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ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of Irsa Ruci, Dah, Maire Liberace, Noel King, Oonah V Joslin, Gareth Culshaw, Christopher McKenna, Patricia Walsh, Vincent S. Coster, Gordon Ferris, Temple Green, Byron Beynon, Mark Young, KoyeLadele Mofehintoluwa, Ken Pobo and Amy Barry. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 44 May 2016

A New Ulster On the Wall Website

Editor: Amos Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents


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Irsa Ruci; 1. A Place Within the Hearts 2. How I could have known? 3. Being’s will power Dah; 1. Omnipotent Thoughts 2. Everything Would Be What It Isn’t 3. Little Fingers, Stitching 4. To Say Goodbye Means Forgetting 5. Wake Love With A Kiss Maire Liberace; 1. Pan’s Rocks 2. Reverie Noel King; 1. Drunken Revelry 2. Woman in a Kitchen 3. Exams 4. Fart 5. Mercy Mountainhawk Oonah V Joslin; 1. The Green and The Grey 2. Money Can’t Buy Me 3. So Natural Gareth Culshaw; 1. Baccy User 2. Private Land! 3. The Gull Patricia Walsh; 1. The Secret Middle Age 2. Bloodflower 3. A Proper Job 4. Man on PCP Gouges Own Eyes Out 2

Vincent S. Coster; 1. The Fresh Water Pool In Enniskerry Gordon Ferris; 1. Unease Colm Fahy 1. In the womb of the sea 2. Palestine 3. Dusk at the Sound 4. This Day to listen Byron Beynon; 1. Kidwelly and Gower 2. Tintern Abbey 3. The Church at Collioure 4. The Town of Collioure Mark Young; 1. Chinese Whispers 2. Dead Lecturer 3. A Line from Arthur Ransome 4. The Jagged Crown 5. The / last sign / of mounting confrontation 6. Urban transit Koye-Ladele Mofehintoluwa; 1. I Wish Heaven Falls 2. Natural Resources 3. Cross Examination 4. Extentialist Hell 5. Moreni Ken Pobo; 1. Wandawoowoo Says No 2. Wandawoowoo Says Maybe 3. Wandwoowoo And The Professor 4. It’s Us 5. Yellow Buddleia


On The Wall Message from the Alleycats

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Round the Back


Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: 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: 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 “Water Lilly� by Amy Barry


“We know what we are, but know not what we may be ” Shakespeare. Editorial You never know where your journey will take you I never thought that I would ever be an editor of a literary magazine especially a monthly based one which has such a global following. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without your support and I hope to keep delivering a service for new and established writers. We bring to you an issue full of poetry and prose presenting a slice of verse and voices from around the world. Each issue continues to amaze me with the talent that is out there. Of course A New Ulster wouldn’t be what it is without the poets and artists who submit their work each month and this issue features some very strong material as well as some first time writers we also have some established names for you. We have prose and traditional poetry formats for you to explore I am just a gatekeeper and today the door is open once more. Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity! Amos Greig


Biographical Note: Irsa Ruci

Irsa Ruci is an Albanian writer who works at the Office of the Prime Minister of Albania and is also Lecturer at University of Tirana his books include Trokas mbi ajer (poems and essays), 2008 and Peshjellim (poetry) 2010, his work has also featured in the following anthologies Antologji, 2007, I kërkoj agimit vesën, 2008, Antologji poetike “kushtuar dashurisë”, 2014, Antologji poetike “udha”, 2014, Antologji poetike, 2014, “Malli dhe brenga nga distancat”, 2014, Antologji poetike “qyteti”, 2014, Porta e fshehtë e një gruaje, 2015, Sling Magazine, Issue 5, Ann Arbor Review, Issue 15, Poeteca Magazine, Issue 35 and Aquillrelle Anthology, 2015, etc.


A place within the hearts I have learned that somewhere is a place Where words cut wisely the queue, like beads Which permeate the thread. A place which carries only the big hearts Which relish the love like angels the heaven The seasons are not afraid to naturally come and the air is conveyed as breath, ensouls the eternity in journalists’ lines are only poems and the war is a were distant thought. I want a place where people die for ideals And live in the myth of the generations to come While the years challenge theirselves, but not the time The humans move away from perfection, but know how to forgive. Tears weigh on the eye, everywhere with the some pain One ray lightens the universe I need to believe that there are still human beings Following the virtue… Let me hope that there is some place Where the human is willing to act as HUMAN… And let this be an unreturned dream!

© Irsa Ruçi

(Translated by Silva Daci)


How I could have known? How could I have known That you created love out of dreams Which belonged to the birds’ nests up in the infinite skies? You brought spring with your eyes, with your breath you springed the trees Your words were manly silence While prayers for life explode like a volcano in the heart From which feelings are conveyed like songs In that ritual of angels where eloquency was held with sights. You kept love like the mornings the light, with your soul’s sun you Warmed my lines You turned my rhymes into storms, metaphors build dialogues Like the look in your eye betrayed from the flowers Poets betrayed between the stanzas! The man’s heart is measured with the frailty of his child His weakness, inspiration in the insemination of the women While he find strength in himself Deeply in him, where all his beloved are made in one The son of a mother The brother of a sister The husband of a wife The father of a daughter The grandfa of a niece … and life repeating itself all over again. How could I have known That you love was god-like divinity? © Irsa Ruçi

(Translated by Silva Daci)


Being’s will power There will always be someone envying you And the rancour of his poor self-cast at you To throw dirt over the image that he projected to have But couldn’t… Be patient and forgive Let the silence speak, the will beyond you will judge. There will always be someone to betray you Lost in the insolence of the consciousness Will ask for shelter in your own kindness… Forget and give compassion, Only a heart like that how painful it is the emptiness And in what kind of darkness lives each day. There will always be that the evil of spirit imposes on you Without finding reconciliation in the vileness that he vomits In cynicism will succumb to the urge of time. Avoid and give understanding For small people, love is a great word! But, there will always be someone to give magic to your life So, don’t anguish; there is always someone behind you From where you could see the reflection of your eyes. © Irsa Ruçi

(Translated by Silva Daci)


Biographical Note: Dah

Dah’s fourth book is ‘The Translator’ from ‘Transcendent Zero Press’. His first three books are from ‘Stillpoint Books’. Dah’s poetry has been published by editors from the U.S., the U.K., Ireland, Canada, China, Philippines, and India. His poems recently appeared in Lost Coast Review, The Recusant, Acumen Journal, Sandy River Review, Black Market Re-View, The Linnet’s Wings, Harbinger Asylum, The Galway Review and The Canon’s Mouth. Dah lives in Berkeley, California where he is working on the manuscripts for his fifth and sixth books. Visit:


Omnipotent Thoughts (Dah) Every pain, every sorrow hurts in the same language just as memories decay and blacken Transmuted spasms

Life is a creature we piece together effort by effort it cramps with uneasiness pulls apart in waking dreams

I shuffle forward dragging one foot piecing the future in place Hope, a mute Gothic light is the son of Victor

Existence uses me up keeping itself alive a summit of dread ready to avalanche A bellowing isolation

Sadness is its own ignorance melancholy, its faithless mind Failure, the monster built from damaged thoughts Shrieking grim clouds

Destiny’s force can be a galvanized destruction Lightening striking down wishes for normalcy Mary was too young to realize


using good and evil parts creating life from death was beautiful and monstrous Laboriously I flounder Frankenstein taking form


Everything Would Be What It Isn’t (Dah)

I lie down picturing the evening inside my eyes the drawn closure of sun a large howl of light Sunken sky’s leaning darkness The shimmering dew is a thin tablecloth with opaque crystals The birds evening departure I may be Alice surrounded by an unsteady wind’s mood expressions of eyes, silhouettes in grains of soil The moon’s leisurely bathing Something moves in the brush a thin sniff, a scratch that strikes like a wheeze a trembling grin A lone mushroom’s rusty red If I were Alice under this cool pressure of awe the fountain would be crooning torch songs This lamenting fading day From a damp clump a rush of mosquitoes rising are helplessly swept away by a brotherhood of bats Wings of deep capes Guided by the hand of silence Alice comes to the shadows the seeds to all things light cannot find A dove coos a blue raindrop


Little Fingers, Stitching (Dah) In a late night bash Luna shines sunflower full in wrappings of floating air No birds pressing the sky A moon like this makes darkness sparkle makes mushroom umbrellas open Little naked elves appear silent as sticks An icy breeze trembles Its compass needle seeking cold north Flowing leaves are souls gathering speed I lean forward looking at a shoeless self bare feet’s white sails floating over the grass If I were a shoemaker’s child at midnight the eager elves would come, pull a lever cut a sole and a pair of shoes would grow from earth But at this moment I’m barefoot as slippery gnomes the hour charging with sleep Dreaming is where I live as if my life is without one loose stitch


To Say Goodbye Means Forgetting (Dah) As silhouettes everyone wants us to come out from hiding They want us to grow up in bridles of light leaving our shadows behind If I could make them see the one’s who fall apart have forgotten their shadows and forever look for things they can’t find When I close my eyes I’m the lucky one I’m youth, I’m joy What more could there be My last childhood was charmed with pixie dust a lamp burning hand-puppets on the walls They were all skipping about If only I had wished harder when I felt I could fly It rarely happens that I really see myself An inner-voice pushes me to invoke Never Never Land but the magic is thinning growing old To die will be a big adventure


Wake Love With A Kiss (Dah) The wind rushes a grueling stampede rain so dense the air’s glass is saturated Shadows entombed in mud Resembling a witch’s mouth a thicket of blackberries eats the fence I avoid their lethal bite Dim light darkens its hiding place Along a path, wild pink roses tighten their brier Running to reach the house slipping, my hand plows the roses Burning prick in my thumb Lying on the sofa wound beating with pain I fall into pitiful sleep dreaming I’m a Brier-Rose The storm’s spillover spatters To keep me sleeping a hundred years the thorn-hedge comes alive with great evilness to block others from waking me Pigeons on the roof sniggering I’m lying here beautifully still He can’t turn his eyes away the one who adores me Sniffs, licks, whiskers on my face, purr My eyes open to true love


Biographical Note: Maire Liberace

Maire Keena Liberace was born in Dublin, lived in Mountmellick and has spent almost every summer in Murlough and Ballycastle. Summer months with her McCarry and Hunter cousins in Murlough gave her a lasting love for the sea, the wonderful, wild, and untouched landscape of the area, and the people of North Antrim. These images and feelings she has captured in her poetry. Her passion love of Irish History and mythology and her Dublin life influence are sources of inspiration for her writing. She currently lives in New York where she is a Professor of Philosophy and Speech. She has a Distinguished Service Professorship from the (State University of New York) SUNY Board of Trustees and is a member of the SUNY Distinguished Academy. She has published poetry in several texts and anthologies and has written procedural manuals for business and industry. She is the author of “The Ethics of Organizations: A Mandate for Management” and the editor of “The Life, Career. Educational Planning “ textbook.


PAN’S ROCKS (Maire Liberace) This is my rock I know its cracks and crevices, have scoured my body on its cratered surface summer seasons into fall. My fingers have explored the stagnant pools garnered in the indentations no bigger than a hand hollow. Cracked shells, seagull’s legacy, fleck oyster blue, pearl white, the rounded top bared uncounted centuries to the sudden sea storms, blowing sand, the sheets of driving rain swinging in around Kenban coating the multi-layered striations with a glistening sheath until renascent sun glints the opaled quartz. Settled sheltered leeward I watch the tossing gray-green turbulence reflecting rain-expectant skies, strands of tatted mermaids’ hair tossed up careless lie abandoned on the brown-gold sand fringed with driftwood, tattered kelp, discarded shells decorated with a frieze of delicate foam until the fingers of a daring wave reach out and fold around sweeping them into the depths. No longer visible in the gathering mist far distant Rachery, Islay and the ull I know only by their mournful horns muffled bass echoes warning of submerged danger, shark-toothed shoals. Alone yet not lonely I am rooted in time past, Mist settles on my face Crystal beading on my hair and jacket. Wheeling in, one lone curlew breaks into a slow earthward glide 19

breath held, I watch warily, he lands, shake-folds his wings and takes possession of the topmost ledge.


REVERIE (Maire Liberace) Drifting backward behind closed lids My mind hears the cadence of a voice Recreating old images and scenes With melodic intonation‌ I feel my feet, bare against the summer heat Squelch through bog-brown water Running into Coolalough, Scuff dust along meandering lanes Edged with rampant grasses Fuschia in full red bloom, Until I reach the rise above Glenshesk, Glentasie and Glendun. Scrambling down the plantin’ To the bay at Murlough Turning deep into the cool Of shimmering sand and Waves licking the rocky edge. The taste of fresh-picked blackberries Purpling the face and hands The earthy smell of mushrooms Picked at dusk or early dawn. The cool green marble of the altar rail The cold worn flagstones of the floor The musky, damp-sodden smell of winter The endless mist around Knocklayde. The sound of murmured prayers A child wriggling on the abrasive surface Of a black horsehair couch Sliding down the overstuffing To touch the centuries-worn tiles.


Biographical Note: Noel King Noel King was born and lives in Tralee, Co Kerry. In this his 50th year, he has reached his 1000th publication of a poem, haiku or short story in magazines and journals in thirty-eight countries. His poetry collections are published by Salmon:Prophesying the Past, (2010), The Stern Wave (2013) and Sons (2015). He has edited more than fifty books of work by others and was poetry editor of Revival Literary Journal (Limerick Writers’ Centre) in 2012/13. A short story collection,The Key Signature & Other Stories will be published by Liberties Press in 2017.


Drunken Revelry Pickings (Noel King)

Discarded bluebell flowers lie on the carpet the morning after, their fragrant juices pressed into the deep pile.


Women in a Kitchen (Noel King)

His wife bursts fire-lighter sticks with rubber gloves, scatters them on crumpled newspaper she lights with a flick.

His mother loosens the grip on her teacup, rearranges her cardigan, scrapes her chair nearer the fire, waits for the heat; still mumbling: In my day....why in my day… it was hard labour, no fancy contraptions for lightin’ fires.

The daughter-in-law has learned to ignore, and ’though she feels like poisoning the broth some days, knows what she took on, will be patient. Patient.


Exams (Noel King) Stepping stone stepping stone stone step step The exam invigilator walks Clickedy click clickedy click up down up down down up the classroom. glaring at the young woman whom he is not certain is really incontinent (at her age), he wonders if the rules enable him to order her leave her mobile phone behind, not needing that to pee her fourth pee this time. Squick sqauck squick squack he is furious at himself for not wearing a quieter pair of shoes. The girl in the blue cap has breasts that spill over onto the desk in front of her. A young chap from Dundalk scratches his arse all the time and daydreams. The geeky ones are un-noticeable heads down, they’ve been studying all year next year they’ll begin to rot in a bank or be operating a factory machine Still, the invigilator doesn’t care, he’ll get his pay, he’ll get his pay and write this poem


Fart (Noel King)

Lots of wine peanuts too it escapes thankfully I am on my own


Mercy Mounthawk (Noel King)

The Special Needs Assistant wonders what happens when this child goes home

the child christened, Gift who sits all day in class maybe taking nothing maybe taking something in.


Biographical Note: Oonah V Joslin

Oonah V Joslin – Writer and former Managing Editor of Every Day Poets


The Green and The Grey (Oonah V Joslin)

Light has increased and the birds sing again I feel the difference surging through my brain it's how we're meant to be – natural mammals at one with the animal kingdom – smells of earth, sap rising green bursting from the bough feeling the urgency of now now now we come to life again, refreshed, renewed even we older folk -- unleashed, unglued from winter's grip, watch lambs new born and say when I was young… I remember the day and that first kiss and how we fell in love the world before us, the spring sun above, the flowering of wishes hopes and dreams just yesterday – at least that's how it seems. Light pokes in corners dark and full of dust lights up moats of dead skin in its bright rays I hate to clean but sometime soon I must my mother'd call this house a damned disgrace. It's easy in the winter not to look, the darkness helps us turn a lazy eye. We curl up on the sofa, read a book closed up inside. It seems so natural to hide away, slow down and hibernate abandoned to the darkness of our fate. But comes the day the sunshine penetrates our dirty windows, our neglected grates and when our sluggish hearts warm to the sun we'll shift our bones -- get some spring cleaning done.


Money Can't Buy Me (Oonah V Joslin)

Change please change small change please change just one thing change just one thing today What difference can one small change make? To climate change? Some small change to our lot? Lottery wins do not consist of small change but of great big wads of cash enough to make a bank balance on its head, spin a bit and say thank-you. Change? No thank-you. Don't want change don't want any change. I want the impossible change. Stability.


So natural (Oonah V Joslin)

There's naked and there's naked and the sky takes off her cloth of cloud and lets us see her blue and black, and stars in her own light show cabaret, swirling round the pole, like it's nothing, exposed but for a chiffon strip shifting solar winds like a veil. There's naked and there's naked and there's the baby at the breast who doesn't yet know naked except to suckle and squirm, lie in the buff, legs kicking wide, like it's nothing, bare bottomed to a stranger's view. Clothing is a faze we go through. There's naked and there's naked and there were those girls who didn't mind striding across the changing room, displaying their bits, tits and all chatting as if it was nothing. I cringed and blushed at their poor taste long before my breasts reached my waist. There's naked and there's naked and I wish I could be like the tree, more elegant as seasons change, shedding her leaves like it's nothing to be stripped bare to bark and branch, posing in the park, showing off her form, nudity her true self. There's naked and there's naked and the tarot of the soul to read: 31

the Empress, Universe, the Wheel, Heirophant, pentacles, cups, wands swords follow suit like it's nothing. Tell that to the hanged man. Tell him Death is the only naked truth.


Biographical Note: Gareth Culshaw

Gareth lives in North Wales, and is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen.


BACCY USER (Gareth Culshaw)

He is a labourer of tobacco, margarine coloured finger tips rotting apple brown skin. Lungs struggling to inflate, or breath, though one day may fail to take him out;

But he is happy with his rolled fag and a pint that keeps the engine chugging. Froth sits on his top lip from the swell of beer coming in like the tide.

Glug! Glug! Glug! Adams apple bouncing in his throat, a buoy on a wave. Stubble, dog paw rough.

Then he sits on the unstable bar stool sipping, smoking, labouring baccy.


PRIVATE LAND! (Gareth Culshaw)

They hang them on a fence, the dirty linen of nature. Picked up along the way and placed for everyone to see.

The front paws are tied, clasped together in prayer. Tails wag-less, pointing down, mud and blood discolours the fur

there is no orange light left in these. Mouths are half closed, from their last words, that will echo into the night like owl hoots.

They will attract flies in the morning and maggots will wriggle through each and every sinew. They are hung for others to see

so know one enters these fields of ours. Maybe we should start putting up traffic lights and warning signs on the tracks.


Direct their instincts, push them further into the side streets, like the tramps and alcoholics we turn our nose up, our very own kind.


THE GULL (Gareth Culshaw) Tomorrow does not exist for me I'm a wanderer of the above, a cloud surfer, a wind passenger.

I see the grey below, chase the smells. I believe I can fly forever, between landfill and amenity. Pecking at disposed waste all day long snapping at mouldy bread, pinching meat before gulping rotten bin waste too; The journey to there and back is only a mile, same lines, same paths until the night. You have made me and keep me going.

When my instincts have told me enough is enough and my stomach will try to melt down plastic. I will then shit polystyrene, creating snow from my behind. I will blame you for that as you made me like this, thank you humans!


Biographical Note: Patricia Walsh Patricia was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland, and was educated in University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology in 2000. Previously she had published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications n 2010, and has since been published in a variety of print and online journals. These include: The Fractured Nuance; Revival Magazine; Ink Sweat and Tears;

Drunk Monkeys; Hesterglock Press; Linnet's Wing, Narrator International, and The Evening Echo, a local Cork newspaper with a wide circulation. Patricia was the featured artist for June 2015 in the Rain Party Disaster Journal. In addition, She has also published a novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014.


The Secret Middle Age (Patricia Walsh) Civilised enough to know any better A round of applause for being myself Sinking drinks with impunity No excuses in procrastinating in mid-air. Mastered the milestones, par for the course Kissing frogs for princes, as is wont. Castellation ha a point in such matters Happpiness therein obviates the lie. Watching out for applause, though it crushes me Spoilt by praise or constructed by criticism I know what to choose, bedroom or bedlam Not sleepwalking through life, a better citizen. This is the end of hidden agendas, voicing Identifying tattoos on deeper skin. Peeling beauty from a better life Stringently cutting back on necessities. A lonely profession this is. Best worked around a city of people Buffering solitude, a place of stones Overhead noise filling the plots. Taking pictures that will last forever Who am I to bitch about the word count At this time of life, a less serious exercise Taken on trust to befriend what’s important?


Bloodflower (Patricia Walsh) Excavating a common purpose, rejoice as it may Accountants’ questions pierce the dust Of my passing, nearer now than ever Not overly sympathetic over my death. Urban massacre, cutting the apron strings Of a too-familiar voice, calling me home After the flood I call up on a misdemeanour Exiled to other bars, sipping on my own. The kindness of place has more to offer Than a single bed, teeming with fantasy. Some imaginative strictures dot the walls A childish remembrance of paper and crayon. Hungry for a moment’s peace, flying Over a very long war overhead Cracking over a massacre becoming Eating and sleeping well paramount.


A Proper Job (Patricia Walsh) A cavern of fingers holds my hand Stanching suicide from my swollen wrist. It is not the satisfaction of dying But the hereafter that upsets matters. Borrowed drinks have a lot to answer for. Not allowed to touch the cufflinks supreme Blowing smoke at regular intervals Casting insults into the river, for spite. Procrastinating finality, always going out To see the scene wrecked for itself. Some burning reality never passes muster Retribution while walking on the quays. An emergency call stalls the rot Suffered while socialising, that’s all bad. Producing witnesses to the situation, even worse Than letting it slide, tearful recollections. Kissing a mutual enemy, broadcast on the noise To make me pay for the deed not undone. Barren imagination never lets know what happened Unless to explode the myth of collection.


Man on PCP Gouges Own Eyes Out (Patricia Walsh) Learning forever from his mistake Too late to exercise caution Some strength exhibited closely. I’m sure it’s happened before The soldiering beyond experience Regretting the break of dawn For what he deserved better. Patted on head regarding difference It’ll put hairs on his chest, as advised You will be like goes With knowledge of good and evil. Playing footsie with the dogs, a guiding light Takes you where he does not want to go A death by which he glorifies the Lord If an eye offends, cast it out. Girding loins is a lost cause Where liberated, character building too. A much better person by the very end Addicted to experience, in your own room. Selling homes, a revival worth forgetting Brick upon brick of his failing sight. Some say he’s a fool, suffering needlessly But all in good time, he’ll adjust.


Biographical Note: Vincent S Coster Vincent S. Coster is an Irish-born poet, who now lives in the UK where he juggles his writing with being a stay at home dad, and home educator.

He began writing poetry as a way of venting the frustrations of being an outsider in a small rural village in Ireland when he was twelve, but it wasn’t until he was nineteen that he decided to take up the vocation of poetry as a serious craft.

Since then he has tirelessly worked on developing his poetic voice with a determination to take up the mantle as the ''Poetic Oracle of his nation,'' and sees himself as the heir apparent to Seamus Heaney in the line of great Irish poets stretching back to WB Yeats. His main style is the loose free form lyrical poetry which was used to great effect by Seamus Heaney, and like Heaney and Kavanagh he tries to tell the story of the Irish people from the perspective not of that nation's struggles but from that of the individual and parochial. But he has not shied away from looking at the struggles of humanity, from child soldiers to the struggles of migrants.

He has published five collections of poetry, and a pamphlet of gothic poetry.



Hidden in the Bogmeadow There was a spring Which broke out through The dark beautiful clay Of the Wicklow hill

Trickling and bubbling In its own secret chatter Among tall grass It formed a pool of clear and Cold- fresh water Crystalline and always dazzling

As a child it filled me With the utmost wonder How good was the water held In hand by the scoopfuls and sipped With satisfaction!

How it broke through barriers From the corporeal and tangible Reality 44

Into the web-net of my dreams

That pool became to me From the moment I first saw it As a child The source of all mysterious waters That filled my head when sleeping


Biographical Note: Gordon Ferris Gordon Ferris, is a fifty eight Dublin man living in Ballyshannon. Co Donegal. He has had two stories and some poetry printed in issue 41 and 43 of A New Ulster magazine.


UNESE. By Gordon Ferris.

The day started early for Dougie, he went to bed at two or three, and was back up, six hours later at eight that morning. This was a good night’s sleep for him, as he usually just slept for three or four hours straight. He worked in the bar game, doing long unsocial hours in a busy city centre pub getting home late, wired up and unable to sleep for ages when he got home. It was good to come down to a nice peaceful kitchen with the summer sun bursting through the horizontal gap in the plastic curtains forming three straight rays of light like a Jedi knights sword. You could hear the wind gently rustling through the bushes outside. There was no double-glazing or soundproofing in the corporation houses of Dublin suburbia in those days. When he pulled back the curtains, you could see the dance of the wind on the leaves outside, nature’s harmony. The peace and harmony didn’t last long though, he had just got a cup of tea poured when he heard the shuffling of feet from his two boys room, moving quietly about the room trying not to disturb there Grandfather who slept in the room next to them. You could hear there faint whispering voices as they sneaked down the stairs, probably trying to figure out who was present downstairs, their Grandfather or Father.


Dougie got up from the kitchen table, went to the door and told them to come in, they needed no encouragement ,the youngest son Kevin brushed in passed him, permanent grin on his face, blond hair all over the place. His older brother Francis, more serous face beneath darker blond, almost brown hair, sauntered into the room with sleep still in his eyes, “ an tin to eat there” he said, in a strong Donegal brogue making a beeline for the fridge. “Is that all you ever think about, you never stop eating, do ye? Kevin said jokingly. Breakfast of boiled eggs and toast, that’s all he could be bothered making, for handiness sake, the boys were jovial with most of the talking being done by Kevin, with wrestling being the topic of the day, tomorrow it could be some pop star or some idiot film stars hair style. Granddad was starting to move around upstairs. Out to the bathroom first where he had the three S’s, a shave a shite and a shower, the bathroom would be uninhabitable for at least a half on hour .Then back to the bedroom where he would spend ages getting dressed. This was the routine for as long as Dougie could remember. His dad was always very proud of his appearance, immaculately ironed shirts, perfect crease in the slacks, and shoes you could see your image in, everything coordinated. Now you might be wondering what two Donegal boys would be doing staying with there father in the house of there grandfather. Well the answer is simple. They don’t!. The two youngest sons of Dougie were living with there Mother in Donegal at the time and were visiting him for a week during there summer break from school. He had not seen much of his two youngest boys since the break up of there marriage and


wanted to spend some time with them alone. He was seeing quite a bit of the older son and daughter, they were both old enough to travel unaccompanied at that time. In fact, the first born and only daughter had recently decided to leave her Donegal home, come, and live with him. He had formulated a plan of action in his mind for the day ahead; it was simply to take them both out on the bus or train to the seaside, to show them some of the places where his parents took him as a child. He had often described to them those crammed journeys with what seemed like the whole of Dublin having the same idea, crushed and excited in there seats with hampers of ham and cheese sandwiches and warm minerals on there knees. Then eating them on the beach where every bite left a ring of sand on there mouths. The Grandfathers entrance in navy slacks with belly protruding, straining the buttons on his pink shirt, the only person he knew who wouldn’t have his masculinity questioned by wearing pink. His presence alone had the effect of dominating the kitchen immeadeatly. ‘Is that all your feeding those boys, the fridge is full to the brim as you well know, could you not do them a fry’. He said in a jeering voice, opening the door of the fridge, ’ That’s all they wanted, its more then they normally have before they go to school in the morning anyway’. Dougie sheepishly said trying to avoid one of his lectures, he would have preferred to be beaten, then to be lectured at by him. He poured himself a cup of the by now stewed tea and sat down between the two boys asking what they were going to do for the day. This was the question Dougie were hoping to avoid, no point in getting upset about it now Dougie thought, he is going to take over proceedings now, and we will have to go along with it. “We were going to get the train out to Howth or somewhere like that”, he said, knowing 49

exactly what the reply was going to be. “No point in you spending good money on train fare when I can drive you wherever you want to go.” he replied, knowingly. The table cleared, dishes put into the dishwasher, windows and doors locked, can’t be too careful, was remarked by somebody and they were on there way. The car they bundled into was Granddads green Volkswagen golf. Dougie seated beside his dad and his two sons sitting quietly in the back. Three generations of the twentieth century out for the day in the twenty first. They drove out to Howth, for the first few minutes of the drive the atmosphere was very subdued, Dougie was feeling annoyed with himself for letting his father manipulate the situation, and not insisting on carrying out the plans he had made for the day. He was feeling weak and worried about how his children would feel about him, he was missing the natural bond that evolves between father and son, he was with them until there teenage years, and then, foolish circumstances took it all away. He saw the reflected image of the two smiling boys in the rear view mirror and he snapped out of the mood. When they got to Howth, they made there way to The Head where the view was breathtaking. You could see Bray head and Dalkey across the bay, and in the distance, the Wicklow Mountains were visible. The sea appeared deceptively calm with the different shades of dark and light green, there beauty hiding strong currents beneath the surface, the sun putting a smooth shine over the surface. There were no waves just the odd white ripple disturbing the green silken sea as if a wave was about to form and changed its mind. The rest off the day, they spent having a short walk/drive around parts of the path circling the coast at Howth, looking at the birds nesting along the cliffs. They got a short history of the area from the grandfather, 50

which surprised Dougie. While looking at Irelands Eye, a very small uninhabited island jutting out of the sea with a few smaller rocks at the side one of which is called Maidens Rock, when asked where the name came from they were told of an incidence from the past where a group of young women lost there lives while collecting seaweed. To avoid the rush hour traffic they went for a meal in a small fish restaurant attached to a pub on the promenade where by this time the humour was lifted, evident by the jovial playacting of the two boys throwing peas across the table at each other trying to catch them in each others mouths. Embarrassment forced Dougie to put a stop to the messing with Kevin using two lentils as chopsticks and then putting them up each nostril. The journey home was subdued, but this time it weariness from the exercise and fresh air. Dougie felt happy inside, he felt as if he had achieved his objective on the double with all four becoming acquainted again.


Biographical Note: Colm Fahy Originally from Achill Island, off the west coast of Ireland and now based in Madrid, Colm Fahy works as a consultant human rights lawyer specialising in democratisation support and have worked extensively around the world and across Africa. Intercultural understanding is a key motivators in his profession and writing. He speaks English, French and Spanish as well as Gaelic. He is a self-taught painter, motion graphics and digital matte painting artist. Colm has exhibited art work on numerous occasions in Ireland and twice in Madrid since 2012. He writes shorts stories and scripts and has one self-published collection of poetry. Several of his poems have been published by US literary journal Page and Spine, He has also completed two illustrated stories to date, the first of which was published with Libros in Spain in 2015.


In the womb of the sea (Colm Fahy)

When the sky falls Like the dampened leaves of autumn And my heart no longer pounds But plops and plods like Thick droplets of rain upon the deep I retire to that familiar place Where the crash of waves upon the sand Are the kisses on a long parted hand Here, I bathe in the warmth of your tender memory And become like a creature of the ocean Floating in the womb of the sea.


Palestine (Colm Fahy)

Land of wadis

Where gushing luscious waters flow,

As though from Jesus’ punctured belly,

Drenching languid fat green grasses

As might the tears of Mary -

A gazelle drools and puckers her lips,

Her mouth filled with verdant plants -

Staring and munching -

Strained as the centurion with the vinegared spear.

And all the while,

Where the gazelle chews her cud,

The yahm ebbs and flows


Against that thirsting bank

Like lips smacking.


Dusk at the Sound (Colm Fahy)

Last evening as dusk descended on the Sound I looked up through the cotton clouds and sprinkled stars And wondered if a UFO might blaze its way through those heavenly depths To settle all our qualms About, for instance, how odd it is being in this place After all hell had already broken loose Here in the chasm between burgeoning civility and their technology, Which would surely take us to the stars.

Yet dusk fell silent and all but dead upon the Sound With only the curlew, passing, crying its evensong A plea like all of those calls we have sent into that vast unknown, Slowly fading into the vexing doldrums of the night.


This day to listen (Colm Fahy) Many days speak With salted words Like nights of bitter hail That sting our northern panes Where hardened cheeks lay cold on pillows And rivers of regret flood the moors of stifled dreams.

But, many days, too, speak With succouring phrases Like the crackles of a roasting hearth That spice the wanderer's soul Where a familiar brow leans dreamy over a winter skillet And the gravy of respite graces a smothered smile.

This day then to listen 57

For that patient yearning Musterer of the brazen army Which - bandage wrapped - beats a courageous drum And like an emboldened Sidhe, who feuds tormented gusts Fights on into battle, until the demon’s dust.


Biographical Note: Byron Beynon Byron Beynon's work has appeared in several publications including A New Ulster, London Magazine, The Stony Thursday Book, Poetry Wales, Grey Sparrow and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). His most recent collections include The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions) and Through Ilston Wood (Lapwing Publications)


KIDWELLY AND GOWER (Byron Beynon) He continues westwards, a few miles at a time, where roots recognise the flavour of the rain. Place of Gwenllian's nemesis, as a community settles with castle, spire, and that sense of accent. On the horizon the Gower emerges from pre-history, a panorama of atmosphere as salty flats wait for the future to arrive.


TINTERN ABBEY (Byron Beynon) I know this place, its reflections, the curiosity of tourists following personal routes, but also recall earlier days when Wordsworth and Turner made their way here to preserve uncut memories in words and paint. The river is still awake with its intimate company of trees and hills, relatives unmoved by anonymous footsteps embroidered there. Old stone with your silent voice, a conveyor belt where time echoes an understanding of lost lives passing through.


THE CHURCH AT COLLIOURE (Byron Beynon) Soporific roofs and windows that bleed red in the sun. A church tower reflected on the sea's canvas. The blur of heat brings a natural stillness to the day's economy. Clouds absent, as the attendant mountains wait for the scream of humanity.


THE TOWN OF COLLIOURE (Byron Beynon) The two trees are onlookers, survivors from another age, before the appearance of houses with their geometric roofs which nestle closer for the day's gossip. Depths of sea-colour stare as the Mediterranean air agitates the cut of defiant sails; a kingdom of insects and birds are hidden in the pepperd vegetation sensing the earth's secrets unknown to humankind.


Biographical Note: Mark Young ) Mark Young is the editor of Otoliths, lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry for more than fifty-five years. He is the author of over thirty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are Bandicoot habitat & lithic typology, both from gradient books of Finland. An e-book, For the Witches of Romania, is due out from Beard of Bees.


Chinese whispers (Mark Young)

He thought Mao said "The Long Marsh"; & so instead of retreating up into the distant hills, he headed for the sea, became a swampdweller & missed out on the entire Revolution.


The Dead Lecturer (Mark Young)

Recombinant DNA recouped from fossil bone or insects in amber — forget it. Once gone you cannot bring them back. Extinction is absolute.

That’s how he started, then stated that the fact that some things happen at a distance enables us to distance ourselves from what is really going on. Spoke of the marketplaces where endangered species are kept in cages, waiting to be sold so that a particular body part can be transformed into meal or medicine, the rest of the animal wasted.

Then came the list: bears’ paws for stamina & dugong cocks for stimulated sex; the ivory of elephants; gall bladders from the arctic ox to clear the blood & for clear thought capuchin brains. Interminable.

I drifted, remembering nights spent on the tundra wrapped in furs, waiting for the mammoths. Awoke when I sensed them passing by. Found him still talking, now up to netsuke from the narwhal’s tusk.


A line from Arthur Ransome (Mark Young)

They spent the majority of their lives convinced that small memory capacity was strictly a microcomputer

problem. Then, the moment the snow began, the saliva collided with the egg-plant & everything slipped their minds.


The Jaggered Crown (Mark Young)

The crows are serenading me by ukking & ahhing the Stones' Sympathy for the Devil from the surrounding trees. "Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a bird of wealth & taste." I drift along with them for a while until the beeping of the washingmachine completing its cycle brings me back. It is the Rナ行hi of everyday life.


The / last sign / of mounting confrontation (Mark Young)

Some exhibits have low level lighting, some have already faded due to overexposure to light—Last thing we need, says Poppa, even though we still intend to obtain regularity

theorems. They're less a font than an Internet punchline but they emphasize line over tone, come with free onsite parking, & the logo has more or less remained the same.


urban transit (Mark Young)

Postered walls. A

kind of transient lounge

for those who came

through, never stayed

to see their presence

over-written. The

thickness of



Biographical Note: KoyeKoye-Ladele Mofehintoluwa

Koye-Ladele Mofehintoluwa is a student of the Faculty of Law, Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife , Osun State Nigeria. He is a blogger He carries a passion for the oppressed and the downtrodden and strives to write against all forms of oppression politically, economically and otherwise. He is a staunch believer in the rights of the people to determine their own future and their pursuit of happiness. He is Yoruba and from Nigeria. His facebook username goes as his full name.


I Wish Heaven Falls (Koye-Ladele Mofehintoluwa) I wish heaven falls And crushes out of existence Those who take collective wealth And steal joint heritage

I wish heaven falls And crashes down with noise On those who keep an herd of accounts Fed with sweat

I wish heaven falls And smashes those Who see men as thumbs Ordinary tools for their machinations

I wish heaven falls On those who reap their fortune From ventures watered with tears And profit raised from pain

I wish heaven falls On the men who walk the altar In long strides Spiting falsehood and dissension

I wish heaven falls On those who teach the oppressed To wait for heaven's harvest And swallow bitter silence

I wish heaven falls On those who walk the streets And walk past the deserted Without sharing their pains


I wish heaven falls On men who man the road And seek their bonuses From those who are desolated

I wish heaven falls On those who treat preferential Those who to them are brothers And cast into perdition Those who to them are strangers

I wish heaven falls On those who break oaths Oaths of brotherhood sworn in silence And betray bonds of friendship

I wish heaven falls On those whose pastime is murder And who continue to evade The courts of this world

I do not wish heaven falls On those who trade their bodies For short term gains Theirs is long term destruction

I wish heaven falls Falls with a thunderous crash On itself For heaven has failed to fall On the deserving.


Natural Resources (Koye-Ladele Mofehintoluwa) Swing one Swing again Left to right And then left again A wild shake Of encaged feminine largesse

Men stop their argument It cannot continue Their lips seal As their eyes open

Market women hiss As they exchange Strong glances of disdain They shake their heads in disapproval Jealousy or Mundane?

Swing one Swing again Left to right And then left again

A crowd pools around Filled with men old and young United in resolve To hit gold

They lure her with tales of wealth And tales of strength Tales of brilliance And tales of masculinity

The women follow Calling their husbands By his first name He is gone too far to hear


Natural resource does not stop Her swings become wild They chase. And the market place Has become deserted The poem analyses the Nigerian situation where the oil boom has diverted attention from other productive ventures. We have left other areas dormant, because of the promise of natural resource.


Cross Examination (Koye-Ladele Mofehintoluwa) Did you take the money? Look into my eyes and tell Where did you have it kept? Where did you hide your stash? In a septic tank? Or in a bank account? In thin air? Or in reinforced iron?

Look into my eyes and tell You look bound for hell The Judge will do you in For a long term Measured with heavens tape Are you really sure? You don't want to share?

When it was Abacha Father and Son I know how we did it When it was Alamieyesiagha I know how we spat fire When it was IBB I know how we dribbled

Your selfish will kill you Stop this your denial Look into my eyes and tell Where you had it kept

Cross-examination mirrors the conversation between a Lawyer and his client.


Existentialist Hell (Koye-Ladele Mofehintoluwa) Do I not live in the same world Where they killed Lumumba And still insatiate They exhumed his body for further torture

Do I not live in the same world Where a man takes other men Into servitude perpetual Economic and Physical In furtherance of his own interests

Do I not live in the same world Where a city was razed In the name of a game A game named war

Do I not live in the same world Where the state kills its own And calls it a sentence A stupid sentence

Do I not live in the same world Where crime is the norm That daily show Of human inaffection

Do I not live in the same world A world for the minority And the majority Is left in the slums of the underworld

Do I not live in the same world Where in a bid to survive Men dive Deep beyond confines


Do I not live in the same world Where Hydrogen is a bomb And oxygen is a mode of dispersal For bio-weaponry

Do I not live in the same world Where your words are unwanted And your silence is betrayal And your thought is threat

Do I not live in the same world Where East and West Form blocs To keep the world in perpetual unease

Do I not live in the same world Where to be born is a curse To live is a trap To die an escape

Do I not live in a world Where in disunited United Nations A single veto vote from a world power Neutralises that of the rest of the globe

Do I not live in a world Where the strength of a nation Is determined by their possession Of instruments of mass murder

I doubt I live in this world My mind gradually shuts with the passing day To the usual unusuals I am unshockable I have become immune From constant sight and continuous battery I am dead Yet living


Moreni (Koye-Ladele Mofehintoluwa) Moreni, Jewels are so hard to find Pearl is deep in the ocean Gold is extracted with so much effort Is that why you are such a rarity?

Moreni, Why does the earth spin around? Why does motion never stop? Why does time not take a seat? Is that why you continue to grow in beauty?

Moreni, Why does the caged bird sing? Why does silence seem strange? Why does my heart keep beating with fury? Is it because of the presence of a princess?

Who do the years chase themselves? Why does the date not stay fixed? Why do I keep staring fixedly? Is it because I have met a darling?

Moreni, Why do I feel a void? Why does this space keep widening? Why I do look and still not see? Is it because my heart has been stolen?

Moreni, Why is life unfair? Why are things so strange? Why do I never find answers? Is it because you exist?


Moreni, And if all my questions Still evade response Tell me Why did God himself Create you Such a speciality?


Biographical Note: Kenneth Pobo Kenneth Pobo has a new chapbook forthcoming from Eastern Point Press called Placemats. His work has appeared in: Crannog, Orbis, Mudfish, Indiana Review, and elsewhere.


WANDAWOOWOO SAYS NO (Kenneth Pobo) Brought up to please, her parents put “yes” in her formula. Wandawoowoo says that her childhood was like living behind the aspirin bottle in the medicine cabinet. She kept hidden, a soft word turneth away wrath girl. Only in her mid-twenties did the medicine cabinet open and she slipped out. Dreary but nice Lenny asked her for a date. Looking down, Wandawoowoo said no which felt like cold water after walking in 100-degree weather. When Pastor Clack asked would she please teach the eighth-grade Sunday School class, she said no again. It felt like waking up inside a Peruvian lily’s best shade of pink. She can still say yes and mean it. She doesn’t have to. The medicine cabinet closes as easily as it opens.


WANDAWOOWOO SAYS MAYBE (Kenneth Pobo) My friend Melissa makes decisions quickly. A lemon wedge moon rises, she’s hungry, and up goes the hand to stuff the moon in her mouth. My friend Bob can’t make decisions. Yes is a blue lake on a summer day. No is a balmy breeze teasing coneflowers. He lives in paralysis. Everything is possible loss. I live in Maybe, a country you can’t find on a map, a land of cinnamon, swing sets and toadflax. I make up my mind a little at a time, prepare my choices but not too much. In a book store, I can’t buy everything, only enough money for one. Will I get a biography, poetry, a novel? Melissa would close her eyes and grab. Bob would mope and leave. I say maybe this, maybe that. It comes to me, the book that just might change my life.


WANDAWOOWOO AND THE PROFESSOR (Kenneth Pobo) Her professor would tell her to fly a kite with a key on it— she might discover something like Ben did, a new kind of electricity that scientists hadn’t stumbled over yet. She figured out it wasn’t love or lust she felt for this Ph.D., more of a brief July snowfall--you stick your tongue out, flakes come, as summery muskrats roll in thick water, the shore promising ripened raspberries.


IT’S US (Kenneth Pobo) We dunk Earth in a carbon boil, temperatures off the charts, seas rising. When I die, Norfolk may be gone. At church Father said we must have hope. An ambulance speeds by. Where is it going? Our house? Can’t be. Yes, it’s us. And it’s too late.


YELLOW BUDDLEIA (Kenneth Pobo) Even in tough winters, the buddleia came through. This March we found new shoots, a good loaf of green for the sun to slice into. 3 freezing days. By May, branches snapped off. I got the grub hoe and slammed the roots, making a circle until, with much heaving, the stump gave way. I tossed branches in the can. The guys flipped them into the truck and drove away. Spring, missing a yellow wing, tried to fly and couldn’t.


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May is looking great from up here we’re recovering from the work on the Poetry Day Ireland anthology wow that was a lot of work. Well, that’s just about it from us for this edition everyone. Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.




We continue to provide a platform for poets and artists around the world we want to offer our thanks to the following for their financial support Richard Halperin, John Grady, P.W. Bridgman, Bridie Breen, John Byrne, Arthur Broomfield, Silva Merjanin, Orla McAlinden, Michael Whelan, Sharon Donnell, Damien Smyth, Arthur Harrier, Maire Morrissey Cummins, Alistair Graham, Strider Marcus Jones Our anthologies


Hanging Loose Press 231 Wyckoff Street Phone: (347) 529-4738 Brooklyn, NY 11217 Fax: (347) 227-8215 For immediate release: HANGING LOOSE TO PUBLISH MARK PAWLAK’S NINTH POETRY COLLECTION, RECONNAISSANCE Brooklyn—Reconnaissance: New and Selected Poems and Poetic Journals 2005– 2015, the ninth poetry collection by Mark Pawlak, “among the very best poets working today,” will be published by Hanging Loose Press on April 15, 2016. Reconnaissance brings together a decade’s worth of Mark Pawlak’s work exploring the nexus of Japanese poetic journals and American observational poetics. These new and selected poems owe allegiance to the early experimental books of William Carlos Williams (e.g. Spring and All) as much as to the Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagan and to Basho’s Narrow Road to the Interior. They join aspects of poetry with the daily, or near daily, “takes” of journal writing, but differ from traditional diaries or journals by emphasizing the act of writing itself in collaboration with the day's account. Mark Pawlak is the author of eight previous poetry collections, and the editor of six anthologies. His most recent books, from which selections appear here, are Natural Histories (Červená Barva Press, 2015) and Go to the Pine: Quoddy Journals 20052010 (Plein Air Editions/Bootstrap Press, 2012). His poems have appeared widely in such anthologies as The Best American Poetry and Blood to Remember: American Poets on the Holocaust; and in many literary magazines, including, among others, New American Writing, Mother Jones, Poetry South, The Saint Ann’s Review, and Solstice. His work has been translated into German, Polish, and Spanish, and has been performed at Teatr Polski, in Warsaw. He supports his poetry habit by teaching mathematics at the University of Massachusetts Boston, where he is Director of Academic Support Programs. He lives in Cambridge. (continued on back) Advance Praise for Reconnaissance: New and Selected Poems and Poetic Journals “Pawlak’s work succeeds in eliminating an undiscriminating “I” for an observant and


non-occlusive “eye” that sees objectively and in seeing presents the image, the visual and sensory experience, as the focus of the poetic impulse. In Pawlak’s work the poet gains, by removing himself, a remarkable understanding of the natural world and his—and thus our—presence in it, thereby achieving a consistency of vision and linguistic vigor I can only marvel at and applaud. Pawlak is among the very best poets working today.” —Pablo Medina “[Pawlak’s] writing has been incisive and perspicuous from the start; during the past fifteen years . . . his work—quietly but firmly experimental—has developed in original ways that fuse the traditional concerns of American poetry with those of daily recording. . . . I don’t know any poets whose work has the same flavor, including complexity, as Pawlak’s.” —Charles North Praise for Mark Pawlak’s previous books: Official Versions: “Narrative? Kind of. Lyric? Sort of. Mark Pawlak takes his own versions (found and otherwise) and has turned them inside-out to celebrate how insane and touching language can be: from 'perks' to 'Pappa Oom Mow Mow'—go on and shake it, baby!” —Kimiko Hahn Special Handling. Newspaper Poems New and Selected Mark Pawlak fashions marvelous poems with quiet, concise, eerie talk; he slices through history with a fine deadpan newspaper edge of a Brechtian scalpel. Special Handling is a strange, haunting, luminous book.” —Hilton Obenzinger *** Hanging Loose Press, founded in 1966, publishes Hanging Loose magazine and individual collections of fiction and poetry. The press has received many awards from the National Endowment for the Arts and the New York State Council on the Arts. Hanging Loose titles are available from Small Press Distribution, 1341 Seventh Street, Berkeley, CA 94710-1409,

Poetry, paper 130 pages For more information: 978-1-934909-83-6 Hanging Loose (347) 529-4738 $18.00 Please send tear sheets or two photocopies of any review


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 All titles £10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles. In PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.


Anu issue 44 / A New Ulster  

The May edition of A New Ulster featuring the works of Irsa Ruci, O Dah, Maire Liberace, Noel King, Oonah V Joslin, Gareth Culshaw, Christop...