ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Michael Mc Aloran, Byron Beynon, Orlaith Mc Caherty, Richard W. Halperin, Amy Huffman, John Jack Byrne, Aine MacAhoda and many more. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 27 December 2014
A New Ulster On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Michael Mc Aloran; Series 1-8
Byron Beynon; The Lacemaker
The Tropical Balcony
Ty Mawr Nantyglo An Impression Woman Reading
page 14 page 15 page 16
Orlaith Mc Caherty; page 18
Rose of Sorrow
Richard W. Halperin; Donaghdee
Amy Huffman; Unanswered Phone The sign Says Seeing ADD
page 23 page 24 page 25
Aine MacAodha; Flight Paths Equinox Time Wild Goose
page 27 page 28 page 29
Rachel Sutcliffe; Poetry
Jocelyn Mosman; Artist Rewrite
page 33- 34
page 35- 36 page 37- 38
Ointment Globe The Last Fire The Edge The Lane where love was lost
page 40 page 41 page 42 page 43 page 44
Chris Murray; Bone Jelly Harpy Strip it away
pages 46- 48 pages 48-49 page 49
John Byrne; Complete Voyage Birds of Prey Tanka
page 51 page 51 page 52 page 53
Felino Soryano; A selection of poems
pages 55- 61
Strider Marcus Jones; 5 poems
pages 63- 68
On The Wall Message from the Alleycats
John Jack Byrne; John’s work can be found
pages 72-73 Round the Back
Press Releases Book Launches
Peter O’Neill; Bribes
pages 77- 81
Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org 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 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 â€œTounhedâ€? by Amos Greig
“We are what we repeatedly do. Exellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” Aristotle. Editorial Welcome to the December issue of A New Ulster I’ve pushed the page count to its max for this month. We have experimental poetry and prose extracts I hope you enjoy the content as much as I’ve enjoyed reading and editing this issue. We had so many submissions that I ran out of space but not to worry as any work that didn’t make it into this issue will be in the next one. The world has gone through some interesting and terrifying changes since we began this journey in issue three we talked briefly about the ceasefire in Gaza and the work being carried out by artists from both sides and now peace seems so tantalizingly far away. Aristotle famously said “The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their
inward significance” That is why poetry is still so powerful even after all these years. It saddens me to announce the close of The Shop magazine and the apparent demise of The HU magazine the literary world needs these sources for writers and artists to share their work and thoughts. Sadly though the truth is that there is not enough interest for hard copy magazines and it takes a lot of effort to produce issues. It pains me to watch the struggle for up and coming writers. I hope you get as much enjoyment reading these pieces they speak highly of the artists who submitted to this issue and to paraphrase Arthur Rimbaud they show the artist as God. Their brush strokes, words give life to a world we can barely interpret however through their eyes for a brief moment we can walk different lands. Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity! Amos Greig
Biographical Note: Michael McAloran
Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). His work has appeared internationally in numerous publications both online and in print, and also in various anthologies. He is the author of a number of collections of poetry, prose poetry, poetic aphorisms and prose, most notably 'Machinations', (KFS), 'Attributes', (Desperanto, NY, 2011), 'The Non Herein' & ‘Of Dead Silences’ (Lapwing Publications, 2011/ 2013), 'All Stepped/ Undone', ‘Of the Nothing Of’, 'The Zero Eye', 'The Bled Sun', 'In Damage Seasons',(Oneiros-2014); 'Code #4 Texts' a collaboration with the Dutch poet, Aad de Gids, was also published in 2014 by Oneiros. He was also the editor/ creator of Bone Orchard Poetry, & edited for Oneiros (U.K 2013/ 2014). A further collection, 'The Banality of Else' is forthcoming from Lapwing Publications...
SERIES (1 - 8) (Michael Mc Aloran) 1 ...it/ it fathoms not/ fathoms more than previously/ it cannot quantify/ for the price of it/ after the never was of the begun/ before the less or not of it/ light slash and all the while the/ or/ it has never uttered yet/ so it says/ screams once in a while/ so it commences ever having never/ yes less than before/ before the never was it can or cannot/ it fathoms not/ this/ this it or that/ what of/ what of it it will not nor ever will/ after the never was of the begun/ it has or has not it/ slides from view/ it scurries as of rat/ kiss kiss/ light extinguished/ it cannot either way/ still yet of the it it screams/ so it/ saying nothing of it it cannot/ before the less or not of it/ it lacks/ it may lack/ before the less or not of it/ it balks/ clear a lung clear a lung/ still it fathoms not it cannot/ seemingly/ what of it/ this/ merely a trace that it cannot/ still never having ever/ echos echos it/ never having ever/ this/ what this/ still it asks/ yet fathoms not/ wrenched flesh/ spittoon of blood/ was it can or cannot it before the never was of/ yes less than before it/ it/ so it says/ screams once in a while/ still it fathoms not/ light slash illuminedâ€Ś
2 â€Ś it/ here or there a voice/ dense night abort/ the voice scarpers/ deceased/ nothing else/ it must wait it is said/ as if/ meaning less or no there of the/ hours of/ years of it/ it knows no bounty yet/ here or there the dissipating voice it/ scattered/ vapour lapse/ nothing else or less/ there a voice to it/ it/ scalpel/ burning/ deceased what matter then/ it cannot/ it cannot claim it/ meaningless or no there of the/ it commands nothing/ murmurs edges rot/ it lapses/ it cannot lapse/ it forgets everything that could not be recalled and hence is/ it/ says farewell too often to the rot/ scattered yes/ deceased no not yet/ it knows not/ knows no bounty yet as if there ever/ it/ here or there a voice it/ receding all the while it/ burning of it/ it resolves then to burn of it/ it says/ yet cannot/ there is no flame to it or of the nothing of it/ still yet of scalpel/ it commands nothing/ it cannot relapse/ it cannot lapse upon the edge of breath/ and so recalled it hence is it/ it recalls everything that could not be forgotten/ yet it knows no bounty yet/ hours of it/ years of it it cannot followâ€Ś
3 …it/ shadowing/ longing/ deft/ edge of/ subtle lock/ it/ no it does not carry on it/ vacuum else/ here another there another it/ strikes out at/ of/ wall blank face it/ shadowing/ perhaps half-light/ annihilated none/ no it does not carry on it/ it carries on it believes it does it/ vacuum other than it it does not know of/ it is bind/ bound/ it cannot/ in exile of it/ blind it carries on the given of none/ sparsely/ it cannot yet it never could/ strikes out at it/ as if it were were as if nothing was/ other than the offset/ commence half-follow breath without or of/ all spun dense as if to/ voiced from out of/ climbs/ settles in the shit of it/ the shit of it is blind/ a mark/ a signature/ wall blank face it cannot/ no it does not carry on/ choice yes/ what of it it proceeds/ avalanche/ no/ in avalanche there is no carrying on from/ it has heart apparently/ here another there another/ and the exile of it/ yes or no it/ other than it does not know of it/ yet there is/ no/ it knows that it cannot/ it beats/ yes/ absent to receive/shadowing/ long stretch of deft/ sparsely/ voiced from out of none/ strikes out at it/ a mark/ stone as of blank wall face/ it cannot/ exile of it…
4 …it/ yes it bleeds/ it cannot else it/ seeks solace in emptily/ it is not of the it cannot yet it cannot/ scar lapse of/ it cannot freed from voice it gathers speech it knows only rhythm/ roaming freely/ yes it will bleed/ the impotency of which is/ scar tissue nectar of the it of eye/ it cannot else it/ not of the it it cannot if will not/ it cannot because of which/ it extends the eye into interior wasteland/ there it cannot seek/ it has no concept of design/ it knows only the rhythm of/ it cannot else/ as if to remove itself from in the unquantifiable naught that lacks/ head of shit/ it reeks and laughs at the potency of it/ it is a nightmare of collected bones scattered at the gate/ passage through which is the price of nothing ever having been/ it scarpers for the end sign and the absence of voice/ it cannot else/ it extends the eye into the given reflex of drought/ repetition is the key that will unravel nothing/ sink the sunken eye/ yes it bleeds/ eye eye eye till absenteeism/ it cannot/ says naught/ scatters blind lock of featherings/ a nightmare collected/ head of shit/ its echoing laughter it says it does not care for context/ it vocalises the vomit chase of nonproof/ yet it knows that it/ cannot nor ever… 8
5 …it/ yes it will/ wills/ it will eat you alive/ wills not/ it has or does not it will and can/ it will cease/ resend/ it returns it will forever be/ yet no/ never was given the benefit of lack/ in the redeem still it exists yet spits blood from a mouth full of broken teeth/ yes it wills it so it/ yet no remark for the it of what returns/ it bleeds silently/ it never fully recalls/ it is a broken dam/ yet it finds solace in the easy breeze of none/ where only it knows and there is no/ it knows nothing of this/ cards marked it will not listen/ it returns it will forever be of the/ remarks upon/ passes on without motion once/ it/ yet no/ in the redeem it ceases to exist also/ given then/ something or other/ it murmurs a yes or a no/ it cannot otherwise/ it will once again cease yet it cannot cease of/ until/ dense then/ nothing then/ yet no remark for the it of what flees/ silenced yes or no between the blend of it/ without bounty/ it is yet a broken dam from out of which seeps the/ collapse of/ feverish/ it will eat you alive it/ it/ so it will not or of given unto wastage/ blindness/ blah blah/ it speaks it cannot speak or else/ it does not ever know…
6 …it/ eye/ what/ eye/ claim or no/ the eye dead/ the motion of it seems varicose/ spasm claim/ it dense/ it is forever other than it/ yet it/ left or right it/ layer upon layer that does not exist/ dead speeches of/ claim or no/ mark upon/ it is lashed to the edge/ it is bloodless yet depends upon it/ plays the dead speech once and over again/ says with assurance that it is all/ or/ silenced then/ naught/ none else to follow on from/ it smashes the obscure bones of nothing else to be/ or having been the nothing else of ever having/ there is nothing to it/ it could well be if the all took notice/ yet the all is of the dead speech/ hence nothing less or more/ absolute as/ left or right it will regardless mock the ember-speech nothing claimed by it/ it negates it cannot negate/ merely/ by pissing upon/ it is not the sky/ nor an open desert/ left or right/ it does not give a shit if it is incorrect/ eye/ so it is said/ it is powerless to claim/ hence doubled over in laughter it/ all spoken/ never having spoken unless/ to further on from/ what longitude/ it cannot truly negate what no longer is/ given the space or foreign of/ right or left/ eye/ it…
7 …it/ playful it/ it plays a game unto/ which cast/ dead space of/ passage unto naught irrevocable/ if it be true/ what else then/ gainful the blessed shed of eye/ voice-blind/ spun-bled/ absent of absence/ no/ it is beyond recourse/ it is a shallow dream/ yet it is/ it is not/ fragments falling/ falling fragments/ it bites vein/ it plays the game unto/ as if to say that/ if it be true/ it cannot be else/ other than/ it sieves the black/ what black no nothing of that either it/ it sieves the…/ knock knocking all the while/ a-dream in speech delivered/ hence spoken of the it is/ speaks in return/ yet it another abject/ it does not/ knocks light out with fist it/ absent of absence it/ smiles/ tokens trinkets useless all/ it can define nothing of it anymore/ it is perhaps a fault/ a fault line/ a calking of newspaper/ it a speck of/ yes/ a speck or less than/ it disappearing before the eye/ yet whole or/ yes or no it blends well/ it/ blind it yes or no it has been covered/ what/ playful it/ which cast it says/ if it be true/ it is the shallowest of dreams yes it/ it cannot live it lies to itself it/ it/ it sieves the…/in the redundancy of eye/ from out of…
8 …it/ then or not/ it in locked whisper/ less than accountable/ it shines it cannot/ breath of/ noticed once or twice/ exceeding/ falling/ erase it all it/ erase it all it says/ but no the ever-clinging to/ blend of which or will/ it speaks to the nothing of/ spit polish/ eye vast as/ it cannot say it has no/ it speaks to it even if it cannot hear/ all the while the ocular/ the auditory/ sense here or there and the absence of/ blacked out by given less or less and lessening/ then or not/ between/ erase it all/ cease it can cease of course it/ on any given day and good reason to/ it/ eye or for whatever matter/ spit/ polish/ no the ever-clinging of the/ glass heart it is said yet/ redundant the collapse of it/ spurious none/ spurious actual light/ actual dark and the blind cliché/ of what/ echo upon echo/ cancelling out the echo of in blind decay/ it even of the which it/ it shines it cannot do other than or not/ erase it all/ it cannot yet say it has been said/ dead stun/ it recedes/ it wills/ what/ nothing happens given the hours of speech have claimed nothing/ it knows/ it does not claim to know either/ it senses what is not/ it disregards what it cannot else/ of… 10
Biographical Note: Byron Beynon "Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including A New Ulster, Kentucky Review, Quadrant, Cyphers and London Magazine. His recent collections include Nocturne in Blue and Human Shores (both from Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions)."
THE LACEMAKER after the painting by Jan Vermeer (1632-1675) (Byron Beynon) You sense his eyes scrutinizing her as she works in a busy space of her own. The fingers and eyes are a team, edges of colours about to be transformed. Her presiding head tilted over threads and needles like a praying-mantis. The skill of creation, hushed in time, waiting for the birth of patience that will arrive into a transfixed world.
THE TROPICAL BALCONY (Byron Beynon) For two months he lived inside a room with two single beds, cane-chairs, table, lamp, shower, and the air-conditioning generated at night when heâ€™d stand on the outer edge looking at the polished stars thinking of other worlds turning round like faces afraid. The silence of his tropical balcony, with no pollution or sub-zero temperatures made time more agreeable. His sense of order in life was to survive as he dialled a long-distance number, the one kept inside his head in case of emergency.
TY MAWR , NANTYGLO (Byron Beynon) The raked past uncovered from clenched decades of neglect, worn dentures of stone which survive above the hardened gums of earth, resolute steps and vanished walls inside the cavities of a master's plan. Here the mountain air reclaims space, the fist of history in the pockets of contrived men shivers under a silver nightfall of electric moon. Hearing the concealed scream from the nearby woodland, nocturnal wings steal above the sighs of branches as a roof of stars set fire to the imagination in a furrowed house.
AN IMPRESSION (after seeing the Tailpiece to Inparenthesis The Victim (1937) by David Jones) (Byron Beynon) Neither ink nor pencil lied. It was a cenotaph of butchery, a remembrance of experiments where men died like pine needles falling green to brown to black; it was a GREAT WAR, barbed wire grew out of the dead, they had breathed in the gas like dragons in fields of liquid death, the rats joined them for tea and spoke of echoes down the ages, of too many sacrifices and much more.
WOMAN READING (Byron Beynon) What is she reading? Does it matter? The room is rich with colour, in her hands she holds a weight of meaning; the viewer intrudes, stands back, to enter would disturb the composition of her imagination, before leaving close the door quietly, there is still a miracle of words to unfold in this privacy.
Biographical Note: Orlaith Mc Caherty
Whilst in a Creative Writing class, my tutor brought forth a “resurrection rose” a plant that can dry up when it has no water and bloom again when supplies have returned. It curls up into a ball when dry and can lie dormant for months or years. The plant then unfurls when it is supplied with water and eventually blooms. It reminded me of Jerusalem as my tutor called the plant the “Jerusalem Rose” (although I think the correct term is Jericho Rose!) which then had me thinking of the Western Wall and its other names. It also got me thinking of feelings that can lie dormant in the mind for months or years, resurfacing sometimes at the most inopportune times, with little provocation.
Rose of Sorrow (Orlaith Mc Caherty) Jerusalem you mock me your tendrils curled to a cruel smile forever watching, waiting, ready to soak up the years of my sorrow. Jerusalem your wailing wall is thirsty, tentacles fingering for lifeâ€™s force trickling opening up through the cracks in my soul. Jerusalem your darkness draws me in, you open to a promise of emptiness with the pain I give you and plant your seed ready to bloom again. I am never free. Jerusalem you have suckered me bare Never satisfied, you leave a dusty fingerprint, ready to germinate on the first tear that falls. Jerusalem you have suckered me bare Never satisfied, you leave a dusty fingerprint, ready to germinate on the first tear that falls. Jerusalem you have known me before time began when ancient walls were built to crumble. Your stone face casts a long shadow and only those who know can see the beauty in your darkness.
Biographical Note: Richard W. Halperin
Bio: Richard W. Halperin's collections are: Anniversary (2010) and Shy White Tiger (2013), Salmon; Empty Rooms, Thynks (2014); and A Wet Day & Mr Sevridge Sketches: Two Poem Sequences, Lapwing (2014).
Donaghdee (Richard Halperin) My mother sat on this beach Wore a squashed hat. Me too now. Wriggled her toes. Watched the sea While Dominic McClure Her little boyfriend at the time Scratched her back. I am a piece of her she left behind. A piece of my father too, of course. They missed the title but saw the film. Waves sand. Much ink has been spilt about what time is But these are it: What time looks like, feels like, Smells like. The air as well, air or hare, Never the same from one breath to the Next. A little girl, the sea before her Too much already behind her. Keep looking east, Jeanie. You’re east now. So much ink spilt about meaning. You preferred Sutherland’s Lucia to that – ‘Suth!’ – And anything with Bette Davis. The net bursts. Too many fish in it. Must be Jesus again. I wiggle my toes. Some don’t have them. Seas are Somebody’s tears. Whoever that is Must be very big.
I am not Dominic McClure Or if I am Whatâ€™s the difference now? Words are puny things, They crumble in the light.
Biographical Note: A.J. Huffman A.J. Huffman has published eight solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
Unanswered Phone (A.J.Huffman) Digital receiver. Handset, abandoned. Lost under pillow, cushion of couch. Forgotten inside cupboard or drawer. Longing for eras past, the tether of wallâ€™s umbilical connection. Black plastic form screams for distant ears that cannot hear becomes nothing more than fading echo of forsaken space.
The Sign Says (A. J. Huffman) Stairs to Roof. I open the corresponding door and promptly descend. Confused, I continue, expecting a surprise turn. A corner maybe, then an appropriate rising. But no, onward and downward I go. Spiraling nowhere fast. Darkness waits in every corner. I cower in the middle, clinging to the only stripe of light, my breadcrumb rope to anywhere. I pray it does not dissipate before I find something resembling escape. Moments, silent, linger more in my mind than in the air. Panic increases exponentially with my pace. Soon I am running in circles of down. Finally, I hit a door that is not exactly a bottom and push through to sunlight shining on silver metalscape. As promised, I reach a top, miles beneath my start. I look back at my beginning, feel smaller, more complete at having survived the journey.
Seeing ADD (A.J. Huffman) Legal pads filled with partially formed thoughts laden table, floor. Not abandoned, just asided in attempt to make space for next muse-forced minding. They flow past midnight, into dawn, fumble about meals, forgotten in frantic forage for pen. A long drive, nightmare of paused pull-overs, safe attempts to salvage brilliant bits of verse. Days, weeks, months, later, crumpled words found, retraced. Fresh eyes finding conjoinment of several parts. Finally, a whole is formed.
Biographical Note: Aine MacAodha Aine MacAodha is 51 year old writer from Omagh in North of Ireland, her works have appeared in, Doghouse Anthology of Irish haiku titled, Bamboo Dreams, Poethead Blog, Glasgow Review, Enniscorthy Echo, poems translated into Italian and Turkish, honorable mention in Diogen winter Haiku contest, thefirscut issues #6 and #7, Outburst magazine, A New Ulster issues 2 and 4, Pireneâ€™s Fountain Japanese Short Form Issue, DIOGEN, Poetry broadcast on ' Words on Top' radio show, recently published in, The Best of Pirene's Fountain' First Water, Revival and Boyne Berries, She published two volumes of poetry, ' Where the Three rivers Meet' and Guth An Anam (voice of the soul). Argotist online recently published 'Where the Three rivers Meet'
Flight paths (Aine MacAodha)
Watching the birds in the wind today they could teach us a thing or two on how to play. With attentive grace they move through the invisible forces swiftly turning on a sixpence shooting straight up and as a dead weight; falls through the wind cutting through its path, unafraid, yet I observe younger birds that cling to outreached branches watching as mother shows them how its done how to out wit the strong gale dipping and soaring in the imaginary hills and mountain created by the elements.
Equinox time (Aine MacAodha)
It's near the end of March spring late this year begins its infinite ascent on the cherry tree birds come by often a come-all-ye in the garden their songs reach an inner place. listening to Franz Haydn his strings reaching out from centuries past channelling his toils and efforts an artist whose initial struggles with mind, soul, pocket rise and fall with each note altering my thoughts on outer things a distraction, like the bird songs often heard in my childhood estate longing for far flung horizons.
The wild Goose (Aine MacAodha)
I get flashes of this wild goose often Iâ€™m taken in by surprise I float like an autumn leaf in a sturdy wind stopping every now and then to inhale the breath of mother earth. I take off down some narrow country road and for old times sake, collect a bunch of Bluebells, get stung by overgrown nettles grab a dock leaf to rub the emerging and big in size blisters. In my head I am singing, i'm having a dance with the wild goose and it feels like energy running through me. I like the fact that the Celts named the holy spirit 'A wild goose' for wild it is a times and i follow spirit where it may take me.
Biographical Note: Rachel Sutcliffe
Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from a serious immune disorder for the past 14 years, since her early twenties. Throughout this time writing has been a great form of therapy, itâ€™s kept her from going insane. She is an active member of the British Haiku Society and the online writing group Splinter4all, has her own blog @ http://projectwords11.wordpress.com. She has been published in various anthologies and journals, both in print and online, including; A New Ulster, Prune Juice , Every Day Poets, Shamrock, Lynx, The Heronâ€™s Nest and A Hundred Gourds
at the summit the sound of the wind singing
wisps of fog all the memories escaping
canal walk water ripples away the worry
paddling in shallow waters the deeper truth
distant shores the brightness of billowing sails
waves crash with sunset colours darkness storms
Biographical Note: Jocelyn Mosman
Jocelyn Mosman is a student at Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Massachusetts, but was born in West Texas. She has been writing poetry for over a decade, and has been in over a dozen poetry competitions, has been published in several anthologies. She has recently released her second poetry book, Soul Painting, through Inner Child Press. Some of her credits include performances with Mary Lambert, Striverâ€™s Row, and Joaquin Zihuatanejo. She has also been fortunate enough to have been published in Red Fez, Crack the Spine, Decanto, Silver Birch Press, and the Unrorean, to name a few. She is a member of the Permian Basin Chapter, Poetry Society of Texas, Conscious Poets Society, and Northampton Poetry Society. She is also the founder of the West Texas Poets. She is currently pursuing a career in international politics, especially concerning human rights worldwide.
Artist (Jocelyn Mosman) I. The Painter He is Picasso And I am his abstract art, Bending at his will, Stained glass window heart My multi-colored soul melts In his rainbow craft. His kiss is the paint, My white breasts are his canvas: Black and blue designs. Skin is the paintbrush Stroking his flesh against mine, He dips in for more. My broken façade Lacks structure in countenance Jigsaw shaped outline. Polygram structure, His passion was in cubism, Mine in softer forms. My flesh is canvas, His paintings permanently Displayed on my soul. II. The Sculptor He’s Alexandros, Etching my back with his kiss, I’m his pristine Muse. He molded my skin Like marble in his expert hands, Masterpiece of flesh. He chips away lies, Chiseling down my rough flaws, 33
Smooth as a goddess. He called me Venus, His goddess of affection, Carved from purest love. My hourglass waist, Engraved with his initials, Reminder of time O virginity, An inspiration to men, Forever made chaste, I am still his Muse Erato turned to Clio Love yields history.
D By Jocelyn Mosman The dark alleyways of “D” led us down This tricky path between good and evil (But I don’t think it could be that simple). It was you and me, since the eighth grade, And together we made a mess of middle school, Leaving a trail behind us... We wrote “D” over and over until it sounded More truthful than “H.” “Happiness” felt like a curse word in my crooked mouth, And you only knew frowns (no smiles for us). We traveled like whores, selling Ourselves short of self-restraint, and I knew even then that you were my (Cursed, hated, rotten) Metallic Monster. I carried you with me to create designs Of “D” on white canvas, Transforming the white into red, red paint. You got me through the hard days, (And just like bad sex) you were a reminder Of my failure and “D.” I met an Angel freshman year, (You called her a Devil) and She cut the strings attaching You to my existence. I knew with her on my side, I could be free, But parasites like you don’t give up easily, Not without a fight (to the death). I tried breaking you, But you broke my will. I tried throwing you away, But gravity pulled us back together.
I’ve seen what an addiction can do: It’s written on my body (like pieces of art). Our creations are the evidence of The dark alleyways we traveled So long ago, digging our way down To the dark pit (of self-pity). I couldn’t cover you up, My makeup was too yellow, And you made me feel like a freak, (Long sleeves, dark circles, red lipstick). They called “D” a plea for attention; I called you “Box Cutter” But I was cutting outside the box. Couldn’t they see, (Why couldn’t they see?) I was falling apart, creating a Blood bath in dark alleyways, Just you and me, me and you… Depression creating my monsters, Digging deep down (in my darkest holes), And spilling out around my rough edges Like red war paint.
Meteor (Dedicated to my Grandpa) I have a hole in my chest Where you landed, A man who could speak more rhymes Than anyone I'd ever met. You made me believe I was special, A star in your galaxy, And you had me spinning Through space. You made me a daydreamer Because I was less afraid Of closing my eyes in the daylight Than having night terrors Where you were only a whisper Of the man I remembered. I remember that it rained that day, Because the atmosphere was going On strike against your absence In my life, But you were a ghostwriter On my mother's birthday, Painting a heart in the sky To remind her That it could be easily torn apart By the breeze And she needed to be more careful With carrying it on her sleeve. I think she buried a piece of it Under your tombstone When your body turned to ashes, But my mother is a gravedigger During the holidays, Bringing back up the old memories, Talking you down out of Black and white photographs. But to me, you were just Grandpa, I knew you as the man who loved Poetry and Charles Dickens But still had storage space In your heart For me. I didn't think I deserved to sit In your lap when I was the Young Grasshopper Of a poet, But you always encouraged me To break through walls 37
With new words and metaphors. My heart became the Ground Zero To the disaster of your sickness. It was a meteor bursting in slow motion And my mother Enveloped it into her womb. The matriarch of my earth Took in the broken shells, Collecting the ashes as keepsakes. But I only witnessed the aftermath, A shrapnel flying 2,000 miles away And telling me that poetry Would be the only way to Wedge out the lost time. I feel like I missed The sighting of something Earth shattering Because you left my family As a Pennsylvania reflection To the storm you'd created. I never hit words hard enough In my poetry to feel like I could ever wedge out the piece of you Stuck in my curved vertebrae, But I'm not sure I want to Because my heart is a burial ground Where I keep those I've loved and lost And there's a tombstone In the front with your name on it. I'm sorry I'm not the poet I should be, And Iâ€™m sorry I didnâ€™t get the chance To say goodbye, But I promise you, I'll dedicate every poem to you Until the day my own meteor Hits the ground, exploding. -Seraphine The Poet
Biographical Note: Helen Harrison
Helen Harrison was Born and raised on the Wirral, seven miles from Liverpool, by Irish parents, and has lived most of her adult life in the Irish countryside. ‘An ability to see the larger picture of life and a gratitude to nature is the launching place of her poems. She was recently awarded funding from ‘The Arts Council of Northern Ireland’, to study writing and poetry at ‘The Poets House’ Donegal; and gained inspiration and knowledge during the 7 day course. Helen has performed poetry at the Garage Theatre in Monaghan, and at Monaghan Arts Show. She has also performed at the ‘Bray Arts Show’ in Wicklow. Her poems have been published in the ‘Bray Journal’. She has read poetry on ‘The Creative Flow’ on Dundalk FM. Helen is a keen reader at Belfast’s ‘Purely Poetry ‘open mic event. She has poems on a blog. Blog address: poetry4on.blogspot.com and is named ‘words4thought’.
OINTMENT (Helen Harrison) The soil is too shallow for roots hands smell like damp clay an ointment. The shallow sombreness of cold weather people - whose only joy is pain in daily papers and news at six and nine; I sway but the earth is strong enough to hold me.
GLOBE (Helen Harrison) That reach is what I remember â€“ In a time that stretched like a distant ball of childhood clasped in both hands; A globe of time endless sunsets; The rapture of unreserved release. No trials to drag one down only team-mates and the ball; the occasional stumble of pain cured by the purgative power of play. In adulthood - the hour gets shorter; led like sheep to the slaughter; too many rules Deprived of time and its tools, They say - hardship keeps us on the ball, but these days I donâ€™t like it when I fall.
THE LAST FIRE (Helen Harrison) You gathered sticks to bathe the night with a fire, You were in your element smiling with watery eyes; happy sighs - as you bent. The next day your soul gathered over your cold body to be buried under sticks and clay...
THE EDGE (Helen Harrison) You smelled the lake before you saw the edge - aromas of a time before; you absorbed the tears of a broken Mother, while they put wet clay over your Father. Loosing yourself in a haze of puberty, in that barren land; you got lost in an advancing mist, but the ghost of your Father finds you now, leaning in, and whispering through the breeze; "you're not the first to suffer you can face adversity." Moved; to another time, another place, when you made paper boats; with your Dadâ€™s fragile breath - whispers of wonder, setting them free. You look to the sky and feel, you sense a different sphere and know - your Father was in his element when he was with you and water, on this land. Although much of him has faded You realize this, and fastens you to the earth - loneliness disappearing; drifting away from the edges.
THE LANE WHERE LOVE WAS LOST (Helen Harrison) The lane is lush with high banks Yet to be adorned with spring. New life will creep from the earth It whispers promise in the wind. I can smell it in the mossy soil After the rain that has left A shiny greenness which spreads A canopy to carpet the edges of paths; But what of the end and edge Of love that lived in the empty houses? The plastic vehicles of joy A bike, a scooter and toy tractors Amongst farming fields and hills. No rows among parents whose love Was peeled like the paint of the walls Of now; while un-treaded lawns here Lie rich in moss. The relics of once was; Still shows - in the faded glory of bungalows; Rotting, moulding timber and missing tiles, Which stole planned lives, hopes and smiles? Swallows will nest with no broom to knock Them down, but even the bird-song isnâ€™t as sweet Without the laughs of children.
Biographical Note: Chris Murray
Chris Murray is a City and Guilds Stone-cutter. Her poetry is published in Ropes Magazine, Crannóg Magazine, The Burning Bush Online Revival Meeting (Issue 1), Carty’s Poetry Journal, Caper Literary Journal , CanCan The Southword Journal (MLC)andthe Diversity Blog (PIWWC; PEN International Women Writer’s Committee). Her poem for three voices, Lament, was performed at the Béal festival in 2012. She has reviewed poetry for Post (Mater dei Institute),Poetry Ireland and Writing.ie. Chris writes a poetry blog called Poethead which is dedicated to the writing, editing and translation of women writers. She is a member of the International PEN Women Writer’s Committee, and the Social Media coordinator and Web-developer for Irish PEN.
1. she never fruited. at each moon a purple twisted mess of tubes and pulp seeped purple and red. She drained red on to their white bed.
bone jelly, tooth jelly heated with her own steam. This bed death, the moon drags their fruits from her. itâ€™s pulp he buried beneath the tree. it seeped itâ€™s red into the black soil, water and drought it is seeding the very earth, and on the boughs of the tree souls of apples grew, leafing.
2. she never fruited. her loins are become wasted gateways for little deaths. the white linens. the soft soft towels. her fruit bowls filled with soul windfalls bruising to brown. sway the cancerous blackberry stalks stinking on her bushes.
could not, she could not.
3. She could not eat the fruit from their trees. the disease of it, she watched him knife into the pulps, the remnants of purples. the stains on his cuffs, same as those upon the sheetsâ€™ edgings, no blue can steam it from the flax. 47
she never fruited for him,
her womb a mess of dead generations,
the tree in the garden mocked her with it’s death-hanging souls.
harpies swarm to the suicide tree where he had buried little deaths,
it’s saps run red as afterbirth, it’s leaf is copperbeech this tree
is up to it’s neck in little death, corvids, greybacks rotate round
it’s base, bill-plummeting scouring the soil pan for dark blood.
The tree sways on her capilliaries.
strip it away
when you strip everything away you are left with two tropes: the living tree of death is a copper-beech, and a bone tree which feeds the soul. it’s just a story.
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 some published success in UK , USA, Ireland in Anthologies, Magazines ,Ezines /Journals his blog can be found here: http://john-isleoftheharp.blogspot.ie/
Complete (John Jack Byrne) Joy in the rain smiles in the sun calm in the wind when our love begun Love in my heart the key to my dreams always to stroll In bright sunbeams Holding your hand compliments paid strengthening our love commitment made Together forever complete in our love under the night sky and stars above Voyage Sail on an ocean, to the edge of dreams you'll not find on any chart follow the river made of love and it's banks made of your heart Drift under a bridge of a lovers kiss and the colours inside her eyes enter the harbour of her embrace below clear and sunny skies Moor loves vessel in both your hearts and lower the sails of delight content that you have found true love on these waters of soft moonlight
BIRDS OF PREY (John Jack Byrne) I am the hawk whose cry you hear but I am not in sight from high above I swoop with speed to capture my food in flight I am he the golden eagle circling above the sun my eyes cut through morning haze at my prey who bolt and run I am the owl who hunts at night so silently I fly far away from my forest home to return before the sun is high I am the swift marsh harrier none more stealthy than I to catch my prey and eat them before they can utter a cry I am the highlands osprey hunting across the lakes swooping low upon the water big fish are all I take
Tanka  (John Jack Byrne) she was my fairy godmother above the thunder and she painted rainbows in the clouds when dreams had ended
The sea turtle migrates all over the ocean having no permanent homeâ€Ś how long before I find this lover I seek
fighting with the wind the sea is very angry this cold stormy night when you left me alone with our broken dreams
Biographical Note: Felino A. Soriano
Felino A. Soriano is a member of The Southern Collective Experience. He is the founding editor of the online endeavorsCounterexample Poetics and Of/with; in addition, he is a contributing editor for the online journal, Sugar Mule. His writing finds foundation in created coรถccurrences, predicated on his strong connection to various idioms of jazz music. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Anthology, and appears in various online and print publications, with recent poetry collections including Mathematics (Nostrovia! Poetry, 2014), Espials (Fowlpox Press, 2014), and watching what invents perception(WISH Publications, 2013). He lives in California with his wife and family and is a director of supported living and independent living programs providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities. Links to his published and forthcoming poems, books, interviews, images, etc. can be found at www.felinoasoriano.info.
Of hand (Felino Soriano) a trust feels its maneuver in vein, corridor connecting space and the purview of color and ongoing rhythms— grasp is the pulling notion, of hours and flame, a leaping synonym—though blind— continues the fundamental bend of nuance and ascertaining acclimation— flat, floating, this bringer of bridges, wing and wing-on the demanding space of collecting oscillating hankers, this flesh hasn’t a name of un-naming miracles, reacts to the focusing need of image and follower, purposing its presence in warmth and shade of callous’ interrelated healings
ambits and their melodies (Felino Soriano) i. gift? this bone of momentary silence, scarred bareness of rawness wrapping clarity of hands of happenstance’s fulcrum of accidental persuasions— around what moves me: watching what remembers me a laugh of cylindrical importance: flesh or the shadow calling interior, words and their numbing, numbered as to rejuvenate facts or their misleading personal affiliations (paid or projected the bodies do not bend and articulate what provides
sustenance) ii. take what labels your reflection (sense/it/?— elasticize-reshape it —confirm the theatre of notion does not delve into the fitting of your relative comprehension:not of intellect, here or or-here
and reroute the dimensional inaccuracy),
remove its lazy kaleidoscopic miscommunication,
iii. prayer of the prosodic acclimation, length 56
of the movement controls breath and the function of faith’s vertical believability; what in its causational spectrum pushes and responds pulses or rejuvenates, controlled catalyst escapes of hand and the oval silhouette representing continuous nearness of light in the covert spectrums of delineated interpretations
interior what rises also rinses speech from the prior rest’s analytical devotion:
effort in the guidance movement makes though/although a togetherness is absent from the body’s rejuvenating philosophy . . . __________ into what leads and lends voice, —morning advances into the meandering theory all moves unless the stone-belly, cold and sincere needn’t praise the voice of a within vernacular of inclusion, the fallacy finds what is faked 57
blends and believes its reflection opacity, pasting with a nuance of hands
burgeon which then bends from-away and the rhythms of find interrogates those unaltered by the revelation of experienceâ€™s naturalized devotions __________ this movement
often wails in
the manifestation of
waiting the altering of exteriors fades then renews the skin and subsequent exhales redraws and reinterprets diagrams insulating varied findings and freeing those within the capable theories and trusted manifestosâ€”
reminders of mapping these paths with a signed retrieval containing shapes of our names’ articulating syllables, here amid Y’s and altering W’s of oak arms spelling abstractions of notes meant to abbreviate the function of searching, a wind wears blur and shapes its meander into prosaic warming and spatial plans in the paralleling function this dichotomy of time punctured by the hand-rhythms each flock of dusk evokes in the graying of its illustrative delving
Of flute of this tonal meander shape then listen: such a handful of synchopated syllables tossed dust-lit/light, un,heavy and what fortune finds in the telling of a future’s analytic species this soldering of connected silhouetted silver, speckled stone-belly cool, speckled
into delineated range and its compositional 59
carrying of slim
each breath writes the body’s collaboration of dusks counting thus dividing what desires and contains, what rejuvenates in its rhythmic exhalations
Of piano as overheard through the wall of a silent discovery these murmurs-wrapped, dislocating logic’s analytical perjury ‘neath the upright stroll fingers rotate reconcile incorporate (ing) floral fragments (gifting) into palm-open welcome through whisper function clarity these miracles’ apparitions indent into style and the lean of a listener’s fabricated angular interpretation
out, sounding it pulses portend a breathing manifesto of what manipulates and encircles cultivates or implies— and the subsequent syllables leaving residue toward the ears’ interrelated functions of hear/heard—
then, the tongueâ€™s role never removes or blames from perspective of rejuvenated lyrics, the all of what spells motive sears and succors in the waiting for articulationâ€™s crawl-walk paradigm to insist and assist, whole in the functional aspect of conversational authenticity
Biographical Note: Strider Marcus Jones
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from England with deep Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales.A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical. When not writing, he can be heard playing his saxophone and clarinet (just ask his neighbours).
His poetry has been published most recently in The Screech Owl, Catweazle and The Gambler magazines; Vagabonds: Anthology Of The Mad, mgv2 Publishing Anthology, Killer Whale Journal, The Huffington Post USA and Writer’s Ezine.
Strider’s books: http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1
FALLEN LINTELS (Strider Marcus Jones) it was summertime with flowers colouring the pantomime in feudal fields as i walked on flat wheels with your humming bird in my head from the tropical warm of your bedwhere we bent the grass again and made the rain that doesn't come from clouds dampen skin rumpled shrouds. i watched your beauty glisten sweetly while i held you like Bernini before you went to work flaked in bark of silver birch naked chalice south and siren priestess mouth of pagan church. you were converting fussy ghosts and their sullen hosts from bribed tribes walking past without guidessome, so inverted and duped like shades with every ethic stooped labouring like quislings under Darwinist siblingsslowly drifting back to druid stones that serve us more than glorious domes, more equal in each equinox of chaos turning natures clock. i know, i ramble for reasons to make sense of changing seasonsand find none where i am oneonly fallen lintels on the floor like broken words that speak no more at sunrise and sunset remembering what we forget.
CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION (Strider Marcus Jones) voices make their choices in the gameto remain loyal, or abstain and stunt reputation for self gratification. get real profits of career soon heal the sacrifice of bold idealwhen the grey suits in the system say: preserving status quo, is the wisdom in this play. other tunes, are moments of famememorable then forgotten in the main stagnating stream of politics, where embedded institutions share the same out of tune, out of reach hot air balloon playing unmusical licks treading us down in the gravity of tribal tricks with ghost notes wearing uniforms of haved normality in the foreground and background with loaded guns inside and outside their tunic coatsready to suppress any massed intention of Bastille insurrection. you don't have the right to repeal my name, or make me think and do the same as you. your way, is extinctiononly seconds as time reckons, a philosophy founded on myths, twisted in technological trysts tuned to suit you.
SPANGLED IN MY CELTIC CROSS (Strider Marcus Jones) put your remark in the breach of my heart and reach to my head. make love to my core, in the land of my lore this saidin fields in summer in woods in the fallwith you, then me, under it allthe sensual cloud calling wild out loudthen bodies spent on the grass all bent talking in mulchey tones scenting tree bark and squelchy moss with pheromones. naked tall bones hiding in robes of silver birches, walk with random tribes of bluebells bringing us to pagan churcheswhere we leave offerings for mineral blessings on trickling rockslike hat bells and single socks. at the base, we looked up at Arthur or Merlin's face, trying to rewind and prime our supernatural clocks to that forgotten time we can't replace, but only got the echo of physical and mental mines under this surface. no more homes gather round the circle stonesno more druid dreads to connect our disconnected threads 65
up on Alderley Edgeand as we wandered back down to get on the train out of town, i felt my ear-ring while I was thinkingand found a ribbon of moss spangled in my celtic cross.
CONVICT CHAINS (Strider Marcus Jones) rich man and peasant understand coins change hand, despite the Magna Carta we must all barter to liveonly communists give nothing something sometimessame crimes. so, when reason rains, i drag my convict chains to the barrow bog and cut peat in feral fog where motives meet. six feet down, sucked back five thousand years the old town settlement appears in full formation of chattel, cattle and battle still at station preserved to serve. around the round late night fires, power plays and lust desires hearth home homogenous in Mars and Venus making love in animal skins wearing the same sins. on the long walk home, some alone and those together, believe never can be changed and are called strange.
TRAPPED IN MANUFACTURED TIME (Strider Marcus Jones) so lost schooledbut not a fool, stands in cold sunshine on golden heath where no kings rule and ancestors of cottons thief, make poor ends meet for dirty dimetrapped in manufactured time. he sits and fits in the shadows of its shades and lines on Cribden hillwhere clouds spill like wire brillowed blinds, imagining a wintered witch composing pagan spells and rhymes with bones like martyred blades, whose burned marrow curses industrialists and tokened slavesto believe a full purse is how life measures made. the trees are gone, and wandering tribes, who worked and gathered everything as onenow live down in gas warmed hives, in settled serfdom's truths and lies.
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!
December’s 2014’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
One of the alleycats has high fantasy novel series coming out. The Legend of Graymyrh is in the veins of Eddings, Jordan etc and well worth a read. 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 Byrnes
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 some published success in UK , USA, Ireland in Anthologies, Magazines ,Ezines /Journals his blog can be found here: http://johnisleoftheharp.blogspot.ie/
Deep in my heart by John Jack Byrne
Autumn by John Jack Byrne
Again These by John Jack Byrne
Autumn Moon by John Jack Byrne
Book One in an Experimental High Fantasy series. Blood and Ashes is a story of migration, magic and mythology. Part coming of age, part fairy tale, and with a uniquely dark humour, this novel explores the role of traditional hero figures, finds them wanting and demands that they do better!
Biographical Note: Peter Oâ€™Neill
Kyle Hemmings's artwork has been featured in The Stray Branch, Euphenism, Otioliths, Uppagus, and Stink Waves. He loves 50s SciFi movies, manga comics, and pre-punk garage bands of the 60s. He blogs at http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/
Bribes (Peter O’Neill) Bribes = un pot-de-vin Une bribe = a piece, a snippet Ecrire: ‘essayer méticleusement de retenir quelque chose précises au vide qui se creuse, laisser, quelque part, un sillon, une trace, un marquee ou quelques-signes.’ George Perec – Espece d’espaces
Return to the text, tout bas des bribes This was the first one which came to mind. The words well known, having been gone over like some old ground. The terrain. Jump in again, with the bodies, the mud. The snippets... Je le dit comme elle vient I say it my life as it comes She announced in the elle such a feminine form first visual struck by the vowels at both ends holding the long-legged lls in place see her striding across the page see her enjambment She’ll be coming down the mountains when elle sort dans la boue
LOOK TO SKY MOUNTAIN SEE HER THERE HER PRESENCE LIKE A GOD OR THUNDER ABOVE THE LIGHTNING A SIGN FOR US ALL TO COME BELOW MEN RUNNING AND THE GIANTS SOME STILL ROLLING AROUND IN THEIR OWN SHIT SHE GOT THEM UP STILL AT IT HOW MANY WOMEN YOU’VE MET WHO WERE MORE MEN THAN MEN THEY ARE COMING REACHING OUT TO YOU YOUR HAND IS OBSCURING THEM CAN’T SEE DOESN’T MEAN THEY’RE NOT THERE Her voice then too in it all her mesmeriser the accent American English or French the register or tone pitch perfect She could do anyone She then a slippery one full of fun now watch her go down like the sun Her foot was steadied there, above his head like that, he staring at it, and at times out the window of some bog-standard house, while this incredible event was taking place. Sometimes, for a laugh, she would do these impressions of Shakespeare
“Whether’ tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, And by opposing end them.” That was sure to get a laugh out of him... But, as for that other elle sort de la boue it comes out in the mud you would need a diviner to fathom her words the signs at least one come down from the mountains as if hermetic 78
of that tradition all of humanity abandoning there was one like that once way before that other you can still discern his words murmuring just above the mud below the gentle belly of the clouds bellicose falling like fire his words erupting in the mind like thunder
He held the phone in his hand. Had he heard her right? There was this impossible silence now. It seemed to endure forever. Had he heard her right? “I’m sorry,” he heard himself say, “What did you say?” And then he waited, with dread, for her to answer.
She repeated what she had to say to him. So, it was true then. He had heard her correctly. He was stunned. Literally, quite speechless. Her words, carefully inscribed into the mouthpiece, had finally been overheard in the receiver which he was pressing closely to his ear. Their sense imploded inside his mind, and their effect on him was as violent as the impact of a bullet. He felt every part of him go limp. As if paralysed, he then overcome with fear. His self, or more his sense of himself, right up to that moment had been all unifying. As snugly harnessed as the first person. The one. “ I ” – before it too had been undone. He de-con-structed.(Are you at ease with post-modernity?) It was no good. She was still on the other line waiting for him to respond. He could tell that she was with him, whoever he was. Whosoever it happened to be. And how he must be loving it, he thought to himself. Hadn’t he been in that position too. On top of the world. He had to hang up. Let her go. He couldn’t go on like this. He mumbled something about how embarrassing it must be for her, what a laugh, and said goodbye to her, and he had hung up. But he knew that he had not fooled her. She had never heard him like this, or perhaps just once or twice, but a glimpse mind. Nothing to the full extent of this. Why it was as if she had completely broken him. With her mere words! Those mere phonemes whistling through the air, into his ear. Bang! You dead. The person before you just as good as gone. As if he or she had never been. Disappeared then. Never to appear again. Erased by words. Flesh and blood. And lots and lots of water. And air. Ppff! Like magic. Gone! Good riddance. Never to be seen again...
The giants rolled and rolled together in the mud. He had seen her and had marked her out. Finally cornering her with his companion, who had been accompanying him. He was with another too. It was safer out walking in pairs. You never knew what could happen. A saber- tooth could come jumping out at any moment and just tear you limb from limb. At least in pairs you had some chance.
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.
Published on Dec 4, 2014
The December issue featuring the works of Michael Mc Aloran, Byron Beynon, Orlaith Mc Caherty, Richard W. Halperin, Amy Huffman, John Jack B...