Featuring the works of Kelly Creighton, Patrick Dorrian, Neil Ellman, Aisling Keogh, Jax Leck, Aine MacAodha, Emma McKervey, Sue Morgan, Maire Morrissey-Cummins, Chris Murray, John Taylor and more. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 10 July 2013

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A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall Editor: Arizahn

Website Editor: Adam Rudden

Contents

Cover Image by Amos Greig

Editorial page 6

Kelly Creighton;

Subaqueous page 8

Gro-Humour (Grotesque) page 9

Pixelated page 10

Patrick J Dorrian;

(Minding) The Gaps page 12

Neil Ellman;

Blue Divided by Blue page 14

White, Red on Yellow page 15

Blue, Orange, Red page 16

Oonah V Joslin;

Train of Thought page 18

A Way of Looking page 19

In an English Comfort zone page 20

Untitled page 21

Evidence page 22

Aisling Keogh;

ETHEREAL pages 24-29

Jax Leck;

Three Haiku page 31

Aine MacAodha;

Companions page 33

Flashbacks page 34

Keepers page 35

Emma McKervey;

Each-Uisge page 37

Hungover pages 38-39

Seagulls pages 40-41

Sue Morgan;

Down the Rabbit Hole pages 43-45

Maire Morrissey-Cummins;

The Attic Chest page 47

Slices of Summer pages 48-49

Folding Memories page 50

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Her Rosary Beads page 51

Chris Murray;

Hooks pages 53-55

John Michael Taylor;

Belfast South page 57 Contact Point page 58

Easter Monday page 59

On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 61

Maire Morrisey-Cummins;

Maire’s work can be found pages 63-65

Round the Back

Barbara Gabriella Renzi pages 67-68 Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to:

Submissions Editor

A New Ulster

24 Tyndale Green, Belfast BT14 8HH

Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com

See page 52 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is

available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ

Digital distribution is via links on our website:

https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/

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Published in Baskerville

Produced in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

All rights reserved

The artists have reserved their right under Section 7

Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

To be identified as the authors of their work.

5

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Editorial

‎July has crept upon us and once again the Marching season stands upon the horizon.

The end of June saw some very interesting things occur for me as well as the literary world in

general. The Belfast Book festival was an amazing success once again and perhaps

unsurprisingly the poetry slam proved to be the most successful event of the festival breaking

box office records.

Each issue of A New Ulster is released on the fourth of each month or as close as we

can get. As I put the finishing touches on this issue it is the Fourth of July Independence Day

perhaps one of the most important days in American History. I wanted to celebrate this day so

with quiet reflection I share the words of Albert Camus “Freedom is nothing But a chance to

be better”.

Syria sees two years of continuous violence and struggle for freedom from oppression

and today the Egyptian government has been overthrown again in a relatively bloodless coup,

Turkey sees strife over oppression, for me some of the moments that stand out include the

individuals who defied the system with dignity. The man who stood staring into the distance

and the people who read books while water cannon and tear gas went off around them. Poets,

philosophers, students and ordinary citizens standing together.

As you read these words Papergirl Belfast’s exhibition will be entering its last days, Four

X Four will be available as will Tender Journal to find out more check out page 64. Finally I

have been awarded a Support for the Individual Artist award by the Arts Council of Northern

Ireland. This is to help me develop my skills in photography, editing, painting and of course

poetry.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Kelly Creighton

Kelly Creighton is a Belfast born poet and fiction

writer with work currently and forthcoming in

literary journals Wordlegs, The Ranfurly Review, A

New Ulster, Electric Windmill Press, Inkspill

Magazine, The Galway Review, Poetry24 and

numerous other publications.

http://kellycreighton.webs.com

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Subaqueous

taking place here is the secret

of warped speech,

of stealthy seas

that no current could wreck,

just bloat on

as our reminder.

alluvium on rock face

leaves us washed up,

our truths friable

at the feet of day-trippers.

Kelly Creighton

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Gro-Humour (Grotesque)

We can provide a tragic framework to bud a friendship within.

We can end the children’s games with our tales of atrocities.

Humour is our laughing breathing ha-ha, hurried, harried air;

our coping mechanism from the days when we weren’t wishing,

waiting, wiping away those emotions difficult to name.

Kelly Creighton

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Pixelated

The population seem mechanical.

They correlate their apparitions.

Cordially expecting expertise,

expecting no social interface.

Ideas egocentrism-created,

lacking iron in their paraffin blood.

Pixelated, they’re over-rated,

preferring the predictable,

the inert, the wholly impassive.

A demesne established while in search

for the performed and proposed

and designed with fastidiousness.

Impromptu defrayals are syphoned

on screens for our un-special occasions.

Keep yourself distant, unreachable.

Accept a machine as your companion.

Kelly Creighton

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Biographical Note: Patrick J. Dorrian

Patrick Dorrian is Belfast born bred and buttered as

McDowell would say. He retired from teaching in 2007 after

30 years struggling in west Belfast. Patrick is married to

Frances and they have 3 offspring all adults now. He has

dabbled with poetry for several decades as a means of

escape and last year Patrick had a poem about Palestine

published in a magazine in Europe, his first publication.

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(Minding) The Gaps

When I was young, I'd see them;

women in black but not nuns, singular,

trespassing on the time between then

and the now, lost in reverie of lost loves.

Why, is question of choice of the young,

and in the case of the "weeds", was always

answered, " Her husband was killed in the War".

Her medal was the widows' weeds.

Then, there was a friend's granddad;

a man who left most of his face in France,

goaded to heroism by false claims

and an empty promise of nationhood.

Now as an adult, I see them, the living

that should have died of wounds,

butchered on the altar of economics,

sacrificed for a false notion of patriotism. (Why?)

The politicians can always appeal to the young,

dying for the country and all that heroic shit,

but no one told them of the mutilation,

limbs, skin, eyes, brains and the collateral damage.

The parents shackled to a life of pain,

the wives left to service the undead,

denied their widow's weeds, overloaded by sympathy,

initially, resented, as a guilty reminder when the peace comes.

So we mind the gaps, preferring not to see them,

communities short of young people, removed,

families ruptured but given a flag folded to a triangle,

to sit for a while beside a picture, fading.

Patrick J. Dorrian

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Biographical Note: Neil Ellman

Twice nominated for Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from

New Jersey. Hundreds of his poems, many of which are

ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and

contemporary art, appear in print and online journals,

anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.

His first full-length collection, Parallels, is a selection of more

than 200 of his previously published ekphrastic works.

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Blue Divided by Blue

(after the painting by Mark Rothko)

Blue shivers

glistening cold.

Ice crackles

under curious feet.

Even now, the sky

wraps winter arms

around the earth.

Between blue mornings

and bluer nights

days pass

glacially blue.

Neil Ellman

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White, Red on Yellow

(after the painting by Mark Rothko)

Splendid choruses

spread

splendid song

white sonatas

white nights

red symphonies

red field of stars

yellow fields of daffodils

cornets in golden blaze

comets in blue-white flame

night

without sound

light

without white

red sun rising

in the east.

Neil Ellman

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Blue, Orange, Red

(after the painting by Mark Rothko)

Discontinuity

played out

at the confluence

of here and then

blue orange

clash

in splayed symmetry

the indifference

of red

speaks

limitless now.

Neil Ellman

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Biographical Note: Oonah V Joslin

Oonah V Joslin was born in Ballymena and

now lives in Northumberland from where

she edits the e-zine Every Day Poets. Oonah

has won three MicroHorror prizes and has

judged both poetry and nmicrofiction

competitions.

You can find out more at:

http://www.oovj.wordpress.com

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Train of Thought

(for Emily Davison’s Centenary -- she is buried in the churchyard in Morpeth where I live.)

That’s me away. I can’t stay here longer. I must stay on track.

Even my sister suffragists don’t always agree with what I do of necessity. I stand

with them but sometimes feel alone. I have a voice that apologises to nobody.

Some see me as an oddity; uttering the cryptic ramblings of a lunatic woman. But

I speak plain. I’m not hiding. I’m in residence. Not playing out their Act of Cat

and Mouse.

My voice speaks eloquently even as my body suffers indignity. I don’t repent. I

won’t relent. I’ll never be silent. They restrain me but they shan’t tame me. On

this great truth I rest, "Rebellion against tyrants is obedience to God."

I cannot conform. I must confront. This is my course and destiny. That’s me

away.

Oonah V Joslin

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A Way of Looking

Vindauga they called you Wind eye

Eagbryl -- Eye-hole.

Words from languages no longer spoken.

Fenestration not only admitting light and air

invites the eye to wander here and there

wonder at nature’s visions

ponder on acts of saints

choose goods in gaudy display

windows breached the barriers

of today

skins, paper, lead, horn, glass, photons;

every innovation is a window

inside, outside

no longer translates

dark and light

the way it used to be

these words could not exist

in a world without

windows.

Oonah V Joslin

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In an English Comfort zone

I shall be bold and have a cup of tea

with milk I think -- indeed with milk -- I think.

Or maybe not. Perhaps I’ll have Earl Grey,

Lapsang soo Chong or camomile or chai.

Spiced chai no -- not spiced, with a slice of lime.

Moroccan mint with just a hint of clove?

I think I’ll maybe have a scone by Jove.

That would go down well with an English blend

and jam and clotted cream and milk of course.

I think I might invite a friend along.

A slice of cake might be just the thing to

sweeten an otherwise bland afternoon.

I shall be bold and make a pot of tea.

I’ll make believe that I am not alone.

Oonah V Joslin

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Untitled (Experimental)

Of trees sing I / out of the swing

of bleeding branch / breeze sighs reply

I hymn swinging / a scythe of tide

Low notes bellow / in undertow

Fish forth on shore / death of all toil

In roiling tide / heaven’s platter

On brook side bed / head dashed on stone

Of splintered wood / flesh stripped to bone

I sing I feast / I killed the beast

Of trees I sing / to fire and moon

Oonah V Joslin

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Evidence

5th May 2013 we went to Belsay.

I see by the receipt.

The girl at the desk was called Vic.

I see by the receipt.

The receipt is enlightening

Unlike the red pen top -- the ink was black

black like the bruise

on the strawberry

I had to throw away

black like the feathers

on the little bird

dead by the decking

that made me shudder

as I put on rubber gloves

and binned it.

The sun is shining.

I don’t remember what it was like

on the fifth of May

whether it was glorious.

The dead bird had not hatched then,

the strawberry still on the stem

ink flowed.

I hesitate

now reluctant to let go

the only evidence

I was there.

Oonah V Joslin

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Biographical Note: Aisling Keogh

Aisling Keogh is a psychotherapist and a stay at home mother to three

young children. She is relatively new to writing, and has had short stories

published with the Irish Independent, Crannog Magazine and Wordlegs.

Her first short story, "How to Save a Life" was shortlisted for the Hennessy

Irish Literary Awards 2011. In her free time Aisling likes to write and sing.

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ETHEREAL

I lie with my eyes closed, wishing for sleep. The morphine they've given me has

taken away the pain, but it has done nothing for the interminable itch underneath

the dressings on my wounds. I see elephants, and a tangerine sunset, and women

in red and gold sari's sweeping past me on bicycles. And I see white walls,

polished linoleum and masked up strangers waiting to tend to me. And I don't

know if any of it is, or ever was, real.

I see my grandmother sitting in her fireside chair in the old house, and I am three

years old again, walking towards the fire burning in the hearth with my hands

outstretched, wanting to touch the flames. As a child I read about the great fires

of London, New York, Toronto and Vancouver, enthralled by their power to

transform and destroy. At eight years old I wanted to know all there was to know

about spontaneous human combustion; it was my holy grail.

The morphine makes it difficult to recall, but I remember unpacking the car and

dragging the kit to a clearing in the woods - our special place.

Thirty years ago I lost a bet to my college room mate; a stupid, juvenile wager

about how much alcohol I could drink. My forfeit was that I must join the

university’s hill-walking club. On the day of my first hike I was improperly

dressed in jeans, runners and a light raincoat. My hangover was such that I was

fighting the urge to vomit. A tall red-haired stranger, with woolly socks and

waterproofs, fell in to step beside me and laughed when he saw my grey-green

pallor. He poured tea from a yellow thermos and shared it with me when the

group picnicked in the clearing. He teased me about my delicate state and had

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the unusual effect of making me laugh at myself.

I had no idea where he was gone. John left no note that morning, but I was sure

he would be here. I gathered wood, made a campfire, and waited for him to

arrive.

A tightness across my chest made my breathing shallow; in the raw November air

it made a satisfying rasping sound to accompany the snap of the leaves and twigs

underfoot. Frozen, and breathless with expectation, I lit the fire, and while I did I

allowed my mind to wander back to a street in India, where I thought I had found

what I was seeking.

It was September of nineteen eighty seven; John and I were travelling through the

state of Rajasthan in Western India when we happened upon a gathering of

thousands, in a relatively small village whose name I can no longer recall.

It was a strange thing, some of the crowd were singing and chanting, while others

were wailing – tears flowed freely down their cheeks. The atmosphere was tense,

negatively charged. The crowd was apprehensive and uneasy.

And then I saw her. A woman on fire. Her arms were raised, swaying in the air.

Her shape was silhouetted against the flames that danced a circle around her -

together they contrived to make an improbable ballet.

On my eighth birthday, Grandmother threw a party. I still bear the scars along my

hairline. I remember being overwhelmed by the urge to touch eight tiny flames,

and leaned so close that my hair caught fire when I stretched to blow out the

candles on my cake.

The smell of burning hair is as pungent as it is unmistakable; its stench pervades

the memory of my eighth birthday, and of the burning woman in India.

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The crowd shrieked at the apparent horror of the spectacle, but the burning

woman herself was silent. Years later, I learned that when burning flesh has

melted through to bone, all of the nerve endings that sense pain are destroyed. By

the time I saw her, the woman could no longer feel, she was no longer in her

physical body. She was a ball of fire, a sun – beyond pain. Consumed by flames

and silence - I watched her, twirling, then writhing, then still.

I have always loved the unpredictability of fire, how it can ignite, take over, and

destroy within seconds. Part of my fascination with spontaneous human

combustion was that all of this power comes from inside a person; it is their own

biochemical reactions that create a charge powerful enough to destroy them.

To me, this woman was a vision of power, a superhero. Omnipotent in a way I

dreamed of being.

We returned to our hostel, and while John slept that night, I lay awake and

replayed the scene over and over in my mind, euphoric and terrified in equal

measure.

I hear footsteps on linoleum, and hushed voices talking about the possibility of

infection.

The masked strangers loosen my dressings and peer at my wounds, agree it’s a

waiting game, and shuffle off, leaving me alone again.

Alone, except for my grandmother who cautions me to stay away from the fire.

“No, Jilly, too close,” she wags her finger at my three year old self, and smiles,

and I smile back at her through the morphine and the itch and the noise of the

white coats and their polished shoes.

In November, dusk creeps in early. I watched the sky change and admired the

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pink and red and gold of the evening in all its lustre. Seated on a fold up stool

beside the fire, I listened to the crackle of burning wood, wrapped my arms

around my knees, and rocked myself backward and forward.

I went to the wood because I wanted to see John. I was sure he would be there,

he always came when I needed him. He would touch me, hold my hand, stroke

my face, mumble promises. With him my boiling blood cooled. I was soothed by

his presence – he could make the rest of the world disappear.

But I tired of waiting, and glowered at the flames, and for the briefest of moments

I saw John’s face, flushed red and orange in dancing firelight. My mind filled with

muttering people, dressed in black and shaking my hand, and I struggled to recall

another fire, John's funeral pyre.

I searched out my phone, and scrolled down as far as John’s name and pressed

the “call” button. I waited for it to ring, but it didn’t. Instead a stranger’s voice told

me that the number was not in service. That my love has already burned.

And so I keened my loss all over again. I mourned as I will do tomorrow and the

day after, when lucid moments make it possible to see the shattered pieces of my

life in their entirety.

A man with a kind smile, and a suit and shiny shoes, spoke to John and I in a

language I did not understand. The word sounded foreign to me; Alzheimer’s.

More men in suits, some brisk and business like, some kind. Tablets that didn’t

work and more tablets that did. Eventually the haze receded long enough for me

to understand that old age had come early for me.

Not only do I hate the disease, I hate the loneliness. Other diseases have a well

worn and predictable path. A cancer diagnosis comes with oncology

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appointments, a treatment plan. Chemotherapy. Hope.

However futile, I would have preferred the dream of a cure.

I hate my health visitor, with her cardigans, her nun-ish shoes, and her

preoccupation with when I last washed, and what I have or have not eaten today.

I hate that, one day, she and my daughter will have to agree I can no longer care

for myself. I hate knowing that day is not far away.

I can still remember the way Grandmother’s face creased when she smiled, and

the ethereal woman on the street in India, and the way John’s thick auburn curls

arranged themselves on the pillow when he slept beside me. These are the things

I know, and they are not enough.

I am an unreliable witness to my own life.

Like the morphine, this disease offers only the briefest moments of clarity when,

through the smallest of windows, I can see it from the outside, looking in.

I see a Grandmother, her daughter, and her granddaughter sitting beside the fire.

Its mantel is decorated with tinsel and holly; the twinkling lights on the Christmas

tree and the flames in the hearth bathe the scene in a warm light. I watch as my

granddaughter raises her arms and asks to sit on my knee, and I regard her with

absolute indifference, not because I do not love her, but because I am no longer

there. I am somewhere else; a spectre, a mere ghost of my former self.

I tried to calm my self – focus. Think of something else. The sea, sounds from a

rainforest; I could not conjure them.

My mind refused to focus on anything higher than the mundane, and I became

more desperate and frustrated because I could not remember where John said he

was going this morning, or whether or not I had turned off the gas hob? Or if I

29

had taken the yellow tablet today?

The yellow one is supposed to help my memory.

The forest fire roared and I rocked and seethed at the unjust hand life had dealt

me. I spat and hissed like the flames that burned, filled with a resentment of what

has yet to come. Dependence, helplessness, death.

Even the beauty of a silver forest at dusk could not move me beyond my despair.

I gave up on finding comfort, and ceased my rocking. Instead, I sat perfectly still

on the ground and grieved for a version of myself that was not yet dead.

There’s a name for it – for the custom of widows sacrificing themselves on the

funeral pyre of their deceased husbands. The burning woman on the street in

India was a sati. Fire transformed her. By its power she became a deity in the eyes

of her fellow villagers, a goddess to be worshipped and bestowed with gifts.

With my eyes screwed tightly shut, I conjured her, dancing in flames. Pale and

silent, she opened her eyes and smiled – like some sort of beatified saint. Then

she lifted her arms and beckoned me, called me in to her embrace. She

whispered promises, and I believed I too could shine, eternal, like the sun.

I clambered to my feet, and began to search out the petrol can I had thrown in to

the near distance. I unscrewed the cap. With dizzy delight I poured petrol on the

campfire, and watched it roar to life.

Transfixed, I allowed the can to drip the precious liquid on to the ground, my

shoes, my jeans and jacket.

I stood with arms outstretched, and waited for the flames to take me to be with

him.

(Aisling Keogh)

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Biographical Note: Jax Leck

Jax Leck is relatively new to poetry but am not new to

writing, Jax has had one science fantasy book published and

another one the way.

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Three Haiku

Damn you hoodie craws

peck pecking the arse and eyes

of a newborn lamb

Thorn impaled victim

bleeding cries and wrestling limbs

Dying for the shrike

“Good journos listen

and they never interrupt,”

she said, cutting in.

Jax Leck

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Biographical Note: Aine MacAodha

Aine MacAodha is a writer and Photographer from Omagh situated

North of Ireland, her recent works have appeared in, Doghouse

Anthology of Irish haiku titled, Bamboo Dreams, Poethead Blog,

Glasgow Review, Enniscorthy Echo, wordsocialforum, previous

published poems translated into Italian and Turkish, honourable

mention in Diogen pro culture winter Haiku contest,

thefirscut issues #6 and #7, Outburst

magazine,celticburialrites.blogspot.co.uk

A New Ulster issues 2 and 4, Pirene’s Fountain Japanese Short

Form Issue, Peony Moon, DIOGEN pro culture magazine world

poetry day, Poetry broadcast on 'Words on Top' radio show. She

has published two volumes of poetry, 'Where the Three rivers Meet'

and Guth An Anam (Voice of the soul).

Her photographic work has also appeared

in,http://lightonthepage.com/ , wordsocialforum,

http://www.thewildgeesegenealogy.blogspot.ie/2012/05/making-art-

by-ulsters-sperrins-q-with.html ~

.

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Companions

The fuchsia haze of this June evening

descends on the tree tops causing a

heavy mist to form and cool the trees

heated bowels.

Time means nothing when you face

a natural scene like this. Far from the

noise of the town the creatures go about

their business before nightfall.

The strawberry moon peeps from behind cloud

every so often shows off its clear beauty.

It' not so far away these days

sure Mars is the next big thing.

Its my companion this moon, my muse

on lonely evenings and like a dog the moon

is earths companion following it all year long.

It has seen some changes to mother earth over the ages

Aine MacAodha

34

Flashbacks

In a half sleep half awake state

the edges are often blurred

you filter the tail end of something.

A wild animal long extinct

prowls through my thoughts

tearing apart the curtain of the past

memories of spousal abuse suddenly

evaporate before me in my minds eye

that thundering voice, clenched fist

less frightening now, cleansed away

by this animal, my totem animal

who reveals before me beauty without

fear. Streams rise serenely from clay

displaying around it a glorious meadow

for the lamb to play.

My thoughts come fully awake

gone are the bad memories, I tread softly now

like a new born lamb counting my blessings

counting the sound of my heartbeat as

morning emerges.

Aine MacAodha

35

Keepers

Nature collects things

is a hoarder of future finds.

stones on the riverbed

that memorize climate changes

on natures universal calendar

A simple hedgerow in Ireland

layered in various thorn

often reveal ancient things

beneath and around its presence

to a casual walker, a pile of

old stone from a wall badly erected

to others its natures way of

giving birth again to past ways.

often we forget in the moment

our lives so busy.

Nature collects things

even the wind whispers secrets

blown through the centuries

caught in the opened mind

of the one learning to listen.

Aine MacAodha

36

Biographical Note: Emma McKervey

Emma McKervey has been penning poetry since the age of six,

and there remains in her familial carriage house a box worth of

writings - although allegedly this supposed sixth form angst shall

best be bound deep in darkness.

She serves as a cellist and has worked within the forum of

community arts for a number of years.

Her writing has begun to re-emerge recently as time tarrying at

home with children has over taken time out playing music and

working. She savours both the denomination and domesticity of

Leonita Flynn and the myth making and delectable darkness of

Robin Robertson.

37

Each-Uisge

The blackness of his hair startled her

Midst the silver-sages and soft greys of the shores edge-

A liminal border, shifting with un-sieved sand

And fizzing waves of moon’s breath,

His body hard and fixed against such muted intransience

The yielding tangle of seaweed seemed misplaced

Through the gleaming mane and so she took no note.

Instead she advanced, shocked by his nakedness

Yet forced on by the shame that would be felt

In turning away; He watched, moving only

To settle his stance more firmly in the surf

Reaching out to her just as her eyes widened

With sting of freezing submergence on unshoed feet

He did not take her hand but instead her

Waist, and they fell back into the rise of tide

Her skirts were raised and pushed aside by foaming swell

His body beneath her sudden thighs, the vacuum

Of retreating wave sucking her body unto his

And she was fastened, unable to detach

From the spreading blackness, as between spray and

Froth and scream the man changed to rearing horse

And bore down on her to feast

Even while he kicked for greater depths,

Descending beneath a surface now sullied with blood.

Later as they searched for the unreturned girl no notice was taken

Of the moist shimmering heap surrounded

By squabbling gulls, assumed to be a jellyfish

If commented on; unusual though

In its liverish hue.

Emma McKervey

38

Hungover

7am on a Thursday morning

A school run morning

A lunch box packing and uniform sorting

Breakfast making and homework signing morning

But I’m hungover.

The little tricks-500mls of orange juice

An iced coffee with extra sugar

Can’t disguise that I should not be moving

Fast, quick and organised

It is not a morning when I should be

Groping down the side of a single bed

Nose buried in a musty teddy bear

Whose fur is dreaded by

Love and night time salivations

To find carelessly cared for glasses

Or to discover the white wash is

Not yet dry and so summer dresses

Cannot be worn.

To locate glue (that’s the wrong sort Mummy)

Needed to fix a loose sheet

Into a Maths work book

But I do it.

I stand in the shower

Calmly responding that the cuff buttons

Will be fastened when I am dry

Through the locked door

39

My voice only tremulous and rising

On the fifth repeat.

I still attempt to wash the face

Of my perpetually grubby son

Removing smudges that will reappear

Within moments, somehow.

And I find the black pen, the red folder,

The blue hair elastic

And the orange scissors because they are the sharpest

Zip up coats, adjust Velcroed shoes

Plug them in seat belt safe

Kiss goodbye and wave from the window

Which needs cleaning.

Emma McKervey

40

Seagulls

The school run is never a source

Of inspiration and rarely encourages

Philosophising- the walk to the station

Through carefully laminated suburbia,

Hedges trimmed by set square

Plum line straight

Results merely in resignation and a

Kind of emotional lethargy,

My bewilderment finally having passed

At being someone’s Mum

In a three bedroomed semi.

Almost forgotten are dreams of

Seedy garrets in Berlin and

The intrigue, art and underground Cabaret

But such memories of desire when resurfaced

Do not feel maudlin; only young.

It comes a surprise then, when

A pair of seagulls make me smile

Perched on the apex of a roof

Imperious and haughty, duplicated

In stance and timbre of pose, gazing

Into the middle distance.

And I laughed because when I saw

Them I thought of Gilbert

And George, it seemed to recall

A poster I had once seen of them

Perhaps on the South Bank

41

Advertising a show.

But as I moved on

Towards the train I thought

‘Is that what Art is then,

Can it be found strutting

The tiles in any seaside town?’

And maybe that’s where it has

Been all along,

Residing in the ordinary.

Emma McKervey

42

Biographical Note: Sue Morgan

Sue Morgan lives in Northern Ireland with her husband and

teenage sons. She writes in an attempt to stop the dust from

settling, recent work can be found at the Southword Literary

Journal, Crannog Magazine, The New Poet, Poetry 24, Abridged

and elsewhere. Sue recently won the 2013 Venture Award.

43

Down the Rabbit Hole

(after Dali)

Somewhere amid intangible synaptic gaps

there hops a poem about a rabbit,

bouncing between commonplace realities

it ricochets fully formed.

To find the essence of this poem

it is necessary to dive

headlong into the rabbit’s hole,

take the shaman’s journey

to corners of the subconscious mind,

interrogate the clay, fire, water

and the blessed verbs of Creation.

To coax it home,

eager hands must reach

confidently into that lacuna,

bearing small kibbles of faith, on an trusting palm.

****

The Mantis that does not pray, slows down time

until he stops - still on the page.

44

He does not raise his body,

nor does he lift his hands in supplication,

that barefoot monks might hear his pleas.

No, he skates on the smudge of silence.

And waits.

But, the un-bounded rabbit launches

like the Miraj unicorn,

with blooded eyes and teeth

that have tasted King Richard’s flesh.

A fizz of fireworks around his form,

Seville orange, a flamenco about his ears;

whilst Alice skips on the edge,

shadow-captured,

drawn deep into the devil’s pit.

The earth is but the frozen echo of the silent voice of God

And the wolf winds blow,

fire ignites, the earth swallows

and one drop of the ocean contains the universe.

****

45

I am Alice

and I dance in the dark.

An impish lover cavorts,

mere primal shadow to my movement

Lord of the Dance on molten flame

from a cornered abyss

slave to my burning –

my half-moon breasts call to him in the night

beacons on the edge of madness

a siren to the tumultuous blaze

I wear my hair like unfettered rope

to bind him to my sails

I come a-hunting,

the sun erupts in vain

and painted, we will dance in dark places.

Sue Morgan

46

Biographical Note: Máire Morrissey-Cummins

Máire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived abroad for

many years, working in Holland mainly and Máire lives between

Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature

and is a published haiku writer.

Máire retired early from the Financial Sector and

found art and poetry. She is really enjoying the experience of getting

lost in words and paint.

47

The Attic Chest

Winter winds the darkness

into an attic chest,

her cold bosom wrinkles

like a wind-blown river.

Wet snow sparkles

from tiny crevices,

trickles gently

like a mountain stream.

Autumn leaves coil

like a dancers ringlets

they twist and spin

like blossoms of Spring

and angel feathers

that float on the breeze.

I grasp the last one on the wind.

Máire Morrissey-Cummins

48

Slices of Summer

(A poem without verbs)

Dark canopies of sycamore

above wide grassy lawns,

along a gravel path,

down cement steps

to a country cafe.

Beneath vaulted ceilings

of broad triangles,

rotund pine tables

beside open sash windows.

Spent carnations

in earthenware vases,

strong tea, white cups,

hot apple tart and cream.

A crack in a jug

on the wooden surface,

milky circles on my sleeve.

Sunlight cups a silver spoon,

slices of life in a knife

49

twisted faces in steel teapots.

In the garden

pine and copper beech

brush a vast day.

Swallows loop steep verdant slopes

on a wing of cloud.

Cherry blossom branches

through an old lilac,

family roots of trees

in soft leafy beds.

The rush of rusty waters

over moss green rocks.

Birdsong from my fingers

music on my page.

in ripe August sunshine.

Máire Morrissey-Cummins

50

Folding Memories

A perfect square, it pleats in four

then folds in two, forms a triangle

to insert into a suit pocket.

Silk,

smooth as the surface of a wave washed pebble

sleek as the first primroses of spring,

cool as the embrace of a summer breeze,

I place it under my pillow

in memory of you.

Máire Morrissey-Cummins

51

Her Rosary Beads

In the week that my father died

I went to church with my mother

to partake in her daily rituals,

be closer to her.

She still sat in the same pew,

one we filled as a family years ago.

She placed her leather bound missal

on the slot in front of her,

smiling photos slid from pages,

bookmarks for her favourite psalms.

Her string of rosary

knotted her fingers,

she caressed each bead in prayer.

Soothed by her lisping whispers

and the click of glass on wood,

I watched her pray.

Her eyes closed

face raised in adoration

to some uncharted world beyond.

Tears lined her powdered cheeks,

her credence in the mysteries

moved me, became tangible

in our shared grief.

Intertwined by an invisible string,

the links on her rosary

became a connection to an afterlife,

a place I could not accept before.

My mother, closer now,

the thread of life, so strong.

My father’s death,

still trying to unite us

from beyond.

Máire Morrissey-Cummins

52

Biographical Note: Chris Murray

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

published in Ropes Magazine, Crannóg Magazine, The Burning Bush Online Revival Meeting (Issue 1), Carty’s Poetry Journal, Caper Literary Journal , CanCan The Southword Journal (MLC) and

the Diversity Blog (PIWWC; PEN International Women Writer’s

Committee). Her poem for three voices, Lament, was performed at the

Béal festival in 2012. She has reviewed poetry for Post (Mater dei

Institute),Poetry Ireland and Writing.ie. Chris writes a poetry blog

called Poethead which is dedicated to the writing, editing and

translation of women writers. She is a member of the International

PEN Women Writer’s Committee, and the Social Media coordinator

and Web-developer for Irish PEN.

53

hooks

a hook for an eye

this ribbon for a slip

there’s a pigeon in the pot

and tree makes the room

your foot on the boards

your head in the sky

no mind if your stockings snag

are splinter-caught

the red thread

frayed or snag

walk now on swollen feet

on feet that are bound-in

with red and orange

with stocking threads

these can be mended

these can be made whole again

you wouldn’t even

notice the tear

we are so good

at what we do

54

neat and tight

no pain no gain

for the ragged flower

hooks

gauze dries into the stitched wound

where the tender-care of hands tug

to redress to change to douse stitches

with a brown liquid stuff

it dyes the skin a type of clinical colour

but with so tender a care -

the split wound of vaginal mutilation

is less easy to care for

no gauze can be safe at depth of

and thus submersion-in salt baths

whilst the jagged edges gather to

as mended sails, as canvas-stuff

as linen-stuff

you can tell at a distance that

a woman has a scar that snakes up

by the cast of her foot

the heel-down look

those stitches are insoluble

hold-to

the birth passage

for the next opening

55

hooks

the feather-hook is a seed spiralling in the breeze,

a false signal

it mocks the mayhem of the caught moth down to

its nub stone

its plane is a shell network of dried skin, veined even

- it has a spine of sorts

it mocks the mayhem of the caught moth down to

its nub stone

Chris Murray

56

Biographical Note: John Michael Taylor

John Michael Taylor was born in Belfast and has studied in Aberdeen

University and University College Dublin, doing a Creative Writing

course.

57

Belfast South

The clouds splotch like after a bad Chinese burn

And bruise into the afternoon –

Wedged cars hunker as the neighbours trees

Darken and take one lasting breath.

This is the world of hedge lines, clotheslines

And patio weeds teetering on the brink.

Drummer rain helter-skelters down the pipes;

Racketing handfuls thud the outdoor tables.

Nevertheless, tour buses make one more loop.

Now that knowledge is for everyone let’s sit

In Botanic and be human for a while

And watch the grey Quarter’s sky teeming.

I’ll explain what I’m after:

I want a patterned account of restlessness,

Of our slow morality and my damp affinities,

Of these wet spirals facing the pavement skating rinks,

Sodden, thawed out, ready to make a dash for it,

For it’s only when the sun works and the streets’

Bright flanks crystallize do we turn, and I, being me,

Catch on and believe we really do have the potential.

John Michael Taylor

58

Contact Point

No such thing as romance

In the dole queues

Just air-conditioning, JSA forms,

Whispered swears and rallying calls,

Seek jobs and ye shall find.

Imagination suffers

Yet the dozy office girl

Could grow a wing

If she wasn’t so pregnant.

We come keen each fortnight

To be squashed clean

By a mighty blue biro slash.

A ticking-over room God bleeps out commands:

Number forty three to desk seventeen, please

John Michael Taylor

59

Easter Monday

Wind buffed, drizzled, the car

Would curve the high right

Hand of the north, the white

Dashed lines receding far

Beyond memory and horizon.

Wild meandering creatures

Supping the spray on Tor Head

To White Park Bay, Cushendall,

Ballycastle, we stopped, read

And heard the raised call

Of an unrelenting coast;

And before evening drew in

We’d name mountains, skim

Stones and perfect the art

Of filtering states, weather, dim

Car journey’s home: Life

Renewed in acts over the chords

Of a faithless chopped sea.

I do know your deeds, Lord,

But take lead and run for the coast.

John Michael Taylor

60

If you fancy

submitting

something but

haven’t done so

yet, or if you

would like to

send us some

further examples

of your work,

here are our

submission guidelines:

SUBMISSIONS

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

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

Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format.

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

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

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

opposed to originals.

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

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

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

contributor/parent or guardian here). Letters, reviews and other communications such as Tweets will be published

in “Round the Back”. Please note that submissions may be edited. All copyright remains with the original

author/artist, and no infringement is intended.

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

our time working on getting each new edition out!

61

July’s 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

The Alleycats are on holiday this month so Amos has taken

over the duties of sitting on the wall and knocking over bins Ahem. Is

that human out now? Good. Stop letting him back in: his feet are

muddy!

This month see’s not one but two pieces of prose. One is a

traditional short story and the other is a fairytale by Barbara Gabriella

Renzi. We enjoyed them greatly, as did our special guest editor,

Misericord, who very kindly helped to organise some of the bios.

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”.

62

Biographical Note: Máire Morrissey-Cummins

Máire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived

abroad for many years, and bides between Wicklow,

Ireland and Trier, Germany at present. She loves nature

and is a published haiku writer.

Máire retired early from the Financial Sector and

found art and poetry. She is really relishing the

experience of getting lost in literature and paint.

63

Butterflies Spring Dress by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Dawn Light by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

64

June Sunrise by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Light guides by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

65

Lone Rose by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

66

Biographical Note: Barbara Gabriella Renzi

Barbara Gabriella Renzi is a philosopher and a linguist. She has

published articles in peer-reviewed publications and

monographs in English and in Italian.

She is also a published poet in Italy. She relishes reading short

stories and painting pictures of the Belfast sky.

67

Once upon a time a widowed prince had a daughter, called Cinderella. She

was not particularly beautiful or intelligent; however, she was just as lovely as

every other child born on Earth. She liked drawing and singing and running in

the fields. After some time her father decided to marry the governess of his

house. The governess had three daughters, and she preferred them to

Cinderella. After the governess started living with her father, Cinderella was

forced to spend a lot of time on her own and was often sent into the kitchen to

work as a servant. Her father didn’t care about her so much because she was just

a girl, and he had always wanted a boy! Even though the governess had three

daughters of her own, Cinderella was the only one who had to work hard every

day.

Then one day a fairy who was fed up with all this abuse, gave Cinderella a

magical golden bucket. When the King threw a ball, Cinderella decided to use

the magic bucket so she could go to the ball too. The bucket gave her a lovely

dress and a horse to reach the King’s castle. The King fell in love with her.

Cinderella felt in love as well, because for the first time in her life she felt loved.

However, she ran away after the party, because she felt guilty of having used her

magic power. She didn’t want the King to discover her true nature (the fact that

she was working as a servant and she was dirty all the time). However, the King’s

servant had captured one of her slippers. All of the maidens in the land were

invited to a feast for a shoe-test where Cinderella was identified.

At last the King found Cinderella and married her soon after. She had not to

work as a servant anymore and she could eat all the food in the world but what

else could she do? The King was the King and she was his servant, a precious and

graceful servant but still a servant. In her heart she always wondered whether the

King had married her because her tremendous sense of guilt. A woman who

carries such guilt can be a great servant after all. They had one beautiful daughter

and that daughter also had a beautiful daughter. They were both lucky as they

married kings too and therefore they were classed as high status servants. Then

one of her great-great-great granddaughters decided that she was fed up of being

nothing other than a high status servant - and so she became a secretary!

Centuries had passed and from far away in another fairytale land, Cinderella was

looking at her descendents. She was hoping that this great-great-great

granddaughter of hers was free and finally happy. She was having a lovely life and

68

she decided to have a child. She has this lovely child, but nursery was much too

expensive and she couldn’t go to work for years. When her child went to school

she looked for a part-time job, she wanted to work as a secretary again. She was a

wonderful secretary after all!

However, she had been out of the job market for too long and she was not getting

any interviews. The only job she found was in a castle, as a servant of a rich

woman; who appeared to be grumpy and sad all the time, complaining that she

was rich but she could not do many things. She was the wife of the owner of the

castle but not the owner of the castle.

At that moment she felt she was dreaming, she remembered her mother telling

her the story about Cinderella, her great-great-great grandmother and she

wondered whether things had ever changed!

Barbara Gabriella Renzi

69

It has been quite a busy month so far with the release of the next issue of

Four X Four, the launch of Tender Journal a magazine run by women for women

and the launch of Papergirl Belfast’s exhibit. Four X Four features the work of

Gerry McCullough, Sandra Johnston, Kenneth Bush and Natalie Smyth. Steered

by the steady hand of Colin Dardis Four X Four continues from strength to

strength here’s the link; http://issuu.com/fourxfour/docs/fourxfour5pdf

Tender Journal is a new venture a quarterly journal designed to feature the

work of female identified artists be it poetry, art, photography similar in some

ways to A New Ulster. The website can be visited here for more details;

http://www.tenderjournal.co.uk/abouttender also the first issue can be read online

here; http://www.tenderjournal.co.uk/

Papergirl is a non-commercial initiative that brings art to the streets in an

alternative and dynamic way. Drawings, paintings, photographs, illustrations,

prints, textiles, poems, prose and zines will be showcased in an uncurated

exhibition at PS2. The gallery exhibit ends on Friday after which time the

contents will be handed out randomly to passersby. One of my pieces was

included in the exhibit.

70

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