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The June issue of Northern Ireland's monthly literary and arts zine featuring the works of Byron Beynon, Felino A.Soriano, Peter O’Neill, Michael McAloran, John Saunders, Strider Marcus Jones, Amy Barry, Neil Ellman, Gary Beck and Joseph Patrick Dorrian
Citation preview
ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Byron Beynon, Felino A.Soriano, Peter O’Neill, Michael McAloran, John Saunders, Strider Marcus Jones, Amy Barry, Neil Ellman, Gary Beck and Joseph Patrick Dorrian Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 33
June 2015
2
A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig
On the Wall Editor: Arizahn
Website Editor: Adam Rudden
ContentsContentsContentsContents
Editorial page 5
Byron Beynon; Jobs Well Lane
Portrait of a Gypsy
Sunshine and Dust/ Corner of a Room
On Cefn Bryn
Felino Soriano;
Self Portrait Review of a 6:00 a.m. belief
And
Why questions conceal automated responses
Implicit compromises
Home as understanding compromise
Cultural queries inventing dilemma
Sound and the cylinder of its oscillating music
Learned behavior
Peter O’Neill; An Old man
Michael McAloran; #
John Saunders; Love no.2 The Days Before Decimals
Conditional
Belfast
Strider Marcus Jones;
Urban Distress
Us
Sunflowers
This Fibbing Sun
That Corner of the Day
Amy Barry;
Monday Blues
A New Season
The Revisit
Her Life Sentence
3
Neil Ellman;
In the Vastness of Sorrowful Thoughts
Vulgar Comedy
Eyes of Oedipus
Ancestor
Gary Beck;
Fractional Disorder
Departure Call
Gadgetry
Visitation
The Last Song
To the Cities
Joseph Patrick Dorrian;
Blood Liable
On The WallOn The WallOn The WallOn The Wall
Message from the Alleycats page 53
Round the BackRound the BackRound the BackRound the Back
Press Releases Book Launches page 62
4
5
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 “Horsehead” by Amos Greig
6
“We are what we repeatedly do. Exellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” Aristotle.
Editorial
Welcome to the June issue of A New Ulster this is another very strong issue and
features work of a very high standard and also very topical for the recent weather. We have a
strong selection of poetry including ekphrastic works and more traditional styles.
We’ve had some difficulties recently a mix of technological hiccups and also health based
issues. The end of May saw several poets gather in Skerries for the first Donkeyshots Avaunt
Garde poetry festival organized by Peter O’Neill who has work in this very issue. We do not
intend to allow these current issues get in the way of providing platform for new and exciting
work as well as supporting those who have supported us in the past.
Outside of these issues I’ve been working away on my own poetry as well as a few
historical essays I’ve a collection of with a publishers and am waiting on word back. On Twitter
A New Ulster often gets shortened to ANU and in ancient Sumerian beliefs ANU was the God
of heaven, one of the oldest God’s in the pantheon and allied with Enlil (Air) and Enki
(Water). I’m not saying that A New Ulster is Godly in nature ☺ but sometimes we accidentally
stumble across something that stirs the creative consciousness.
I hope you get as much enjoyment reading these pieces they speak highly of the artists
who submitted to this issue and as I’ve often quipped they show the Artist as God and allow us
to step into a world of dreams and hopes, yes for a brief moment we can walk different lands.
Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!
Amos Greig
7
Biographical Note: Byron BeynonBiographical Note: Byron BeynonBiographical Note: Byron BeynonBiographical Note: Byron Beynon
Byron Beynon lives in Swansea, Wales. His work has
appeared in several magazines including: A New Ulster,
Black Mountain Review, London Magazine, Poetry Wales
and Chicago Poetry Review. Recent collections include
Cuffs (Rack Press), Nocturne in Blue and Human Shores
(both from Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing
Coastline (Agenda Editions).
8
JOB'S WELL LANE
(Byron Beynon)
The poet Dyer once fell
into Job's Well,
he'd been praised
by Wordsworth and wrote
Grongar Hill to achieve
that quiet in the soul.
Today the lane and name
still remain leading
towards Llansteffan.
It was there between
the footnotes of history
my memory strayed,
I saw you for the first time,
your hair modulating
in the Carmarthen air,
the black and pink
you wore and in your hand
the canvas bag
a forget-me-not blue.
9
PORTRAIT OF A GYPSY
after the painting by J D Innes (1887-1914)
(Byron Beynon)
There are those
who'd want her
to move on.
They believe
she doesn't
fit into their
jig-saw of humanity.
Gypsy, Romany,
the rare traveller
within a different life,
but equal to all
those prejudice
minds she's met.
Her face has the strength
to say she is herself,
eyes without borders,
those determined lips
ready to taste
what life has permitted
her to receive.
10
SUNSHINE AND DUST
(Byron Beynon)
You were young,
the leaves in their childhood,
a resonant voice
entered the theatre of memory.
It was late spring,
the place sheltered
from the heart's storm;
lights were born
across the sky,
you witnessed
this world unfurl,
the verities of weather
shared this moment
as you waited to leave
a room full of sunshine and dust.
CORNER OF A ROOM
(Byron Beynon)
Can a room
preserve a memory?
The key is hidden,
but the curtain is drawn
back to allow the eyes
to settle on other lights.
Chairs, a table simply laid,
canvases at rest,
quietly the corner emerges
from darkness.
Summoned by the act of patience,
it is there in the mind's uncharted
corridors where life goes on.
11
ON CEFN BRYN
(Byron Beynon)
A running spine with fits of open colours,
the clean patterns of lights and slopes
with their silent beauties.
The name carried by the knowing wind
launched from the sea
towards the sun
setting beyond the dolmen.
The coming night
bringing rain
knocking softly on fields and a communal stone,
with a landscape’s porous nerves stretched
across the flawed depth of time.
But still I go out. I just don’t look at the white. I keep my eyes averted. In the corner of my
eye, I can feel it smiling.
12
Biographical Note: Felino A SorianoBiographical Note: Felino A SorianoBiographical Note: Felino A SorianoBiographical Note: Felino A Soriano
Felino A. Soriano is a poet documenting coöccurrences. His
poetic language stems from exterior motivation of jazz music
and the belief in language’s unconstrained devotion to broaden
understanding. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart
Prizeand Best of the Net anthologies. Recent poetry collections
include Of isolated limning, Mathematics, Espials, watching
what invents perception, and Of these voices. He edits the online
journal, Of/with: journal of immanent renditions. He lives in
California with his wife and family and is a director of supported
living and independent living programs providing supports to
adults with developmental disabilities.
Visit felinoasoriano.info for more information.
13
Self-portrait (Felino A.Soriano)
I’ve never reinvented. Unless, to reevaluate. The
useless language of what levitates among crowded
syllables. Their tonguing catapults—their tonal
monotony of expressive monochromatic dissertations.
I’ve never listened. Unless to reinterpret. The
usable stanzas of exterior motivation, pulses. To
find what lives is to lift the chewed skeletal
spine of autumn’s cardboard leaves. The
bellies reveal what wings contain above the eyes’
circular peripheral fixation. To this, I listen.
Review of a 6:00 a.m. belief
morning yawns
an extract of/from
impressionists’ articulation of the same momentum of stretch
relaxes into hearing radial conflicts
abscond upon a wing’s diligent and conforming dedication
to
dissolve as all does dissolves
:
each skeleton renames into particles of donated
and
decomposing brands of intellectual
misnaming
14
And (Felino A. Soriano)
From what can gather or inhale,
sustain or ignite much more
so than a momentary confirmation—
a momentary silence to bridge
positions of each thought’s
duality of purpose and pageantry.
A hand does not alter to draw
decease; it increases what flows
North, a penetrating desire to build.
I am a language of unsaid declaration.
Why questions conceal automated responses
voice: Nobody inherits talkative parameters around engaging with nuances of silent
gradations, the unseen partitions compartmentalizing collocations of secretive
devotions to reaffirming autumn’s stagnancy of tone
silence: your interpretation
accusatory
avalanche of intuitive open rhythms—
a becoming is affluent enough to
bankrupt transparencies of composed, predetermined fallacies
15
Implicit compromises (Felino A. Soriano)
divided hearsay for a later truth (from tiredness of thinking)
pseudo light
bends onto a bathing exhibition of a tableau’s
reconciled placement
of hands, or a
desire to build using tools,
an improvisation of jazz’s full-body function
releasing sound to control an environment’s apathy
to reconfigure is to renumber in sequential aspects
of arranged forthcoming riches:
rhythm impactful pace placement
16
Home as understanding compromise (Felino A.Soriano)
corridors and, the bodies entering to provide
ambulation
sequence
fulfilled feeling (paralleling parental findings of smiles around disparate
corners of a home’s engaging paradigm)
in or,
of these layers of tone and indigenous colors,
what splays also stays to form
friction to the warming side of why
movement through architecture serenades
voices landing against the forehead, against
what leans to provide direct content
contextual to the corporeal hanker
placing systems of why the body rotates
within an existence of contagious movements,
deliberate and too,
pertaining to an improvised
dynamic of exploring through
lenses of configuring
subsequent to the way thoughts
die and sustain concurrently
17
Cultural queries inventing dilemma (Felino A. Soriano)
the way day’s
skin peels from tension
of hours’ [purposeful] inventing
absence,
I name you—
why (questioning self is a painful preference)
does language twirl (beauty) and not twist (vileness)
when what is named discards
the one naming
as to scold
or
prefer silence
over the overwhelming
monotony of a tongue’s version
of spatial identity—?
and again,
can song intimidate
as does the westward storm hovering in thrilling curse,
alive in the way a finger’s pointing can contain
injurious intent?
can what matters
detail the mapping of veins, unless calm? a mother
once
documented the child’s willing steps
through weeping
onto the shadow of the fatherless shape—does this
require pathos or an intellectual dimension of
ersatz psychology of _________?
18
Sound and the cylinder of its oscillating music (Felino A.Soriano)
I divided sounds to articulate
the tongue’s tonic disparateness,
a parental navigation toward under
-standing youth
and a reenactment
of desire and splayed spontaneity.
Or
to define sounds’ multilingual
configurations, a cymbal’s
strongest edge
stood still subsequent to the layered echoes’ fulfilling demonstration—
behind the overlapping edge of
the piano’s oscillating dusk
wandering
amid what wonders
upon strange encounters
with woven emblems,
strong and diligent
within knowing solo
performances
pertain to admired truths of
sounds’ ontology of proven interpretations.
19
Learned behavior (Felino A. Soriano)
each hand traces shadow
of a prior death
—everywhere, shoulders ache
portending a specific pain—
a weight of foreign need and trembling of triangular species
music
prayer prose
—all a related emblem, familial premise to ensure each hand
tracing silvered pasts
understands death
is the punctuation of an ongoing conception needing to be
retrofitted to current’s desire to subtract adulation
20
Biographical Note: Peter O’NeillBiographical Note: Peter O’NeillBiographical Note: Peter O’NeillBiographical Note: Peter O’Neill
Peter O'Neill has four books of poetry published: Antiope ( Hammer & Anvil
Books, 2013 ), The Elm Tree ( Lapwing, 2014 ), The Dark Pool (
mgv2>publishing, 2015 ) and Dublin Gothic ( Kilmog Press, 2015). He has
edited And Agamemnon Dead, An Anthology of Early Twenty First Century
Irish Poetry with Walter Ruhlmann ( mgv2>publishing, 2015) and hosted
Donkey Shots, Skerries First International Avant Garde Poetry Fest this year.
He is currently editing issue 81 of Mgv2>datura - Transverser.
21
an old man carrying a bucket of water
(Peter O’Neill)
Be-ing's unveiling
or
to reframe it
the unveiling of Be-ING
which was once the only concern of metaphysics
and which could be made manifest
through simple acts
by one who
seeing Death everywhere
harbouring like the crow
above in the fir
that matter of factual
such credence has to be given
to the invisible structure
which permeate our lives
love truth and Death
all the great so called
abstractions
like a metal bucket
breaking through the placid
film of water
its translucent essence
spilling out its liquid light
into the visible rush of the weight
of the water
which
is already putting a strain on the old man
his two hands
grasping at the handle
biting into his palms
he now straining at the full weight
22
the essence of light
pooling above the brim
which is the source of the light's play
it spilling o
u
t
into the light of the moon
or son
till light and water are one
illuminating the old man
who is standing there
standing there
by the water trough
under the mist of the fir
with the crows cawing
sounding out the great grotesque
anthem of scavengers
their bodies
now having been bloated
on the human
23
Biographical Note: Michael Biographical Note: Michael Biographical Note: Michael Biographical Note: Michael Mc AloranMc AloranMc AloranMc Aloran
Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). He is
the author of a number of collections of poetry,
prose poetry, poetic aphorisms and prose, most
notably 'Attributes', (Desperanto, NY, 2011), 'The
Non Herein' & ‘Of Dead Silences’ (Lapwing
Publications, 2011/ 2013), 'All Stepped/ Undone',
‘Of the Nothing Of’, 'The Zero Eye', 'The Bled
Sun', 'In Damage Seasons',(Oneiros Books (U.K)--
2013/ 14); 'Code #4 Texts' a collaboration with the
Dutch poet, Aad de Gids, was also published in
2014 by Oneiros. He was also the editor/ creator
of Bone Orchard Poetry, & edited for Oneiros
Books (U.K 2013/ 2014). A further collection,
'Un-Sight/ Un-Sound (delirium X.), was published
by gnOme books (U.S), and 'In Arena Night' is
forthcoming from Lapwing Publications.
'EchoNone', is also forthcoming from Oneiros
Books.
24
#... ...an empty scarification of sound traces across the.../ silences unmoved by utterance/
the ever-return of the pulse to shear the trace from out of its belonging/
guttered by night in the empty actual unspoken reek of decaying words/ blood/ the
unweaving pulse stretched before a meaningless sun/
shadows to bare but what of it/ dense as shit/ as coagulated breath/ night upon night
there is no.../ no not a.../ foreign convulsive spasm of the echoing beseech of/
a jocular response of nullity/ no flowers for the obsolete tongue/ ashen the perfumed
light of words/ collected wilt upon the passage of breath of pulse given to/
cessation yes/ bound in/ blackened/ imprint/ impress of none that lacks intent/ night is
endless yet/ still yet it will never retrace its steps/
in a delirium of acid weave the unweaving given to placement/ dead space/ pulse all in
a vertigo of non-space/ observing as if will were/
automatically cancelled out/ in the stepping apart from the step that was made/ broken
glass/ untold design a snapped neck/
locked to yes/ unlocked in the none/ pulse’s motion in the realms of spat speech and
worthless entities of breathing meat/stay down/ flourish in the receding flame/ that
never was...
(Michael McAloran)
25
#... ...lack dirt poverty of expel/ in excrement of tide speech desolate blind burn utter
utter/ eye in the opening up to shed clad falter undue if/
havoc burn blight eye as if to matter in what if only in or if to be yet it/ silenced
broken bread as of stone lights/ dreaming in-dream eclipt nothing claimed/
solace yet of ask bitten through collapse feral pageant laughter-lung of promise
desire’s genuflect upon scattered soil upon eviscerated once/
scars birthed from out of design clad less in zero depth reclaim/ how and ever given a
silence never once heard rising up from the clogged shadow-breathe a taste of
absenteeism/
the shore ashore silence zero equation none from out of none the bruised fruit ice of a
deft lung’s abandonment/ it closes the tomb in spectral absence of/
static non-light abounding exigent a room a window turning from the soil once more
to disadvantage point expels itself having been nothing ever of/
all bitten said of nocturne abandonment depth of ice of surface dread collapse
unspoken ever as if having flung the coins to the silent undertakers of lapse long utter
dark/
blind edge eclipt/ poverty of expel lack dirt/ blood bled out what matter/ a taste of iron
from the opened veins the gilded speeches/
flung to the rotting dogs of black cadaver lights/ scald of yes non-else/ in spectacle of/
spliced eclipt blacklight of balm submerge...
(Michael McAloran)
26
#... ...eye lock in a butcher’s field disgarded waste/ vulture breath come to cleanse the
obsolete devour from the in/ in matter of this or lack/
limbs locked foreign discharge of finality else of the which in if or inbetween/ sinks
sung aglow of moth’s beacon lightless candle expired in else given to drought clad
lock in nothing ever/
traces the trace with tongue deadlight/ fragrance of death caught in breeze reclamation
else forgotten in the none of something obsolete yet in/ yet/ bask-white recollect
absurdly/
piss for breath/ clap hands/ no/ not from the outset/ railing in the blood-weary moon’s
reflect a given chalice from which to drain the sarcophagus exigeny/ speech as if one
must fettered by/
breath-stun/ of the dissipatinjg emblems in the tight shore’s redress/ bountiless/ shit-
deep in the meat of nothing ever unto ever-after dry the eyes it says/ mocks as if to/
in the becoming nothing of the in or else in traces fading unto dislocation/ a gallery of
un-being all the while of the being of the final flesh/ drunk spasm nothing the blood
dripping slowly unto the/
all the while the bite of nothing in the displace of observation/ skinned yes the eye/ a
traipse/ ever the unsaid/ the lock-barter driven unto the...
(Michael McAloran)
27
#... ...in an obliterate of fallen/ bleeding out/ nowhere of/ dead space and counter-lineage/
sought yet never ought/ aligned breath and skin of teething absent of reclaim/
lapse sun death sun lapse death sun a-blight/ scar distances/ dead space in zero-plus/
stripped steel-meat to grasp at withered petal hands/
black as char before or here of the after-long/ teeth to grind/ a-speeches made/ design
fucked from the tract silence overture nothing or of the other than if/ breaks the
surface/
the bone-dry lake/ a colossus of wilted bone-blood/ sun yes yes what yes/ cannot/ as if
ever/ no chance the dredge devouring of the upturned sky of eye of sky’s parameter/
specious wilt in sense attrusive spoken of/ whitened the light is an escapade unto utter
static/ yet skin un-skinned/ levelled out/ reclaiming/
absent of reclaim from out of origin forgotten/ as if to/ desire what hence forgotten
never having of the other than the final edge of/ raped stone/ (dry the eyes)/
vomits upon the sun-dead-else in the intro outro being in/ it is what then else/ drags
what hence through/ not a.../
impart of/ regulate of disrepair/ shines out of the arse of it does not until/ in blind sight
of/ contraspect/ devours what of in else of other than blockade/ fallen bodies/
nothing/nothing...
(Michael McAloran)
28
#... ...tapers tapers away rescinds unto in absent reclamation shadowed by/ breaking bone
snap sharp sky desolate recoil in the echo echoing/
eaten of the parameters where not thought reverberates a collective night endless to
expand within the split light eye’s blood whispering/
fallen falling fragments of flesh the upturned pam seeks to be filled with the nothing
of/
it bound by lock lapse deserted coffin spurious flame residual dissipation unsung
devour of blight winds/ in a mockery of milk teeth scattered as of seed dense amber/
eaten away the pulse bulb magnet nothing clad in the spectral design I lock fades in
and out unto absentee expelled excrement tone deaf subtle subtle/
fingers caress the blood flecked shattered glass of being in reductive blessed be the
obsolete regard taken from out of broken shells scattered pelts not a...
not a trace for tomorrow given to undone in drift reclaim erased by solace of none
spitting in the face of else what magnitude/
embers traces these are not for the/ vapours of words collected in the vocal expound in
resound of hilt/ none done days of vital absence eradicating the naught/
still-speech a collision vertebrae not an emblem to caress not the warmth of/ the flesh
of/ the eye fold in upon itself in gifted spasm nothing more of it/
shrapnel blight as was in terse of/ spits into the emptiness that cannot be other than/
recoils once more/
dead zone of approximate/ the sky has...colours the like of which unseen/
amphetaminal vibration/ skinned opiate reclaim/ and the bite of salve/ fading in fading
out...
(Michael McAloran)
29
Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note: John SaundersJohn SaundersJohn SaundersJohn Saunders
John Saunders’ first collection ‘After the Accident’After the Accident’After the Accident’After the Accident’ was
published in 2010 by Lapwing Press, Belfast. His poems have
appeared in Revival, The Moth Magazine, Crannog, Prairie
Schooner Literary Journal (Nebraska), Sharp Review, The
Stony Thursday Book, Boyne Berries, The New Binary Press
Anthology of Poetry, Volume 1, Riposte, and on line, The
Smoking Poet, Minus Nine Squared, The First Cut, The Weary
Blues, Burning Bush 2, Weekenders, Poetry Bus and poetry
24.
John is one of three featured poets in Measuring, Dedalus New Measuring, Dedalus New Measuring, Dedalus New Measuring, Dedalus New
Writers Writers Writers Writers published by Dedalus Press in May 2012. He is a
member of the Hibernian Poetry Workshop and a graduate of
the Faber Becoming a Poet 2010 course.
His second full collection ChanceChanceChanceChance was published in February
2013 by New Binary Press.
30
Love Poem # 2 (John Saunders)
Before I could spell the word
I searched for it,
knew it lurked nearby.
I opened every cupboard,
pawed pockets under the stairs,
anonymous boxes in the attic.
Even though I did not know its shape,
I was sure I would recognise it.
Tears of despair came to me,
I grew tired, fell asleep on the sofa
and awoke in her arms
as she carried me to my bed,
kissed my head, lay beside me.
31
The Days Before Decimals (John Saunders)
In the days before decimals
I knew my place.
The fire burned
with the fractions of off cuts.
That press under the water tank,
warm, dry, safe:
where words came to me
and my life was not measured in numbers.
Conditional
If I had listened
to her voice
ooze advice
into my ear
that evening
in seventy four
while I waited
for the five forty
five to Dublin
to educate myself
in life sciences
so that I would
shed any belief
and enshrine
utilitarianism
to survive the bullets
of chance
she would have died
a proud mother.
I didn’t.
32
Belfast 2013 (John Saunders)
The nicotine light of the pub
is a watery shade
and street puddles are blurred neon
of conflicted colours.
The hotel stands gallant
in disaster.
They said it could not happen
and it did
and they have salvaged hope
from failure.
I am in the shadow of adversity
picking at your risk,
helpless in the face of helplessness,
stunned before collision.
I have failed.
33
Biographical Note: Biographical Note: Biographical Note: Biographical Note: Strider Marcus JonesStrider Marcus JonesStrider Marcus JonesStrider Marcus Jones
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant
from Salford/Hinckley, 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 27/29/31/32; Poems For A
Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology;
Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest
Ulsterman Magazine; Writing Raw Poetry Magazine;The Lonely
Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary
Magazine; The Lampeter Review and Don't Be Afraid:
Anthology To Seamus Heaney.
34
URBAN DISTRESS
(Strider Marcus Jones)
all around:
birdsong from barky bars
and nut-job neighbours,
like flakey
and fakey
celebrity stars-
cut the air with verbal sabres
stabbing the back of sound.
even the fields,
that go in vegetarian meals
are part of this drug processed
urban distress.
rocky riffs,
like Mozart and Wagner with decibels-
fell from concept cliffs
onto punk's deconstructed shore,
where the ocean roar
diluted anger towards inaccessibles
in the next generation
into derelict housey-
while grunged indifference to expectation
lost itself in Simon's nousey
populous pap
blasting the street with pimped gangsta rap-
heard, but not seen, jamming with Thomas O'Malley
and Dylan in Shakespeare's alley,
coloured and tense, but up to you,
with Miles Davis in Kind of Blue.
35
Us
(Strider Marcus Jones)
we are composed
out of the fate of stars
a light dark light so old
and tuned that regards
most of Us as Other
peasants
who are clothed
without privelaged presents
to burn wood in cracked stoves
under crumbling cover.
stitched to Their time
we entwine
in our own interpretation
of this spinning station.
only burlesque bright skies
and the iris flowers of abandoned eyes
can change the fixed views
of a selfish landscape
into united hues
of equal state.
our reality is broken-
we are the hosts
and ghosts
who have been stolen
the violated tokens
of corporatist totems
screen greed being traded
and invaded
then beaten for protesting by police
working for the Thief.
36
SUNFLOWERS
(Strider Marcus Jones)
its an allotment
with a leaky shed
at fine leg
for listening to the cricket
ball touch willow
whilst lying down on the lumpy pillow
of an old sofa, content
with it
when love is spent.
sunflowers
are easy to grow
she thought-
looking out of the pub window
at her soil canvas
billowing and shimmering
in sun warmed wind;
not like a man, in his quiet hours
of secrets, slow
in the sum of his nought-
but not with you though,
portrait depicted
in church stained glass,
caught and convicted
of beauty daring him to sing
and throw his cap into the ring.
what are you going to grow
besides natures nettles?
you already have Aphrodite's petals
opened or closed
in his repose.
37
THIS FIBBING SUN
(Strider Marcus Jones)
when this fibbing sun,
dips below this planted plate
of fields-
and waits
to bob back up tomorrow:
solitude, sucks the colour
out of crimson clouds,
and stars begin their movements
over night's black curtain.
thinks.
this dance of being born-
to live and die
in sacred elements
swirling in dust and gas,
in beauty and folly
that repeats itself
to what purpose-
does this engine and design
make civilisations form then fade
with gods and demons.
there must be more to Michelangelo's ceiling-
than creating orphans
and leaving them, to grow old
in fostered orbits.
38
THAT CORNER OF THE DAY
(Strider Marcus Jones)
in the slit light of morning
lancing through the curtains
onto you-
it's that corner of the day
uncovered in the circle
we move into.
silence, as a voice
can now be heard
eyes wide open-
a solar flare
in infinity
of space-
mane aflame
lunar lips
pouting promises.
39
Biographical Note: Amy BarryBiographical Note: Amy BarryBiographical Note: Amy BarryBiographical Note: Amy Barry
Amy Barry writes poems and short stories.
She has worked in the media, hotel and oil & gas industries.
Her work has been published in anthologies, journals
and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad including in Southword Journal,
First Cut, Poetry 24, Red Fez, Misty Mountain, A New Ulster.
She loves traveling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris,
Berlin, Falkerberg- have all inspired her work.
When not inspired to write she plays Table Tennis.
She also loves Sushi and Trampoline Jumping.
40
Monday Blues
(Amy Barry)
Monday, the most hectic day
of the week. After dropping the children
off at school, I park my car,
and lean back in the seat.
Blustery wind gently
shakes the car.
Tuning in to Newstalk,
‘Dublin’s Spire will not be named
after Mandela…
French President reportedly picks
actress over first lady…’
Beat tapping to Paolo Nutini,
on the music channel,
Candy takes me back
to the serene hills in Nepal-
where I sip Jaandh,
as it sinks into me, I absorb
the unruffled ambience;
Sagarmatha!
You stand tall. Your crown
wearing gold at sunset.
Clouds alive;
Breathe, laugh and dance
around you…
Lifting the sleek coffee mug
from the cup holder, both hands
clasp its rubber grip.
I inhale the fruity aroma
of Kenyan coffee,
savouring
its strong taste.
Lulled, at silence,
a quiet moment I should be glad of-
in this little space
in my car
alone.
41
A New Season
(Amy Barry)
She inhales.
An odour of sexual ecstasy;
the heat of breeding season.
Mosses and ferns release their spores
into the air. A hawk rises in blinding heights;
shrills happy-in senseless passion.
A moth lays tiny, glassy eggs in perfect rows.
Bunnies, emerging for their first
lesson in life, grasping at sudden freedom.
In the garden of patchouli, mint, lavender;
she sees him,
intent in his inspection.
She likes his smell-
so earthy, a forest-like blend
of oak and aromatic bergamot.
He turns to her and smiles, plants a kiss
firmly on her lips. As if under a cloudburst
of petals, the air sweetens.
The dying leaves are gone,
replaced
by a luminous green.
42
The Revisit
– A Tribute to Mandela
(Amy Barry)
Today I had a chance to visit,
the place I had spent
most of my life,
where I had passed
the time calmly enough
where I had often asked myself,
‘What more-
am I suppose to do?’
Desperation pushed
me to take risks.
Sadness hit me
like an arrow,
entered my flesh.
Blessed be the part
of me that protects
from too much pain
and sorrow;
because when the torment
was too severe-
I felt nothing.
43
Her life sentence
(Amy Barry)
Numbed,
as wooden as a puppet,
she yearns for something to make sense.
Teardrops gathering
on her lower eyelid, waiting to fall.
Disappointment,
burns her eyes, her brain.
Hot blood rages
through her veins, she wants to thump
her fists against his chest, his face.
Pained memories,
like rough charcoal- sketches
in her soul,
wrongly remembered.
44
Biographical Note: Neil EllmanBiographical Note: Neil EllmanBiographical Note: Neil EllmanBiographical Note: Neil Ellman
Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published more than
1,100 poems in print and online journals, anthologies and
chapbooks throughout the world. He has been honored twice as a
nominee for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.
45
In the Vastness of Sorrowful Thoughts (Hans Hofmann, painting)
How vast it seems
the reach of sorrow
like a hand
across the universe
expanding in the mind
through the limitless
void of our days.
How determined
and pitiless it seems
taking hold of everything
from within and without
from birth to death
when even then
It never stops.
It is in the molecules
we breathe
the pattern of our genes
and sound of falling leaves
a sonnet written
to oneself
sorrow in the bones
as well as in the mind
how vast it seems
how measureless it is.
(Neil Ellman)
46
Vulgar Comedy (Paul Klee, lithograph)
No buffoonery
or burlesque
in the commonplace
before the pageant
of the burial.
No happy endings
in the ordinaire
between divinity
and the grave
At the gallow’s end
before the last
no last laughs
but life’s absurdity
and then the vulgar
comedy of death.
(Neil Ellman)
47
Eyes of Oedipus (Adolph Gottlieb, painting)
When he was a boy
Oedipus had a single face
with twice as many eyes;
and as a would-be king
more faces than could be counted
each one having twice, more or less,
as many eyes with which to see for miles
beyond the ocean’s wine-dark waves
to the front, behind and to his sides
through solid walls and into the minds
of men more royal than himself
like a bee that could see Invisible light
and like a snake the heat
but he could never see the prophecy
in the oracle’s bright light
that even with a thousand eyes
it seemed that like a child he had but one
and it was for the woman of his dreams.
(Neil Ellman)
48
Ancestor (Pierre Alechinsky, lithograph)
No tombstone with a name
and six-point star engraved,
no faded photographs,
no dusty portrait on a wall,
no yellowing documents
announcing his birth
his marriage or the reason
of his death.
The father of my father’s
father had a name, I suppose,
and lived somewhere
In the Ukraine or Belarus
speaking some other language
in another alphabet, I think,
he was a scribe, my grandfather said,
but my grandmother said
he shoveled manure
like everyone else.
Did he dream of miracles
made by God
or the shape of God Himself?
Did he stare at the stars
and wonder why they are
and when they will speak to him
in a language he could understand?
Did he foresee that I, his heir,
in an ancestral fog
would wonder who he was
when all I know
is that he once lived
and left nothing more
than the color of his eyes?
to use it.
(Neil Ellman)
49
Biographical Note: Gary BeckBiographical Note: Gary BeckBiographical Note: Gary BeckBiographical Note: Gary Beck
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an
art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published
chapbooks. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive
Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on
Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways (Winter Goose Publishing).
Perceptions, Displays, Fault Lines and Tremors will be published by
Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response will be published by
Nazar Look. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts
of Defiance (Artema Press). Flawed Connections has been accepted for
publication (Black Rose Writing). His short story collection, A Glimpse of
Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). His original plays and translations of
Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway.
His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary
magazines. He currently lives in New York City
50
Departure Call
(Gary Beck)
Some migrating birds
pass through New York City
unafraid of urban muggers.
Most pause in Central Park
undisturbed by night prowlers
who do their business on the ground
and rarely climb trees.
The birds who pause at Bryant Park
are much more nervous
in the vest pocket greenery,
jostling for room
with local sparrows
harshly aggressive,
unwelcoming to travelers
unwilling to share food,
impatiently awaiting
departing flights.
51
Gadgetry
(Gary Beck)
In the Stone Age
we understood our artifacts,
knew where they came from,
how they were made.
As invention evolved
we knew less and less
about our tools.
Then artisans arrived
who built devices
that made life easier,
more efficient,
more profitable.
As the Industrial Age
spawned new machines
beyond comprehension
of most people
who enjoyed the benefits
of labor saving contrivances
that changed the world of work,
engineers, mechanics,
building, operating
new systems
beyond manpower
to manufacture goods
for the consumption of many.
And we began to leave the soil
in great numbers
renouncing toil in the fields
for work in the factories.
When we tamed electricity,
harnessed it
for creation, convenience,
we did not understand it
merely flipped a switch
and there was light.
And our marvels multiplied
52
until we controlled
godlike power
to obliterate cities
at the push of a button.
We created new wonders
so even the poor
the homeless
carry cell phones
and the people
were connected,
texting each other
wherever they went
intent on tiny screens
not the hazards of the road.
The inventions of the few
beyond the comprehension
of the many
without the faintest idea
how communication works,
only slightly evolved
from primitive forebears.
53
Visitation
(Gary Beck)
Cousin Murray
long dead,
came to me in a dream,
told me
about his new app.
I vagued out,
just as of old
when he was alive.
Then he droned
about a great idea,
how much money he’d make,
just as he did
when he was alive.
54
The Last Song
(Gary Beck)
As my time dwindles
in this fleeting life
I strain to understand
the mechanics of existence,
the engineering of society.
I know there is a collective will
to function together,
irreparably divided
by clan, tribe, religion, nations,
frequently conflicting,
often uncooperative,
consuming the earth
in senseless destruction,
willing for all to perish
rather then compromise.
55
To the Cities
(Gary Beck)
We gather in cities
for safety, comfort,
a secure food supply,
conditions that only exist
with law and order.
So we left the land
for easier labor
than the backbreaking grind
of squeezing a livelihood
from begrudging Mother Earth.
Then we went to the factories
and discovered new enslavement,
instead of capricious Nature
we found the grasping boss.
But it was too late
to return to the farm,
gobbled up by the bank,
sold to agribusiness.
Production is only limited
by the energy of workers
mated with machines
that never tire.
Once the farmer toiled alone,
or with small family.
Then hordes labored together
and learned to count their numbers.
The baron who lived on the hill
overlooking the gritty factory
couldn’t just slaughter rebels,
so they purchased protective laws.
And when the workers wearied,
neglecting insatiable machines,
they used goons, police, National Guard
and forced their return to work.
56
The new lords of capital
did not have walls, moats
to defend their property,
just the rule of law.
And the workers were always wrong,
greedy and unreasonable,
always wanting more
then bosses would allow.
Conflict became a constant
and for a while it seemed
the workers had compelled
concessions from their masters.
But this was an illusion.
Throughout history, the lords gave
when they had to, but took back
as soon as they could.
57
Biographical Note: Joseph Patrick DorrianBiographical Note: Joseph Patrick DorrianBiographical Note: Joseph Patrick DorrianBiographical Note: Joseph Patrick Dorrian
Patrick is Belfast born bred and buttered as McDowell would say. He
retired from teaching in 2007 after 30 years struggling in west Belfast.
Patrick is married to Frances and they have 3 offspring all adults now. He
has dabbled with poetry for several decades as a means of escape and
last year Patrick had a poem about Palestine published in a magazine in
Europe, his first publication.
58
Blood Liable
(Joseph Patrick Dorrian)
It's red, we all have it, Some of us like to share it. A wonderful word, transfusion
is. Sure, they like to place it in Sentences dear to their hearts, A transfusion of
money for business. Meaning a possibility of extended life.
That loan has interest accruing.
The real meaning, the GIFT of blood Always so altruistic.
Yet, this can be sullied. Some fundamentalists refuse it, Preferring death. Some
look at the giver, Possibly a same sex sinner.
HE may be clean but why risk it?
But all blood is tested, checked, disposed Of if at all uncertain. (The aside) maybe
being homosexual Is transmissible, maybe queerness can be caught.
The fear is hidden, buried in text, read In a book that has been washed through
Several translations (that prefix again!), And the poor dears get confused, They say
they follow Christ, but are stuck In the Old Testament. So, no GAY Blood,
One wouldn't want to crack a smile.
59
If youIf youIf youIf you fancy fancy fancy fancy
submitting submitting submitting submitting
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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
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and/or offensive images will
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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
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We cannot be responsible for the loss of or damage to any material that is sent to us, so please send copies as
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E-mail all submissions to: [email protected] and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to
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60
June 2015 MESSAGE FJune 2015 MESSAGE FJune 2015 MESSAGE FJune 2015 MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:ROM THE ALLEYCATS:ROM THE ALLEYCATS:ROM THE ALLEYCATS:
We have a Go Fund Me campaign so as to afford better tuna.
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”.
61
62
Delve into the depths of humanity and criminal justice with Homicide Detective
Alex Boswell, in this thought provoking debut novel. Emily Donoho escorts her
readers on a breath taking journey through the city that never sleeps, and the
restless mind of one of its most dedicated servants. A tattered veteran of the
NYPD, Boswell is a man beset: the combined weight of his case load and personal
life grinding him down. The white lights are blinding, and the skyscrapers are
closing in. It’s time to reach for the shore or drown trying – In the Canyons of
Shadow and Light. (http://www.amazon.com/dp/151205268X/ref=rdr_ext_tmb)
63
64
LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLESLAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLESLAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLESLAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES
978-1-909252-35-6 London A Poem in Ten Parts Daniel C. Bristow
978-1-909252-36-3 Clay x Niall McGrath
978-1-909252-37-0 Red Hill x Peter Branson
978-1-909252-38-7 Throats Full of Graves x Gillian Prew
978-1-909252-39-4 Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro
978-1-909252-40-0 A Long Way to Fall x Andy Humphrey
978-1-909252-41-7 words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne
978-1-909252-42-4 Red Roots - Orange Sky x Csilla Toldy
978-1-909252-43-1 At Last: No More Christmas in London x Bart Sonck
978-1-909252-44-8 Shreds of Pink Lace x Eliza Dear
978-1-909252-45-5 Valentines for Barbara 1943 - 2011 x J.C.Ireson
978-1-909252-46-2 The New Accord x Paul Laughlin
978-1-909252-47-9 Carrigoona Burns x Rosy Wilson
978-1-909252-48-6 The Beginnings of Trees x Geraldine Paine
978-1-909252-49-3 Landed x Will Daunt
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
More can be found at
https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/home All titles ￡10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format ￡5.00 for 4 titles. In PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.
