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

Featuring the works of Peter O'Neill, Eamonn Stewart, Joseph Patrick Dorrian, Theresa McCormack, Byron Beynon, Maire Morrissey-Cummins, John jack Byrne And more. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 14 November 2013

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A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig On the Wall Editor: Arizahn Website Editor: Adam Rudden

Contents Cover Image “Forest Snipes” by Amos Greig Editorial page 6 Peter O‟Neill; Rimbaud‟s Illuminations page 8 Baudelaire page 9 Beckett page 10 The Drinker page 11 Dame Street Blues page 12 Eamonn Stewart; Beauty Marred my own Little Cargo Cult page 14 Derelict Transfigured & The Chyme(s) page 15 The Drones page 16 Aide Memoire page 17 Scenes from a Spide‟s Agoge page 18 Jay‟s Progress page 19 Classical Lament of every Chav page 20 Disturbed Earth page 21 The Chav‟s Judgement of Paris pages 22-23 Joseph Patrick Dorrian; Too Much Information page 25 Theresa McCormack; Stevie Blunder page 27 And the seagulls roar page 28 Let‟s Escape page 29 A Moment pages 30-31 Byron Beynon; A Greek Island Tragedy page 33 Trinity Beach page 34 The Marble Tower Athens page 35 Man and Wife at sea page 36 South Wales landscape page 37 Maire Morrissey-Cummins; Spirited Magpies page 39 Rain Rythms page 40 Silence of Fall pages 41-42

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John Jack Byrne; Selection of Haiku page 44 Donal Hale: First you take a drink page 46 Hitch your wagon to a star pages 47-49 Norn Iron (Northern Ireland) page 50 Political Spin page 51

On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 52 Maire Morrisey-Cummins; Maire‟s work can be found pages 55-56 John (Jack) Byrne; John‟s work can be found pages 58-59

Round the Back

What‟s on page 60-61 Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 24 Tyndale Green, Belfast BT14 8HH Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 52 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/

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Published in Baskerville

Produced in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

All rights reserved

The artists have reserved their right under Section 7

Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

To be identified as the authors of their work.

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Editorial

‎November has crept upon us and sees the return of the Belfast Festival at

Queen‟s. I have spoken about my reasons for producing this magazine before

sometimes though it is worth repeating. I was surprised by the lack of poetry

magazines or journals available in Belfast. There were a few but difficult to locate I

sought to establish an independent journal in a similar vein to The Yellow Nib, The

Honest Ulsterman and Southword. I wasn‟t sure how well A New Ulster would be

accepted in the wider world.

The response was more than I could have expected and the quality of

submissions never ceases to amaze me. So this issue is a celebration of sorts a

recognition of the work that we share with you the reader. This one is for the artists

and their contribution to creativity. Baudelaire said it best “Who among us has not

dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and

rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations

of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness. This obsessive idea is above all a child of giant

cities, of the intersecting of their myriad relations.”.

I see two voices at work in art the urban inspired and the rural both can run

alongside each other and at times even intersect Heaney is a prime example of this

he had mastered both voices. This is something that I try to accomplish with my

work as well and when I picked the pieces in this issue I kept these themes in mind.

I hope you get as much enjoyment reading these pieces they speak highly of

the artists who submitted to this issue and to paraphrase Arthur Rimbaud they show

the artist as God. Their brush strokes, words give life to a world we can barely

interpret however through their eyes for a brief moment we can walk different

lands.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill

Peter O‟ Neill (1967) was born in Cork where

he grew up before moving to live in France in

the nineties. He returned to Dublin in 1998,

where he has been living ever since. He has

been writing poetry sine the eighties, and has

been published in reviews in Ireland, USA,

UK and France. His debut collection Antiope

(Stonesthrow Poetry, 2013) was critically

acclaimed: „certainly a voice to be reckoned

with.‟ Dr Brigitte Le JueZ (Dublin City

University). With over six collections behind

him, he is currently translating Les Fleurs Du

Mal.

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Rimbaud’s Illuminations,

or the Death of Books

(Peter O‟Neill)

This page is not made of paper,

For we do not even see it!

When the lead touches it

It touches air, infinity, sheer essence.

The words are not symbols or signs,

But rather the things themselves.

Search not for logic or reasoning,

But rather let the experience be totally sensory.

The leaves will appear sonorous,

Like perceiving a wall of sound.

That‟s it, let their force or shape guide you,

Like a stone would your own hand.

Lose yourself in sheer being,

The momentous gravitational pull of sheer presence!

Now, you see you are no longer reading –

At least not as you formally used to understand the term.

However, there is a price to this game:

Expect more now, from all things.

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Baudelaire

(Peter O‟Neill)

Sound is sense;

Close thunder twins

The apocalypse of the human heart.

After the murder of words,

Their incantation,

You are left feeling like an empty shell.

But, just as quickly

You can close the book, like a door,

And peace will be restored.

L’oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche...

Expulsed now onto College Green,

As inconsequential as a louse;

Above the sky... a passing leviathan...

Yet, you are just as indomitable.

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Beckett

For Conor Lovett

(Peter O‟Neill)

Secrete the germ of absence

Which plagues the will,

Calibrate the measure of nothingness

For the mind to fill,

And populate lacunae with fauna:

Bawds, bicycles and inmates-

To quell, somehow, its riot.

Process of negation, it‟s elemental;

Like wind and sea pulverising rock.

The buffeting the self takes, by itself and others,

All of this is constant,

That, and your stand.

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The Drinker

(Peter O‟Neill)

A glass of wine

rests on the counter

in which a miniature world

is being reflected back to the viewer,

all of his contained.

It comprises of a roof,

a window and the bartender,

who appears and disappears,

floating in and out

like a goldfish,

trapped, in this liquid cell.

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Dame Street Blues

for Alessia

(Peter O‟Neill)

Tomas Davis rises like a shroud

above the mist

trumpeted by four, broken, apocalyptic angels.

Grattan is exhumed;

Caught,

catching air.

Not one window in the bank is open.

The girls in the bookshops

are kneeling in front of the shelves

like choirboys at the altar.

The poets through their volumes sing;

Cherish me my sweet Lolitas

press me to your breasts

like a bird.

The flowers outside the florist explode like rockets.

All coffee now tastes like wine.

Come back to me my lover

and fuck with me again.

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Biographical Note: Eamonn Stewart Born in Belfast 1964. Trained to be an advertising photographer. Worked in advertising as motion picture cameraman. Studied film history at University of East London. Extensive publication of poems and photos in magazines and anthologies.

Presently, working pro bono in student/indie films.

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Beauty Marred My Own Little Cargo Cult

(Eamonn Stewart)

As a child, mother‟s aluminium head-lice comb

Was more beautiful than any princess‟s diadem.

I saw it‟s avatars in music box clockworks,

Turnstile‟s thaumatropes , science fair spectroscopes

And lately, on the Grosvenor Road .

The park railings diffraction grating

Transfigured the wet road.

The tram-lined aurora of traffic and car lights

Slothful as electrophoresis.

Blink comparators of Belitia Beacons at either end.

Efflorescence of smashed glass

From bottles the winos had flung.

Chromatographs of oil leaks where I stopped

To cross the road;

Lit by white headlights, then jaundiced sodium

Like variegated Plasticene I overwrought to brown

As a child.

The sign subsumes the signifier in the park.

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Derelict Transfigured

(Eamonn Stewart)

A young derelict with a baleen beard,

In which every drink or meal he‟s had adhered.

Traversing headlights lifted this stone

I practically hurled on the way home.

The Chyme(s )

(Eamonn Stewart)

Oft have I heard the chymes of midnight

In adjacent flats or in the streets.

These materialise, like Balla‟s lamp

In the morning under my feet.

I awoke to a peal of beer bottles

And white-cider tins

Tintinabulated by OCD winds.

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The Drones

(Eamonn Stewart)

The youth I know are angry drones

Appeased by a certain smoke alone.

Their function done: their queen bees

Ascend to forensic matriarchy.

But it‟s futile to speak

For these smoke-dazed drones –

“The Armed Struggle‟s” ASBO epigones.

They only want to get away with it

And so be left alone.

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Aide Memoire

(Eamonn Stewart)

In the snap, confetti the guests fling

were the scales from the butterfly‟s wings.

Coventrating not cleaving

the air that used to make it soar – became a simulacrum -

an electroscope flapping in a jar,

charged and discharged

by an electrophorus of despair –

the diaphragm applicator:

Only it, and the picture, are still there.

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Scenes from a a Spide’s Agoge

(Eamonn Stewart)

These “suicide-prone” epigones

Gather to drink from The Marian Shrine.

And shout taunts at those

They‟ve already insulted online .

They only go mob-handed

At those they have fought,

And are literally better fed than taught.

Trailed-up on the protein-rich diet of kings;

Their mothers‟ gave everything

Within and beyond their means.

This Spides‟ agoge never seems to end.

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Jay’s Progress

(Eamonn Stewart)

Q: Why are Britons so-called ?

A: Because they painted themselves blue.

Pre WWI prep school history book

Quoted by Robert Graves in Goodbye To All That.

Jay “robbed” a Blaupunkt protected by a code.

The hostel bosses found his stash and told him he had to go.

The indigo ectoplasm of tinfoil transfigured Triffids

Made him steal.

Ziplock bag apports from their sequestered crop circles

Made him reel through the suburbs like Aesop‟s fox

With a fiery tail.

In borstal, Sisyphusian bench-fitting; the Prussian Blue lacquer

That mocked the file, blunt as his wits.

Freedom, flight to Dublin.

Strung-out in a Trinity public loo

The violet lighting

Hid his veins

And anything else that was blue.

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Classical Lament of Everychav

(Eamonn Stewart)

ASBO-Deuses, pimply Apollyons,

Dr Shulgin gave you the key to the abyss:

Before the fatal hyperpyrexia comes the bliss.

Malignant aggression comes before all this.

Delphi in a can.

(Eamonn Stewart)

Around my neck Dodona.

The rest of the world is Iago,

And I am Desdemona.

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Disturbed Earth

(Eamonn Stewart)

When they release your name

The soul departs

But it is loathe.

The Big Bang fizzles out

And creation maunders into reverse.

Now boffins say there is

No peace in the grave –

And there is water on the moon

And I‟ve bought shortcake

In Brigadoon!

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The Chav’s Judgement of Paris

(Eamonn Stewart)

“The Sibyl‟s raving mouth

Prophesies without mirth”

Each night, The Spear Carriers

Shamble onstage:

“E”s invoke crass Judgements of Paris

or worse, Paris‟s are left forlorn

and in a rage.

Delinquents drunk on The Cider of Discord,

Stabbed my friend as his girlfriend

Stared aghast.

Because some bouncer with a flaming sword

Drove them from a disco,

They weren‟t prepared to let this pass.

My uncle told me long ago

That cows used to run after steam locos.

In this Thereomorphosis of Chavs

They pursue boys in filched fast cars.

Flocked round a cable junction box,

They bash a din from it with their feet.

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As I pass they ominously stop.

And, in the silence of the too-dark

street,

One perches there, headless

As Samothracean Nike –

Anencephalic, in baseball cap and hoody:

I hear the box‟s electrics Lamasary choir.

Fear spins awe‟s prayerwheel –

Grants my desire.

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Biographical Note: Joseph Patrick Dorrian

Patrick Dorrian is Belfast born bred and buttered as

McDowell would say. He retired from teaching in 2007

after 30 years struggling in west Belfast. Patrick is

married to Frances and they have 3 offspring all adults

now. He has dabbled with poetry for several decades as

a means of escape and last year Patrick had a poem

about Palestine published in a magazine in Europe, his

first publication.

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Too much information.

(Patrick J. Dorrian)

By the time I was inquisitive,

my mother's father was quite old.

Seeing him on a daily basis

certain aspects of his appearance

were taken for granted;

the dark suit and highly polished boots;

the shirt that took the paper collars,

the tie always pinned above the waistcoat;

even his brushed bowler hat,

worn to watch the orange parades

at which he'd suck oranges when the flutes passed.

One might almost say he was dapper,

a putative Dandy, had we not been poor.

Then there was the ivy, a sprig in his buttonhole,

picked fresh each day from a nearby wall.

I'd seen it often but not noticed it,

until I'd become inquisitive.

"Granda, what's the leaf?"

"It's Ivy",

"Why do you wear it everyday?"

Left unanswered, I guess six

was too young an age to learn

about Parnell and Kitty O'Shea.

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Biographical Note: Theresa McCormack

Theresa is from Cobh, Co. Cork. She is

married with two children and enjoys

photography and writing poetry. She works

in Cork City and is a big fan of the Cork

Hurling team.

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STEVIE BLUNDER

(in the Cork dialect)

Theresa McCormack

The blinds are down and the teachers are on holliers, For a week anyway‟s

says Stephen Otherwise known as “Stevie Blunder”. Its the midterm boys

he says matter oh factly, Just like an old Grand dad. He runs passed the

playground doing the aeroplane. He zigzags his way passed the teachers,

And does a full stop at the gates. Turning like a top on his new DC‟s The

ones his ma got him for being good He searches for his friends face. Call

for me after your dinner Ricky he shouts, Ricky gives a big thumbs up “I

will Stevie, after me dinner”. Stevie waves goodbye and trots down the

street A euro in hand for a dib dab and jellies Stevie rules the world. The

perfect mothers chat and cackle like witches Leaning up against the red

brick wall With their very best cardigans on…. Oh my Sean is very

academic says Margaret, So is my Paul another retorts, „Sher once their

happy says another, Ain‟t that the main thing, And they all nod together in

agreement And I laugh inside. I wait for my blue eyed boy Away from the

crowd, The blonde „wan chews her chewing gum Just like its on springs.

She looks me up and down Like I‟m from another planet. She thinks I

think I‟m someone special, But I don„t, I know I‟m only me. Out of the

corner of my eye A head that is familiar to me A swagger like jagger, He

walks the walk and talks the talk Does my boy Jack. A spring in his step

today, And the devil dancing in his eyes, He‟s won the lottery , He‟s hit the

jackpot Schools out for a whole week. Today Stevie might rule the world

But Jack rules the universe.

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AND THE SEAGULLS SOAR….

Theresa McCormack

The seagulls soar On the crooked shore And the wind did roar As the

storm it bore…. On a windswept day Great oaks did sway Where the

Herefords lay On that January day.

And the steam it rose From their mouths and nose As they lay in rows

While the wild wind blows. And gusts of leaves Danced on the breeze And

swished through trees Then drowned in seas.

Black crows like priests They took their seats On branches deep And

closed their beaks. But the wind blew wild Like a restless child And it

shook the tide From side to side. But the seagulls glide With grace and

pride From deep inside The storm so wild.

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LET‟S ESCAPE

Theresa McCormack

When the rain stopped Two pigeons sat on a wet chimney Defeated and

wet.. Tears of rain fell from bright blue sun umbrellas Trickling on and on

Crying on to wooden sun tables. Basketballs sat on wet grass And old

soggy dog food lay in plastic bowls. Where‟s the sun gone the children ask,

Looking out speckled windows, Following the raindrops journey down the

glass Wondering which one gets to the end first. Wet sheets hang lifeless

on clothes lines Sure to stay there for all eternity, And I sigh a sigh to a lost

July. The barbecue stands alone Wrapped up in a big green raincoat,

Under the Holly Tree. The stillness after rain is beautiful I say to the

children They look at me open mouthed, As if I‟m an Extra Terrestrial

From a Spielberg movie. ET phone home mum they laugh, While

pointing their fingers at the grey sky. The clouds never seem to move And

stay transfixed above our heads. The birds still sing, The crows caw and

fight on wet dripping trees, Like old men in black coats Sharing Sunday

afternoon conversations. July is a washout I think to myself As the rain

comes back to haunt us. Weather beaten we hurry for our coats and boots,

Slamming the door behind us. Lets go and spend a rainy afternoon with

Harry Potter I say, Theirs sunshine in the children‟s eyes again. Its not

E.T. I say, Its not a Spielberg Movie, But it‟s a wizard and a goblin, And

where we„re going theirs no rain..... Let„s escape.

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A MOMENT

Theresa McCormack

I went to your grave today Just to touch base to bring you flowers. I feel

guilty if I don‟t go.

I am empty because I can‟t see you, And then I end up having an

argument with myself saying, “She‟s not there, its only earth and bric‟ a

brac, Its only dirt.

I walk past a wind chime on Baby Paul‟s grave And take a moment A small

Thomas the Tank Engine Truck lies there, Battered by the weather.

Battered like his mother and fathers heart No doubt a little piece gone

now, They must have only half a heart each I say And I breathed out a

sigh.

I put a pebble on his gravestone to show I was there An old Jewish

tradition I like But the wind blows it off And the pebble is gone, just like

Baby Paul.

And it hits me, yes, nobody is untouchable, Babies can die too, And I think

how innocent they must be And I feel lucky to have my own two.

I carry on along the gravel path And look at the concrete Angels with their

arms outstretched , Reaching for the heavens I wish I could reach up into

heaven and bring you back sometimes.

But I know I can‟t and mumble to myself to grow up, I sit by your

graveside talking to you Telling you I‟m sorry for this time and that time

And regret visits me again.

I think of that morning I never went to greet you I never spoke hello, And

I wonder how I could have known That it would be my last time hearing

your footsteps or your voice.

Then I console myself quietly Remembering how cruel you could be to me

Whiskey was always your saviour, And I tell myself that whiskey was your

true friend, not me.

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I always come away feeling you heavy on my shoulders And my visits make

me remember you even more, I wonder why I came, I feel empty.

I turn the car to drive off and there on a wall is a blackbird Right in front

of me, I stare and she goes about her business Feeding her young in the

wall of the cemetery.

She thinks they are hidden but I can see her duck and dive As she feeds

her longing chic‟s And though you are still heavy on my shoulders My

sadness seems to fade.

I get out of my car and look without disturbing I hear them call to her,

There in a crevice in the wall of the cemetery, where all is dead There is

life.

And I remembered how once I told you I liked blackbirds, On a garden

bench in the sunshine, When sunbeams hit your face and you smiled And

suddenly I was not alone anymore.

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Biographical Note: Byron Beynon

Byron Beynon lives in Swansea, Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including A New Ulster, London Magazine, The Warwick Review, Cyphers, Chicago Poetry Review and Quadrant. Collections include Nocturne in Blue and Human Shores (both from Lapwing Publications). His most recent collection is The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).

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A GREEK ISLAND TRAGEDY

(Byron Beynon)

I watch the sea's glint of blistering light

mirrored towards a matured rock's

anchored surface, the faded stone with parched hills

moored in an active Aegean.

Coins found and graced

by Dionysus's purple grapes,

Demeter's corn of yellow,

as Poseidon's dolphins leapt

to the music of Apollo's lyre.

To-day's mortal scene of houses,

cuboid, small and white,

gauge their narrow streets

seething with summer's tourists,

caught in a sunburnt bottleneck.

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TRINITY BEACH

(Byron Beynon)

Cushioned between Yorkey's Knob and Clifton beach,

this meeting place confronts

the Great Barrier Reef.

The water shines like health,

invites me to enter

the spray of salty turquoise

sharpening my sense of touch.

The broken coral jangles

in the polished sea

where during the rainy season

jellyfish bring the risk of death.

I watch and notice three dolphins rise,

they dip and disappear

into the warm flux,

a beauty of glistening arches

on a journey northwards.

Here on the beach I feel

their controlled energy like a carving,

a concentration, their triptych.

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THE MARBLE TOWER, ATHENS

(Byron Beynon)

A rash of corroding noise

with the bad breath of traffic

on an afternoon stirring

memory beside the marble tower of the winds.

I gaze at an architect's imagination,

scattered flowers,

the urn chiselled with water

flowing from a precursor in history,

the solid octagonal craft

taking flight

towards the ebullient light,

a survivor from antiquity

displaying a calm dignity,

the sprawling compass-beats

etched within this city's

congested heart.

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MAN AND WIFE AT SEA

(Byron Beynon)

A middle-aged man

conducts the air,

guiding me to other seas, other mountains,

which I inhabit like dreams and distant places.

He tries a variety of angles,

moving his arms like a windmill,

butterfly fingers stroking the air.

He has cultivated a paunch,

imitating a pregnant woman,

he looks outward and searches

the coastline,

rests both hands

on hips, his pointed elbows

the arms of a vase,

the completed work of a potter,

brought to maturity.

His wife cuts free

the green-skinned cucumber,

she sits carving a meal for two,

nudges her man to eat.

A shared refreshment

without words,

her name is already written

on the water.

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SOUTH WALES LANDSCAPE UNDER CLOUD

(Byron Beynon)

There is so much here

for the eye

to walk into,

a succinct landscape

under a heavy threat

from developers

who are only

a stone's throw away;

but for now

let nature and humanity

work together,

a perfect stillness

coherent with truth,

a subtle feast interfused

with a serene, sad music,

an eternal power

behind all things.

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Biographical Note: Máire Morrissey-Cummins

Máire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for many years, working in Holland mainly and Máire lives between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published haiku writer. Máire retired early from the Financial Sector and found art and poetry. She is really enjoying the experience of getting lost in words and paint.

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Spirited Magpies

(Máire Morrissey-Cummins)

Playful Magpies

exchange trees,

alternating between birch and maple,

they compete for the highest branches.

Striking and athletic,

I delight in their performance.

From close proximity,

their plumage flashes a metallic blue,

white underbellies

lustrous as virgin snow.

Strutting boastfully

lofty tails held high,

I contemplate their beauty.

Solid, against a lifeless sky,

feathers ruffle,

they stand statuesque,

spirited.

Moving in pairs.

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my superstitious mind

cites “two for joy”.

I wonder

if the most dominant one

on the bony limb of my silver birch

is my father‟s spirit?

His characteristics

are so similar.

41

Rain Rhythms

(Máire Morrissey-Cummins)

She slides the curtains

to the changing season,

clicks the window latch shut

on a rain drenched morning,

thick mist crossing the sea.

The radiator ticks into life

swirls with waters warm

filling the room with a July noon.

She pats down her dreams

on a slumber tossed duvet,

soothed by the drumming rain

and a flame lamp warms

this dusky morning,

a new Winter‟s day.

42

Silence of Fall

(Máire Morrissey-Cummins)

This morning the sun fell silent

bathing the grass in a blaze of light.

Blades glittered wet

with September dew.

Rowan berries clustered red,

the garden soaked in summer‟s end,

ready for the fall.

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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/

.

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Haiku by John Jack Byrne journey begins...

43 hands reach for the air vents Blenheim....

entrance step a wee dog cocks his leg

sleepy village... sharing my lunch

a duck coach window...

also going to Oxford this fly

Blenheim.. naked bust a fly on her nipple

ferry... looking at the sea

I buy water ferry stern... getting smaller and smaller Wales

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Biographical note: Donal Hale

Donal Hale was born and raised in Belfast

before moving to London in 2009 to teach

English and English Literature in a secondary

school. A lover of poetry for many years, he

mainly wrote poems as a personal creative

exercise or for some sense of escapism, but now

wants to share his work with a more public

audience

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First you take a Drink, then the drink takes You

(Donal Hale)

Bleary eyed texts, to a would-be lover,

on another alcohol-fuelled night

which tomorrow you will fail to remember.

Your headache hits at around first light;

you really are such a sorry sight.

That feeling of unaccounted for guilt

is all too familiar, as you hug your quilt.

Was it worth it?

Feeling this shit?

I‟m guessing not, but take another resolve,

and let those shameful feelings dissolve.

You‟ll be ready for another night on the town.

Like that‟s an opportunity you will ever turn down.

Come now, what‟s the harm in another drink?

Answer that quickly, before you have time to think.

Is it worth it?

Feeling this shit?

First you take a Drink, then the drink takes You;

And when you realise that,

that‟s your big breakthrough.

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Hitch your Wagon to a Star

(Donal Hale)

Wearing an, alright, black dress,

hardly Prada.

Got my A-Level in drama, but

didn‟t get into RADA.

Fairly pretty-

I guess-

ain‟t no Kate Moss.

Decent jobs. Decent wage,

but, not the boss.

I was sixteen years old

and had never been told

that dreams are not a guarantee.

Yeah,

no-one ever thought

to tell me.

But,

I worked hard.

They told me I would be a success,

get out,

make it big

and

all the rest.

If only they could see me now,

48

what would they say?

„She‟s changed a lot,

wasn‟t like that back in the day!‟

I do look different-

a bit more, polished, I guess,

though behind the make-up

still feel like an utter mess.

They

(I don‟t know who really)

say I‟m a star,

chasing me with blinding

flashes to my car.

I‟m not.

Not at all,

just another washed up singer

more famous because

of several rings on my finger,

more known in the glossy mags

like those wannabes

and

those preening WAGS

and

now as lines start to form on my face

and

49

my tits begin to sag,

I stumble from one party

to another

and

my feet start to drag

„cos I‟m tired

and

I‟m drunk on G&T‟s

and

I‟m lost now,

and all I want is sleep.

Please

50

Norn Iron (Northern Ireland)

(Donal Hale)

An English girl asked me once, „Is Northern Ireland really that bad?‟

I fought the urge to acidly respond, „You mean the North of Ireland!‟

opting with, „I would be lying if I didn‟t admit it wasn‟t a little mad.‟

With this, I gazed into her pearly blue eyes and took her by the hand:

„It is like a bizarre fairy-tale land; devoid of all logic and of reason,

where the public mood is more changeable that the summer season.

It is a place where to be Catholic and atheist is not contradictory

and a murder is viewed with some sense of a sectarian victory.‟

„What about all that stuff about Good Friday and that peace wall?‟

I smiled, perhaps patronisingly, pleased with her child-like naiveté,

„That was a good day, but the wall doesn‟t really help that much at all.

You see peace only seems to exist with that wall dividing the city.

She looked aghast and said, „They must all be the really religious type.‟

„You would think,‟ I said, „but to be fair most don‟t even bother with

mass…

unless it‟s one of those big holidays. It‟s all conflated with political hype

more than anything and often it is simply about resentment of social

class.‟

I sighed then. I let go of her hand, which now felt cold in mine.

„I‟m sorry I asked,‟ she said. I stared at her and said, „It‟s fine.‟

51

Political Spin

(Donal Hale)

Get him in focus and don‟t forget the soundbite!

We can spin this our way; let‟s take it to the Right.

Comb his hair; give him a broom for the glory shot.

Phone the BBC and get him on the prime-time slot.

Quickly now, we need to get to the next borough-

remember, quick chat and nothing too thorough.

„Can I not challenge them; condemn or chastise?‟

„No, because later we make need to strike a compromise.

The Party is relying on you to make them look good;

you must appear strong and your words not misunderstood.‟

„Can I not just be honest and tell them what I think?‟

„Don‟t be silly- you want our voting margins to shrink!‟

„This doesn‟t seem right; there must be something I can do?‟

„Don‟t be a fool mayor, if you do, it will be such a fuss for you.

We have got the election to consider and we are losing support.

We must sort this out quickly; in politics time is very short.‟

„Fine, I will listen and do whatever you tell me.‟

„That‟s a good boy; trust me; I am your loyal devotee.‟

(And besides, if he fucks up, I‟ll step up to the position;

He needs to learn what it means to be a politician).

52

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:

SUBMISSION

S

NB – All artwork must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not

be published, and anyone found to be in breach of this will be reported to the police.

Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format.

Please include your name, contact details, and a short biography. You are welcome to include a

photograph of yourself – this may be in colour or black and white.

We cannot be responsible for the loss of or damage to any material that is sent to us, so please send

copies as opposed to originals.

Images may be resized in order to fit “On the Wall”. This is purely for practicality.

E-mail all submissions to: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: (Type of work here)

submitted to “A New Ulster” (name of writer/artist here); or for younger contributors: “Letters to the

Alley Cats” (name of contributor/parent or guardian here). Letters, reviews and other

communications such as Tweets will be published in “Round the Back”. Please note that submissions

may be edited. All copyright remains with the original author/artist, and no infringement is

intended.

These guidelines make sorting through all of our submissions a much simpler task, allowing us to

spend more of our time working on getting each new edition out!

53

November’s 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE

ALLEYCATS:

Its November already? I just want to sleep

Once again we have some lovely haiga the combination

of art and haiku impresses. Can you believe next month is

December time flies.

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”.

54

Biographical Note: Máire Morrissey-Cummins

Máire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for many years, and bides between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published haiku writer. Máire retired early from the Financial Sector and found art and poetry. She is really relishing the experience of getting lost in literature and paint.

55

Old Hawthorn by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Petals fold into Silence by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

56

Stones Sing by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Tangle of Trees by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

57

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/

58

Awaiting by John Jack Byrne

Cascade by John Jack Byrne

59

Forked by John Jack Byrne

Your Smile by John Jack Byrne

60

61

November is probably going to be a chilly month but there is plenty of

art and poetry on the way. First up we have a new poetry venture being

launched by Ray Givans and Paul Jeffcutt. It is called The Squat Pen

and will be a semi regular evening of poetry at No Alibis Belfast. No

Alibis is known for its links to crime fiction as well as its support of

poetry and the arts indeed several book launches have been held there.

The Squat Pen will be an open platform for pen and paper poets

as well as performance poets to get in front of an audience and perform

their work. The first evening will be on the 7th of November.

Also running from the 4th to the 7th of November is University of

the Air a Literary Festival recognizing and celebrating the Open

University and its links in Northern Ireland a full time table of events

can be found here: https://www.facebook.com/events/174345226102853/?ref_dashboard_filter=calendar

You Write on (http://www.youwriteon.com/) is a very interesting

service for writers sponsored by Arts Council money the site allows

users to upload their work and then get feedback on it from other users

many people who have used the service have managed to gain book

deals. Publishers that have opened their doors to users include

Random House, Orion, Penguin and harper Collins. Community

supported writing appears to be the new way forward for many and this

could be something to watch.

62

63

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