have all the depth of view of a goldfish in its bowl. It's the hills, of course, like green walls ( the cleaner fish, have stopped their grazing) rising before the horizon, not much changed in the last millenia. The present is transmitted in, true, but the green and blue filters, between them interfere, always diffracting the news, grating, translating, then viewed through the tribal lens.
But we have our toys, guns to play soldiers and dead folk. flags to wave, the colour distracts the tribal folk from thinking real thoughts, colourful parades with music to dance to. Purblinded thus, we see not the jobs exported abroad, the crumbling body politic; inept, loud shouters police the emigration lines.
Good news! Good news! the papers proclaim, talks about talking to set up talks about walking. 28
Such is the limit of our entertainment we have ourselves to laugh at, we elected this comedy of errors because we couldn't see outwith the bowl, the bubbles distract, the empty buildings, places to play in, the food is sprinkled on each day.
Oh, this is new, I've never been here before.
oh this is new. i've never been here before.
The Flag of Ulster (Patrick J. Dorrian)
They're a common sight, on streets, at stadia, on roads that may become arenas; some white with a red cross, the other, the red cross quarters yellow. In common they have O'Neill's lรกmh dhearg, or so the ancient myth declaims, the result of an act of bravery, to sever one's hand and win the race, by throwing that hand ahead to claim the land thus grasped.
But here's the rub, which severed hand was used? If it was the right, then the hero was sinister and if it was the left, he was certainly dexterous. Each flag, though, is correct depending from where one views . Viewed in monochrome from the back, the white, which is of the Orange, might be Green and the yellow, seen from reverse could well be Orange. Except, the white accepts its place beneath the Crown and Yellow claims not just six but nine. 30
Biographical Note: Francis J Kelly
Francis J. Kelly was born in Dungannon, County Tyrone, on the 2nd of April 1933. He received the gold medal for his primary school teacher training at St Patrickâ€&#x;s College Drumcondra and later studied Irish, English and Economics at University College Dublin where he met his wife Olive. He also studied for the HDip in University College Dublin and taught Latin and English at Saint Michaelâ€&#x;s College for over 30 years. He has written poetry all his adult life. In his poetry Francis draws on his own experience as a child of a large family in Dungannon, a proud Gaelgoir who also loves the wealth of the English language, and as a former teacher of Latin, English literature and the Classics. His poetry is peppered with Classical allusion but is grounded in the simple grace of the commonplace, moving seamlessly from the landscapes of lush Arcadia to the foothills of the Sperrins. His works are perhaps best understood as the reflections of a family man rejoicing in his many simple blessings. This small collection makes reference to his beloved Tyrone.
â€œDiscoveries and Distanceâ€? (Francis J. Kelly) Suddenly young again. Sitting idly on sandstone walls. Surrounded always by a sea of greenery. Rough hedges Everywhere. Bushes that determine and define who calls
This or that their own. This is ancient Tyrone And the Earls are gone. Blood runs deep Despite the unspoken years. We hold our own
Forever close within. All is almost well again And things forgiven cancel out the roar and shout Of festive days. Both sides in sun and rain
Love this land. Shared by Irish of by Planter, still Strong faith has forged fellowship and understanding Of the ways things were. The years mellow and distil
What devilry deformed the hearts of all; only now, Scarecrows of the past parade their ridiculous hate, But even their own pity the blindness and its row
With bygone buried bones; games, customs, trade 32
And even religious reach out. To-day, living Has educated and set free some things all made
In the generous heart; far-off the silent Sperrins Keep their secrets and stand ready to salute In the generations, old and new, whatever earns
The blessed flag of peace. Just now there are games To be played and innocent fun to be enjoyed; Man has invaded the moon. Everything seems the same.
“And What's New To-Day” (Francis J Kelly) I met him for the millionth time again, „And what‟s new to-day then, with you‟, He casually began, as if all the same
Old customs, habits and rituals had gone Far too stale. „Och, sure well you know, It's the same old come and go, dawn
Till sundown and the same again‟. No Word thrown in, but all delightfully astray, Enough to give the welcome, well-done to show
It was good to see and chat once more; Tyrone farmers in the forties were one In heart and soul, but there was always
That decent respect to leave politics and church Well to one side; instinct is a great thing And health and crops never did harm to any man
If well looked after. The love of neighbour 34
Was good, nobody left in the lurch, all ran Well before the lid came off in those late fifties
And then it was all behind the old stockades Of almost forgotten history; everything then began To emphasise identity, territory and incessant parades
To reincarnate old long lost buried things And on the other side the fretful tide flowed Back to ancient dead and warrior kings.
â€œNew Houseâ€? (Francis J Kelly)
The war was nearly ended when he came And built his house upon our hill, Then for a while his bright tricolour flew like flame Till local police removed it, only Sam and Bill Could fly a flag with pride, for apartheid Had hidden many other colours well within Where ancient Celtic culture stirred inside The forbidden zones of martyrdom beneath the skin. We all had learned to love this local hero whose trade Was sculptor of grave-headstones day by day, And who in long evenings took us hunting, a happy parade In Wellingtons across the hills of Tyrone; I hear him say "Remember this is the land of O'Neill, Our hearth and horn Cherish your heritage, field and farm, every stone we own"
â€œUnknown Secrets Kept Aliveâ€? (Francis J Kelly) There are many precious things that touch The early edges of the mind, Scenes and happenings that others we love so much
Have never even shared, known, nor seen Like when we played on football teams, Or went out hunting on the foothills
Of the Sperrins; whispers remembered in twilight groves With first forever sweetheart loves, or streams Where silver fish were found, their gilded gills
Vibrating for life as they landed in the nets; And all those shows on stage, playtime in parks, Or in the local band with clarinet and later, thrills
Of sheer delight when hearts went wild with holidays; Down in meadows of blackbirds and the soaring larks, Selecting the evening's cinema with boastful bets
On whose darling dream-girl would look best; so many 37
Million, little, but marvellously remembered events, Late nights on the swings, feasts worth every penny.
These all have gone their mysterious several ways Down into my heart, untouched by the immense World whirling round me now; many new advents
Just come and go, but so few have seen What, where and why and how I was, or have been, When young, fresh and free at seventeen.
â€œWho were hanged on that Gallows Hill?â€? (Francis J Kelly)
Their grim ghosts haunted my childhood And the old iron gates lock me in still With the graveyard pine-trees of a whispering wood.
Often at night on the frightened road home Chains were clanging upon black boughs And some said they saw there, things of bone Like long buried skulls where graze the cows.
Especially wild on windy nights Long shadows shook bony fists at me And I fled in terror from such sights Staring out from behind each cursed tree.
My father said priests hung there And those who taught the Gaelic tongue, Yet I never stopped to say a prayer For the tortured ones who lost and won.
Who were hanged on the Gallows Hill? Only the bodies of bold Irish men, 39
And who is afraid to look their fill Only children who fear again and again.
So Iâ€&#x;ll say a prayer for the patriots there Who held the heritage of all holy men Safe for us all, proud to declare Our ancestral inheritance to the end.
Biographical Note: Kay Kinghammer
I am a full time poet, currently living in Seattle, Washington, USA. In the last two years, I have been published in Granny Smith Magazine; Prospective – A Journal of Speculation volumes 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7; Electric Windmill Press; and Pacific Poetry. My work has been included in the following anthologies, The Blue Max Review – an anthology from Rebel Poetry in County Cork, Ireland; and The Inspired Heart – an anthology from Melinda Cochrane International in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. My first full length collection, Inside the Circus was published by Loyal Stone Press in May, 2013; and my second collection, Stolen Kisses, Starlit Caresses – A Journey will be published by Melinda Cochrane International.
For My Sister (Kay Kinghammer)
Wind flowers Cherry white, quince pink Spindrift in my garden. Wind-sundered, Whipped froth of frosting On black earth. Funeral flowers White lilies, pink carnations Wind-shorn On rough soil Rock-torn, Wild-weeded. The willow weeps my tears.
Grief (Kay Kinghammer)
Pain grows like flowers in soft rain. Each petal opens wide with thirst. The bud fulfilled. Pain goes like flowers in a quiet breeze. Each petal falls away slowly Leaving harsh stem and dried seed. I have known tragedy. Grandfather, grandmother, Sister and brother Exploded into their deaths. So violent their leaving I am injured, Each death a festering wound In my belly. I salve my sores With rage, bind them With rags of civilization. I do not scream curses at the moon. I do not scream.
Gold is: (Kay Kinghammer)
In ghost towns. From a prospector, now prosperous, grizzled and grave. From a clear stream, a wire mesh, and a patient soul. On the back of a burro in a bag. Out of a vein, a Mother Lode. LOST In a rock. DUTCHMAN In a hole. MINE Mine. In the ground. Miners, some minors, Deep in the dank dark, down In the ground. In the dirt. In the dust. On a dead man‟s eyes. With a pirate‟s skeleton. In a chest, beads and coins and cups, Crowns. Your crowning beauty, regal tresses. In Rumplestiltskin‟s straw. Hanging from a Bough. Shorn from mythical sheep And scarce as dragon‟s teeth.
Biographical Note: Fayroze Lutta Fayroze is a work a day girl but at night her 1937 french Triumph Number 6 typeset typewriter comes out fro its black box and her life re-imagined on paper before the birds wake up.
Let me clear my throat before I begin... (Fayroze Lutta) Let me clear my throat before I begin... One of these days it will be with meth. I need my Benzedrine fix. I need some sort of medicated-codeinehigh-octane-behind-the-counter-legit-smack-kind-a-shit. And so I found myself walking... It was still light out surprisingly as the days fall away too fast, by 5pm it‟s like midnight out. I happened upon Lisa. I think I could be her some days, sitting next to her begging on a street corner so we could buy a packet of cigarettes together and split the ends. Lisa was anxious she kept telling me she had to go change her coins into a note to make it something more manageable. I imagine it is less embarrassing at the tobacconist than to arrive splaying a mountain of dirty silver coins on to the countertop. Furthermore I imagine it would be to buy those cheap and nasty ones. The Chinese cigarettes that feel like you have smoked asbestos filled fibreglass through a plastic straw. That afternoon was different an older gentleman was passing by and recognised Lisa. He came and sat in between us on the bench. Purposefully he didn't say his name and he wasn't letting me in on it either. He was well dressed - a navy blue blazer-white shirt and leather boating shoes. I was confused with what sort of pants he was wearing. Until Lisa posed the question, “why he had blue ski pants on?” He replied that he “slept outside these days.” It was winter so he came cut-corrected in his ski apparel and added that he had made in the passing days, maybe weeks months or even years “the decision to live in his clothes.” I liked this guy. He told us that he had to go into the bottle shop and would be back. Lisa then left to go make other peoples small coined offerings into a note. The gentleman returned, I told him Lisa would be back shortly. He sat down next to me. I asked him what he had bought; he told me it was a bottle of, “Southern Comfort.” It only seemed apt all so fitting living in the city of the South under these southern skies and it was that other word as well that hovered and
resonated in the air- comfort. It seemed to spell it all out for me – my mood. I guess it is what we all look for is comfort. To fill that void inside us that we no longer fill with the love of god and he had found his in his glass bottle filled up with amber liqueur like spirits. The effect temporary never permanent always wearing off. Perhaps like returning to his mother‟s breast nuzzling into the warm and golden licks. I wish I could do that give into something completely with disregard for all other things. I have behaved like this on occasion and believe in addiction there is a relinquishing of living in prescribed modern terms but it is a love affair or liaison with nihilism that ends in fatalism giving into oblivion but I argue that we all must die someday. I always imagined I would meet my end by being unceremoniously hit by a car. One night in a drunken state I found the location. I recall the lure of the flashing lights of the heavy traffic on the corner of Beauchamp and Oxford Streets. That night on that corner it seemed all so tempting to do such a simple act as to put one foot in front of the other and step into the heavy moving metal. It was obvious the gentleman had a gambling problem and was on the drink as well. I imagine black jack not the misery of the poker machines with their flashing lights and buzz-cock-high-pitched- ringing-in-yourears-giving-you-a-headache. He took the large hip flask sized glass bottle out of the paper bag wrapping and slowly unscrewed the lid. He then mentioned if he drank it all in one he would be paralytic he snarled a laugh. He had enough social graces to say, “Cheers,” to me and made a gesture with the bottle up towards the sky. I said, "Santé," he then usurped me and one better and said, "Saluté." He placed the bottle to his mouth, his southern comfort, his comfort, his mother‟s glass nipple. He titled his head back slightly he didn‟t gulp or swallow the amber bourboneque-syrup just flowed down trickling down his throat. He had mastered this motion, this ritual, his throat didn't hesitate either it was waiting for this moment. I felt I was a party to his misdeeds and impending paralysis. I couldn't stop myself I had to say something I said “woo-oh.” He stopped and looked at me. I looked at the bottle he had drunk about one-eighth.
I felt relieved in that moment that Lisa had returned. They now both felt awkward around me and left together. Lisa hadn't made enough money for a $5 note. I couldn't follow them they were trying to get away from me for fucks sake. I knew all too well that I was not low brow enough to beg with them too well dressed with my hair still wet hair from the shower. At least they could see till the bottom of the bottle or until they made enough coins to make that five dollar note in their hand and they would have company. Unlike me they both knew exactly where they were going. I knew as well, the corner of High Street and Belmore Road just outside the Night Owl. It was obvious that I wasn't invited. Evidently too much like a tourist in their waking world.
Biographical Note: Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins Mรกire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for many years, and bides between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published haiku writer. Mรกire retired early from the Financial Sector and found art and poetry. She is really relishing the experience of getting lost in literature and paint.
Banbridge Tapestry (MĂĄire Morrissey-Cummins) Broad ash bracelet the fields heavily planted with cabbages. Hedgerows of haw, sloe, blackberry and shiny beads of honeysuckle thread along the borders, throbbing with Autumn.
Through the window there is one forlorn meadow tender with wild seed,
and on this first rain-soaked day I find myself colouring it with yesterdayâ€&#x;s sunshine where there is still birdsong in a hot blue sky.
Seasons through Childhood ( Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins) Life evolves with the changing seasons.
Autumn snaps the air. It cuts through September, nibbles at daylight douses it with night. I watch an agitated sea beneath a twisted sky, the day thick with thunder. I am anxious, and I am once again a little girl, sheltering under a tree,
afraid of being struck by lightning, of dying alone in the streets.
Plum Cherry September (Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins) Autumn cuts the air sharpening a September morning. Leaves of plum cherry prance over village walls. Gorse prickles yellow meandering the Great Sugarloaf. * Fields of wrapped summer rest, rolled into harvested hay billowing clouds puff breathless. Berries bruise tart hedgerows, sprinting brambles startle a dandelion sun. Thistle heads tuft purple tossing seeds to a fleece breeze. A patchwork of seasoned meadows sleep beneath a baby blue sky where castle ruins crumble among sheep cotton fields on a hearty harvest noon.
Simple Quietude (MĂĄire Morrissey-Cummins) For my husband Jim
You can feed me crusty bread garlic olives and tuna salad and I will be fulfilled, lounging in the armchair by the balcony door, illuminated by the last rays skin shiny scented with lotion, flip flop dangling book in hand as I catch the light in your eyes. Sipping tea you smile, content in the shade of the balcony wall, puzzling over the crossword from last weekâ€&#x;s newspaper.
Becalmed in light and shadow, we sit in silent symmetry at the hour before umbra in Los Gigantos.
Biographical Note: Ben Nardolilli Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, THEMA, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He has a chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, from Folded Word Press. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.
One Night Engagement (Ben Nardolilli) He took the stage right next to his special Former ladyfriend and they belted it out, First the songs, then the joint abuse, Disgusted, I took to TV to change the channel But it was there again too, Under the excuse of next-door breaking news. No aid for either one of them, just water Brought out to moisten hot throats, After the subsidy they returned to shouting And bruise-making in front of the cameras With the music rising and falling Oblivious to the new lyrics and choreography. Radio was no help either, somehow worse With the clear sound involved, I could hear all their hits, great and small, Every crack or pop was linked to bodily harm, Nobody did anything except applaud, While I remained glued and guilty at the dial.
Deviations from Equilibrium (Ben Nardolilli) For Allie and Jon Stumbling around with a head foaming full of ill-gotten Gains from last nightâ€&#x;s free fall market economy, I take in the cooling bank holiday of this morning, Everything is calm as if it had been planned for five years, This apartment, it seems, was built for Sundays, With wide open windows that face out to clear skies, Trees starting to bloom, wide avenues empty of shadows, And a Romanesque church spread out and tanning. Wine bottles are the only competition here for spires, They dominate in their own spheres of prosperity That I grant to them from the comfort of a mattress Which suffers neither inflation nor deflation, I am the beneficiary of a barter performed last night, I provided conversation , asides, references, Allusions, and saved the hosts from original research, They exchanged a berth for me to rest my head on. A thoroughly neoliberal shock treatment awaits for me, The luxury of brunch calls out along with the world Of menus, currency exchange, and various fiats, Hard to justify just resting now that I have to face prices, Faced with being charged as a social parasite, I scramble to do some useful labor before heading out, Pushing air out of this mattress to make it whistle A song that only the cat on the heater can probably hear.
Frigid and Torrid Zones (Ben Nardolilli) The fire gap is strong this season, The gulf between who is engulfed And who remains free is larger Than any time I can remember, Some people burn, while others are frozen, Yet hardly anybody is in the middle, Sweating slightly from the heat That emanates out of passionate bodies, No, almost everybody is gaining Or losing a temperature, And nobody mixes with those Who do not share the same high or low, Tepid affairs are out and parties Crystallizing into congregations are in, Everywhere there are conventions forming And refusing to release their delegates.
Sister Kangaroo (Ben Nardolilli) But where is the commissioner of mildew When you finally need him? I really felt like being pestered today, Bothered as if I mattered, Until I become fashioned by frustration Into the most important cog in the world, A device to raise the envy of others Whose must defeat my happiness, Perhaps he is hiding in the underbrush, With a gainsay or two Making mathematics out of this meanwhile.
Calliope Crashed to the Ground (Ben Nardolilli) Like many others, I can will to go to pieces, What? You think this breakdown Is a complete accident and I just picked up The right medications and call for help? Please, I left nothing to chance, This is some of my finest work, doctor. We are backstage right now, do not Be fooled by the appearance of the audience, They are actors too, just volunteers, I can understand your confusion, Now bring out some theories we can use Since I own the means of my reproduction. I may or may not begin the treatment, I confess that remains up in the air, Yes, I am still in control, the call is mine, No change of directors has occurred, Yet I have no idea what the ending will be, We have to wait for the ratings to come in.
After the Harvest (Ben Nardolilli) It‟s been a roller coaster off-season, I‟m afraid what will happen Once everything starts coming at me In the full bloom of insanity. There‟s been no time to rest, To lay back and stow away awhile On someone else‟s back while devouring Their free time all for myself. How to survive? How to ever adapt When every season is wet And there is no dry clearing to bask in? The swelter is the new cool. A new lexicon of exhaustion heralds, Unless some new steps Can be tossed out in a black outline, Going in circles to confuse the universe.
Programming Geniuses (Ben Nardolilli) Change comes and off-kilter takes on the material Deliver killer scenes and memorable twists and turns, We praise the abandonment of the comfort Of one god with a three-camera view of human life, Now there are options, plenty of other idols To take home for the night and ply with attention, The sacrifice of our bloodless time, Ratings remain wanting and more eyes are needed, A shame we love to remind the people about, This is a worthwhile experiment over the airwaves To get, to receive, to assimilate, to adhere to, Yet no one on the outside, in the vast expanses Understands that the plates and poles Are being realigned and expectations have shifted, I try and watch the still-popular minstrels, Plug in my ears to the ground of what many feet follow, The rest of the world is a relic, or seems like one, A nostalgic act playing for someone else.
Biographical Note: Walter Rhulmann
Peter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967. He lived in France for the majority of the nineties and returned to live in Dublin after almost a decade, and has been living there ever since. His debut collection of poems „Antiope‟ was published by Stonesthrow Press to critical acclaim in February 2013. “Certainly a voice to be reckoned with.” wrote Brigitte Le Juez (Beckett avant la lettre 2007) . He has had poems published in The Galway Review, A New Ulster- Issues 5 & 8, Abridged 0-29 Primal, The Scum Gentry and Pretty How Town (IRL), Danse Macabre , Poetic Diversity, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology (USA), The Tenement Block Review, and Angle (UK). Work is also due to appear in First Literary Review East (USA-NY) after the summer. He holds an Honours degree in Philosophy and English Literature and a Masters in Comparative Literature, both awarded by Dublin City University. He will be presenting „Embodying Be-ING – Heraclitus & Samuel Beckett‟ at the Samuel Beckett Conference State of the Nation 2013 at Dublin City University in August.
Divine Bathroom Diving (Walter Rhulmann)
I sank in the bathtub while your were kneeling on the floor, I discovered a world full of wonder I longed to explore. The door was closed and some incense burned in the sink, steamed glass â€“ hiding, spying, the eye behind it cried.
The bar of soap, the sparkling knob, the bottle of shampoo, those things watched me in awe.
The first bubbled and blinked, tiny rivulets it expelled, as the second reflected my most envious fears. The latter in its yellow robe kept as peaceful as a dead sea only to find out the first two were jealous enemies.
At the bottom of the white hull a world of shells, white sand and coral-red rocks; breathing me in, breathing me out, breathing life into me again.
I spotted the king of this world, the chief of those tiny molluscs, they didn't even have bones, now I'm wearing a crown. 63
Precious (Walter Rhulmann)
The final fantasy, a grey worm and a stone.
Under the midnight sun my treasure I gathered, united the three gems in a box.
I am worm and I feel like Gollum wheezing, slurping, surviving on dead fish, fairies and goblins.
No safe, no guard could warranty that the bounty remains mine and only.
Precious is yet too soft, too green to be locked in the box. Rocks would collapse and rules would fine this mental behaviour of mine.
Willy (Walter Rhulmann)
The time we spent eyeing each other in darkness is like the space that stretches above our heads; though dark, cold and empty, it reflects the reciprocal fondness.
Sure these mountains may seem too high, too hard to climb over and so deadly, yet the passion won't put any of us at rest.
On the black and white photograph I was twelve or eighteen months old already the touch meant tied up bonds.
Some years later, crouching at the back of the garden, hidden behind some bush, curtained under the trees, I told you all the terrible secrets I'd kept till then.
Then growing up, becoming self assured, I showed you off to white dragons and red ogres who would swallow and cherish you.
You are my gun, my arm, my knife, the most incredible weapon of seduction after these dreaded years of seclusion. 65
Now, you still loom up every morning until I step in the bathroom tumid and proud, fit and loaded for the evening.
Biographical Note: Ian C Smith
Ian C Smithâ€&#x;s work has appeared in Axon:Creative Explorations,The Best Australian Poetry, London Grip, Poetry Salzburg Review, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, The Weekend Australian,& Westerly His latest book is Here Where I Work,Ginninderra Press (Adelaide). He lives in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, Australia.
At the end of the day (Ian C Smith) (for Lisa)
After attending a funeral of one who died beloved but too young I have lost track of the trembling world. The black pen lies still. What can I say? So I read again my favourite poetâ€&#x;s work written as he was dying.
Boughs scrape my roof stirred by a night wind. Pictures and photos embrace me. School art colours warm my bedroom walls as if safeguarding me. Our boys with time on their side. They are taller now swept along by lusty life.
These poems daunt me 68
humanity haunting each wise line clear thoughts amid chaos medals for valour in the face of withering knowledge. I glance one more time at the photos those fresh faces their time on this earth ahead.
Poet as ageing narcissist (Ian C Smith) He watches himself in the third person at this gathering of his blood marking a Round Figured Birthday, hair, beard beyond mid-life grey, not ageing well like wine or cheese, a mockery of pulsing yesterday which, like other damning birthday evidence, astonishes him, and, perhaps, his clansmen. He stands to read. They watch him watching himself, uncertain, like him, as he mimes patting pockets for poems, whether to smile or exchange glances, so they, watchers and watched, moderate their expressions, stay cool, will a heel-crunch of any emotion, preferring the relief of effete jokes, hope his voice doesnâ€&#x;t crack like his mind. They make him weak, they make him strong. He knows they discuss his increasing lapses when he drifts off to the word sanctuary, forgetful blunders that once never were, so makes the effort to stay in tune, drawing close to black nightâ€&#x;s fire though a yearning to cast off lures him to travel light with his failing old pals, imagination, memory, the first person.
The Pre-Tasmanians (Ian C Smith)
Marooned here I possess few conveniences so use pencil and notebook in haste. This morning I circumambulated my cove in an absence of sunlight, to slipped time.
I froze, wave-beat incessant at my back. They squatted behind a barked windbreak, the wallaby hunters with time to kill, sharpening their stones, dark wrists slender.
Eucalyptus smoke in the tresses of the cove smelled like incense used in ancient ritual. Gutted abalone and mussel shells glistened. A woman lulled a child with breast comfort.
They worked rhythmically, voices guttural, with tribal certainty in wind-washed dunes, fur-clad, occasionally chanting in harmony, putting me in mind of honour and tradition.
I returned to camp around the shoe of the bay in sudden sunburst, fervid to record this. When I gazed back across that ragged strand the threnody of water-wind was all I heard. 71
Unreconciled (Ian C Smith)
I moved only a few miles away, but long ago. Walking around where I once lived I feel like one who has been in far exile, wondering why I have neglected this return, discomfited smelling the tangy neighbourhood, wood smoke, breakfast cooking, scattered leaves, calculating sequences of events involving my people in the clandestine past, now vague, unlike memorable town landmarks.
In thrall crossing driveways I strain to recall exactly what led to this estrangement but chronological memory baffles me, details waver, shadowy facts confusing. I bear what seems like guilty sorrow. For moving away? For being memory-drunk? The townâ€&#x;s pool where our boy learned to swim, superseded, of course, by a heated facility, lies eerily quiet, its black water still.
I swerve toward the safety of my parked car, leaving what can never be left. Short-cutting through familiar back lanes behind houses where newcomers spend days, 72
I pass a fence so rickety-faded it could date from my boyhood. I feel overcome by loss, imagined echoes, want that fence imbued with its original hue, straight, strong again.
Biographical Note: Felino Soriano
Felino A. Sorianoâ€&#x;s most recent poetry collections include Pathos|particular invocation (Fowlpox Press, 2013), Extolment in the praising exhalation of jazz (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2013), and the collaborative volume with poet, Heller Levinson and visual artist, Linda Lynch, Hinge Trio (La Alameda Press, 2012). He publishes the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is the director of supported living and independent living programs providing supports to adults with developmental
Espials (Felino Soriano) 16 air or the noun of its presence spac
component clarity i.e. the windowâ€&#x;s antecedent rewind prior even so to the northern lift its function later southward revives shifting angles eclipse in the derogatory system language manipulates onto muteness
17 this wind walks atop the spine of morningâ€&#x;s elongated entrance its footing freed finding radial momentums atop dawn and the reversible fabric night expands among the oval hoursâ€&#x; vibrating ballads
18 moving toward this windowâ€&#x;s open aggregations, frame then frame-by immediate measurement collides in the focal formations my eyesâ€&#x; fulfill as creative contouring freedom
19 family this fortune of skeletal understanding stands silent hovering halo holding angled hands reconfigured ballads involving sound and the volume inheritance often though unheard in the evidence of nurtured watching
their alignment of smiles too fervent to incorporate adequate interpretation
20 a streaking orange resembling fade or the finishing of a memoryâ€&#x;s glide-off autumn-away wing-emblem adaptation running mixed rotational colors kaleidoscope focal blur then clarity in the sense of relief it will return
Biographical Note: Rachel Sutcliffe Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from an atypical form of lupus for the past 12 years, since her early twenties. Throughout this time writing has been a great form of therapy, itâ€&#x;s kept her from going insane. She is an active member of a writing group, has her own blog @ http://projectwords11.wordpress.com and has seen many of her pieces published in various anthologies and journals, both in print and online, including; the Barefoot Review, Chuffed Buff Books and Every Day Poets plus the haiku journals Shamrock, Lynx, The Heronâ€&#x;s Nest, A Hundred Gourds and Notes From The Gean.
Absence (Rachel Sutcliffe) „You don‟t you remember the ending? But we only saw it last night!‟ „No, no I don't.‟ „You do remember her, she‟s the one who works in Tesco.‟ „No, no I don't.‟ „No, your appointment‟s 2 not 3, they changed it, remember?‟ „No, no I don't.‟ Fuzzy grey clouds On the image Of my brain. The absence Of memory, Illustrated.
Clouds (Rachel Sutcliffe) Caught on camera, Grey clouds. So many Grey clouds, Cloaking my memories Consuming my words Cutting threads. Caught on camera, Grey clouds. Too many Grey clouds.
Biographical Note: Neil Ellman Twice nominated for Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey. Hundreds of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. His first full-length collection, Parallels, is a selection of more than 200 of his previously published ekphrastic works.
Crystal (after the painting by Paul Klee)
I was born in glass I live in the glass of a crystal ball I'll die in glass my life foretold in the sharp edges and angles of a splintered past where even now I slowly die among the fragments of a broken life by shards of glass and scornful words my fate was told before my birth when even then I knew that it would end in a cold-blue urn.
Hearts of the Revolutionaries: Passage of the Planets of the Future (after the watercolor by Joseph Beuys)
From the sun simmering red the unborn children of a dying flame
inchoate hearts grow arms against the past the mother of the future now
the planets multiply against the tyranny blood-bred, blood-born of sacrifice
they pass in circles twelve disciples at a time multiples of innocence in mutiny to light
they pass, wait their turn their pulsing cores on fire with hope. 83
Purple Forbidden Enclosure (after the painting by Suzanne Frecon)
In this space enclosed by invisible walls where purple reigns in a monarch's robes reds are forbidden no greens allowed blue is the enemy of the State all entry denied to all but violet and plum amethyst and heliotrope as if its world were made for it alone in amaranthine space only they with purple in their veins are welcome here-even the king has purple hands.
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: email@example.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!
OCTOBER 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS: Samhain is coming! That‟s Halloween, if you didn‟t know. We are already practising our pumpkin perforating. The humans have decided to bring this edition out a day early for National Poetry Day. We lost out on nap time because of the change in schedule! Bah...oh, and we have also had gremlins to contend with. Apologies if you have been affected. Hopefully we will have eaten dealt with them by next month 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”.
Biographical Note: John (Jack) Byrne John [Jack] Byrne lives in Co. Wicklow ,Ireland he has been writing for
almost 6 years mainly poetry
Traditional and Japanese short form and has had several pieces published in the UK , USA, Ireland in Anthologies,
First Argument by John (Jack) Byrne
Christmas by John (Jack) Byrne
Austerity by John (Jack) Byrne
Mother by John (Jack) Byrne
Emotions by John (Jack) Byrne 89
Biographical Note: Mรกire Morrissey-Cummins Mรกire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for many years, and bides between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published haiku writer. Mรกire retired early from the Financial Sector and found art and poetry. She is really relishing the experience of getting lost in literature and paint. https://soundcloud.com/m-ire-morrisseycummins/embroidered-tapestry
Daisies by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
Small Geranium by Maire Morrissey-Cummins 91
Orange Roses by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
Wicklow Hills by Maire Morrissey-Cummins 92
Young Writers and Artists Section
Bibilographical Note: Natasya Barry Natasya is nine years old. She is a keen Table Tennis player. She represents her school, Connaught and Ireland in Table Tennis tournaments. She loves reading, writing, singing, swimming and building Legos house.
What is Love? (Natasya Barry)
Love is a strong, powerful feeling in your heart. When you share it with a friend and family, it grows bigger each second and every day. Love is always around you, like sweet smelling perfume in the air. Love makes me smile, Love can tâ€&#x; be broken, will stay aliveif you mind it! Thatâ€žs what love is to meBeautiful, magical and Precious.
LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES 978-1-909252-00-4 978-1-909252-01-1 978-1-909252-02-8 978-1-909252-03-5 978-1-909252-04-2 978-1-909252-05-9 978-1-909252-06-6 978-1-909252-07-3 978-1-909252-08-0 978-1-909252-09-7 978-1-909252-10-3 978-1-909252-11-0 978-1-909252-12-7 978-1-909252-13-4 978-1-909252-14-1 978-1-909252-15-8 978-1-909252-16-5 978-1-909252-17-2 978-1-909252-18-9 978-1-909252-19-6 978-1-909252-21-9 978-1-909252-22-6 978-1-909252-23-3 978-1-909252-24-0 978-1-909252-25-7 978-1-909252-26-4 978-1-909252-27-1 978-1-909252-28-8 978-1-909252-29-5 978-1-909252-30-1 978-1-909252-31-8 978-1-909252-32-5 978-1-909252-33-2 978-1-909252-34-9 978-1-909252-35-6 978-1-909252-36-3 978-1-909252-37-0 978-1-909252-38-7 978-1-909252-39-4 978-1-909252-40-0 978-1-909252-41-7 978-1-909252-42-4 978-1-909252-43-1 978-1-909252-44-8 978-1-909252-45-5 978-1-909252-46-2 978-1-909252-47-9 978-1-909252-48-6
Keeper of the Creek x Rosy Wilson ascult? lini?tea vorbind hear silence speaking x PETER SRAGHER Songs of Steelyard Sue x J.S. Watts Paper Patterns x Angela Topping Orion: A Poem Sequence x Rosie Johnston Disclaimer x Tristan Moss Things out of Place x Oliver Mort Human Shores x Byron Beynon The Non Herein - x Michael McAloran Chocolate Spitfires x Sharon Jane Lansbury Will Your Spirit Fly? X Richard Brooks Out of Kilter x George Beddow intro x Jeremy Reed Eruptions x Jefferson Holdridge In the Consciousness of Earth x Rosalin Blue The Wave Rider x Eva Lindroos Martin Incidentally x Gerry McDonnell Streets of Belfast x Alistair Graham Some Light Reading & A Song x John Liddy Threnody: for Four Voices x J.C. Ireson Howl:The Silent Movie x Peter Pegnall Ieper x Martin Burke Occupational Hazard x Aidan Hayes Last Feast x Mira Borghs "Make it Last" x Davide Trame Words Take Me x Ian Harrow Between Time x Jean Folan Maore & England Suite x Walter Ruhlmann Wind Horses x Judy Russell Witness x Seán Body Ice Flowers over Rock x Patrick Early Shouldering Back the Day x Seán Body Rosin-Dust Under The Bridge x Laurence James Call of Nature x Christopher Rice Plaything of the Great God Kafka x Roger Hudson London A Poem in Ten Parts Daniel C. Bristow Clay x Niall McGrath Red Hill x Peter Branson Throats Full of Graves x Gillian Prew Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro A Long Way to Fall x Andy Humphrey words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne Red Roots - Orange Sky At Last: No More Christmas in London x Bart Sonck Shreds of Pink Lace x Eliza Dear Valentines for Barbara 1943 - 2011 x J.C.Ireson The New Accord x Paul Laughlin Carrigoona Burns x Rosy Wilson The Beginnings of Trees x Geraldine Paine
All titles £10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.
Published on Oct 3, 2013
A New Ulster issue 13 Features the works of Amy Barry, Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán, Sera Csatt, Patrick Joseph Dorrian, Neil Ellman, Francis J K...