anu issue 31/ a new ulster 31

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

Featuring the works ofStrider Marcus Jones, Eamonn

Stewart, Rachel Sutcliffe, Tom Pestacore, John Jack Byrne,

Dr Mel Waldman, Noel King and Carl Scharwath

. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 31

April 2015

2

A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall Editor: Arizahn

Website Editor: Adam Rudden

ContentsContentsContentsContents

Editorial page 5

Marcus Strider Jones; Stone Jar

The Vase

Tin of Sorrows

Yin-Yang Thoughts

Bard’s Song

Two Beads

Taking off my Coat

Eamonn Stewart;

The Chav’s Judgment of Paris The Cows Muddied my Personal Helicon

The Lock-In

Myths of the Rights of Fathers

Oklo Chez Sois/ Oklo Chez Falls

Rachel Sutcliffe; Haiku & Senryu Selection

Tom Pescatore; Baking in my Sleeping bag

As a dog barks

Dead Eyes

It remembers my Password

Girl in the Purple Dress

John Jack Byrne; Dream my Dreams Yellow eye

Dr Mel Waldman;

An Unholy Silence

Inside the Dead Files

The House of God is a Poem

Mysterious Disease

Raw

After Tav

3

Noel King;

Boys of the Rhythm Stick newlyweds

Potato Bride

when Did they Say I Can Go Home?

Who'll Die First?

On The WallOn The WallOn The WallOn The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 52

Carl Scharwath;

Carl’s work can be found pages 55-58

John Jack Byrne;

John’s work can be found page 60-62

Round the BackRound the BackRound the BackRound the Back

Press Releases Book Review pages 65-70

4

Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to:

Submissions Editor

A New Ulster

23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL

Alternatively e-mail: [email protected]

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 “To win your love” by John ‘Jack’ Byrne

5

“Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and

history only the particular.” Aristotle.

Editorial

I’m somewhat surprised to find this issue coming out at Easter I hope everyone has a

quite and peaceful holiday break. This issue contains an amazing selection of work poetry,

senru and artwork from around the world.

I’ve noticed a growing trend to produce literary and arts magazines without listing

page numbers for the various artists I’ve tried to provide a clear and concise order to each issue so

that you can find the work easier however in this issue I’m going to forgo the page numbers in the

listings above the work will still be in the order it is presented however.

Northern Ireland still bears the scars of the Troubles and we have started to stumble

over Peace and Reconciliation there is an emphasis on the past and history here sadly that history

can itself be biased and only helps pollute the future for other generations.

Easter is a time of rebirth and reflection and I find myself looking back at the

beginning of this magazine a lot of time and effort has gone into producing every issue and while I

look at the first issue with fondness I can see that the issue has grown and suffered teething

problems along the way I do not seek to push an agenda or a directive instead I’m providing a

platform for artists to share their work, to reach a global audience I hope you enjoy this issue as

much as I enjoyed working on it.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

6

Biographical Note: Strider Marcus JonesBiographical Note: Strider Marcus JonesBiographical Note: Strider Marcus JonesBiographical Note: Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant

from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and

Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published

books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes

erotic, surreal and metaphysical

http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a

maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing

his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

His poetry has been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2

Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition;

Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal,

2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry

Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed

Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life

and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine;

Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry

Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal; East Coast Literary Review;

Nightchaser Ink Publishing Anthology - Autumn Reign; Crack The

Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu Issue 29; Poems For A

Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Outburst

Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman

Magazine and The Lonely Crowd Magazine.

7

STONE JAR

(Strider Marcus Jones)

have seat

stone jar

with heart old as peat;

you've come this far-

seen history shoot itself

to repeat the past

but nothing else

is made to last-

why weep

and fast,

while others sleep

and blast

this sorrow

from the same face tomorrow-

and what fool am i to keep

thinking that the thinkers

will remove the old ways blinkers-

and speak.

8

THE VASE


standing silent proud,

alone, or in a crowd

life glazed mood and skin

outside and in-

for you, i think out loud

and take you in-

where thoughts abound reversible

and convertible-

where saying being wrong

reaches out beyond

the natural need to win.

moulded by my hands

to this shape that understands;

its cloth of clay holds you warm,

a mummer masked in costumes storm-

react with its receptacle of reason

for sorting truths from treason,

but you don't need to have a season

to put your flowers into me-

swaying here, in wind and wild, as born so be.

9

TIN OF SORROWS


i keep bad blues

from the past,

in a tin of sorrows-

to remind me,

that my tomorrows

can bloom out of this.

the vertical hues

that last,

backfill regrettable hollows-

that find me,

when time shifts and borrows

the coves of happiness in bliss.

the loves i lose, become the glues

that hold, and make me last;

instead of weighing me down in woes

that blind me-

they guide me on new roads-

which open when i wish.

10

YIN-YANG THOUGHTS


i contemplate for hours,

weaving circles round the moon,

using supernatural powers

in an oxygen balloon-

imagining the straight

in the twists and turns of fate.

the truth is ties and tangles

of beads upon a thread,

with answers to its angles

solved in something that you said-

like the canopy of bloom

lighting shade inside a room.

soft, part the peel of pleasure,

real and ripe behold, begin-

imagine of the whole together,

spoken out, and spoken in,

like yin-yang thoughts

beat to beat to balance talks.

11

BARD'S SONG


When the night

Holds the light

And closes its hand

I lie in its equation

Of sensory deprivation

And think to understand.

Nothing is wrong

With this bard's song

His lucid notes reach out

For love's soft lips

And finger tips

Released from shadows doubt.

Feel its beauty,

Unlike duty-

Play and set you free:

To ride the wave

Desires crave

While you lie with me.

12

TWO BEADS


in some quixotic place,

there is the figure and the face,

whose mind transcends that secret space-

in me.

she winds new memories

like ribbons round the helix threads of destiny-

altering perceptions, light and sound

when i turn around-

and find her watching me.

two beads, bound by natures mime,

consent to dance a tango on the silent strings of time,

oblivious to other fruits, that ripen on the vine-

eventually.

13

TAKING OFF MY COAT


each evening

is like taking off my coat.

i sit down

apart from the day

and nothing happens.

i let silence sing

her supernatural note-

in the air, i drown

in how the lonely play

as reality slackens.

curdling in a chair

with arms of broken branches

that used to be

and went somewhere

in circumstance and chances-

now greying, like wild hair

at the end of all its dances

with the gravity

gone from its romances-

i feel time's weight

compress the emptiness of fate,

into some sort of nothing

that held my hand,

and left me something-

to understand.

14

Biographical Note: Eamonn StewartBiographical Note: Eamonn StewartBiographical Note: Eamonn StewartBiographical 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.

15

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.

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.

16

The Cows Muddied my Personal Helicon

(Eamonn Stewart)

Tonight, his sacred cows come home

To Elysian pastures in the Academe Grove.

From their hides you get glycerine –

Nitrates and ammonia from the pish and dung,

And their ponderous hooves blend the clay.

Thye’re this spin-doctored Odyssey’s

Cattle of the Sun.

Bogs, horse ploughs and boarding schools

Were not for me. Rather cobbles

Handcarts and Sawyers* chicken

Bar-B-Q machine, transported me,

Though not as far as Stockholm in tails –

Not in my wildest dreams.

For I only wrote of my peers

Blasted by the prayers of saints #

Poured from base vials

Sold with ironmongers’ complaints

Over loutish wiles.

His cattle are not our lodestar –

Pharaoh never dreamt such ominous steers,

Whose claps will swamp new Irish poetry for years.

* Sawyers was Belfast’s one and only delicatessen when I was a

boy.

# Revelations 5,8

17

The Lock-In

(At The Submarine Bar)

(Eamonn Stewart)

When my phone went-off in the bar

Vibrate and ring;

The ASDIC beam ping

And poltergeist shower of stones.

Where my surface thoughts crash-dived

To Albert Street in 1975

When Stevie ran from the toy barricade

And a Pippin Fort soldier

Did something depraved.

This databurst phantasmagoria played

On the meteorburst mirror

Brock’s Fireworks made:

The hopscotch grid’s ouija board,

Passing the votive candle’s

Treacly strobe

The search barriers turnstiles

Thaumatropes

Re-integrated the dead

That bombs had unmade

And I had to get out

Of that lock-in.

Tired eyes I rubbed

Once Aladdin’s lamps

Became the wreckers lanterns.

18

Myths of The Rights of Fathers

(Eamonn Stewart)

My fatal touch and turn towards/to Eurydice

Was on paper, but no less overwrought than

Morel's sysyphusian Marienbad- anabasis of my thoughts

correct your maps you dads Byzantium is The family Courts !

And, let’s say/ (if) Thebes is the life you’ve planned with your child

Then your ex is the Sphinx there running wild.

She has no riddle to turn her mild

You would-be solvers are cursed if you try

19

Oklo Chez Sois/Oklo Chez Falls (Eamonn Stewart)

The Muse

Sukie* was our disquieting muse.

Hypocrite moniteur du lait, J’Accuse !

Bereft of her glass laurels, bereft of desks

Bereft of pews, pharmacology is what my peers now choose.

Antecedents

Who drowned the Riverdale Rats?

The Breweries, the Breweries.

Where have their sons and daughters gone?

They’re all away with the fairies.

Whither away – to what fairy hill?

A palace no more than a little white pill.

Misunderstandings

“Enghien chez sois

and an Oklo up your own nose !”

“It’s still natural “ he replied

“Fuck up. What would you know?”

Earlier that night, a bouncer saw

Me do origami with a receipt –

That was a wrap, my Bond-esque quip

As I stood bewildered in the street

Thinking of Hugo from the homeless hostel

Ejected from the library,

For hurling abuse then books:

The first through Tourette’s ,

The second, through the injustice of the absurd.

Still I laughed to think of the book-hurling octopus

In Cousteau’s Silent World - the one upon whom

Another Hugo had cast slurs.

Sukie As Cassandra

When Africa was younger by aeons

Some undine at Oklo enchanted

Orphic water to quicken the sandstone –

Eurydicized the Yellow Cake.

Proving the Achilles Paradox

20

Of slow neutrons –

The apports of photons

In dark waters

Bluer than the milky way

Trapped in surface tension.

But, this Powder of Sympathy

Dogs the nose,

Apotheosizes snots to Escargotique Ondes.

The moderator from which this fission of the neurons flows

Petrifies Phase Two fossils under the pilgrim’s feet

Along the Falls Road.

21

Biographical Note: Rachel SutcliffeBiographical Note: Rachel SutcliffeBiographical Note: Rachel SutcliffeBiographical Note: Rachel Sutcliffe

Rachel Sutcliffe (Yorkshire, England) has suffered from a serious

immune disorder for the past 14 years, throughout this time

writing has been her therapy, it’s kept her from going insane. She

is an active member of the British Haiku Society and the online

writing group Splinter4all. Her work has appeared in numerous

print and online journals including: Hedgerow, Prune Juice, Brass

Bell, The Heron’s Nest and A Hundred Gourds. Find her

@ http://projectwords11.wordpress.com.

22

Haiku & Senryu Selection

(Rachel Sutcliffe)

late thaw

pointing towards spring

green shoots

under the rainbow

sunlight pools

in puddles

sudden storm

raindrops reconvene

in the river

first picnic of spring

so many

hungry flies

champagne toast

the bride’s fear

of fireworks

bookshop

the assistant reads

my mind

library visit

the hole

in your story

hotel alarm call

showering with

the guest upstairs

23

Biographical Note: Tom PescBiographical Note: Tom PescBiographical Note: Tom PescBiographical Note: Tom Pescatatatatoreoreoreore

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia

dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the

idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains

a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His

work has been published in literary magazines both

nationally and internationally but he'd rather have

them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on

the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row.

24

Baking in my sleeping bag (Tom Pescatore)

You're on the other

side

being abstract, acting

distant,

I have a stack of

thoughts in front of me,

unfinished; have poems to

write, poems I

should be writing; instead

I'm writing this; an

alarm goes off, it's mine

Saturday morning, you're

laying around somewhere,

Cootie Williams is blowing

Gator Tail; I shut the blinds

and the world outside

goes on and on and about

and out without me,

this poem is running, jazz is

dead, so are all those jazz

men playing, dead, but time doesn't

make sense anyway; it's

just going in circles, stealing

what it can,

which is everything,

we aren't friends; I can't see the

trees,

I'm hiding from the sun.

25

As a Dog Barks

(Tom Pescatore)

The Hunt

by Dexter Gordon?

usually don't guess

right but

that's what's playing:

July 4th 2014

8:53 am

my phone turns itself

off during that night,

never the day

day looks like rain, but

it's not raining

I shit, shower

head doesn't hurt any longer.

I should get a beer, I says,

I'm a writer, it would make sense.

I don't. I hear children playing outside,

I left my window cracked, the gray

sky leaks inside, now

everything is gray

this doesn't feel like independence

a strange metallic sound outside,

car, sounds off,

these guys (Filipino & Mexican

guys) are always out working on

their cars, I don't know enough

to know what they're doing,

I missed out on that part of manhood.

26

I've held a pen,

typed instead.

Sun peeks through clouds off-screen

it's all starting to look different

it's July 4th, 9:38am

I'm typing poems as a dog barks.

27

Dead Eyes (Tom Pescatore)

A soft summer rain,

clicking of some insect or

raccoon or squirrel off in

trees, purple-orange sky

haze in the distance, beyond that,

the city, I walk out into scene

swinging trash bag, cutting down

invisible spider-webs,

the dumpster looks at me

with dead eyes like the dead

eyes staring out wet

tree branches, like the dead eyes

leering under cars, like the dead eyes

from the million cold bodies

buried in all the cemeteries of the world,

and I toss the bag into the

gaping black mouth weary of stepping

any closer,

walk out into the street

where I feel somehow I'm safe,

for a moment, before turning

back toward the old brick

apartment building

with its dark windows

watching,

and its own dead eyes

wondering.

28

It remembers my password

(Tom Pescatore)

Search:

Right

images:

I'm tagged in (1)

[is the face in the mirror

the one you're allowed to see?]

mine is smiling

without pretense

I hope (at least)

we haven't checked

our backlog yet

--in a while--

notifications waiting

piling up

kb/mb/gb/love

how many

waiting?

[have you ever stopped

and looked yourself in

the eye?]

for 30 years I thought

mine were brown (they're hazel)

Central heterochromia - is an eye condition that

does not interfere with a person's eyesight.

we are wrapped in

social media tears

you and I and all

of us we you and

me

faces recognized

locations checked-

in

29

I am signing on the

login screen I am

checking all the boxes

one x one

so

it remembers what

I've done.

30

Girl in the Purple Dress (Tom Pescatore)

I find you in my bed

at night

dreaming

follow you

my arm tight

around

your

waist

maybe sometimes

words between

us are lost

you have eyes like

opaque pools

of super novas

depthless

your legs are silk

thoughts

cool rivers

edge

your body against

mine is

my body

when you're not

looking I reach out

to

you

there is more I want to

say

in my

hands pulling back

there are memories

beyond my

memories

foolish little words

that aren't enough

31

Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note: John Jack ByrneJohn Jack ByrneJohn Jack ByrneJohn 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/

32

Dream my Dreams

(John Jack Byrne)

With thoughts of you I dream my dreams

by golden sunsets and silver streams

through winter skies and star filled nights

as rolling clouds shield soft moonlight

When rains fall softly upon the land

I’ll walk with you hand in hand

into a world of lovers dreams

of golden sunsets and silver streams

Within the birdsong at early dawn

your voice of love goes on and on

on mountain ranges at great heights

through winter skies and star filled nights

Ever thankful for to dream

of our love that is supreme

ever thankful come the night

where rolling clouds shield soft moonlight

33

Yellow Eye

(John Jack Byrne)

Welcome to my autumn garden

sweet bird with yellow eye

stay awhile and eat your fill

before you decide to fly

Come close to me and be my friend

share peace with me this day

my autumn garden’s a tranquil place

to help you along life’s way

Perhaps you’ll help me seek my heart

it too has flown away

that day my true love left me

the clouds were dark and grey

So thank you bird with yellow eye

your visit has made my day

linger awhile and roam at will

I’ll be sad as you fly away

34

Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note: Dr Mel WaldmanDr Mel WaldmanDr Mel WaldmanDr Mel Waldman

Dr. Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, and writer whose

stories have appeared in numerous magazines including

HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, HARDBOILED,

DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, THE

SAINT, DOWN IN THE DIRT, CC&D, PULP METAL

MAGAZINE, INNER SINS, YELLOW MAMA, and

AUDIENCE. His poems have been widely published in

magazines and books including LIQUID IMAGINATION, A

NEW ULSTER, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW,

THE BROOKLYN VOICE, BRICKPLIGHT, THE

BITCHIN’ KITSCH, CLOCKWISE CAT, CRAB FAT

MAGAZINE, SKIVE MAGAZINE, ODDBALL

MAGAZINE, ON THE RUSK, POETRY PACIFIC,

POETICA, RED FEZ, SQUAWK BACK, SWEET ANNIE

& SWEET PEA REVIEW, THE JEWISH LITERARY

JOURNAL, THE JEWISH PRESS, THE JERUSALEM

POST, HOTMETAL PRESS, MAD SWIRL, HAGGARD &

HALLOO, ASCENT ASPIRATIONS, and NAMASTE FIJI:

THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY. A

past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in

Psychoanalysis, he was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in

literature and is the author of 11 books. Four of his mystery,

fantasy, and horror stories were published by POSTSCRIPTS,

a British magazine and international anthology, in November

2014. He recently completed an experimental mystery novel

inspired by one of Freud’s case studies and is looking for an

agent. He has been inspired for decades by his patients and

their heroic stories of trauma and survival.

35

AN

UNHOLY SILENCE

(Dr. Mel Waldman)

An unholy silence

sits

inside

the shattered remains

of

the death room

in

Old Brooklyn

in

the summer of ’65,

almost half-a-century ago

where

I

still exist

&

die

in

the deep silence of Mother’s

death,

&

now,

I

rediscover

the

everlasting

vast room

everywhere

&

nowhere

for

one

36

by

one

my precious loved ones pass

through

an

unholy silence

into

an

old fashioned room

a

gathering place where they

wait

for

me

ghostly

&

ethereal

in

the unfathomable landscape

&

eerie stillness

of

Eternity

37

INSIDE

THE

DEAD FILES

(Dr. Mel Waldman)

Perhaps,

a hundred years from now,

with

the

toss

of

metaphysical dice,

you’ll

pick

a

random set of numbers,

the

sacred

lotto

ticket to my soul,

&

suddenly,

you’ll

find my raw remains

buried

in

the

dead files of the defunct internet,

&

within

the

ancient archives, you’ll discover

my

38

secret

writings

& traces of the man I was &

my

shattered

self;

then,

in

a

poignant moment of unendurable

anguish

when

you

gaze into the oval mirror of my tortured

mind,

you’ll

find

yourself in me,

a

fellow

traveler

in the unfathomable universe

holding

&

caressing

the fiercely beautiful cornucopia

of

human

emotions,

an alchemy of love & loss,

beauty

39

&

grotesquerie,

in celestial inner space-flowing inside

the

dead

files

beyond Time & Space where we are

one

in

Spirit

& death

40

THE HOUSE

OF

G-D

IS

A

POEM

(Dr. Mel Waldman)

The House of G-d is a poem

in

the oval mirror of my mind

waiting

to be

born

The House of G-d is

&

grows on the Tree of Life

hidden

in

the sacred fruit

of

Being & Becoming

in

the secret garden of creation

in

the holy womb

of the holy city

The House of G-d is

the unfathomable poem

of

the Word

giving birth to me

within

the voiceless voice

of divine script

41

in

the eerie

metamorphosis of

consciousness

&

cosmic breath

within

the everlasting

flow

of

Hashem,

the Nameless One

42

MYSTERIOUS DISEASE

(Dr. Mel Waldman)

I remember the beginning.

Inside the Harlem methadone clinic in the early eighties, I watched the rapid flow of

death, the evaporation of my patients, of all ages; but I particularly remember the

young healthy men and women dissolving and imploding, and suddenly disappearing

as I watched.

I didn’t understand, nor did my colleagues. The incomprehensibleness devoured us,

like the mysterious disease that ate the flesh of our patients, the lost addicts of Harlem.

And so, within a few weeks or months at most, I witnessed the unspeakable; their

bodies dwindled and shrank, and thinned, perhaps, to a bony nothingness. Some of our

pariahs, whom we fought to save, were emaciated with scarred flesh and marked

faces. And then they vanished and passed away.

We too were dually condemned and marked. Healthcare lepers, we treated addicts

with a mysterious deadly disease. This was our sin to the outside world, but privately,

our salvation.

I remember this horrific beginning, grotesquely haunting and sad. I can’t forget. It’s

inside me, like my patients, the ghosts of Harlem who died too soon so long ago.

43

RAW

(Dr. Mel Waldman)

In the winter of despair,

the wind howls with homeless pariahs, hiding beneath the Coney Island Boardwalk,

gazing at the Chimera, the Monster of Paranoia and Soul-Slayer, while stoned on

cheap liquor and toxic drugs;

& lost in a leper’s phantasmagoria,

these outlaws, outcasts, outsiders, and freaks, high on poison and intoxicated with

psychosis, inhale the raw despair and rage of this bestial winter day;

& crave the ultimate high, the thrill

of a lifetime, a raw ecstasy and the divine O.D. for the final exit.

44

AFTER TAV

(Dr. Mel Waldman)

After Tav,

the last letter of creation,

the universe reunites with Aleph,

the first holy letter

&

the sacred story continues again and again

with new beginnings and myriad endings,

in the mystical circle of Aleph-Tav-

the twin circle of Tav-Aleph,

each one flowing into the other

forever

45

Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note: Noel KingNoel KingNoel KingNoel King

Noel KingNoel KingNoel KingNoel King was born and lives in Tralee. His poems,

haiku, short stories, reviews and articles have appeared in

magazines and journals in thirty-seven countries. His

poetry collections are published by Salmon

Poetry: Prophesying the Past, (2010), The Stern Wave (2013) and Sons (forthcoming in 2015). He has

edited more than fifty books of work by others. Anthology

publications include The Second Genesis: An Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry (AR.A.W.,India, 2014).

He has published just over 70 short stories, from Ireland’s

Own to The Quest in Montenegro. He has been

shortlisted and highly commended more times than he

cares to remember in short story competitions throughout

the world.

46

Boys of the Rhythm Stick (Noel King)

For the remainder of the beating

the younger boy is calm,

tears run, he wills their evaporation,

only the right edge of his lips trembling,

his face is composed.

His cousin smiles, enjoys, knows

he has a suitable lad for the beat:

the back weak, the will weaker,

the granny in her parlour with her Mills & Boon,

the parents three weeks away on holiday.

A routine game of horse and master

began as fun yesterday;

begging to stop has stopped,

he cowers, hunches

over high-tea their granny places before them;

the granny is content to care for her son’s son’s,

thinks butter would not melt in their mouths.

The younger boy closes his ears to the older

rattling out a day of lies to granny’s ears

of what they’ve been up to.

Sinking his head lower,

he sucks tea from a saucer

– a practice the bigger boy grew out of.

He has to pay, for what he doesn’t understand,

knows he can only scream to himself.

47

Newlyweds

(Noel King)

She splashes water on her hot face

and splashes her apron with gravy,

while he sprawls before the TV.

She chops parsley to the gravy

and pours it over the roast chicken

they scoff for their big dinner.

It was just a large chicken,

she admits to her mother-in-law at

her hubby’s old home on Boxing Day,

but not the same as turkey, oh no,

and yes, we will come here next year,

yes, next year’ll be the perfect Christmas.

48

Potato Bride

(Noel King)

Annie Finn found a new green

in Kerry land after Minnesota’s open sky. Her fate: to the base of her forebears

to plough and plot, crafting seed on hills

with the man she met in New York City.

She saw her new man as twentieth century

disciple, evoker of music with spuds.

Those hills had not time to listen to the voices

in her head of her friends in America;

spared nothing in their demands

to stand: dual grafting

of a man and a woman.

Her husband is heavened now,

the potatoes seeded by her sons.

Annie continues to plough a place still

nearest America, tugs to her stronghold,

instilled by a Kerry mountain breeze.

49

When Did They Say I Can Go Home?

(Noel King)

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

50

Who’ll Die First

(Noel King)

Mother or father

Mammy or Daddy

Mamma Papa?

51

If you fancy If you fancy If you fancy If you fancy

submitting submitting submitting submitting

something but something but something but something but

haven’t done so haven’t done so haven’t done so haven’t done so

yet, or if you yet, or if you yet, or if you yet, or if you

would like to send would like to send would like to send would like to send

us some further us some further us some further us some further

examples of your examples of your examples of your examples of your

work, here are work, here are work, here are work, here are

our submission our submission our submission our submission

guidelines:guidelines:guidelines:guidelines:

SUBMISSIONSSUBMISSIONSSUBMISSIONSSUBMISSIONS

NB – All artwork must be

in either BMP or JPEG

format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not be published.

Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format.

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

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

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

opposed to originals.

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

E-mail all submissions to: [email protected] 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!

52

April 2015’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:April 2015’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:April 2015’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:April 2015’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

Happy Easter! Remember; bunnies are crunchy and may

contain bones. Beware of zombies. Something about voting. Another

request for gin and tuna. And a reminder that Upatree Press is accepting

Submissions. Not the questionable 50 Shades sort of Submissions; the

written sort. They’re on Facebook.

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”.

53

Biographical Note: Carl ScharwathBiographical Note: Carl ScharwathBiographical Note: Carl ScharwathBiographical Note: Carl Scharwath

Carl Scharwath's work has appeared internationally with over

eighty publications selecting his poetry, short stories, essays or

art photography. He won the National Poetry Contest award on

behalf of Writers One Flight Up. His first poetry book

“Journey To Become Forgotten” was published by Kind of a

Hurricane Press.

54

Amerika by Carl Scharwath

55

Antirealism by Carl Scharwath

56

Citiscapes by Carl Scharwath

57

Exit 13 by Carl Scharwath

Mt Dora face with key by Carl Scharwath

58

The Paradox by Carl Scharwath

59

Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note: John Jack ByrneJohn Jack ByrneJohn Jack ByrneJohn 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/

60

Incoming by John Jack Byrne

61

October by John Jack Byrne

On the Sleepy Hill by John Jack Byrne

62

Pounding Heart by John Jack Byrne

Winter sunshine by John Jack Byrne

63

In this issue I would like to take the time to share a short section from Project

Nightingale a new novella by E.V. Greig a brief introduction first It is the late 21st

Century. Whilst mega corporations and governments fight a less than discrete war for

control of the general population, there are others who operate within the traditional

boundaries of Intelligence. Walking in the shadows and trading in secrets, these operatives

will do whatever is necessary to complete their missions. In the interest of maintaining public

ignorance, someone is needed to clean up in their wake. That someone is Nightingale Spence;

aka Housekeeping - a unique blend of assassin, medic, alibi merchant, and therapist to some

of the most inventively lethal people in the world...

64

Biographical Note: E.V. GreigBiographical Note: E.V. GreigBiographical Note: E.V. GreigBiographical Note: E.V. Greig

Author and illustrator E.V. Greig is a graduate of Queen’s University

Belfast, where she studied Ancient History and English. She is the founder

of Upatree Press, and an Assistant Editor and Reviewer with the literary

magazine A New Ulster. Her other published work includes the

Experimental High Fantasy series The Legend of Graymyrh, which was

developed with the support of the Arts Council NI and National Lottery

under SIAP 2013. The novella Project Nightingale was published in

March 2015, and is her first foray into the genre of Transhumanistic

Cyphernoire.

65

Chapter One – No Names, No Details

“He has vital intelligence; you must bring him back alive – is that understood?”

Nightingale Spence yawned and nodded automatically despite there being no way that

those at headquarters could see the gesture. “Bring him back alive, got it.”

“He’ll be in Room 406 of the hotel. Don’t get distracted, and don’t let him bleed out.”

“That was implied in the order to bring him back alive. I’ll take him straight to

medical.”

There was a slight pause and then a sigh. “He hates medical. You’ll need to patch him

up yourself.”

“Should I bring superglue or plasters, ma’am?”

“God alone knows.”

***

That had been twenty six minutes earlier. Now Spence was standing in the doorway

of Room 406 and attempting not to let the operative in question collapse. “Look, if you fall

over now mate, I can’t get you back up.”

He was smirking despite the pain, or at least attempting to do so. “Scrawny sort of a

thing for a field operative, aren’t you?”

“Shut up and sit down before you fall down.”

“Bossy...how come everyone is so bloody bossy..?”

Spence sighed, kicked the door shut, and managed to drag him to the bed. “Sit!”

It was fairly typical for operatives to be less than obedient, and more so when injured.

This fellow was no exception, but nor was he stupid. He sat and did no more than grimace as

his impromptu physician set to work. “This was my favourite shirt, you know.”

“Mmn-hmm, I count two small calibre rounds to your left bicep and three cracked

ribs.”

“It was a rough day at the office..!”

“So help me, if you start coughing up blood, I shall be most displeased.”

The tone dragged him back enough to refocus his wits. “No coughing up blood; got

it.”

“Good man.”

“Are you a doctor then?”

66

“Not as such, but I can patch this up well enough for you to be fit to travel.”

His eyes were blue; there was something both playful and wary to them. A clammy

sweat that had grown out of exertion, pain and probably alcohol beaded his pale skin and

made the longish black hair appear lank. “Are we taking a trip, not really a doctor?”

“Yes; back to headquarters.”

“I got the hard drive. It’s in my jacket.”

Spence glanced briefly at the jacket that was draped over the coffee table. “Well

done.”

It was painful how important those two words appeared to be to him. “It’s what I do.”

“You’re beyond drunk.”

“I didn’t have any morphine.”

And of course that was a perfectly rational explanation. Sometimes Spence felt that

they asked too much of them – these wandering creatures of mass destruction and unbridled

chaos given human form. Point them at the enemy, and watch the shenanigans ensue. Just

don’t ever let them drive within the UK. “Morphine is overrated anyhow.”

“Oh? Did they make a new...is there a better one now?”

Observing someone in this much pain was less than enjoyable. “They’re working on

one.”

“Can I...can I have some please..?”

“Once we get back to headquarters, yes.”

He hissed a little as the bullets were dragged loose, and muttered in something that

sounded vaguely chthonic as the wounds were cleaned and dressed. “First class ticket I

should hope, not really a doctor?”

“Budget cuts I’m afraid. We’re going by car – there’s a driver already waiting for us

outside.”

“I can drive.”

“You’ll be busy sleeping.”

“Not tired – sleep when I’m dead.”

“You’ll sleep when I tell you to and that’s final.”

He chuckled at that and made a vague attempt at a salute. “Drill sergeant..!”

Spence dabbed a bit more arnica gel onto the bruising about the operative’s ribcage.

“Housekeeping, actually – I clean up everyone else’s mess.”

“Do you...do you have a mop then? Is it a mop with a gun in it?”

“Sometimes, yes; it depends on the mission. Now – put this on.”

67

“You brought me a new shirt.”

“I think of everything.” Which was true; the role that Spence performed was reliant in

equal parts upon inventiveness and foresight.

It took him four attempts to fasten the buttons properly, and by then Spence had

finished clearing up. “Housekeeping – is that what I call you then?”

“It’s what everyone calls me.”

“I’m called – “

“No names, no details. Let’s go.”

He looked hurt but followed along without protest.

The corridor was empty, as was the lift. There was a single receptionist at the desk in

the foyer, but the room had been pre-booked and there was no bill to settle. For once, it

seemed that extraction would be simple.

That illusion vanished the moment that they reached the spot where the doorman

ought to have been and found a pair of gunmen instead. “Hello there – you two look like the

people we’re here to find!” The two enemy operatives moved forwards, weapons ready.

“British Intelligence at its best, yes?”

The receptionist was levelling a gun now too. “That’s the operative; this must be his

back-up.”

Spence sighed. “Why can’t we all be reasonable about this?” There were three guns

and one injured operative too many to risk this argument. “You want the intelligence, we

want to keep breathing. I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Hand over the drive.” Gunman number two was less chatty, it seemed.

“You heard him; he wants the hard drive.” Spence winked at the now bemused British

operative; who was barely upright but still clearly too stubborn to co-operate. “Let him have

it!”

It was always incredible to watch when an operative improvised. Although, they

wouldn’t be able to use this particular hotel again; given that security had been compromised.

And the bullet holes in the walls – hoteliers always hated those. Still, it was done. The three

dead enemy operatives would be written up as a robbery that had gone badly wrong when the

receptionist attempted to play hero.

Spence had informed headquarters and the technical people were already placing the

required details onto the relevant computers. The CCTV footage had been wiped. All that

remained was to get home safely. Their driver glanced at them in his rear view mirror as they

fastened their seat belts. “Any change to the route?”

68

“No thank you.” Spence relaxed backwards against the leather headrest. “All’s well.”

There was a cough from the injured operative. “So tell me, why no names and no

details?”

“It’s simpler to remain detached.”

“Well it sounds bloody lonely to me.”

“I wade through bodies for a living. I don’t have time to learn their names.”

“But I’m not dead!”

“No one starts out dead. They all end up there sooner or later.”

“My God, that’s depressing.”

“It’s the truth.”

The driver had closed the privacy screen. Spence’s companion continued his

argument. “It’s one truth, or one part of a truth! Don’t you have friends in the job?”

“Not out here.”

“Coping mechanism, eh?”

“I’m simply being practical.”

He grunted. “Well, I’m called – “

“Please don’t. I really don’t need to know.”

“Alright, call me – call me Smith! It isn’t my name, but it makes talking simpler.”

“We don’t need to talk. You need to sleep.”

Smith’s eyelids were already drooping. “Cheers for the help, Housekeeping.”

“It’s what I do, Mr Smith.”

“You do it well.”

“So they tell me.” Spence thought of another conversation: twenty years ago; a pair of

teenagers stuck playing at being socialites and hating every moment. Where have the years

taken that boy to – that lanky youth with so many dreams and so little hesitation?

The car took a smooth turn to the right then and merged warily into the traffic

streaming out of the city. There was a vague threat of snow behind those too still clouds, and

the brilliance of the city’s lights masked stars which would otherwise have been too clear to

be warm. November again, just as then, but Spence was alone tonight and had been so for

well beyond a decade. No mobile devices then beyond radios – it had been frighteningly

simple to lose touch with one another.

And now the risk of reconnection loomed – would he even want to hear word? His

life had taken a different path. They were worlds apart surely. Perhaps that was better. There

was little hope of merely picking up where they had left off. Too much water and more than

69

too much blood had flowed under that bridge. The boy was a man now; this was not a world

for children or for vague dreams.

Beside Spence, Smith was muttering his way through sleep. The operative would be

out of commission for a few weeks at least. Hopefully he would make the most of the time,

but when did they ever see rest as important? Obsessive devotion to duty was a key feature in

this role. It spurred them on past the normal limits of endurance and blurred the pain of the

latest bullet into little more than a dull nag at the back of their thoughts.

It was utterly mad and Spence relished every shred of it. Smith did too; he wouldn’t

be there otherwise. No – he would have been a banker or perhaps a stockbroker. Something

clean and well ordered, where he wouldn’t end his career bleeding out alone and unknown in

a puddle of his own innards. And that was the most usual sort of an ending for them – that or

torture by one of Britain’s many enemies. Spence was employed to prevent the latter and

clean up the former. A foul but vital occupation within a tangled hush of secrets and deceits

echoing back at least as far as the Great War, and almost certainly beyond it.

No – he was not named Smith. That was a cover for a cover for a ghost wrapped up

inside a shadow. Spence had managed such important unknowns for the past ten Novembers

and a few months prior besides. It was an art in itself, just as much as what they did.

Someone had to clean up the bodies; the shell casings and broken windows. All the messy

remnants of a job well done and a world saved once again at the eleventh hour.

Secret radios and miniature bombs had remained amidst the rise of increasingly tiny

phones. Code breaking had evolved into coding; cypher melting into cyber and somehow

back again. Computers were the blood of it nowadays, along with satellite surveillance, facial

recognition software, IP tracking, and forensic accounting. Everything had been digitised but

the endgame still revolved around the operative with the coldest nerve; be that behind a

computer screen or a gun.

The world of tomorrow was upon them all. Spence wondered what the boy made of it

now that he had grown. He had always had an innate understanding of technology. Is he out

there somewhere behind a terminal, or perhaps underneath a half completed chassis for some

new vehicle? Or has he gotten past his horror of killing and taken to the field himself?

Spence regretted mocking him now. Mercy was not so pathetic a quality when one

knew the cost of it. They had been friends before that awful conversation. Spence knew now

as then that they could easily have been much more. Perhaps they ought to have been.

Probably that was the truth of it; the reason that any risk of a kind word had seemed too

70

dreadful. Commitment was not either of their strong suits, not really, but the boy was the type

that might have attempted to become better at it. Even then Spence had understood that.

What sort of a man did you become? Do you think of that evening in November; the

too expensive restaurant with its crisp white tablecloths and velveteen seats? Do you think of

that argument?

It seemed so very small now, looking back - two silly teenagers; both too desperate to

grow up to realise the worth of what they could have had together. Spence closed both eyes

and imagined what his face would be now. There had always been a catlike mixture of guile

and amused disdain in his eyes - blue beneath his black hair; the injured operative whose

actual name was not Smith had triggered that memory. But Smith, whoever else he really

was, could surely never have been that boy! Life simply didn’t play out so very kindly. Two

lost little pieces would surely never find each other like this – would they?

The operative mumbled and yawned then, and the sound edged Spence into looking at

him more closely. It still had to be impossible for this battered operative to be that long lost

boy. And yet there were similarities; the turn of the jaw line, the soft throb of his pulse. The

scent of him, albeit overlaid now with layers of alcohol, cordite, sweat and the copper scratch

of blood.

Christ on a bicycle; what would be the odds?

72

LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES 978-1-909252-50-9 After August x Martin J. Byrne 978-1-909252-51-6 Of Dead Silences x Michael McAloran 978-1-909252-52-3 Cycles x Christine Murray 978-1-909252-53-0 Three Primes x Kelly Creighton 978-1-909252-54-7 Doji:A Blunder x Colin Dardis 978-1-909252-55-4 Echo Fields x Rose Moran RSM 978-1-909252-56-1 The Scattering Lawns x Margaret Galvin 978-1-909252-57-8 Sea Journey x Martin Egan 978-1-909252-58-5 A Famous Flower x Paul Wickham 978-1-909252-59-2 Adagios on Re – Adagios en Re x John Gohorry 978-1-909252-60-8 Remembered Bliss x Dom Sebastian Moore O.S.B 978-1-909252-61-5 Ightermurragh in the Rain x Gillian Somerville-Large 978-1-909252-62-2 Beethoven in Vienna x Michael O'Sullivan 978-1-909252-63-9 Jazz Time x Seán Street 978-1-909252-64-6 Bittersweet Seventeens x Rosie Johnston 978-1-909252-65-3 Small Stones for Bromley x Harry Owen 978-1-909252-66-0 The Elm Tree x Peter O'Neill 978-1-909252-67-7 The Naming of Things Against the Dark and The Lane x C.P. Stewart 978-1-909252-68-4 Increasing the Denominator x Martin Domleo 978-1-909252-69-1 From Dawn Through Dark x Rose Moran RSM 978-1-909252-70-7 Ladies Who Lunch x Fiona Sinclair 978-1-909252-71-4 Mature Student & other poems x Aubrey Malone 978-1-909252-72-1 Muse x Joseph Fagan 978-1-909252-73-8 Chiclit & Poses x Dawn Rock 978-1-909252-74-5 A Wet Day & Mr Sevridge Sketches x Richard Halperin 978-1-909252-75-2 Entropic Elegies x Craig Podmore 978-1-909252-76-9 Voices of the Benares x Pauline Rowe 978-1-909252-77-6 Pink,Ochre,Yellow x Richard Halperin 978-1-909252-78-3 Flash Words x Paul Tobin 978-1-909252-79-0 The Mask x Anthony Costello 978-1-909252-80-6 Bright Water Over Grey Stones x Rosy Wilson 978-1-909252-81-3 the centreless astonishment of things x Richard Halperin 978-1-909252-82-0 Undisturbed Circles x Bethany W.Pope 978-1-909252-83-7 Startled by You x Maria Ní Mhurchú 978-1-909252-84-4 Pictures from a Postponed Exhibition x David Walsh & Michael Bartolomew-Biggs 978-1-909252-85-1 There's Enough Blue in the Sky x Janette Fisher 978-1-909252-86-8 Poverty Street & Other Belfast Poems x Thomas Carnduff (reissue) 978-1-909252-87-5 The Way It Is x Niall McGrath 978-1-909252-88-2 Animal Sanctuary x Michael O'Sullivan 978-1-909252-89-9 Shadows Waltz Haltingly x Alan Morrison 978-1-909252-90-5 Landscape of Self x Aine MacAodha 978-1-909252-91-2 He Robes Me Royally x Helen Long 978-1-909252-92-9 Conversations in the Dark x Valerie Masters 978-1-909252-93-6 Frequencies of Light x James R. Kilner 978-1-909252-94-3 Broken Hill x Keith Payne 978-1-909252-95-0 The Trouble with Love (From Trouble, With Love) x Fern Angel Beattie 978-1-909252-96-7 Smithy of our Longings: Poems from the Irish Diaspora x Tim Dwyer 978-1-909252-97-4 Speck Poems 2002-2006 x Alice Lyons 978-1-909252-98-1 The Last Fire x Helen Harrison 978-1-909252-99-8 The Immigrant Woman's Tale x Csilla Toldy & Fil Campbell All titles £10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles. £12.00

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