A New

Ulster Featuring the works of David McLean, Neil Ellman, Angela Topping, Nancy Anne Miller, Christopher Barnes, Stella Burton and more. Hard copies can be purchased for £5.00

Issue No 3 December 2012

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A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall Editor: Arizahn

Contents

Cover Image by Amos Greig

Editorial page 6

Nancy Anne Miller;

Tulips in January page 8

Boxing Day page 9

Mercy page 10

New Year page 11

Winter Landscape page 12

White Light page 13

David McLean;

Nothing Written page 15

Scars are never page 16

Ghost of a father page 17

Stormy Night page 18

The Dreadful Child page 19

Angela Topping;

Mage page 21

Spoken Cartography page 22

Christopher Barnes;

Theory of Alienation page 24

Moon Screams page 25

Fiscal Wars page 26

Puppeteers Croon page 27

Disorganising Revolution page 28

The New Politics are Dead page 29

Neil Ellman;

Of Course the Longing was Fabricated page 31

Elegy for a Silent God page 32

Spontaneous Combustion page 33

The haplesness of Being page 34

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Rena Rossner;

Edith in Wonderland page 36

Villette page 37

Eileen and Olive page 38

Kate Ashton;

Ebb (prose excerpt) page 40

Stella Burton;

Rain Circle page 46

From Day to Night page 47

Strandhill page 48

Portavogie Storms page 49

Portavogie page 50

The Storms and Fishermen's Families page 51

Dewdrops on Her Cheeks page 52

Young Writers and Artists Section

McKenna McClenny;

Snowy Butterflies page 54

On The Wall

Colin's artwork can be found on pages 58-59

Round the Back

Bare Hands Poetry page 60

The Bone Orchard page 61 Christmas message from the Alleycat's page 62

Manuscripts, art works and letters to be sent to the Editor @ 24 Tyndale Green Belfast BT14

8HH. Alternatively e-mail g.greig3@gmail.com. (See Submissions for further details.)

Hard copy distribution available via Dennis Greig c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan

Drive BT14 8HQ

Digital distribution is via links on our website https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/

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Published in Baskerville Old Face

Produced in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

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Editorial

It is now December, the weather has started to turn and Christmas approaches like an

unstoppable wave of festive joy and untrammelled commerciality. A New Ulster is now three

issues in and this is the last issue of 2012 hard to fathom at times.

The last few years have seen some momentous changes occur worldwide. In many

countries the Arab Spring has seen a desire for freedom to choose and an escape from

oppression. People around the world find themselves opening their eyes to the realities of

society and the difficulties that lie ahead. The end of November saw a historic decision as

Palestine is recognized as a state by the UN. Hard to believe that just a few days before Gaza

had seen the increase in violence and bloodshed. Worryingly many community and artist

projects on the ground working towards peace faced the possibility of seeing their work

undone.

I have been asked "Amos? Why don't you feature your work in A New Ulster?" my

answer is very simple my work is on every page. I am responsible for the cover images I take

each photograph, I edit each page tweaking the layout as and when it needs it. I communicate

with each artist, writer and plan which order the content will appear in. A New Ulster is

ultimately a publication aimed at reaching as many people as possible, sharing poetry, fiction

and art with everyone no matter their creed or culture. A New Ulster is not a platform for my

own work but a vessel for others to get their work out there to be enjoyed. I have produced

plenty of my own work and several pieces have been in print in hard copy and online. I've

used paintings to raise funds for charity but this magazine is not about me as a writer or artist.

Issue three sees a new section added representing the works of younger artists and

writers. I believe that creativity and passion for the arts should be nurtured. I would like to

think that this will be a section that can be built on and expanded. I am also hopeful that we

will see 2013 as the year when STEAM becomes the norm at school and that we see an

increase in social and community art projects. What is STEAM? well it stands for science,

technology, art and maths we need to encourage the next generation to be thinkers and doers.

In a few short weeks it will be Christmas the towns and shops are already mad, flooded with

shoppers seeking the latest gadgets and the perfect present. I would like to take this time to

wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Amos Greig

Enough preamble! Onto the creativity!

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Biographical Note; Nancy Anne Miller is a

Bermudian poet, and has a MLitt from

the Univ. of Glasgow. “Somersault”, a

poetry collection about Bermuda is

forthcoming from Guernica

Editions(CA).Her poems have

appeared in Edinburgh Review (UK),

The International Literary Quarterly

(UK), Stand (UK), Mslexia (UK), The

Fiddlehead (CA), The Dalhousie Review

(CA), The Caribbean Writer (VI), Journal

of Caribbean Literatures (USA),

Postcolonial Text (CA)), and tongues of

the ocean (BS) among others with poems

forthcoming in Agenda

(UK) and The Moth (IE). She is a

MacDowell Colony Fellow and teaches

poetry workshops in Bermuda.

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Tulips in January

They bend as if colour is heavy to bear, the weight

Of worth as one stem brought a fortune in 1637 trade.

Still proud of that, even the light’s gold can’t get them

To open. Heads lowered like snakes uncharmed by music.

Held in a crystal vase the way winter holds us each

In glassy ice, surrounds us with what breaks, cracks,

Then sends the softness of snow. Petals open in slow

Motion, aspergillums sprinkle the room with a silence.

Undress for death, litter the table with taffeta skirt

Panels like crushed love letters, or painted nails.

Sepals, electrical plugs without the currency of the sun

Coursing through, spent from the charge of the moment.

Nancy Anne Miller

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Boxing Day

Out of the box finally,

Christmas day over,

Fall out bits of sparkle

Present from the gathering.

Advent a house party of sorts

In ancient days when adoring

Magi, Shepherds showed

When they could. An extra day

Necessary after aiming for

The one moment like the star

Over Bethlehem is a target.

When truly its light is

The jagged ripped paper

From a gift package. We

Need another 24 hours to put

The long year to sleep with

This bedtime story for both

Child, adult. Hear again

About the birth of a baby

Who opened up the world.

Nancy Anne Miller

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Mercy

Something good in the grey,

The dreary in between, a purgatorial smoke

Wafting between the burnt out death of autumn

And the birth and bright blaze of Christmas.

Everything calmly noticeable

In a low key way.

Nothing takes the eye to the horizon,

What is near is the focus.

So when white falls

Like light from heaven, we want it to,

So hungry for this piece of bread

Pushed through the bars of trees.

Nancy Anne Miller

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New Year

The dry brown leaves left

On the January trees remind

Me of the scrappy downed kites

Edwards, our gardener, and I

Made and retrieved amongst

The Bermuda cedars. Built

From fennel sticks, string,

Paste, and paper grocery

Bags from Lindley’s market

Until ready for steady winds.

The landscape in New England

Is now a patchy white and

Brown like the cows pasturing

At the ‘ Milfold’ estate in our

Island Paget neighbourhood.

The milky kindness of snow

Will fall here, bring back

A childhood innocence,

So we become infants again

With the spanking New Year.

Nancy Anne Miller

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Winter Landscape

The perfect metaphor for memory

Distilling, abstracting,

Simplifying what occurred.

When the truth is the melt

Down of what is underneath,

Odd shaped, patchy, not particularly clean.

We sift things through time,

Gentle white lies fall,

Sugar coat what is unseemly.

We remember in bits, fill in

In pieces. Our mind joggled,

A snow globe covering the scene.

Keep it neat, in a container on

Our desk, until we brave to enter

The winter landscape of this piece of paper.

Nancy Anne Miller

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White Light

Everything is converted as white light

Pours out of heaven and trees become

Thin ribbed angels who cannot

Lift droopy wings to fly. No need to go

Up when a celestial world comes down.

The town truck forms its own flapping

Feathery path to us. The steady snow

Fills all distances flown between,

Leaves arched branches, discarded

Scaffolding of flight no longer needed.

Footprints where messengers landed

With a gravitas now dissolve, fill in,

Buttonholes buttoned up as a cloak

Covers all of the land, is thrown

Down for only God to walk over.

Nancy Anne Miller

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Biographical note:

David McLean is from Wales but has lived in

Sweden since 1987. He lives there with his

partner, 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 shortly. More

information about David McLean can be found at

his blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/

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nothing written

nothing is written in the skin

that carries meaning,

a palimpsest layered

with incessant absences

replacing one another

because everybody loves

repetition and repetitive rejection:

so nothing is written in the skin

to read out loud to this night

where nothing listens,

where no birds sing

David McLean

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scars are never

scars are never memory

or too importunate, the itch singing

in the insignificant and dusty skin

plowed by time and anxiety

through the glorious missing,

the sweaty dead things

living still. here is ice

and night and undone sun

so everything lives

diamonds and night

because scars are never mistakes;

just time cut right

David McLean

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ghost of a father

a girl in an old gray house

dozing in a chair,

she wears the ghost of her father

like a shirt

though cameras are there

and every empty

potential: ghouls

and ironing boards

or an innocent script;

a girl in an old gray house.

she wears the ghost of her father

like any other inanimate thing,

a camera, a corpse that sings

David McLean

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stormy night

it is a stormy night in a film,

but here the lightning has long been sleepy

and only the wind to whip ice or waves

happy.

it is a confused child in a film

carrying her burden of ghosts,

but here there have never been ghosts in me

and childhood is a forgotten century

to leave in a dusty box in a cellar hole,

a hopeless ghost broken and lonely,

another drug like memory.

it is a stormy night in a film

it is animals and everything living,

a stormy life for ghosts and children

David McLean

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the dreadful child

the dreadful child has ghosts in her eyes

and a pocket full of hopeless blood

immoderate like love might have been

or soldiers on an arrogant hill

rehearsing for living

and the brutal exigencies of will

the dreadful child has eyes on fire,

she is sleeping still

David McLean

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Biographical note: Angela Topping is

based in Cheshire and her ninth solo

poetry publication, Paper Patterns,

came out from Lapwing in 2012.

Angela is proud of her Irish working

class ancestry, which informs her

writing. in 2013, she takes up a

residency at Gladstone's Library,

Harwarden. She has written several

critical books and textbooks and is

currently completing a book on the

poet, John Clare.

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Mage

I was once a hare, could bounce across a field,

my long ears flowing behind me, my eyes telescopes.

Or was I a fish? A freckled trout in a brown stream.

When water moves me without hurry in my body’s rhythms

I believe this. I also accept I was a bird,

the common garden kind, that loves to make a nest.

I still long for flight, to see the land laid out,

map-like in all its glowing colours after rain.

I must have been a shape-shifter, a pale dark-haired woman

who could rise up from my other bodies

become whatever I needed to be, to defeat the wizard

who wanted to tie me down and know all my secret names.

Angela Topping

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Spoken Cartography

What is the riddle of this hill?

It tells of secret graves, of bones.

It sings of granite, rabbits’ homes.

Records of battles are scribbled on grass.

Blood fattens bulbs for spring.

What is the legend of this tree?

The heartwood knows important things.

Its shade is where the lovers sighed;

Its branches where thrushes feed their young.

The oak means ships and England’s pride.

What is the codex of the sky?

Its meaning changes by the hour.

Its tongue no-one can understand.

Its daily dialectic tells one truth:

Nothing is definite except the dark.

Angela Topping

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Biography: Some bio details...

in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at

Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'.

Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a

reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay

writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of

my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica

Mews, Edinburgh.

On Saturday 16Th August 2003 I read at the Edinburgh Festival as a Per

Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.

I also have a BBC web-

page www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.b

bc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not

work click on SECTION 28 on second site.

Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me

to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North.

I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my

writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image

into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was

shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The

Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands

at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at

the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-

Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How

Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited

at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University, including a film piece by the

artist Predrag Pajdic in which I read my poem On Brenkley St. The

event was funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research

Institute, Bio-science Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was

involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at

The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo

art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take a look at their

website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gallery/recent_exhbitions.htm

The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem "The Holiday I

Never Had", I can be heard reading it

on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456

REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket

Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank Screen, 60

seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema

Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival

On September 4 2010, I read at the Callander Poetry Weekend hosted

by Poetry Scotland. I have also had art criticism published in Peel and

Combustus magazines.

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Theory Of Alienation

A popgun gaffer rolls his own,

Rattles the supplement, self-tormenting on Magners

Before cues, pots,

All cramped swagger

And Lynx.

At the urinal

A trap-door spider’s hatching

Tenterhooks. Wincing. Close upon an affront.

3pm splutters….hang fire sun.

Car park boot sale: booths vending whim-wham lighters,

Foolscap redeemed from a work-a-day nook,

Crates of marked-down bleach

To gnaw the eyes,

Make them faintly cry.

Christopher Barnes

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Moon Screams

A quadrangle has lungs

Waking midnight.

Cosmology ridging,

Mouse-stirring grass.

The coup shoots ahead.

Embedding ‘elections,’

Both parties

Puffing on ‘divine right’ boards,

Swaggerish. Rank –

Knocking out the moment.

Teeth-gnashing,

A blush across flesh.

Bedraggled, trembling –

We flap in the web.

Christopher Barnes

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Fiscal Wars

I leered as false-teachings contorted.

Alterants said ‘nothing doing’.

Social Provision hurly-burlyed in turn-arounds,

Demolished, end-to-end in smoke.

Destiny will heir, as every Marxist apprehends,

A head-and-shoulders phalanx of police.

We’ll prolong our inductions

In unlikely circumstances,

Surviving a formula of motives.

They’ll allocate begin-again dearths,

Vehement anxiety for diversion – an escapade

Lengthening to sparkling hearses.

Christopher Barnes

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Puppeteer’s Croon

Cliqued in the finesse

Of bestowing decrees, I swallow it

Wanting gripe.

Soaked up by long-in-tooth conventions,

Machinations smart-arsing the no-accounts.

Righto, you structure by hush-hushes,

Floodlight defects.

Kick off the coming bloodshed.

You made trap-doors alright;

In the sewer try bobbing along.

Christopher Barnes

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Disorganising Revolution

Inconsiderate – your Simian good looks,

Strew in knock-kneed rain. Convictions

Of ‘tactics’ gist –

Someone’s tackling to string-pull

The Schism.

War is a gargled-earth malodour.

Muffled drum. The matter of daring,

A bare anthropological index.

Christopher Barnes

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The New Politics Are Dead

Right path whores

With pit-a-pat scowls

Had flesh that made thunder certain.

Sprung, seven senses – they’ll tangle you

In the eye.

We’re divided from gallows.

Unreplenished of possessions.

Smuggled banners jolt.

Dishevelled see-saw resistance

Death rattles treading damp steps

Set forward by the living.

Christopher Barnes

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.

Biographical note: Twice nominated

for Best of the Net, Neil Ellman lives

and writes in New Jersey. Hundreds of

his poems appear in print and online

journals, anthologies, broadsides and

chapbooks throughout the world. Neil

currently lives in New Jersey

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Of Course the Longing Was Fabricated

(after the painting by Ashly Wood)

this longing

skin of skin on skin

this hunger

wrongly conceived

this misunderstanding

of limbs

eyes that linger too long

from dark within

taut nerves

ready to shatter

this improbable love

fabricated from

a touch—

“Of course,” persisting

“Of course,” I said,

pretending all along

that it was real

Neil Ellman

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Elegy for a Silent God

Our hearts Inflamed by love of you

through pestilence and plague

silent mornings when your voice

was stiller than the wind through grass

your wind, we the grass,

bursting with adoration, green

with humility and praise

we bent to your wind without a word

not knowing is more difficult than pain

waiting more difficult than shame

we honored, we offered ascent

and suffered from undying consent

and still the wait, not even with the wind

hurling the deserts at our doors—

millennia of worship on bloodied knees

and still the locusts come.

Neil Ellman

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Spontaneous Combustion

flames have hands

touch souls’ emptiness

conspire

fingers curled

nails scratching

igniting heart

the hyacinth within

knows heat

remorse

hands know no reproach

feelings

burn inside

not so far

where they can hide

before they turn to fire

Neil Ellman

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The Haplessness of Being

hapless

In another

universe

hopeless

In this

things happen

unintended

consequences

unforeseen

cursed

jinxed

damned

a reprobate

here

on earth

I wonder why

the stars

were crossed

for me

before

I was ever

born

Neil Ellman

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Rena Rossner is a graduate of the Writing

Seminars program at The Johns Hopkins

University, Trinity College Dublin and McGill

University. She has written extensively for The Jerusalem Report and The Jerusalem

Post. Her poetry and short fiction has been

published or is forthcoming from Poetica

Magazine, Ascent Aspirations, The 22 Magazine, Fade Poetry Journal, Exterminating

Angel Press and Inclement Poetry Magazine,

among others. Her first novel is out on

submission.

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Edith in Wonderland

At Egerton House School, Exeter

Alice was handed over. Not down

the rabbit hole, this wonderland

is leather bound, gilt framed,

embossed with gold.

In 1923 or 24, hearts

were lifted, Sursum Corda declared

to Edith Le Palowel, the little miss,

Form II. Who excelled

in English subjects,

this was her prize.

Head Mistress Blanche J.G.

Gardiner, your gift is now

mine to command

with full color plates.

The preface poem begins again

“All in the golden afternoon”

and ends, as this volume does

“Pluck’d in a far-off land.”

Rena Rossner

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Villette

I found Villette in Howarth for

three English pounds.

Inscribed.

My souvenir from Bronteland.

A blue binding engraved with art

nouveau roses, its threadbare stem’s

gold leaf pattern long-since worn thin.

Inside beside the pencilled-in price

it said:

To Ina From Will.

His letters grazed four tiny lines

he scored with care

prescribed

to stop hand-writing’s slant. In black

fountain pen ink he sketched

his heart, carefully retraced

W’s second U. Perhaps he meant to woo,

or win her hand?

That day, so much was left

unsaid.

March 29. My birthday, 1914.

Will’s boyish inscription

described the day,

85 years ago.

Were Villette and Ina torn apart?

Was she abandoned

for another suitor’s books?

Villete, my twin,

what will become of you

when I

am dead?

Rena Rossner

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Eileen and Olive

To Eileen with love

you signed her name a bit

too crooked, crossed out one L,

realized too late

her name had only one.

And I wonder which

of The Girls’ Budget

stories were your favourite,

such that you made them hers.

Which “riches in a little room”

were found within

the pages of this book,

as the fig-leaf imprint

on the second page proclaims.

“To Bathe or Not to Bathe?”

That’s the first story.

Or was your interest piqued

by “How Jennifer raised the Wind.”

I’m partial to “Mab

and Moonshine,”

were you too?

And in your jagged child

script, a contrast to the brazen

font which said:

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED,

LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

you signed

with Love from Olive

1924.

Rena Rossner

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Biographical Note:

Kate Ashton trained first a s a nurse and

then went into nursing journalism. She

returned home to Scotland in 2003 after

spending 25 years in the Netherlands,

where she worked as a freelance editor

and translator and had two books

published in the ancient Frisian language.

The full-length prose poem from which

this extract comes was written mainly

during this period, and finished after

moving to a small town on the edge of the

Moray Firth. Kate’s work has appeared in

various magazines, including Shearsman,

THE SHOp, Envoi and Northwords

Now. Her pamphlet, The Concourse of

Virgins, came out from Lapwing

Publications in May this year.

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Ebb

Looking back, I see the house was back and white, a Tudor monument upon a darkened hill. I

smell the yew tree’s blacked boughs and see the high dark arc they threw and how beneath

them nothing grew.

Esther was inside, I knew. But first there was the long gravel drive, flowerless, and then the big

front door, a hall, and then the panelled dining rom. Esther sat in the window seat and lozenges

of light stole in upon her through locked panes of lead.

Against the diamond hatch I saw the fair haze of her hair and in the tiger-yellow eyes an ancient

glance of welcome and of stealth. The day began there, in those eyes and in that fall of hair,

and in the wary withdrawal our meeting held. When Esther smiled all excess fled.

I have no photograph of her.

She sidled from her seat and came across the polished pockmarked floor with arms

outstretched in some wide gesture not her own. And yes, her mother stood condoning there

behind her in the doorway; her mother, small and smelling bad.

Esther hugged me and the day began again. It was always like that: a furtive exchange of

openings without deceit and then a journey begun and never finishing. Not ended yet. Esther

smiled and cruelty, finality was in that smile, the small white weasel sharpness of her teeth;

something was limited in such sweetness, the soft curtailment of the saint.

But in those days there was no end to play. We chased oblivion into the farthest corner of the

house, the great dark hall, the echoing stairwell. And in the garden, scared to death, found

relics half-buried, graveyard-green: a gone child’s ball, a bald doll’s head twisted and gawping

on its neck.

One Christmas my small sister stayed there.

Esther had an older brother, John, and older brothers should be big and tall and strong. But

this brother was shy, and when he spoke stumbled so that you could not rescue him. He played

at the piano with a deep bowing motion of his trunk and a slight frown. Turning, his smile was

slight and vague as summer rain. It passed across his face like summer rain.

He plays again. The room is full of light, and pictures punctuate the walls. There is a coloured

rug, a coffee table and a chair – a special chair of slung hide with sagging leather belts for arms

adjustable on buttoned holes, like those which held up the windows in old Pullman train

carriages. And the seat is a real tiger pelt, tanned naked in parts but curling lush where each

limb joined and crested black from head to tail.

Esther sat on her father’s knee. There was no need. She had not hurt herself. She was no

longer small. He spoke in slow stammering speech and near to his left eye a tiny muscle

twitched. He put her gently down and stood, half man half megalith, blond, balding, blinking

behind his black-rimmed spectacles.

He was an architect. But not a Frank Lloyd Wright, caught in the canyon, defenceless, lanced

with light, working with wonders, falling, failing, coalescing. This was another kind of man, who

42

could not be moved. His massive frame rendered him impassable and at his soul some

trembling weakness charged his tongue with tears, his eyes with long unspoken lies.

We shall not, we shall not be moved.

We shall not, we shall not be moved. Just like a tree that stands beside the water We shall not be moved.

One day Esther’s cousin Anthony came. Esther and I went out with him to the potting shed

beneath the yews. Here it was dark and damp and when you closed the door it was at last as

though no one could see. To be unseen, to be invisible; it was a highest aim, a secret which

heavied our hearts and widened our eyes, which whispered stopped our breath. It was almost

completely dark in there.

And darkness made us daring, so that all the dark mysteries stirred and asked to be explored;

the black suspicions that each harboured about himself, and the frightening bright light that

each was to the other. Our silence was not the dread quietus of the adult world, but a still

potent promise of tomorrow, the stricken moment which while fleeing sank and touched each

at his core.

A quiver went through us then and anything could happen. Witches could swoop, walls

crumble; a hundred visions show themselves and manifest some being. The shared universe

could speak to us. Time spilled and overlapped itself. Difference took on tangible dimension,

and difference thrilled.

Cousin Anthony, sly and superior, showed how he could stand and pee into the cobweb

shadows of the shed. Shocked and hot with pride, I pinched and peed too, in a straight line.

But Esther froze. Something had entered on this game, and from outside. She shrank and

suddenly was absent from our ring. Her fear was like a parent come upon us without words,

and as she shivered rank and stained their strange pronouncements filled the air. Anthony

would be blamed.

Tell-tale tit, Your mother can’t knit, Your father can’t walk With a walking stick.

*

But Anthony’s father walked in front, stooped, bearded and myopic, in a dark duffle-coat. A

professor, he walked alongside priests and leftwing politicians. Behind them came trades

unions, local peace-corps and endless representatives, their women carrying, chivvying children.

The war had caught these people up and kissed each with its deadly kiss. It had dandled them

on its knee and they had smelled the acrid breath it breathed across the earth. It had lifted

them up, each, to see the rising cloud, the mushroom mask of liberty, and let them peep

beneath its skirts at scars more permanent and terrible than death. They were afraid.

But in their fear lay perspicacity. Children of Plato, brought up on reasoning, they saw the need

to organise. They found new fathers in philosophers, prophets and pacific priests and a new

forum on the streets. Although afraid, they did not need to be alone.

43

Those soldiers who had survived marched, marched now with their wives. Here were the raw

young captains who had played at war beneath garish colonial suns, or stayed at home and

objected in solitary shame.

The war had shattered their young lives (and yet there had been something fine: the barrack

room of equal boys, jokes in the mess. They told the tales with wistful carelessness, propped

against bars behind their women’s backs and camaraderie was blessed.)

England had mostly held the war at bay. All the abandonment with which she embraced hate

sprang from an island temperament. Lulled through the summer of the concentration camp

her lovely landscape drowsed boundlessly free, and in her cities no one starved, but ate their

rations listlessly. And outrage met the doodlebugs arrested hum, the siren signalling attack.

What insolent would stray so far? Who dare to raze this temple state?

The majesty with which she orchestrated war was great. Exiled, the European queen and

government found hospitality commensurate, while commoners were dubbed and deprecated

as the Hun. No people better knew their equal or subordinate; found instant confirmation in

his bearing, dress or fate. To seek asylum here was to find refuge in the lair.

For ages immemorial the beech had congregated here, crowning these hills, the oak had

sprawled magnificent and valleys run their course towards the sea. England had long subdued

her Celtic kin and her dominion stretched as far as she could see. She made a monster of her

enemy and went to war with hoards of awe-struck allies, silenced, laying down their lands. She

pounced and brawled across the globe and grew more elegant with each foray.

Twice now she’d met her counterpart in war and vanquished him. She knew him like a lover,

had by heart each pose, each odd inflection of his speech. They were precisely matched, and

yet she never saw her true reflection in his eyes. The crucial moment passed and proud,

fastidious, she put away his broken reach.

At first they’d engaged hand to hand and knew that they were of one blood. They’d lain as

fellows cheek to cheek, and lay still now along a lowland shore, contrite in death as turtledoves,

releasing poets to the stars. But as their voices dimmed the savagery began again with weapons

greater than before, and man was lost within his game of war. He felt no foe, he smelt no fear-

he knew no touch of ice upon his soul. The numberless were one.

All passion past, their cities spoiled and hideous and poison seeping in their genes, they sowed

new seeds of angst and lust. Children came out to play on streets of tangled steel and dust. Pink

rosebay willow-herb attired the ruins with impartial haste and beauty throve amidst the waste.

Nothing was left to the twin combatants but lies, and they were satisfied. A maniac had led their

age. It was agreed on either side.

They built again with vigour born of rage. The defeated raised replicas in denial, the free built

fresh altars to their liberty. All respect for the past was gone; the sacred nature of the stone and

angles aimed at perfection. Unable to look back or mourn, they hid in hate and nothing new

was born.

44

Remembrance flourished in this state; ritual review of the facts and feigned, fantastical, the

ceremony of the flame. It held them flickering, ever still. Eternally it burned: the grisly image

stupefying will.

While ever closer families grew. Fraternities linked lovingly in arms. Nations declared their

shared intent for peace and clove the fallen prince in two.

Only the atom shook them now. This was a splitting which defied their law – a schism

separating cause and war. They watched the macerated face, the voiceless death with mutant

shock which amassed and manifest as perfidy. At last it seemed the war had ended with due

gravity.

But such horror must never touch their shore.

One, two…

Anthony’s father laid aside his lifework on the Doomsday Book. He lit a pipe and sat back in

his chair. It was quite clear whose was what and what belonged where. He saw a time when

man would once more labour on the land and forfeit feudalism for egalitarian content. Beyond

the botched ideal he glimpsed self-government, the lordless village coterie. Though plainly

there must first be peace.

He kept his vision largely to himself and peered around the circle of his fellow dons without

delight. He found more lasting pleasure in his wife, who succumbed wildly to his dallying with

clerks and repaid him well with berating, a final child; the flashing topaz splendour of her eyes.

Three, four… They marched with her brother, the architect. Brother and sister, both were big, but she was

dark while he was fair. She stood on certainties, he floundered in the shallows of his own

misdeeds; she bellowed curses at the world, he whispered and withdrew. He knew she loathed

the constant clamour of his wife, her talk, her endless chattering; the way she shrugged and

covered up the diminution of her size.

…we don’t want No nuclear war.

Among the little men walked my father. His history stretched back to northern armies of the

unemployed and cloth-capped orators on street corners. He held the learned in contempt, yet

found this current kinship good. Poverty, squalor, these he knew. But to hold sway with those

who had long been to school was a departure from the rule.

Five, six… There had been those after the war who’d viewed the benefactor without joy, who’d seen in

gifts and charity the subtle workings of a ploy. The young American who’d blanched at banks

of living dead welcoming him with batty arms outspread trembling took all his terror home. His

folks heaped pity on the boy and sent out aid. Who knew what chance, what interest might

accrue.

45

Such patronage fell foul of the proud, led spirits back to long-forgotten indignities. They

scorned such tainted recompense. Glittering at the limit of their view lay galaxies of unclaimed

stars, while menacing, material and fain, nuclear night knocked at their door. They overcame

such scruples as remained and made the common cause their own.

Seven, eight… Back in the ranks the simple victim of his time walked with the woman who had shared his

crime.

Passive resistance was the order of the day. Aggression must be countered with restraint.

Inflamed by civil disobedience, plain citizens and policemen lined the way. The marchers went

from town to town, aloof, undaunted by abuse, and entering the capital bypassed with sneers

their cordoned governors.

Why don’t we negotiate?

The great grey square was filled with cheers. Massive, the maned stone lions bore the throng.

The granite lips of basins swelled. Fountains ran red and people swam. Speeches were

drowned within the song

We shall overcome, We shall overcome, We shall overcome some day, ay, ay, ay, ay - Oh deep in my heart I do believe We shall overcome some day.

ends excerpt

46

Biographical Note: Stella Burton was a vibrant

person. Many of her pieces were designed for

the oral tradition ranging from spoken word to

songs. Christy Moore was a popular influence as

was her love of walking and for the garden that

she maintained. Her final years were spent in

Portavogie with her husband Roy and she wrote

a selection of stories about the storms there. In

many ways she captured the old story teller

traditions and many of her pieces really came to

life when she performed them.

Stella Burton 1946 - 2010

47

Rain Circle

It trickles down my window, tiny drops of rain

Down the ledge, along the path rushing through the drain,

Gurgling and swallowing, in and out of the pipes it shivers,

Finally splashing, dashing out into the rivers.

The journey here it does not end

The river it has many bends.

Twisting here and curling there running wild without a care

Over rocks and under bridges.

By the fields and through the ditches,

Then it comes out to the sea, but alas it is not free

For it must return to clouds and sky

And wet our windows when they are dry.

Stella Burton

48

From Day to Night

The cornfield stands so still and golden in the summer sun

Wavering for just a moment,

A light breeze passes on.

Then when the breeze has travelled to the field beyond

Once more the corn stands still on that lovely summer morn.

A small bird in flight goes twittering past,

Travelling to its nest.

It has flown quite far today

And returns to nest.

The flowers and trees look splendid stretching

In the sundrenched park.

What a pity it will all be gone soon

And we shall be left with only the dark.

Stella Burton

49

Strandhill

(A place of the heart)

Early in the morning as I watch the sunshine rise

up above Benbulben and the Knocknarea skies.

As I walk along the beaches of a place they call Strandhill

a little seaside village of which I'll never get my fill.

Oh Strandhill I love you dearly

As you nestle quietly down

Among the lovely mountains

To the west of Sligo town.

You can watch the great white breakers as they beat unto the sand

of the great Atlantic ocean, there is none that's quite so grand

and if you'll cross the sand dunes and walk a little way

you will come upon Cullenamore strand a quiet peaceful bay.

Oh Strandhill I love you dearly

As you nestle quietly down

Among the lovely mountains

To the west of Sligo town.

There are local friendly people who ride their horses there

and canter little ponies and a lovely dark brown mare

and if you're very lucky as you gaze across the tides

you will see the dolphins break the waves

and reach towards the skies.

Oh Strandhill I love you dearly

As you nestle quietly down

Among the lovely mountains

To the west of Sligo town.

Stella Burton

50

Portavogie Storms

The wind howls over Billy's hill

The rain blatters my windowsill

I look towards the harbour wall

Giant waves down they fall

The fishing boats are sailing out

But it's much to stormy someone shouts

Still the fishermen go by

Ever watching the cloudy sky

The sea is very unforgiving

But the fishermen must make their living

They may not know what lies ahead

Still children and families must be fed.

Stella Burton

51

Portavogie

The little green light is shining bright

To guide the ships throughout the night.

The sun shines red in the western sky

And so it sets and says good bye.

It's a cold northwind that blows today,

I think that there is some snow on the way.

Close in the hens for safety in the byre,

Chop up the logs and stoke the fire.

The kids eat their dinner with fierce appetite,

And now they're all asleep

Settled down for the night.

Stella Burton

52

The Storms and Fishermen's Families

It starts with a whisper around the eaves

Then a rustle in the trees,

Palmtrees bend towards the ground,

Grannie sits with a worried frown.

She has heard these storms before,

Of the stories of the fishermen

not far from shore.

Will they make it home tonight?

She wonders.

Through the monstrous tide, the lightning,

And the thunder.

She is thinking about times long before

When she was a young girl,

Out on the shore.

Her baby was kicking her belly well

When the waves began to swell.

Will he make it back home

to see his bairn?

Who cares about the stinking heron

Is that the light she sees on the stern?

She's running now

More than she should!

But as she rounds the pier the news

is good,

The father to be there he stands

Glad to be back safe on dry land.

Stella Burton

53

Dewdrops on Her Cheeks

She didn't want to leave

Cause she was having such a time

But she could hardly speak

And there were dewdrops on her cheeks.

Her Grampa said don't cry

And she tried to say goodbye

But she could hardly speak

And there were dewdrops on her cheeks.

No she didn't want to go

And she cried the whole way home

It took her mama all the week

To wipe those dewdrops from her cheeks.

That little fair haired girl

Aideen is her name

She will win the hearts of many

As she plays life's waiting game.

Stella Burton

54

Biographical Note: McKenna McClenny is

twelve years old. She is an avid reader and a fine

artist. She was born in Amarillo Tx and lives

there still..

Young Writers and Artists section

55

Snowy Butterflies

Snowy Butterflies

Watch them as they flutter-by,

So wonderful and free,

Oh what I'd give to just be

A snowy butterfly

Twirling swirling doing flips,

Taking many, many trips,

Going up into the clouds

The falling floating back to earth

When they're tired and have done their best,

They slowly land upon the ground to get some rest

Then they fly back up to dance again

I put on my gloves,

I put on my boots

And I go and dance with them,

Those snowy butterflies.

McKenna 'Mac' McClenny

56

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”.

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! You can also order hard copies of “A New Ulster” signed by the

Editor himself for the bargain price of just £5.00 per copy for black and white, £7.00 for full colour (plus P&P).

Watch out however, as numbers will be limited. If you would like to purchase a copy or three (hey, I’m feeling

optimistic today!), then please contact us with the details of your order via e-mail at: g.greig3@gmail.com and title

your message as follows: Purchase request (name of customer here).

57

DECEMBER 2012’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

Thanks to all of the artists who submitted their work to be

presented “On the Wall”. As you probably noticed, we now have a

section especially for younger writers and artists. Be sure and let any up

and coming creative types know! In addition, our editorial is now at the

front of the artwork section. 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”.

Well, that’s just about it from us for this edition everyone.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the Alleycats; see you all

again in the January edition!

58

Biographical note:

Born at the tail end of the seventies in Northern Ireland,

Colin Dardis is a poet, artist, and sometimes musician.

He edits FourXFour, an online journal focusing on

poetry from Ireland and beyond. He is also the founder

of Purely Poetry, an open mike poetry night in Belfast.

Colin’s work has been previously in numerous

anthologies, journals and zines in Ireland, the UK and

the USA.

Check out Colin's website at:

http://lowlightsforlowlifes.weebly.com/

Fanbook Fan Page:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Colin-

Dardis/173153172766394

Speech Therapy Poetry Zine:

http://speechtherapypoetry.weebly.com/

59

"Maid" by Colin Dardis

"Redface" by Colin Dardis

60

"Stoneface" by Colin Dardis

61

Bare Hands

Bare Hands is an international online journal of contemporary poetry and photography started

by Kerrie O’Brien in October 2011 with the aim of creating an online journal that was both

visually striking and easy to read.

As there are already a huge number of well-established and impressive Irish journals such as

the Stinging Fly, The Poetry Bus and The First Cut, Kerrie wanted to create an international

collection. She also wanted something with a quick turnaround so that people wouldn’t be left

waiting too long for a response. Kerrie decided that ten poems and five photographs would be

featured each month and the layout would ensure that the reader focused on each piece of

work individually. She told writing.ie “I’d never used Tumblr before but their blog themes are

beautiful, easy to use and designed to be read easily on mobile and tablet devices. So I started a

Facebook account and put out a submission call on poetry blogs and websites. The results were

startling. From the beginning, the poetry and photography I received were of an incredibly high

standard and work was being sent from all over the world – China, India, Russia, Malta – it was

amazing. Sarah Griffin became my fellow editor and within a few months the journal was

getting a huge amount of views and it kept growing.

Each issue now reaches over a thousand hits within a few days of publication, which I still can’t

really believe. Because the quality of the work in each issue was so strong and word about it

kept spreading, we decided to launch a competition that would promote the journal and its

artists in a bigger way. The idea was that two winning poems and photographs would be turned

into two beautifully designed postcards and distributed to independent bookshops around the

world where people could pick them up for free.

And that’s what we did.

They are now available all across the world in bookshops including Shakespeare and Co. in

Paris, City Lights in San Francisco, Foyles in London, St Mark’s Bookstore in New York as

well as ones in Melbourne, Toronto, Berlin and even Santorini. The winning and highly

commended work is published on our website and it is stunning.

Ever since the creation of Bare Hands people have enquired about the possibility of a print

edition, and we’ve decided we are going to create a print anthology, coming out in October

2012 to celebrate Bare Hand’s first birthday.

We’ve launched a Fundit campaign, so we’ll join the epic ranks of Storymap and The Poetry

Bus. We hope readers will look at it as just buying a copy of the anthology in advance – if they

pledge a meagre eight euro, they’re guaranteed a copy of the book to be sent for free. We’ve

other plans in store for the kind people who donate more than this such as a tiny little book of

62

Bare Hands photographs, stickers and even gin! This first print venture is going to mark an

important change in Bare Hands, and our second year is going to be full of surprises that are

already under way.

Submissions for the anthology are now open. So, while we get our Fundit campaign up and

running, write us some poetry and take some photographs! Our deadline is September 1st

2012 – that gives you loads of time. We will be publishing 15 photographs and 25 poems

altogether. It’ll be amazing! All contributors will receive two copies of the print journal. *Review submitted by Bare Hand Poetry. Anyone who is interested in submitting work to Bare Hand Poetry

should contact the editor on: barehandpoetry@gmail.com with the heading Anthology submissions.

Bone Orchard Poetry-

The name ‘Bone Orchard’ came from a line in a poem I had written long ago, almost

forgotten. I afterwards discovered that it was also a name of a post- punk group from the States,

I believe, from sometime in the early 80’s, around ‘The Birthday Party’ era; I added ‘poetry’, as

it seemed to fit. It began as a whim, as in my few years of submitting to zines and magazines, I

felt that I had scarce outlets that truly ‘fitted’ my own work, and that a lot of writers that I knew

seemed to be dissatisfied by what was about; basically they took what they could find. I had

edited previously at ‘Calliope Nerve’, under the wing of Nobius Black, who of course deserves

a mention, as Bone Orchard Poetry is run in a similar manner, ie. the frequency of posts and

absence of an ‘official’ issue, just a rolling basis, which I feel keeps things fresh.

As far as the work that is sought, I focus mainly on the somewhat darker aspects of the psyche:

the surreal/ the experimental/ the bleak/ the absurd, but I am receptive to other work, this is

not a ‘genre’ project. I have been blessed with the work that has been submitted, both from

friends and also from beyond, and have been surprised by the response, and the feedback.

Bone Orchard Poetry now runs to the 13,000 view mark since late last January, including a two

month hiatus. I have been lucky to have the work of David McLean/ Gillian Prew/ Craig

Podmore/ Heller Levinson/ John W. Sexton/ Kyle Hemmings/ Misti Rainwater Lites and so

many others, the list is endless, really, and I don’t mean to name-check. The quality of work, I

feel, is up there with the best zines, regardless of it being a ‘blog-zine’, etc. To be honest, I

hadn’t envisioned its success to be so great, nor the work to be so forthcoming as it has been.

If anyone feels they might have something that might fit the bill, the doors are always open, I

publish four times weekly, sometimes five, and you work WILL be read, that’s a given at this

stage…

I look forward to reading your work.

*Review submitted by Micheal Mc Aloran. Anyone who is interested in submitting work to Bone Orchard Poetry

should check out http://www.boneorchardpoetry.blogspot.ie for details

63

64

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