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

Featuring the works of Joe Urso, Richard W. Halperin, Changming Yuan, Peter O'Neill, P W. Bridgman, David R. Cravens, Behlor Santi, Paddy McCoubrey, Tony Baillie, Rachael Sutcliffe, John Jack Byrne, Marion Clarke and Moyra Donaldson

. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 23 August 2014

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A New Ulster Editor: Amos GreigOn the Wall Editor: ArizahnWebsite Editor: Adam Rudden

ContentsEditorial page 6

John Urso;Kiss Me Kate Part Two pages 10-18

Richard W. Halperin;Love at First Sight page 20Abscheid pages 21-22On No Longer Being Ill page 23New England pages 24-25Reply page 26

Changming Yuang;Would or Wouldn’t the Variations of the Wing page 28On Another Rainy Day, Granville Street page 29Directory of Destinies pages 30-31Y.E.S. pages 32-33Seasonal Stanzas pages 34-35

Peter O’Neill;Gombeen Poet page 37Gombeen Historian page 38Poem as King Tiger page 39Elevenses page 40The Cormorant page 41

PW Bridgman;Deat Dark Head pages 43-45

David R. Cravens;Expiation I page 47Expiation II pages 48-49

On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 51

Behlor Santi;Tree Branches pages 53-54

Paddy Mc Coubrey;

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Number Eight pages 56-57A Spinsters Prayer pages 58-59

Tony Baillie;Axle page 61Managua page 62Scorched Skin page 63

Rachael Sutcliffe;Summer Selection pages 65-66

John Jack Byrne;Return page 68A High Summers Day page 69Tanka page 70

Marion Clarke;Light Bleeds page 72

Round the Back

Moyra Donaldson;The following poems aretaken from The Goose Tree with permission from the poet and Liberties PressA Winters Gift page 75Greba Cras page 76Bad Dreams page 77The Goose Tree pages 78-79Gold page 80

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Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to:Submissions Editor

A New Ulster23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BLAlternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com

See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ

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 “Fairy pool” by Amos Greig

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Editorial

“When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege

it is to be alive - to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.” Marcus Aurelius

This issue features plenty of poetry, tanka and fiction pieces to satiate the

strongest appetite sadly we have no artwork or haiga perhaps next month.

I’ve attended some amazing poetry events this year including the launch

of The Goose Tree by Moyra Donaldson and we are delighted to feature a

selection of poems from the new collection in this issue. We accept short stories

and essays all are welcome in our pages. A New Ulster is open to experimental

and traditional poetry styles and approaches. Poetry can be a scapel to lance the

poisons of history both personal and worldwide.

Come this September we will have been in production for 2 years. That’s

two years as a semi independent monthly arts magazine/ ezine hybrid. I am

surprised by how much fun running A New Ulster has been and have plans as

we move towards the future.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Joe Urso

Perhaps writing my own epitaph would be the most accurate, and concise, introduction: He was 54. He spent his days earning a living cleaning restaurants and bars which gave him the freedom to make a life by writing at night. He was in love with the same woman for 42 years. Though never married and often apart, they were devoted to each other.

A few of my stories have been published in The Penniless Press, Prole, Synchronized Chaos, Subtletea, and Damazine.

As a writer for so long, sometimes I feel invisible. Atfirst glance this may look like a poor pitch, but invisibility is part of the wardrobe of a constant observer. I believe a story should be written well enough to describe itself. I spend my evenings attempting to meet this standard.

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Kiss Me Kate Part Two

by

Joe Urso

Maria Garcia Morales, her husband Jose, their five year old daughter Concha left

their native country three years ago.

They settled here, worked long hours, bought a piece of a dream beginning to fade

with the light of each successive dawn. City neighborhoods have lost their dreamy

quality, so off I ventured to the freshly paved blacktopped roads of sewerless

Suburbia with the hope for an interview with Maria Garcia Morales. I had no

intention of speaking to the child about the criminal kiss in question. I did not need

to hear the girl’s story; I only needed to hear her mother’s.

I will not describe the view in Suburbia. Suburbia is like a single mathematical

equation, frozen in time, change the integers and it will disappear. So picture now if

you will the house of Maria Garcia Morales. . .good. I pulled up in front of the

house, one of the thousands of mistakes I have made in my life. It slipped my mind

this was not a city street where the pigeons share space with your feet, and all the

taxpayers own a piece of the pavement. The Missus was mowing the lawn.

–Stop. Stop there.

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–Good afternoon Mrs. Morales, my name is–

--Ola Jose, Jose!

–I am a reporter–

--Acue me! A reporter! Oh no no no no you can go. I know you here about our

daughter. I know what you want. I know my rights you go good-bye.

–I would like to hear your side of the story, Mrs. Morales, concerning–

--Oh no no it’s no story! You think it make believe what happened to our Concha.

Jose, Jose, vena ca! Little Russian boy come over here and make kisses with our

daughter in a Catholic school. I know my rights you go now bye.

Thus ended my interview with Maria Garcia Morales. Not on my best day would I

tangle with her again. I would have had better luck trying to convince that pint sized,

looney tune, chicken hawk to leave Foghorn Leghorn alone. Sometimes you have to

retreat a mile in order to advance two; do not quote me the line is not mine. Not to

worry, my exit was part of plan B. In The Battle of Life, survivors have a plan B.

Again do not quote me, since I am willing to bet our ancestors thought of the same

notion about 9 million years ago. The battle was to be fought according to Street

Rules – fine by me. Rule #1 – control The Shepherd and The Sheep will start

whistling your tune. I wished it were otherwise in this situation. Damn I wished it

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were otherwise, but this is a new world. Gone are the mornings when Mom would

leave the little ones with a neighbor. Finito to the afternoons when Dad could forget

the tickets to a ball game in the car and leave his son in line with the guy behind him.

You can forget about the days when Grandpa could “coochie coo” a baby laying in

the arms of mother.

And you can lay to rest the years when the Parish Priest could be a boy’s second

father and give the kid a talking to and a hug when he needed one.

*************************

–Bless me Father but someone else has sinned. I’m here to see the Little Guy win.

–John. Still too impatient to wait for God to sort out the evil in the world. I had a

hunch I would be seeing you. Meet me in the middle in fifteen minutes.

Since Einstein was a believer, then E=Mc squared is compatible with an atheist

having a priest has a pal. His name is Father. I will give you a description: picture

Sean O’Casey in a Franciscan habit. Atheist though I am, I believe in the symbols of

tradition and the continuity of sacredness. The alternative world is not one I would

wish to inhabit, a world where little girls spit on the sidewalks/little boys shoot

guns/road rage and loud music in your face is avant garde/every secret and sin is just

a click away/and – ah hell never mind.

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“Meet me in the middle” was code for the courtyard sculpted between the parish

school and the church. I attended this school for six years as a boy. Year in, year out,

I would sneak peaks through classroom windows onto this green patch. A circular

marble bench in sections of three surround an equally marbled bird fountain and

statue of St. Francis.

I remember marching two by two on First Fridays, silently through the courtyard.

The incense and the Latin loomed behind the great medieval-looking doors of the

side of the church. Once inside and seated, I would try to look through the stained

glass windows onto the courtyard, but Jesus and his pals looked right back at me,

reminding me why I was kneeling in the pew.

–John.

–Father, it’s good to see you. It’s been-

--Wait! Is this confession? I did not know this was confession. Let me get my-

--All right already all right! I’ve been a lapse Catholic all my adult life Father. I figure

why break an old habit if no one is getting hurt.

–Let your wheels move along old ruts.

–St. Bonaventure?

–Lao Tzu.

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–The good things in Life remain the same.

–Now let me see. . .wasn’t that an ad for Chivas Regal?

–Old spice deodorant I think.

–Ahhhh John. . . you always made me smile. A smile almost as big as yours. Well,

let’s have it. Better out than in.

–I’m getting old Father.

–Feeling the burdens of Life are we. The date for achieving the good life in a good

world long past due is it. Comes with the territory of being healthy and living longer

my boy.

–You could have preached a little of this back then you know.

–The revelation of wisdom, as that of secrets, are best left to timing.

–Fair enough. My happier years are so far behind me, I can no longer see them

waving good-bye.

–Now if this were the year 1143 and you were – let us say Sir John, Sir John The

Defender of The Least Among The Faithful. Sir John living during The Age of Faith

would not be afflicted with doubt and depression. When life ended for most people

sooner than later, you would not have had the liberty for these malaises of the

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modern world. In 1143, Life was to the point. You knew who you were/You knew

where you came from/You knew where you were going. And my predecessors made

sure everyone knew the right thing to do.

You are in a world now where the right thing to do varies as often as a street Whore

changing Johns on a Saturday night. You live in a world where an Informer can

make a half a million dollars as a movie consultant and widowed Old Ladies in

wheel chairs and Old Men hugging oxygen tanks live like serfs. Around the block

from this parish, The Poor struggle to pay $220 a month rent in

a HUD apartment a little bigger than a prison cell on Attica’s honor block. So Boyo

take it like a man and shoulder your 21st century life in The Age of The Computer

like a duck carrying a scorpion across a pond.

I have been here forty two years, John. My whole adult life lived on this street,

passing between these two buildings, watching 12,000 kids travel through this world

on their way into the real one. This courtyard has not changed in a hundred and

thirty-five years. . .hm. . . I have not changed in a thousand. I am a medieval man at

heart. I am accustomed to living in a world without street lights, where the darkness

seems to last forever, and the morning’s light is humanity’s only hope. Depression

and regrets are for people who do not know who they are or where they are going,

so they spend their lives hiding from someone they never knew while looking for

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someone they cannot begin to describe. But I will admit becoming a Priest was not

#1 on my hit parade.

–Life usually works out like that.

–Yes. . .yes it does.

–I was happy here Father.

–I know son. I remember your smile. Others remember your smile. They still tell

me. Do you want to go in?

–Busted.

–Your eyes, corner classroom.

–Second grade, Sister Annmarie’s class.

–And a little girl named Kathleen.

–Oh Jesus you remember.

–Quite the scandal in your day as I recall. The little Sicilian boy with a smile bigger

than his face could hold, and a little Irish girl with eyes as blue as the clearest sky.

The prettiest girl in school.

–Holding hands with me.

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He may be my Confessor, but I keep to myself her touch I still feel. Oh yes, her

eyes.

–We can go in.

–My God, at the rate I’m going she might have been my only shot. No thanks,

Father. Back to business. I need a favor. I want you to act as my Intercessor.

–Ah Intercessor. Sounds like I am about to be crucified.

–I was thinking more of taking a ride downtown to The Bishop’s office.

–I see.

–Filat Avtaikin.

–John, if only you were my Intercessor when I was his age.

–So you know the skinny on the boy.

–I know that is why you are here.

–I know you didn’t have a hand in this thing.

–No one here was pleased with the outcome, but this is not The Age of Faith. This

is The Age of The Computer. Nihil Sacrare.

–Expel a child for a kiss?

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–Extreme, even for the distant cousins of Torquemada.

–How much pressure did the girl’s mother apply?

–So you have met the formidable mother in question. You have done your

homework – about time. Not turning the other cheek on this one I take it.

–A lawsuit I suppose.

–Petty and mean on her part. Though I will swear in a court of law her response was

Un-Christian, I cannot put my hand on The Bible and swear it was Un-American.

Therein lies the problem. Try just this once John to understand The Bishop’s

dilemma. What was he to do? Abandon the wishes of 75% of his flock?

–Not the flock Father – abandon the one. Remember, this isn’t The Age of Faith.

You fellas don’t massacre The Albigensians anymore and let St. Peter sift The Good

Guys from The Bad Guys. You can make the case. Convince The Bishop to call her

bluff and draw a line in the sand. Fight the good fight Father.

–So you are the Priest now and I the Advocate. Six of one I suppose.

–Perhaps being an Advocate was #1 on your hit parade?

–I have a feeling you should ask me later. I suppose I have no choice.

–You have the same choice Jesus had.

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Not pleased about that, but it is what it is. I estimate I have already killed about

84,000 ants with my size 9 shoes on various footpaths throughout the world. In

much the same way, I have managed to step on the people I care about. This is what

I do.

I remained silent. Looking West, the Sun was catnapping on the horizon visible

between the narrow vista twixt The Church and The School. I shifted my eyes to the

corner classroom, imagining shadows of children’s faces, ancient wooden desks, slate

blackboards. An American flag fading fast in a dark corner stared back through the

window.

–I take it you have already decided what you are going to do.

–I’m not letting this one go Father. But I’m asking, I’m asking you, to convince The

Bishop to let the boy back in school and ensure that the matter is dropped.

–I see you have met the boy’s mother as well. . . I can see the headlines now:

STALINESQUE TACTICS AT ROMAN CATHOLIC SCHOOL SEND MOTHER AND SON RUSSIAN BACK TO PUTIN

We walked over to the rectory for a drink before we headed downtown. The next

day, I stopped by to give Father a check for Filat’s tuition, a CD box set of those old

tunes for Ilari Avtaikin, an old copy of Pasternak’s expelled book for Lara with a few

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select hand written sentences behind the front cover, and a bottle of Hennessey’s for

him.

In Memory of my Dad and The Andrew Sisters

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Biographical Note: Richard W. Halperin

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).

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Love at First Sight

(Richard W. Halperin)

She was in a white dress with a pink sash.

She was in a book.

You were in I don’t know what

with a pancho thrown over it.

You were smoking a Nat Sherman, I think.

You were talking.

I was gone.

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Abschied

(Richard W. Halperin)

The sun lowers, the walk continues,

and what passes through my mind?

and through whose mind do I pass?

Someone is speaking Czech,

which brings back a memory:

‘Do you have children?’ the guide had asked.

‘No’, we said.

‘Ah, then you are the children.’

I smell coffee, a smell I will remember.

I think of Silas Marner, a soul bewildered and benign.

Do we ever do better than that?

A madman passes me, arguing with himself.

He looks awfully familiar.

I am glad to be walking,

my friend waiting for me at the end,

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or so I hope.

I seem to have forgotten my name.

What do I remember?

If I had just a post-it to write on?

We two in a park in Vienna in September

with our friend Kunio,

looking at the dahlias, taller than we:

the dahlias, in their brief splendour.

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On No Longer Being Ill:

A Prayer of Gratitude

(Richard W. Halperin)

That I knew love once through no fault of my own.

That grace is unmerited favour.

That one sees best in fluctuations: Abraham and Sarah

visited by three angels, no, God, no, three angels; any wave of the sea.

That El Greco painted the View of Toledo.

That Wanda Landowska recorded the Goldberg Variations.

That when I was eight and read in the tabloids the Duchess of Windsor’s memoirs

I thought the title she gave it was The Heart Has Its Raisins.

That we live in an age of marbles.

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New England

(Richard W. Halperin)

a calm night

the souls of sweethearts

blow in the wind

a graveyard or a field

some stars

the violets shut

my heart begins to rise

and rise

and rise

cars and people

zig zags

hymns are being sung

in a little wooden church

in a sitting room

a poet in a grey dress

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is writing

she cuts something

with a scissors

she loved once

it was enough.

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Reply

(Richard W. Halperin)

‘With rapid pencil I answer the poem of friends . . . ‘

Po Chū-i, ‘Last Poem,’ trans. Arthur Waley

Your dog did not die.

Even God has no say-so

Over a dog.

She goes

Where she pleases.

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Biographical Note: Changming Yuan

Changming Yuan, 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a

Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in rural China and currently

tutors in Vancouver, where he co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Since

mid-2005, Changming's poetry has appeared in 869 literary publications across 29

countries, including Asia Literary Review, Best Canadian Poetry,

BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine and Threepenny Review.

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Would Or Wouldn’t: the Variations of the Wing

(Changming Yuan)

If every human had a pair of wings

(Made of strong mussels and broad feathers

Rather than wax like Icarus’)

Who wouldn’t jump high or become eager to fly

Either towards the setting sun

Or against the rising wind?

Who wouldn’t migrate afar with sunshine

And glide most straight to a warmer spot

In the open space? Indeed

Who would continue to confine himself

Within the thick walls of a small rented room?

Who would willingly take a detour

Bump into a stranger, or stumble down

Along the way? More important

Who would remain fixed here

At the same corner all her life

Like a rotten stump, hopeless

Of a new green growth?

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On Another Rainy Day, Granville Street

(Changming Yuang)

Again, water splashing against walls

And windows with each car

Passing by, colored umbrellas moving

Above unidentifiable human legs

Red light blinking towards the storm and

White noise, every cherry tree skeleton

Trying hard to find a shelter, a long-necked man

Hopping around with yesterday’s

Vancouver Sun on top off his bald head

An oversized truck full of

Thick cement pipes making a large turn

As a bus is waiting for strangers

To get off or on, all in wet cartharsis

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Directory of Destinies

(Changming Yuang)

North: after the storm, all dust hung up

in the crowded air, with his human face

frozen into a dot of dust

and a rising speckle of dust

melted into his face

to avoid this cold climate

of his antarctic dream

he relocated his naked soul

at the dawn of summer

South: like a raindrop on a small lotus leaf

unable to find the spot

to settle itself down

in an early autumn shower

my little canoe drifts around

near the horizon

beyond the bare bay

Center: deep from the thick forest

a bird’s call echoes

from ring to ring within each tree

hardly perceivable

before it suddenly

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dies off into the closet

of a noisy human mind

West: not unlike a giddy goat

wandering among the ruins

of a long lost civilization

you keep searching in the central park

a way out of the tall weeds

as nature makes new york

into a mummy blue

East: in her beehive-like room

so small that a yawning stretch

would readily awaken

the whole apartment building

she draws a picture on the wall

of a tremendous tree that keeps growing

until it shoots up

from the cemented roof

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Y.E.S.

(Changming Yuang)

Y

You are really obsessed with this letter

Yes, because it contains all the secrets of

Your selfhood: your name begins with it

You carry y-chromosome; you wear

Y-pants; both your skin and heart are

Yellowish; your best poem is titled

Y; you seldom seek the balance between

Yin and yang; you never want to be a

Yankee, but you yearn to remain as

Young as your poet son; in particular

You love the way it is pronounced, so

Youthfully, as a word rather than a letter to

Yell out the human reasons; above all

Your soul is a seed blown from afar, always

Y-shaped when breaking the earth to greet spring

E

born to be a double reed

that can be bent into a long vowel

the most frequently used letter

in english, echoing endlessly in silences

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if pulled down, it offers two doors

one leading to Soul via will, the other

to Him via wisdom; if turned up right

it forms a mountain with three peaks

like three holy swords, pointing high

one against the sun

one against the moon

one against the sky

Facing always towards the east, it embraces

existence, equality, eternity, emancipation...

S

with a double hook, the sexist, the most charming shape

looking more like a naked woman

in postmodern art than folded cloth used

to cover her body in an Egyptian tale

always ready to

seduce

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Seasonal Stanzas

(Changming Yuang)

October

Burning, blooming

Like spring flowers

All tree leaves

Giggle, guffawing

With the west wind

In their fierce defiance

Against the elegy of the land

Recited aloud

In blood-throated voices

November

Most monotonous month:

Each passing day is depressed

Into a crow, its wings

Its body and tails

Newly glazed in the mists

Of thick dusk

Though its heart still

Lingers in the memory of

Summer’s orange morning glows

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December

As the sun sinks deeper every day

Into the other side of the world

The shadow is getting longer, darker

Making our lives slant more and more

Towards night, when nature

Tries to balance yin and yang

By covering each dark corner

With white snowflakes

Ever so softly, quietly

As each twig frowns hard at twilight

Why not give it smile and thus

Book a space in heaven?

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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill

Peter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967. His debut collection Antiope (Stonesthrow Poetry) appeared in 2013, and to critical acclaim. ‘Certainly a voice to the reckoned with.’ Dr Brigitte Le JueZ (DCU). His second collection The Elm Tree was published by Lapwing (2014), ‘A thing of wonder to behold.’ Ross Breslin ( The Scum Gentry ). His third collection The Dark Pool is due to appear early in 2015 (Mauvaise Graine). As well as being a regular contributor to A New Ulster and The Scum Gentry his work has also appeared in The Galway Review, Danse Macabre, Outburst, Colony, Levure Littéraire, Mauvaise Graine, Abridged, and Bone Orchard.

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Gombeen Poet

(Peter O’Neill)

I learned very early on to detest weakness,

Witnessing it in my peers only strengthened my resolve.

At the age of twelve I became a member of the Hitler Youth.

My father, an insurance official, came home one day to

Find the Fuhrer, Himmler and Goring hanging up over my bed.

“Get them down.” He ordered, before shutting the door.

Around the same period, while home sick,

I copied the entire two page entry on El Alemein

From the Encylopedia Britannica into my copy book;

I was beginning to distinguish between soldiers and dummkopfs.

I put together my first masterpiece for my primary school library,

It was a handbook on the twelve year old Third Reich.

My Saul at Damascus moment came to me in the Phoenix Bar,

The name of the horse which threw was called Molloy.

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Gombeen Historian

(Peter O’Neill)

Certain middle-aged men revel in reading

About the great military campaigns in the East:

Guderian, Model, Kleist, Zhukov and Rokossovski ,

Their names evoking Odessa, Kharkov and Smolensk.

All such visions of turbulence and arms,

Conjure up images of Hannibal at Cannan;

The double encirclement there which led to victory at Stalingrad

Had its origin in a knowledge of the Classics.

Whether it be military strategists, literary theorists,

Viticulturists or Goms, the emphasis on historical

Precedence is one of absolute foregones.

Housed deep with the stairwell of the cranium,

As magnificently illuminated as the Pantheon,

So, the great shaft of history is thrown.

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Poem as King Tiger

(Peter O’Neill)

The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.

Wislawa Symborska ( Trans -BarańcZak & Cavanagh )

In order to withstand the fiction of eternity

The poem must be as resolute as the Final Solution.

It must be able to withstand the holocaust,

Stand up, like a flower of evil, to the most cynical inspection.

If it speaks of love it must do so

With the velocity of an 88mm canon.

Its heart must be as stalwart as a Maybach engine.

Its skin as thick so as to be able to deflect all armoured piercing.

The poet likened then to a Commander

Well versed in ClausewitZ and The Nature of War,

Life being analogous to unending conflict.

Of course, choosing the right side to defend is key.

Images of all panzers turning their turrets and reversing on AuschwitZ,

Crushing the barbed wire, annihilating the real enemy.

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Elevenses

(Peter O’Neill)

The bells of the old clock toll eleven times

Up in The Muse Cafe on the second floor in Eason.

The buoyant sonority of the peels echo above the trees

And rooftops of O’ Connell Street whose existence,

Up here with the pigeons and Gods, is signalled only

By the murmuring reverberations of the traffic down below.

It erodes the ear in a vain attempt at mimicking the sea.

The nymph and mermen also seem very far off.

We, the diners, take our much needed respite from them,

Our cups, teapots and scones being the things now

Of our primary consideration and concern.

Picking up a spoon, to stir the brew, has you thinking of

T. S. Eliot.

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The Cormorant

(Peter O’Neill)

For the memory of Mohammad Abou Khdeir

I wish to recuperate the bronzed labour of ancient childhoods,

Hear the trumpet of sand beneath the flower of waves,

Inhabit uniquely the cool dreamscapes of the forgotten tides.

Like the cormorant, who lets himself be crucified by the elements,

His great wings outstretched, I too need to confront Be-ing

Through the immensity of nature.

The sea, limpid and fresh, has other signs to read

Other than those of a poor child burned alive.

No longer do I wish to let myself be directed by words.

I wish now to be guided by other signs,

Like the sound the rocks make once walked upon,

Their quake and tremor sounding out the dark crusts of the egg.

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Biographical Note: P.W. Bridgman

P.W. Bridgman writes literary fiction from Vancouver, Canada. His short stories and flash fiction pieces have won prizes or been finalists in competitions at home and abroad. Some have appeared in anthologies published in Ireland, England and Scotland. His first book of fiction, entitled Standing at an Angle to My Age, was published by Libros Libertad Publishing Ltd. in 2013 and is available in bookstores across Canada and across the world, online, directly from the publisher and Amazon. You can visit P.W. Bridgman via his website at www.pwbridgman.ca.

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DEAR DARK HEAD1

By P.W. Bridgman

For as long as I could remember, Mr. Pound had lived in the back bedroom. He wasn’t family, as my da was quick to point out to anyone who came by. “He wasn’t family until we made him family,” my mother would always add. Mr. Pound was already eighty when he’d first come to live with us in Newtownards. It was 1952, the year I was born and the year he’d left the kettle on the gas ring, sending his own house up in a fiery blaze while he dozed, oblivious, in a shady spot in his back garden. Even the pumper trucks didn’t wake him—an old bachelor, his mind going queer, without a living soul to care or look after him.

“Some’d be content to take in a stray cat, but not your mother,” my da would

say within her earshot.

“Catch yerself on, Lorcán,” she’d say back to him, gently. “Is that the example

you want to be setting?” These were good-natured exchanges. Sometimes there were

harsher ones; low, muffled voices on the other side of a door.

Mr. Pound spent all of his time either in bed or in the pushchair my da built for

him with little cast-off wheels he’d brought home from work at the Harland and Wolff

shipyards in Belfast. In his more lucid moments Mr. Pound would ask me to

manoeuvre him to the window so he could watch the birds. He would sometimes have

me sit up on his lap and then point to them and tell me their names. He would also

sing little snatches of old songs, bits of his own childhood dislodged by some stimulus

not apparent to anyone around him.

“Clitherty,Clatherty,Out upon a Saturday,In upon a Sunday morning.”

This particular fragment brought my mother running into the lounge from the

kitchen, her hands red and dripping from the washing up, her face alight with

1 “Dear Dark Head” is adapted from a story entitled Ceann Dubh Dilis that appears in P.W. Bridgman’s short story collection entitled Standing at an Angle to My Age (Surrey: Libros Libertad Publishing Ltd).

44

excitement. “My father sang that to me, Ben! He was a weaver. They would sing that

song at the beginning of each week when they changed the webs on the looms.” I

could see that there was magic and mystery locked up inside Mr. Pound.

By 1958, when Seán was born, Mr. Pound’s lucid moments came less and less

frequently. My mother had to feed the two of them, side-by-side, and my da

sometimes couldn’t bear to eat with us. The well of his considerable good nature did

not run as deep as hers. He would turn away in exasperation as mashed peas and

plaice collected on Mr. Pound’s stubbly chin. “Take your leave, Lorcán. Better that

than say something unkind,” my mother would declare as my da pulled on his boots to

leave for The Old Cross Inn over the road.

Sadly, as Seán grew older and began talking, Mr. Pound had still fewer songs

or snatches of intelligible verse to share with him or with us. These and such other

scraps of formed thought as still milled about within his nodding head were, by then,

almost irretrievably locked away. Age, in its indiscriminate cruelty, had robbed him

of the ability to call them forth. He chattered away, to be sure. But it was mostly

gibberish, seasoned with gusts of Gaeilge and the odd swatch of breathtaking

profanity.

“Mind your foot, Mr. Pound,” my mother would say as she did the hoovering.

His reply: “Liverpool Street. Bank. St. Paul’s. Chancery Lane. Holborn. Tottenham

Court Road. Oxford Circus. Bond Street. Marble Arch. Lancaster Gate.

Queensway. Notting Hill Gate. Holland Park. Shepherd’s Bush. East Acton. North

Acton. Ealing Broadway. Fuck King Billy. Amhrán Hiúdaí Phádaí Éamoinn. Máire

an Chúil Óir Bhuí.”

Mr. Pound would still sometimes reach out with his spindly arms and try to

pull us up onto his lap but my brother would have nothing of it. “He smells of pee!”

Seán would howl, squirming free, and he was right.

Mr. Pound’s birthday fell on St. Valentine’s Day. How my mother came to

know that, I have no idea. But we always put on a party for him and we were all

45

expected to join in, which we did, year after year until 1963 when the excitement of it

got the better of him. “Mr. Pound’s cacked in his drawers! Mr. Pound’s cacked in his

drawers!” Seán cried out in horror, not knowing his own unkindness, and he was right.

“We’ll sort you out Mr. Pound. Never you mind,” my mother said as she wheeled him

in to the toilet, giving Seán a black look that was more charged with hurt than with

anger.

Mr. Pound died in his sleep on New Year’s Day, 1966. My da found him,

clammy cold in his bed at about 9:30, curled up like a fiddlehead under the coverlet. It

was a sad time for us all. Even Seán wailed uncontrollably. Still fresh in our minds

was the most extraordinary thing. It had happened that Christmas Eve—scarcely a

week earlier—when some of my da’s friends had come by with their fiddles, pipes

and bodhráns for a Christmas hoolie. Mr. Pound was parked in his pushchair in the

corner of the lounge next to the tree, his blanket over his knees. He looked alert and

peaceful and content, tapping his fingers lightly together in time with the music as

they played and sang a lively “Pretty Peg.” When Captain Skinner put down his small

harp to fetch himself a jar, Mr. Pound reached out for the instrument.

“Mr. Pound wants to play the harp,” Seán called out.

“Well, give it to him then, boy,” said Captain Skinner.

Mr. Pound cradled the harp against his shoulder as if he had played it only the

day before. He plucked gingerly at the strings once or twice and we all fell silent.

Then, in a steady, measured voice he said, “This is called Ceann Dubh Dilis: in

English, ‘Dear Dark Head’.” And he played it, not perfectly but near to perfectly, and

so very beautifully that no one in the room, save my mother (whose dark head was

fully bowed), dared to breathe.

46

Biographical Note: David R. Cravens

.

David R. Cravens received his undergraduate degree in philosophy at the University of Missouri, Columbia during which time he spent a semester in West Africa studying eastern philosophy. Afterward, he spent several years working as a scuba-diving instructor in the Bahamas, the Florida Keys, the Turneffe Islands of Belize, and the Channel Islands of Southern California before returning to Southeast Missouri StateUniversity where he earned his master’s degree in English literature. He’s a member of Phi Kappa Phi, Magna Cum Laude, Sigma Tau Delta, The National Eagle Scout Association, and American Mensa. He started his writing career as an adjunct Professor of English Studies for Central Methodist University, and since that time he’s published widely, both in the US and abroad, as well as winning the 2008 Saint Petersburg Review Prize in Poetry and the 2011 Bedford Poetry Prize. He’s a Pushcart Prize nominee and was a finalist for Ohio State University’s The Journal William Allen Creative Nonfiction Contest. He currently teaches composition and literature at Mineral Area College.

47

Expiation I

(David Cravens)

he’d not felt right for some time

when hell broke loose with fury

new eyes struck with gray of deep blue sky

thrust with such force

that he retched

drawing icy sharpness into his being

the world in its purest form – in its making

colorless kaleidoscopic extension of himself—

his scream sent crashing a murder of crows

and this fresh uncompromised soul

closer to God than any priest

knew then with this

that flag and wind are one

for as Alan Watts would later say

we’re the eyes and ears of the universe—

that through which it perceives itself

48

Expiation II

(David Cravens)

when the boy was young

he’d often walked to the girl’s door

and they’d played together by a pond

in a nearby wood

sometimes holding hands

there’d always been a light around her

and she’d made him feel good

then the girl’s mother began coming to the door

saying the girl did not feel well

and for him to come back later

then she’d not come to the door at all

~ ~ ~

as a young man he came back

to the same grove of forest

49

where a weathered wooden sign stood from the water

near a bank where the girl’s parents

had planted a maple—

it said that with hope lies salvation

and he felt again as he had before

and he brought another girl to the tree

and they carved their names into it

and they were happy

50

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:

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51

Augusts 2014'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

Purrfect weather and cake yes cake!

In other news, Arizahn and Amos have decided to make ANU an online and POD only magazine it is expensive to produce and we

need the catfood we talked about this last month but no one replied and Arizahn reckons no one reads this bit.

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”.

52

Biographical Note: Behlor Santi

Behlor Santi currently lives in Boston, Massachusetts. A

forthcoming story will appear in The Eunoia Review. Past

stories have

appeared in The Foundling Review, The Eunoia Review,

Cliterature, and

Sleet Magazine. Find her at behlorfiction.tumblr.com.

53

TREE BRANCHESBy Behlor Santi

"We could consider termination, Martha," said Tom. "If that's whatbothering you."

Martha looked down at the snowy feta cheese crumbles in her salad. Shehated cheese, even the fancy sort from foreign countries. However,that didn't matter now.

Tom had a slight twang in his voice. He came from Waco. Martha grew upin Austin, where that twang was washed down with liberal politics,affluent bohemians, and lots of people from India.

Martha sipped her Perrier.

"That's not bothering me, Tom," she said.

Tom snickered. Martha put her hand to her womb. She wanted to givebirth right now. She wanted to stomp, kick, and kill whatever shespawned.

Martha was studying nursing at New York University. When she wasn'twith Tom, she holed herself in her apartment, supposedly studyingdifferent parts of the body. Recently, she had been on Wikipedia,obsessing over people like Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein, Jerry LeeLewis, Greta Scacchi. She even read about Mayor Rudolph Giuliani andhis first wife. Tom didn't make her situation better. With his blackhair and light build, he looked like a doctor who walked on the darkside. Martha imagined him killing patients just for fun.

At first, Martha cried after they had sex. She was glad that Tom lefther alone in her studio apartment. But all the isolation in theapartment, the self-righteous tears, couldn't hide her expandingbelly. Should she terminate, the way Tom suggested?

Martha took her hand off her womb. She wanted her stomach empty.

The summer day in Nolita became more humid. Martha smelled the sweatin her armpits. She wished that she didn't pick her flowery halter

54

dress. She noticed sweat collecting on Tom's forehead. She dug intoher Coach bag, grabbed a grubby brown tissue. She handed it to Tom.Her first cousin. The cousin she loved and feared all her life.

Tom grabbed Martha's tissue. He smiled at her, bearing no teeth.

RIP my baby, Martha thought with disgust. RIP my soul, as she imaginedherself alone in her apartment, empty belly down on her bed.

She would let Tom inside her again. She started to eat her salad,lettuce, cheese, and all.

55

Biographical Note: Paddy McCoubrey

Paddy McCoubrey was born in Belfast, he now

lives in lurgan and is a regular contributor to A New

Ulster.

56

Number Eight

(Paddy McCoubrey)

I loved you for your beauty

well I know that’s not a crime

but you felt it was your duty

to limit and decline

they say its just skin deep

still I loved you long and hard

and each path is thorned and steep

when you’re dealt the devils card.

I always was a step behind

when I followed in your path

and tried to be the martyr kind

who was never known to laugh

and never thought to question why ?

for things that others do

just accepted it with just a sigh

as resentment grew and grew.

then before we reached the line

of the fatal "no return"

57

I bravely claimed what’s mine

with neither scar nor burn

and how she felt I could not say

as she fell back to the night

for yet another wayward stray

to help her with her flight.

about a year or more had gone

each day had faded fast

by a sudden fate I chanced upon

a ghost that ruled the past

where once her striking looks had caught

and held me without blame

its strange the way but now I thought

for this time I saw her plain

58

A Spinsters Prayer

(Paddy McCoubrey)

Little children

I have none,

no one here

when day is done,

no one now

to hold me tight,

to cuddle up

and kiss goodnight.

Tiny footsteps

I don’t hear,

the often silence

brings a tear,

that catches me

in deepest thought,

about a past

I never caught.

59

For in later years

when I am gone,

my memory

wont be carried on,

and no one then

will tend my grave,

no flowers will sit

alone and brave.

60

Biographical Note: Tony Baillie

Tony has had three novels published, The Lost Chord (2006) and ecopunks (2010), both with Lagan Press. A Verse To Murder was published in 2012 as an ebook.His short story The Druid’s Dance was published in the award-winning Irish crime-fiction anthology Requiems for the Departed (Morrigan Books 2010). Tony has also had two volumes of poetry published, Coill (2005) and Tranquility of Stone (2010), both with Lapwing Publications.

Tony has had fiction and poems published in a wide variety of

journals and magazines. He reviews fiction and poetry for the

online New York Journal of Books and works as journalist with

The Irish News..

61

Axle

(Tony Baillie)

Tendrils of weedhaul the rusted axledown to earth,encasement of clay,the memory of daytripsand blurred open roadsfractured and flaking,clumps of nettleand dandelion clusterssmother once glinting steel,machine-wrought precisionmangled and blistered,journey’s endin an overgrown field.

62

Managua

(Tony Baillie)

I

Throat-clogging dust swirlsin coned eddies,mini-tornadoes that riseand twirl in spiralled hoopsthat suddenly collapseand scatter chaos.

Acrid smoke seers my eyes, snakes in wisps,drifting tendrilswrap themselves around me,lassoes castby spectral captorswho rise from the hazeof embers and smoketo hover by a bonfire.

II

Her powdered skinleft a musky streakacross my crumpled sheetthat I didn’t clean for a week,the faint whiff of herlingering when I bent to sniffbefore going to sleep,the memory of our disastrous rut –separate rhythmsthat never mergedinto a unified flow –a hungry ghost hovering,burnt-out memories carried on a waft of ash,that settled on my bed.

63

Scorched skin

(Tony Baillie)

Between the curve of wilted leaf and last ray of the sun a fracture in the evening opens with a half-heard creak,a shuffling in a copse of treesa ripple through a field.

Startled cattle swish their tailsand moan low warnings,nesting crows rise and crawabove their shrieking chicksflapping in crooked spirals,maternal ties abandoned.

She bathes to wash her scorched skin,faint smell of burning,rising from the mountain stream.

She beckons to me.

64

Biographical Note: Rachael Sutcliffe

Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from a serious autoimmune

disorder for the past 12 years, since her early twenties.

Throughout this time writing has been a great form of therapy,

it’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 Heron’s Nest and A

Hundred Gourds

65

Summer selection(Rachael Sutcliffe)

holiday fortnight

the sunshine

turns up late

######

ice cream van’s song

the long school holidays

playing outside

######

heatwave

the ice in my drink

no more

######

summer rain

the dry part of our tent

long gone

######

66

so much more

beach this year

wash out summer

######

home from holiday

the lawn greets

our knees

######

holiday clear out

emptying sand

out of my suitcase

67

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/

68

RETURN(John Jack Byrne)

I wave a last goodbye to this mountainous

warmth where the wine is always present

in the air, with row upon row of vines that

climb almost to the heavens .

Contrasting with light silver leaves of what is

universally regarded to as the branch of

peace, the olive tree, watched over

by the cupressus sempervirens standing

tall like sentries protecting their comrades

and I vow to return to Tuscany.

Return to the rolling hills, and Chianti, a wine

made for the gods, to blue haze which hangs

like curtains of the finest lace on every mountain,

to the pasta, and the cheese, to the ice cream and

to a country of fine sculptured fountains, to

a sun which is unceasingly smiling

.To the sometimes warm greeting of “Buongiorno” or

in the cool of the evening “ Buona Serra”, all pleasantly

delivered in a tongue of musical tones, in this country

of art, of rolling hills and the naked David, but most of all

I vow to return to my dusky Latin maiden Caterina.

69

A High Summers Day

(John Jack Byrne)

Skylarks sing on a high summer’s day

all down through the valley song spills

I stroll through heather of purple and gold

in soft mist through the Wicklow hills

I follow the path where the wild deer thread

they grow fat on the fraochán they graze

while a red tail kite circles slowly above

unseen in the mountain’s light haze

I drink from the silk brown mountain stream

infused by the high upland’s peat

I rest awhile to take in the view

an outcrop of granite my seat

I gaze upon far off distance hills

all the way down to the sea

I see the hen harrier rise from the furze

fulfilling the content in me

Alas comes the evening, time to descend

homeward to the kestrel’s cry

home with the jackdaws, starlings and crows

winging home through a golden sky

70

Tanka

(John Jack Byrne)

in the field

the Brent geese gather

to graze and chatter…

they know not

of loneliness

relaxing to music

in my ears

the song of the violins

ease my mind

like the wings of angels

I have little fear

of falling

on this uneven ground…

providing

I fall to your heart

a field of sunflowers

smile in unison

this hot summers day

something I have failed to do

since you’ve gone

71

Biographical Note: Marion ClarkeEducated at the Universities of Ulster and West of England, Marion Clarke is a writer and artist from Warrenpoint, County Down. The themes of nature, childhood and the passage of time inspire much of her writing.

Marion’s poetry has been published in online and printed literary journals, including Burning Bush II and The Linnet’s Wings. Last year her poem, Remembering John Martyn, was long listed in the Desmond O’Grady international poetry competition judged by Fred Johnston. Marion also studies and writes Japanese-style short form poetry (haiku, senryu, haibun and tanka) and her entry in the 2012 Vancouver International Cherry Blossom Festival Competition received a Sakura Award. More recently, one of her short stories, One Stop Beyond, received second place in a competition judged by Penguin Books crime writer, Tim Weaver.

72

Light bleeds

(Marion Clarke)

Acid-lemon lighton the café terrace at nightjars with bilious green table topsunder a skyful of starry fried eggs.

At Arles, his trapezoid yellow room,was discovered not to be distorted by an unstable mental state,but by unusual street design.

Fragile as quivering almond blossomin a dense turquoise universe,his newborn nephew gave himrare cause for celebration.

One midnight-blue afternoon, near the Auberge Ravoux,a murder of crows scatteredand the wheat field bled.

73

In June I had the pleasure of attending a poetry book launch at No Alibis bookshop in Belfast. No Alibis has a reputation for being welcoming and accommodating for book launches, poetry nights and entertainment in general. I had been invited to attend the launch of The Goosetree the latest collection of poetry from Moyra Donaldson published by Liberties Press. Some of

the poems from The Goosetree have been published previously or read at other evenings so I was familiar with their content however it is when these pieces come together as a collection

that they come to life. The Goosetree is an excellent choice for a summer read one which I’ve read several times now. Liberties Press contacted us about using some of Moyra’s poems in this

issue so it is our distinct pleasure to share a few from her new collection.

Amos Greig

74

Biographical Note: Moyra Donaldson

Moyra Donaldson is a poet, creative writing facilitator and editor. Her work has been published by Lapwing Publications, Lagan Press, Belfast and Liberties Press, Dublin www.libertiespress.com who published her Selected Poems in 2012 and a new collection, The Goose Tree in June 2014

75

A Winter Gift(Moyra Donaldson)

How much further you can seewhen the trees are bare,the countryside open to the bonesof itself, stark and absolute,stripped to essentials.

The first time you feel it,contentment is a strangesensation: what is thissettling on me?you wonder.

It is the gift of snow,drifting, deep.

76

Greba Cras(Moyra Donaldson)

We have disturbed the crowsinto a fierce wing-clatteringcroaking black circling,threatening to wake the dead,but the dead stay sleeping,

all God’s lovely loanscrowded together, tumbledtogether: nothing to distinguishone bone from another now.

Depending on the soil, typeof wood, it’s about a year,two at most, until a coffincollapses in on itself.

Four hundred years of headstonesand over the wall, older stories still,the Manx princess, her abbeyof thanksgiving for safe landing,

the monks, wrapping their cloaksaround themselves, becoming crows;out above all walls, flying into the armsof the village women, who waitedin their beds for the sound of wings.

77

Bad Dreams(Moyra Donaldson)

Plagued by the grotesqueand the disturbing,I’m seeking remedy.

Gather the red willowwhen it’s at its brightest;coax it to roundnessand fix the circle.

For the web, use nettle fibredyed red by plum-tree barkthen spun to a threadand turned eight timesaround the spiral;seven points for seven fires.

Place a single stone in the centre:the spider herself. Hang feathers:owl and hawk. Purify all with sage smoke.Suspend the magic above your sleeping.

Surely it’s got to be worth a try.

78

The Goose Tree(Moyra Donaldson)

‘There are likewise here many birds called barnacles,which nature produces in a wonderful manner, out ofher ordinary course’.

– Topographia Hibernia, Gerald of Wales

There are certain treeswhereon shells grow,

white-coloured,

tending to russet.

Each shell contains

a little living creature;

like the first line

of a poem, a thing

like a lace of silk

delicately woven,

one end of which

is fastened to the shell,

and which at the other

feeds into the belly

of a rude mass,

that in time comes

to the shape and form

of a bird. When the bird

is perfectly grown,

the shell begins to gape.

79

First lace, then legs,

then all comes forth

until the goose hangs

only by the beak.

A short space after,

at full maturity,

it falls into the sea,

where it gathers feathers.

Those that fall

onto the land perish

and become nothing.

A blank page.

80

Gold(Moyra Donaldson)

Remember how it wasbetween usin the beginning.I was divinity,

light of eternity,light of heaven,helping your soulto paradise.

You fell in love with mefor my beauty, my radiance.I was a piece of the sunyou could hold in your hand.

81

82

LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES

978-1-909252-35-6 London A Poem in Ten Parts Daniel C. Bristow978-1-909252-36-3 Clay x Niall McGrath978-1-909252-37-0 Red Hill x Peter Branson978-1-909252-38-7 Throats Full of Graves x Gillian Prew978-1-909252-39-4 Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro978-1-909252-40-0 A Long Way to Fall x Andy Humphrey978-1-909252-41-7 words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne978-1-909252-42-4 Red Roots - Orange Sky x Csilla Toldy978-1-909252-43-1 At Last: No More Christmas in London x Bart Sonck978-1-909252-44-8 Shreds of Pink Lace x Eliza Dear978-1-909252-45-5 Valentines for Barbara 1943 - 2011 x J.C.Ireson978-1-909252-46-2 The New Accord x Paul Laughlin978-1-909252-47-9 Carrigoona Burns x Rosy Wilson978-1-909252-48-6 The Beginnings of Trees x Geraldine Paine978-1-909252-49-3 Landed x Will Daunt978-1-909252-50-9 After August x Martin J. Byrne978-1-909252-51-6 Of Dead Silences x Michael McAloran978-1-909252-52-3 Cycles x Christine Murray978-1-909252-53-0 Three Primes x Kelly Creighton978-1-909252-54-7 Doji:A Blunder x Colin Dardis978-1-909252-55-4 Echo Fields x Rose Moran RSM978-1-909252-56-1 The Scattering Lawns x Margaret Galvin978-1-909252-57-8 Sea Journey x Martin Egan978-1-909252-58-5 A Famous Flower x Paul Wickham978-1-909252-59-2 Adagios on Re – Adagios en Re x John Gohorry978-1-909252-60-8 Remembered Bliss x Dom Sebastian Moore O.S.B978-1-909252-61-5 Ightermurragh in the Rain x Gillian Somerville-Large978-1-909252-62-2 Beethoven in Vienna x Michael O'Sullivan978-1-909252-63-9 Jazz Time x Seán Street978-1-909252-64-6 Bittersweet Seventeens x Rosie Johnston978-1-909252-65-3 Small Stones for Bromley x Harry Owen978-1-909252-66-0 The Elm Tree x Peter O'Neill978-1-909252-67-7 The Naming of Things Against the Dark and The Lane x C.P. StewartMore can be found at https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/homeAll titles £10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.