Featuring the works of Amy Barry, Neil Ellman, Oonah V Joslin, Michael Loughran, David McLean, Maire Morrissey-Cummins, Chris Murray, Felino A. Soriano, Rachel Sutcliffe, Rachael Stanley, Brigid Walshe and Adrian Fox. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 7 April 2013

2

A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall Editor: Arizahn

Website Editor: Adam Rudden

Contents

Cover Image by Amos Greig

Editorial page 6

Amy Barry;

The Causatum page 7

My Mother page 8

Shadows on the Irish Sea page 10

Neil Ellman;

The Charisma of Wild Dreams page 12

The Palace of the Windowed Rocks page 13

Ventriloquist and Crier in the moor page 14

TIME – camouflage moss green page 15

Oonah V Joslin;

Love to the power page 17

Sunday School Trip page 18

My First Elephant page 19

Mopping up Lessons page 20

Sunburst Skirt page 21

Cinders page 22

Down to Earth page 23

Paint box Philosophy page 24

Michael Loughran;

The Daily Peals page 26

Concern for the Dead page 27

Batman in Carnlough page 28

Bellurgan Point: A Portrait page 29

On Ellis Island page 30

David McLean;

Subject position & sunrise page 32

Unimportant swords & the gray page 33

Where it was page 34-35

Maire Morrissey-Cummins;

The Commute page 37

Letter to my daughter page 38-39

The Measure of Life page 40

Rusty Clippings page 41

Guilt - A Small Life page 42

Chris Murray;

A reed song page 44

3

Felino A. Soriano;

Of trumpet page 46

+13+ page 47

+14+ page 48

Rachel Sutcliffe;

DisOrder page 50

Sunday dinner page 51

Rachael Stanley;

2053 page 53

Brigid Walshe;

Regrets; for the way we were page 55-56

On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 58

Maire Morrisey-Cummins;

Maire’s work can be found pages 60-66

Round the Back

Adrian Fox page 68 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/

4

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.

5

Editorial

‎March has been a fairly good month artistically speaking there are so many

publications and anthologies coming out that I am reminded or the arrival of birds as they

journey from the Saharan deserts. My own work has been published in three anthologies and

I’m working on several art pieces as well.

As March ended and April approached we were hit by some fairly heavy snow fall here

at A New Ulster. It affected our power and left us snowed in for roughly seven days. One

benefit of this was an opportunity to engage in some painting and a few sketches. I did miss the

launch of Poetry in Motion’s launch of Moments the anthology that one of my poems

appeared in. The poem in question was written twelve years ago at the John Hewitt summer

school.

I found myself wondering how long is it reasonable to wait to try and get a poem

published? I had never submitted this poem to any journal or publication before there is a

period of waiting which chafes at the nerves the anticipation and worry. I understand what it’s

like to wait for that letter, email or phone call. That is why at A New Ulster we try to respond as

quickly as possible to each and every submission. Sometimes there are so any submissions

though that there may be delays in communication.

We have been experimenting with recording poetry and have been using Soundcloud

as well as Audicity. If we can get the kinks worked out we will look into adding sound

recordings of poems onto the website. Speaking of the website I’d like to thank Adam Rudden

for all the hard work that he has put into making the website not only look amazing but

functional as well.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

6

Biographical Note: Amy Barry

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. Her

poems have been published in anthologies,

journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Travels

to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all

inspired her work. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

7

The Causatum (Japan-March 2011)

Quivering fear,

a dread of another. They all were listening,

to the voices on the radio. Children, families

stared at the sky

darkened to the same gray as the water,

they couldn’t tell where the sea ended

and the sky began.

They shook their heads, searching for answers,

the crisis spiraling out of control.

What could be salvaged?

In the center of the room,

two village elders, on their knees,

had fallen silent. Smoke from joss sticks,

veiled their ancient faces. Sunken eyes,

flabby jaws, their lips moving.

Supplicating.

Amy Barry

8

My Mother

I remember,

she struggled to open her eyes,

fought her way through delirium,

her lips wrinkled like dried dates.

Dazed by heavy medication

she slept then woke confused,

alarmed, floated in and out of dreams.

Her cheekbones protruded

her smooth pale face,

the smell of urine lingered on

her once white dress,

she had become nothing

but bones, and frail misfortune.

In the cloudless sky

one winter spring morning,

she opened her eyes

her pupils dull,

she took my hand,

placed it on her breast,

she knew, sobbed softly,

steadying herself on me,

‘Take good care of yourself.’

9

Thinner, smaller, the life force leaving,

Silent,

I knew,

I had to let her

Go.

Amy Barry

10

Shadows on the Irish Sea

Pain gathered in his chest,

a sense of being marooned,

so thick, it clotted,

choked his breathing.

His wife, lying

in some unmarked grave,

he wished he was invisible,

had evaporated into green-silk,

and misty air.

Sun set in sharp autumn chill,

black shadows, quavered,

her image

on a rippling sea.

Amy Barry

11

Biographical Note: Neil Ellman

Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. More

than 700 of his poems appear in print and online

journals, anthologies, broadsides and eleven

pamphlet/chapbooks throughout the world. He has

been nominated twice for Best of the Net, as well as

for a Rhysling Award from the Science Fiction

Writers Association.

12

The Charisma of Wild Dreams

(after the painting by Jonathan Lasker)

Charismatic spells and charms

magnetic lure of turbulence in dreams

the allure of the senseless wild

draws us in, compels;

we wander in a briar patch

of artefacts and memories

lost travellers through a world

familiar but foreign

overgrown but desolate

filled with unfamiliar truths

we are attracted to

to the wilderness in dreams

as if it were the truth.

Neil Ellman

13

The Palace of the Windowed Rocks

(after the painting by Yves Tanguy)

I live here

in the palace of the windowed rocks

among the shadows

cast by pinnacles of salt

anticipate the nether world

defeated by the sun

the moon, the universe

my own conceit

I, hidden, secreted

behind hot glass and stone

I, alone

among the stalagmites

that rise from hell

contemplate my destiny

and wish that I were never born.

Neil Ellman

14

Ventriloquist and Crier in the Moor

(after the painting by Paul Klee)

My voice reverberates

though empty rooms

impersonates the wind

the trees, the moors

another’s life

I am here, there

wherever you hear

me throw my voice

I am there

still here

I masquerade

the likeness of myself

in wood

I pull the strings

or it pulls mine

my voice is its

or its is mine.

Neil Ellman

15

TIME - camouflage moss green,

(after the painting by Takashi Murakami)

Seconds in hours

days in weeks

months in stolen years.

Centuries pass behind a cloud

and disappear.

Millennia camouflaged

In moss-green oblivion—

this masquerade of life

concealed by time.

Neil Ellman

16

Biographical Note: Oonah V Joslin

Oonah V Joslin was born in Ballymena and now lives in

Northumberland from where she edits the e-zine Every Day

Poets. Oonah has won three MicroHorror prizes and has

judged both poetry and nmicrofiction competitions. You can

find out more at http://www.oovj.wordpress.com

17

Love to the power

(Practically speaking, a physicist needs only 39 digits of Pi) to make a circle the

size of the observable universe.)

true

love is irrational

a transcendental

constant

symbolised by a circle of gold

x diameters

like a kiss

to travel revolutions

is one of the biggest numbers known

bigger than the universe requires

without recurrence it goes

on and on

you and I and love to the power

the answer to infinity

Oonah V Joslin

18

Sunday School Trip

The sash window with its leather pull-up strap

too heavy for young arms

defies me

but once open, hands and head push through

to feel the breeze, taste smoke,

the danger of tunnels.

Scratchy seats stipple dimples on knees

mother fusses, warns and clucks as the train

clacks on over the points,

to the end of the track and safety of buffers.

We return each year to beach and salty sea,

salt crisps, sandwiches, sandcastles, sandals, sand;

a long day’s play.

Clink of teacups in the orange hall echoes

sanctimonious supervision.

Later supine on the seat

I imagine

the net rack above me filled

with fishes and loaves.

The long day has been swallowed

by a whale I fit into my new bucket

along with razors, crab shells,

star-fish-peppermint-rock-pool dreams.

The seamless joggling rocks me, rocks me, rocks me

as any child

making his journey home.

Oonah V Joslin

19

My first elephant

My first elephant

thought we were twins

my sister and me, dressed in Sunday best.

Couldn’t tell the difference between

me in blue and her in green,

like he’d never seen children before.

He raised his great grey trunk

sniffing

all wrinkled

not neat as pins like us

not flecked with tweed.

Splattered with mud he was and curious.

I moved away

cautiously.

Decided I didn’t like zoos.

I was afraid

I might mess up my shoes.

Oonah V Joslin

20

Mopping Up Lessons

Fifties cream and brown

classroom décor,

teacher’s frown.

Graffiti-carved oak desks with

lift-up lid and turn-down seat.

Unfathomable symbols everywhere.

Writing well,

blue-black Quink ink.

Everything neat on the line.

Cast-iron chimney stove rose

high as times tables.

Row upon row,

of third-pint bottles wait in crate;

frosted silver caps

thawed by the stove for break.

I suck the slick of sour, gloopy cream.

Swallow hard.

Throw up.

They call my sister from the yard

make her get a bucket;

mop it up.

Humiliation.

Salt of tears

made permanent by pee

sours all success.

Oonah V Joslin

21

Sunburst Skirt

My yellow skirt was pleated

like a million rays of sun

it rose, covered in roses;

formed a circle as I spun

around and round, it twirled

open like summer flowers

white, orange, yellow, green,

lemon sear-sucker blouse

fluffy bolero puff-sleeve top

cascading waves of golden locks.

Was there anything in town as bright

as my feet in citrus ankle socks

or me in my sunburst skirt?

Oonah V Joslin

22

Cinders

They called it a ball

I dressed for a ball

in a ball gown of blue

all chiffonny new

under-layered with net

Cinders, eat your heart out!

I’ll never forget

the look on their faces

my mini-skirt friends.

Nothing erases

their pitying looks

as they begged me to stay.

There was no magic coach to whisk me away

and so the story ends

unhappily.

Oonah V Joslin

23

Down to earth

Give me the feet for seven measured years

laced into start-rites

broad of toe

and I will give

you the woman

teetering a moment

on high heels

toying with the idea of

platforms

but not for long.

Oonah V Joslin

24

Paint Box Philosophy

Shades of green

jade, bottle, Brunswick, sap, emerald, forest

mine all mine. I find

the perfect purple for tree trunks.

Ask my mother what the white is for.

At twelve

I’ve twelve long months

ahead

in which to dance

and dare

to read, write, paint and be

this living book.

White is for mixing.

Jaded,

control illusory,

sap dry.

The older self, afraid,

seeks ochre-rich shades;

warmth for the sombre crimson

of my own, dear blood.

White was for muddying.

Oonah V Joslin

25

Biographical note: Michal Loughran

Michael Loughran, 22, was born and raised in Belfast, Northern

Ireland. He spends much of his time wandering with a notepad and

an untrustworthy biro. He's had work published with Crannog, The Poetry Bus, wordlegs, inksweat&tears and The Journal.

26

The Daily Peals.

Clappers interrupt each morning

with laboured, sonorous thwacks.

Birds skitter on branches, and scarper -

no competing with that racket!

They even meddle with thoughts;

an oxidized bell welcomes itself

to tea, custard creams and the remote.

It is enough to drive you mad,

a bit like Sweeney, the mad king.

Was he really? S'pose he wanted peace

from bells that cluttered the country

and it was all an elaborate ruse?

Never just the one, either. Many ring,

often just out of sync, each toll louder

than the previous. Do bell-ringers pant

and tug their ropes in competition?

There is even the Angelus on RTÉ.

Not ringing through foggy dew, but T.V,

making each chew on dinner considered,

like a dog caught with a slipper.

Michael Loughran

27

Concern for the Dead.

Be certain about it, then bury me.

Tumble me into a trench. Drop me

into the deeps of a cave. Get an axe.

Excoriate. Feast on strips and slabs.

Slather my skull in red ochre...

No. Put me to rest among others.

Nestle a pet between my ankles.

Sprinkle the grave with periwinkles.

Make sure I'm anatomically correct,

that my legs and arms are in check.

Lend me a sword, lay it lengthwise,

pommel against my chin, east to west.

Elevate the ground. Build a mound.

Construct a dolmen like Poulnabrone.

Embalm me. Scramble my brain.

Replace my eyes with obsidian...

Do whatever it takes, then leave.

Leave the body to deteriorate

and convert what it was, again,

as it always has, and will again

until all remaining stars go out.

Michael Loughran

28

Batman in Carnlough.

I left him there, slanted-eyes skyward,

somewhere near the marram, half-buried

as a wall of cumulonimbus edged in;

granules accrued on his grey-blue suit,

submerged a yellow belt, black boots,

black cape, and swallowed a prong-eared cowl...

I look back and wonder if the tide came

and rescued him. If, from the shallow grave,

it delivered him, and returned him to Gotham.

Michael Loughran

29

Bellurgan Point: A Portrait.

Landscape fatigues. Sky, a sepulchral expanse,

and ground,

another sepulchral sheet, though this' muculent,

converge on a horizon out on a bitter, rippling sea.

On this grey canvas are stranded boats, who bore

the brunt of gales and slanted rains, and yet – colour

splashes of it

on the boats; red, blue, and green leap from grey.

Their masts matches. Windows catch faint light.

I find myself among the boats, stomping sediment,

forming footprints

with each laboured step, peeling flakes of paint,

calling crews long disembarked, spooking birds

(who, back among long-grassed banks, vanish),

inspecting trails of viscera on decks, and tapping

panes upon panes in search of hoary seafarers,

who may or may not have tall tales to tell,

until I lose track of time, and place, and name.

So I sit

and sink into earth, look back at a pallid cottage

reduced in scale, and rest beside a scarred trawler.

Blank beams puncture clouds, pools reflect

paler heavens,

and I wait, wait, wait for some incoming tide.

Michael Loughran

30

On Ellis Island

Breath waxed and waned on windows.

Sullied adults and children looked in awe

at Manhattan, it gleamed across the way

and I stood watching from the present,

as mothers bit nails and twisted garments

fearing inspections and long detentions

or an untimely return home with the lame

in a cramped, leaky boat rocking eastward

across the vast, sub-zero graveyard.

I paced the same scuffed wood floors,

and smelt myriad odours; sea, sweat, lovers -

memories that lingered in stitching.

In one frigid room a priest performed

make-shift mass, coats as pews, hands gestured

skywards: prayers. Did their stoicism lessen

on arrival day, now they were but hours away

from an expectant cousin, a kindly patron,

and a dusty fourth floor room in a tenement?

Along the narrow sick-bay corridors, echoes,

a thousand tongues, and high-pitched squeals -

cries as doctors prodded with instruments.

I followed the steps of millions into the dock,

from weary, aspirational men and women

to tourists who flock year upon year to check

if a family member survived that journey

and got a foothold in that blooming country.

Michael Loughran

31

Biographical Note: David McLean

David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since

1987. He lives there with his dog and cats. In addition to six

chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry

collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press,

2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and

LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010).

His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is coming in

2014. During 2013 a seventh chapbook SHOUTING AT

GHOSTS is forthcoming from Grey Book Press. More

information about McLean can be found at his

blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/

32

subject position

the subject posits himself

somewhere in the sentence

with deliberate gender

and massive attacks

of ponderous and pompous -

the golden fucking bowl,

insolent subject at home

sunrise

the sun comes up

as if apologetic,

and submerged somewhere

spin the ironic stars

their massive absence

everywhere -

they are not in us,

not here,

they purr as fat as cats

and we are still nowhere

David McLean

33

unimportant swords

they dress words up

like unimportant swords

somebody forgot after a battle

once, one that didn't matter much;

just sticks and stones for children,

which do not matter either,

because the earth is for bodies

and blood, and not one of us

likes to do enough living

the gray

the gray is death and forgettable,

dust and muffins, so a text

is nascent sexuality

becoming itself again,

remnants and ruin, corpulent

cadavers dancing where nothing

takes many chances -

we are the absent dead

and we are the dancing

David McLean

34

where it was

i

where it was there was just one evident god on the apparent water, as if every

washing machine had long since surrendered itself and been sold because of

dreams or for some other impossible reasons, it was the living death of trees that

might come together to stand outside a house and bless it or curse it, depending

upon their temper and upon the weather

ii

a shaded glade for the decline of memory

and all the harsh and punitive fathers, all the medieval

children who are ghosts and dead

and centuries away, maybe

light dancing on a dead leaf,

it might just have been

dreaming

iii

and you were still sleeping motionless, a burden on some bed that might have

been mine since time begun, or maybe just a few years and a personal history

that never seemed important, just the blood that rises in veins while Cadaver waits

impatient on his mouldy pillow like a sexy extra in a zombie move . the water was

in my veins like time was, and you were a tribute and a tributary, unnecessary

rivers running out of Eden and forever and spreading everywhere like

consciousness of the Other being nothing and superfluous, being arrows and

answers, the spastic dance of all the other absences

iv

and we bled memory, Amanda,

like night lies down to surrender passion

naked on a cannibal god's plate,

and no Jesus to wash the needy feet

of all the deaf lepers, all the dead men

just time still waiting to end

and be memory again

35

v

and the necessity of resurrection was not your perpetual motionlessness, not the

sun leaping up like a spring duck from frozen water to assert life and the dreadful

inevitability of eternal return. it was just you and me and dirty sheets, another

nothing to be, not nights of the white Christ, just this tenuous subsistence, the

timelessness of memory in me, you alive, here in me we are always need and

night

David McLean

36

Biographical note: Máire Morrissey-Cummins

Máire is Irish. She is early retired and has found joy in

writing and art. She loves to get lost in words or paint.

She has been published with Every Day Poets,

Wordlegs, The First Cut, New Ulster, Open Road

Review, The Galway Review, Bray Arts, Notes from the

Gean, Lynx, A Hundred Gourds, and many online and

print magazines worldwide.

.

37

The Commute

The train empties

dark coats

shuffle the ticket barrier

spilling into the station.

Collars upturned,

shadows shudder

a biting night.

Bodies collide

diverging the pavement.

A bus engine hums,

stench of diesel

fouls the air.

Shadows bounce

under the lamplight.

Legs scramble waiting cars.

Doors bang,

headlights blare.

The crush of bodies

calms as I crouch

the grimy night.

Key in the latch,

smiling eyes greet me.

My heart warms

as I close the door

on the daily grind.

Máire Morrissey-Cummins

38

Letter to my daughter

“I sat down to write to my daughter and this poem unfolded. I realised

when I was writing it that she grew up in Holland and her Irish years

were just a few and she now lives and works in Madrid due to the

recession. She is my Irish girl but she hardly lived here. I hope someday she will

return as I did.”

I used your mug for my tea today,

I thought it needed airing.

Your name etched in green

with the Irish flag flying,

a white shamrock growing on the side.

It is a fine mug,

from your Kylemore days,

befitting your name,

testament to your Irishness.

As I hold it up, it catches the light.

I see the flash of orange,

but your Dutch life comes to mind,

and then a splash of red

taints my thoughts as I acknowledge

your new Spanish life.

With your Irish mug in hand,

you are my cailín na hÉireann

but you barely lived here.

The sun is shining today,

the garden radiant

with a glint of your touch

in the chard, still growing strong.

And the mustard cress,

from one seed, a massive mound.

You, who had no interest in gardening

have left so much of your spirit behind.

The yellow rose has more buds

than it could ever hope to bloom,

39

and the white Lilac is sweetly scented

especially for you.

I smile to myself,

mo leanbh beag bán-dearg

and I wish you were here today.

Lunch in the garden has no appeal without you.

The new teak loungers

lonely on the deck,

they await your return.

The fold-up table, weathered

from our years of use.

It holds memories of your wonderful salads,

displayed and presented lovingly

in the wide ceramic bowl.

I think of the countless pots of tea,

the elder flower cordial

and the jam we made together

as we journeyed

through our Greystones years.

I look at the garden,

there are traces of you everywhere

in all your glory.

Note: Kylemore days – Kylemore Abbey Boarding School, Galway, Ireland

where my daughter studied for five years while we lived in Holland.

The school has recently been closed sadly.

my cailín na hÉireann = Gaelic for my Irish girl

mo leanbh beag bándearg = Gaelic for my little pink girl

Máire Morrissey-Cummins

40

The Measure of Life

She coiled her hair

in curling tongs.

Ringlets danced

her shoulders,

bounced like springs,

down her back,

as she cocked her head

to usher me into her room.

I glimpsed her blithe look

in the mirror.

My little girl

still playing a game

of dress up.

Fixing her makeup,

her cheeks contoured,

eyes sparkling,

lips, a glossy shine,

I basked in her glow,

in glory and wonder.

I recalled the tears,

the years of straightening

her twists and turns.

We hugged with pride,

a Master in Psychoanalysis.

And as we commenced

to her graduation,

the rain lashed

her curls straight.

Máire Morrissey-Cummins

41

Rusty Clippings

The old lady who lives

in the house on the seafront,

stands with rusty shears

trimming her hedge of purple Hebe.

Elbows bent, she clips salty air,

watching for people passing by.

A sprawling house

in a state of disrepair,

her life exists in a solitary room.

Loneliness seeps

from faded rose patterned wallpaper.

Curtains sag, stale with senility.

A tired burgundy carpet

threads the stairs

to a forgotten world.

Framed photographs

stare from the mantelpiece,

their faces buried in her memory.

Her eyes gaze out the sea,

absorbed by the soothing swish of the waves.

Her life story held in the flow

of an ever changing tide

and the rusty shears by the hedge

Máire Morrissey-Cummins

42

Guilt - A Small Life

A granite seat

by the seafront,

the wild winds of June

wrap around me.

I stare out to sea

eyes well up with tears

her angry words

clog my mind.

Alone with my thoughts,

fears unravel,

weave with the salty sea breeze.

I taste freedom,

a burning strength

surges within.

I close my eyes

breathe in the briny air,

unbridle myself

of my mother's guilt,

her small world

a game of blame.

I watch seagulls dip

wings outstretched

skimming reflections.

Seaweed sways

in sun-filled tide pools,

waters lap

clouds drift

anxiety abates.

I stand to leave,

the wind shifts behind me

urging me on.

My hair catches the breeze

swept up in a gale,

coat flapping

I’m almost ready

to fly.

43

Biographical Note: Chris Murray

Chris Murray is a City and Guilds Stone-cutter. Her poetry is

published in Ropes Magazine, Crannóg Magazine, The Burning Bush Online Revival Meeting (Issue 1), Carty’s Poetry Journal, Caper Literary Journal , CanCan The Southword Journal (MLC)andthe Diversity Blog (PIWWC; PEN International

Women Writer’s Committee). Her poem for three

voices, Lament, was performed at the Béal festival in 2012. She

has reviewed poetry for Post (Mater dei Institute),Poetry

Ireland and Writing.ie. Chris writes a poetry blog called Poethead

which is dedicated to the writing, editing and translation of

women writers. She is a member of the International PEN

Women Writer’s Committee, and the Social Media coordinator

and Web-developer for Irish PEN.

44

a reed song

whistle-in

sing the hollow-pipes

of bird-bone or leg-tube

jointed to.

leech into soil's black trauma

a double-reed will always carry down

its muffled tune

from contort of leaf to nub of root

there is bone substance to

the fallen bough as

there is to the winged-bird

both perfume.

a maerl of

barely encloses both

the feathered and

the not,

a shell maybe -

Chris Murray

45

Biographical note: Felino A. Soriano

Felino A. Soriano has authored nearly five dozen collections of

poetry, including Extolment in the praising exhalation of jazz (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2013), the collaborative volume

with poet, Heller Levinson and visual artist, Linda Lynch, Hinge Trio (La Alameda Press, 2012) and rhythm:s (Fowlpox Press,

2012). He publishes the online endeavours Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His work finds foundation in

philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz

music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is the

director of supported living and independent living programs

providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities. For

further information, please visit www.felinoasoriano.info.

46

from Quintet Dialogues: translating introspection

Of trumpet

┼12┼

rewind

to the version un-yet developed, for the body

imposes impractical skeletal survival

leading to culture-birthing importance of etched circumstantial

freedoms,

—prisms engage solely when

attended, attained,

affirmed through windows and willingness to

perforate temporal re-living, inadequately labelled

in the sobriquet of reminiscence

Felino A. Soriano

47

┼13┼

fascinated colours

fissures the indentations’ gradated freedoms

of

modular

travels unravelling

as do fingers among a weakened momentary hiatus of trust

lavender into gray

yellow manifestations abridging darkened necessary

meaning

meandering across fallible landscapes

hovering or when silence

recreates angled listening, absurd

Felino A. Soriano

48

┼14┼

outside the

photograph of silence escaped each exposing hand and

the

reuniting aspects of sound or

improvised collaborations of nuance

the

unframed body paused

or quoted

an

onlooking

dichotomy

“____________”

following release the corporeal

insignia left within steps’ organic

feature of ambulatory understanding

Felino A. Soriano

49

Biographical note: Rachel Sutcliffe

Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from an atypical form of lupus

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. Rachel is an active member of a

writing group, and she also has her own blog which may be

found @ http://projectwords11.wordpress.com She has seen

many of her pieces published in various anthologies and

journals, both in print and online, including thefirstcut,

Barefoot Review and Every Day Poets plus the haiku

journals Shamrock, Lynx, The Heron’s Nest, A Hundred

Gourds and Notes From The Gean.

50

DisOrder

There’s a crumb on the carpet

Ignore it,

You’ve hoovered today.

There’s a smudge on the sideboard

Forget it,

You’ve polished today.

There’s a mark on the window

Leave it,

You’ve cleaned today.

I can’t

Can’t ignore them,

That crumb

That smudge

That mark.

I’ll clean

Then it’ll be ok,

One day

Won’t it?

Rachel Sutcliffe

51

Sunday dinner

As a child it was my job

To lay the table

For Sunday dinner.

I remember the Sunday you called

As I laid the table

And the scent of roast dinner

Wafted through the house.

You told us she’d died.

My favourite Aunt

Was suddenly

No more.

Still now

Years later

Every time I smell a roast

That wave of shock and grief hits

Yet again.

Rachel Sutcliffe

52

Biographical Note: Rachael Stanley

Rachael Stanley has published poetry in Ireland and overseas. Her

work has been published in Static Poetry volumes II and III, Everyday

Poets, Wednesday Haiku at Issa’s Untidy Hut, Riposte, The First Cut,

and News Four.

53

2053

It’s in the news, the year 2053

the year that Ireland will make

the final payment on her national debt.

The offenses of the few inflicted on the many

for a lifetime and beyond.

Before my head gets lost in fiscal details,

it’s the date that catches my eye and makes

me gasp momentarily for air.

For in 2053 I’ll be ninety-eight

and I wonder where I will be

and whether I should opt for

cremation or burial.

Man does not live on bread alone

nor can he live solely on fresh air.

This prompts the question whether there’ll ever

be a marriage between the solid matter of currency

and the esoteric element of air?

I ask whether we will ever learn to render unto Caesar

and unto the Absolute in equal measure?

I ask these existential questions, but all that comes to me

between the silent pauses are curiously self interested ones.

Where will I be in 2053 when time will surely have run out for me?

Will I still be here, waiting for the unknown to come and claim me

or will I have travelled to a place or state of vision and knowledge

and find that once again, I must return to learn the lessons unlearnt

while I was a flesh and bone child of the earth?

Rachael Stanley

54

Biographical Note: Brigid Walshe

Brigid Walshe usually produces combined artwork and poetry pieces

most of which can be seen on her blog. After reading about the

Magdalene Laundries Brigid was moved to produce a poem and

artwork based on how she felt. Brigid’s blog can be found

http://brigidwalshe.wordpress.com/

55

Regrets for the way we were. By Brigid Walshe

56

Regrets for the way we were.

From belly to finger, pious stares.

Cold, judgemental, religious glares.

Tell tale body, giving life,

Bastard inside, not a wife.

Slut, whore, carry the blame.

Motherly pride, matriarch shame.

Secret birth, agonising pain.

Unfeeling detachment try to feign.

Tears unshed, bright they shine.

Decision made for this child of mine.

Blue, black eyes sadly reproached,

But unstoppable now the time approached.

I held you close, I held you tight,

Whispered of love, through the dead of night.

I touched your face, caressed your skin,

My miracle of love, you are not a sin.

They sent you child, to the arms of a stranger.

To love, protect, keep from danger.

Years long passed, your life I have missed.

Only memories and aches, for the brow once kissed.

To a better life, they sold you away.

Yet all of my life, the price I would pay.

Brigid Walshe

57

If you fancy

submitting

something but

haven’t done so

yet, or if you

would like to

send us some

further examples

of your work,

here are our

submission

guidelines:

SUBMISSIONS

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

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

Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format.

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

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

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

opposed to originals.

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

E-mail all submissions to: 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!

58

APRIL 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

If you are reading this, then we shall presume that you were not

devoured by a rampaging yeti. Congratulations on avoiding such a grim

fate during our most recent ice age. We Alleycats spent it indoors, but

our proof reader went out on several cross country type runs with their

hounds. Running…snow…dogs…no, no logic there at all!

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”.

59

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.

60

Emigrant Lives by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

61

Midnight Sky by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

62

Primroses Peep by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

63

Unravel by Máire Morrissey-Cummins

64

Moon on Waves by Máire Morrissey-Cummins

65

Nesting by Máire Morrissey-Cummins

66

Sheep drifting by Máire Morrissey-Cummins

67

Biographical Note: Adrian Fox

Born in Kent, England of Irish parents, returning to Belfast in

1967, Adrian has an M.A. from Lancaster University and The

poets house, Donegal. He was taught by the great poet James

Simmons.

Adrian’s poems have been published by Cyphers, Poetry Ireland, the Honest Ulsterman, and The Black Mountain Review, as well as four collections by Lapwing and Lagan Press.

His poems have been translated into Hungarian; and whilst in

Hungary, Adrian taught in the main university as part of a

peace programme in 2003.

He has produced a CD, ‘Violets’, a homage based on the lost

lives of all who died in Northern Ireland. In addition to all of

these, Adrian is also a painter and teaches poetry online at:

www.adrianfox.org

68

THE FORM OF THESE WORDS ARE CREATED BY THE MOMENT.

Why do we want to create a magic formula for yesterday, form is the moment

and the word the moment creates the form. Form is not a structured way of

saying something you've written, a formula a haiku or a sonnet. Do you want to

do what was done yesterday and go the academic route to refine it or do you want

to do what's you?

Jack Kerouac one of the great beat writers told us to 'write as if were the first

person on earth' and Wallace Stevens told us that 'the theory of poetry is the

theory of life'

THE FORM OF THESE WORDS IS CREATED BY THE MOMENT.

Beat poetry was new and experimental as were the words of Walt Whitman and

when we heard it first we went wow and since then have tried to fit our words into

the past’s parameters but it was the moment of change that created those magic

words, so we've got to let the moment create the form. Beat poetry is named so

because it captures the essence of beat poetry it has life a rhythm a pulse. Ok I

know I fall down on the grammatical front but isn't all new writing politically and

grammatically in or incorrect?

THE FORM OF THESE WORDS ARE CREATED BY THE MOMENT.

Form is a moment lost in time and we harness that moment with words, form is

not a way of saying something written on a page, we know that we can never

capture that moment but why not create a moment from that moment not by

reliving the formula but by creating a new form from the magic of a form it’s not

its steps that creates its magic it’s the moment. Words have a rhythm a magic of

their own and they find a rhyme within the moment (the form). We can never

reproduce the magic of a haiku or a brilliant villanelle but it was the combination

of words that caught that moment.

Life is experimental, we are stepping into the unknown (if we want) stepping into

truth, our truth, let us create the dimensions of our truth of our moment and as

Joseph Attila said let the 'silence of our dreams take on a human form'.

MY TRUTH

Adrian Fox

69

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