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

Featuring the works of Peter O’Neill, Changming Yuang, Oonah V Joslin, Neil Ellman, John Jack Byrne, A. J. Scott and Maeve Heneghan. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

September 2014

Issue No 24

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A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig On the Wall Editor: Arizahn Website Editor: Adam Rudden

Contents Cover Image “Dusk” by Amos Greig Editorial page 6 Peter O’Neill; Babel page 8 Portrait of Francis Bacon Standing in Soho page 9 The Urinal page 10 ShadowvBoxing page 11 The Ride of the Valkyrie page 12 Changming Yuang; [valueless: the myth of fair price] page 14 wing variations page 15 Cock-a-doodle-doo page 16 Truth page 17 Circle: A geometric poem page 18 Oonah V Joslin; 60 Years young pages 20-21 Improvisation page 22 Liaison at Dusk page 23

Neil Ellman; Dog Barking at the moon page 25 Beyond When the Golden Portal Can Come page 26 The Imminence of Things That Never Happened page 27 Foxhole page 28 John Jack Byrne; Loved One page 30 DEMENTIA page 31 Tanka pages 32-33

A. J. Scott; Old habits die hard page 35 Maeve Heneghan: Expectations page 37

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On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 39 John (Jack) Byrne; John’s work can be found pages 41-43

Round the Back

P.W. Bridgeman review page 45

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Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor

A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL

Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com 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 “Beauty ensnared” by Amos Greig

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“We are what we repeatedly do. Exellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” Aristotle.

Editorial

A New Ulster is now two there has never been a moment

during this shared experience where I thought Why? Why am I

doing this? The answer is still the same I love poetry, prose and the

arts in general I know how difficult it can be to get your work out

there to be accepted and understood. We are a platform through

which talented people, up and coming fresh talent and seasoned

veterans can have a voice.

The world has gone through some interesting and terrifying

changes since we began this journey in issue three we talked briefly

about the ceasefire in Gaza and the work being carried out by artists

from both sides and now peace seems so tantalizingly far away.

Aristotle famously said “The aim of art is to represent not the outward

appearance of things, but their inward significance” That is why poetry

is still so powerful even after all these years..

It has been a difficult time with the anniversary of Heaneys

death and also the recent passing of Desmond O’Grady an Irish poet

who I had the honour of knowing and for whose book of poetry I

provided the cover art. So we remember the passing of great men

while celebrating the ongoing publication of A New Ulster..

I hope you get as much enjoyment reading these pieces they speak highly of the artists who submitted to this issue and to paraphrase Arthur Rimbaud they show the artist as God. Their brush strokes, words give life to a world we can barely interpret however through their eyes for a brief moment we can walk different lands.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Babel (Peter O’Neill) Lines written after 11/9/2001 If words could cut through you like blades They’d let the ripper loose through your heart And there he would carve out the devil’s fiend, The one who can separate the cheetah from its spots, Till every second would become an hour of labour And your own mother’s birth pains would utterly consume you. These thoughts fall like ash after the blizzard of the unthinkable, Where the wailing of sirens fills the air And body parts appear underneath every upturned stone. What planted the raven in Poe’s mind, To take the sirloin or the butcher’s outstretched palm? You who once channelled free love in an aural assault, Young women and men know now your future, The BOOM that you will next hear Will not issue from a speaker.

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Portrait of Francis Bacon Standing in Soho (Peter O’Neill) There he is the animal/man, Standing with all the nervous energy Of a dog under the shadows of the carrion birds On a street corner in Soho. There he is, the painter as witness. Remember him? It is he who poured forth all of the liquid madness Back into the arena; Couples coupling with all the violence of Pompei. Or, solitary figures painted with that sudden shock Of awareness at the fundamental danger of their position, And going about doing everyday things as they do­ Such as shitting, shaving, puking or simply masturbating. But always going back to the body, For somewhere here there is a spirit, Under the skin.

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The Urinal (Peter O’Neill) Laughter is the sauce simmering in the God box, Once in a ring with the beast without a referee. Which is the trick perhaps behind every Mona’s smile, Where imprinted upon her lips are a mixture of quiet Assurance brimming over with the effervescence Of a rich collapse, all to be contemplated following The relief of boredom, when the price of ordinary things Escalates like one of Duchamp’s Readymades. One of which springs to mind, and could be humanities’ Crest, and whose motto is: Don’t become an asshole!

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Shadow Boxing (Peter O’Neill) The images of us like this No foreign eye should witness. Hands in the dark reaching out, beyond touch, Limitless in their heaven. All these secret endeavours of ours, How could we refute this power, The natural magnetism of two forced contenders, Hammer blows to the head, kicking the very shit from the heart? “Man, you mad machine you,” speaks the shadow, “You cannot escape me. You shall be engulfed!” Two blood brothers, Masoch and Sade, This battle will be beautiful, with love in the blood.

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The Ride of the Valkyrie (Peter O’Neill) There is an invisible thread in every man Connecting the anal passage to the virile member, It is called the Serpent’s Tail. With a pen and compass you could circumscribe The life’s trajectory, forming a beginning, a middle and an end. But, this would be merely academic. Or, you could hang onto the scales by the skin of your teeth, Writhing with her on your back, whip in hand, Spurring you on to meet your life to the music.

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[valueless: the myth of fair price] (Changming Yuang) Everything, everybody

Used to And still may

Have a value; only Only each has depreciated

Into a price That keeps fluctuating

violently Against no value

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[wing variations] If every human had a pair of wings (Made of strong mussels and broad feathers Rather than wax like Icarus’) Who wouldn’t jump high or become eager to fly Either towards the setting sun Or against the rising wind? Who wouldn’t migrate afar with sunshine And glide most straight to a warmer spot In the open space? Indeed Who would continue to confine himself Within the thick walls of a small rented room? Who would willingly take a detour Bump into a stranger, or stumble down Along the way? More important Who would remain fixed here At the same corner all her life Like a rotten stump, hopeless Of a new green growth?

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[cock­a­doodle­doo] Born in a year of the rooster You were fated to crow But not so high in the sky Like any other bird flying fast by Rather, you perch low Low on a broken fence (Still reserved for ghosts and spirits) Crowing as aloud as you can To welcome every sun Looming above the dawn Yes, you are vociferous, both because of Your breed, and your personality

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[truth] (Changming Yuang) Is so ever cold and hard As a big chunk of floating ice That each human eye can see Only one tiny surface From a boat or the bank It keeps flowing towards the sea, where It will evaporate to the open sky Of history

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[circle: a geometric poem] (Changming Yuang) Rolling down from primitive mountains Were stones, fruits, berries, trunks, together With other roughly round shapes To lakes, rivers, ponds, and pools where Rain drops make disks as regularly round As the sun, the moon and stars, until The first wheel began to rotate Like our planet – that was More than eighty centuries ago Ever since we have been moving Up and down, faster and faster With all others running Outside our closed curve

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60 YEARS YOUNG (Oonah V Joslin)

birthday cake candle­holders turned upside down so that their flowery tops became petal­skirts

fairy friends

fancy double­holders

a bead for a head,

were crinoline ladies

in blue, white or red

thin waxy candles tall and elegant

in pastel shades danced in elf glades

made to play a part in Lego landscapes

and painted cardboard sets

they lived and fell

in love and burned out in the fiendish imagination of the child

Sister, remember how we used to be?

Always creating our own history.

Illuminated manuscripts made old

with tea; pencil­rubbed pennies, sixpences,

thre’penny bits. Buildings, interiors,

painting and mapping islands of our own.

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Sixty was to wake before sunrise, peek

from my cosy bed toward the north­east

sky streaked with colours of a younger youth;

purled white, baby blues, the sweet blush of peach

delight at dawn; yawn and watch violet,

turquoise, sapphire, silver­wet grey, the day

born. I would give sixty serious thought.

Rain split the clouds and brought my plans to nought;

spilt on the cobbles such colours as fears

are made of. A Lindisfarne lamb looked up

at my window. The Island knows the needs

of the soul I left there for safekeeping.

Today it generates a place to play

at making medieval tiles with clay;

drawing squares and triangles in circles

like the master masons used to do with

giant compasses in a box of sand.

Learning about trade, scribes and Viking raids,

trying my hand at anything; I find

my true self again in every moment;

and at every age; whole. I could be six

or sixteen. I am me. Holy Island’s

best, most sacred birthday gift to my soul.

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Improvisations

(Oonah V Joslin)

birthday cake candle­holders turned upside down so that their flowery tops became petal­skirts fairy friends fancy double­holders a bead for a head, were crinoline ladies in blue, white or red thin waxy candles tall and elegant in pastel shades danced in elf glades made to play a part in Lego landscapes and painted cardboard sets they lived and fell in love and burned out in the fiendish imagination of the child

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Liaison at dusk (Oonah V Joslin) in twilight a snort distinctly pig in nature darkness distorts the garden twigs snap what’s that? a movement faster than you’d think the hedgehog finds cover before you can blink that’s that! in twilight camouflaged by stone and sage all overgrown autumn hedgehog here and gone.

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Dog Barking at the Moon (Neil Ellman)

(after the painting by Joan Miró) The moon pays no attention to a barking dog abandoned on an empty street— too many questions better left unanswered than explained. If it could it would disclose the reason it hides behind the sun describe its orbit around the earth. It would if it could with no more answers than has a barking dog.

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Beyond When the Golden Portal Can Come (Neil Ellman)

(after the aquatint etching by Shaun O’Dell) In its singularity the portal beyond the portal to the other side of when it came it is coming now gone gold in its infancy blue death becoming the future now It can if it chooses but when like a grim messiah the darkness opens its mouth to reveal on its teeth what lies beyond for a second time.

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The imminence of things that never happened (Neil Ellman)

(after the painting by Diego Singh) Trust in the imminence of what never was it will come to pass in a blue flash of light a paladin with phoenix wings the messiah in an azure glow It was prophesied In life’s metronome in wood and stone from the bones of saints who never were to recreate a paradise on earth. Trust in the second coming of the beginning of the end that never happened and never will.

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Foxhole (Neil Ellman) (after the etching from The War by Otto Dix) There are no atheists in the foxholes of this war we pray to any lesser god who might listen we beg, kneel in excrement count our beads like seconds left to live Oh Lord of whatever whoever you are however you chose this hole in the ground for us to dug with our flags is not a place to die.

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Loved One (John Jack Byrne) Did you wave him goodbye with his helmet and gun as he marched off to France to fight the evil Hun Did you read all his words in those letters of his plight from a stinking wet trench on a cold frightened night Could you taste of his fear of what was to come as he tugged at your heart this husband or son When the guns roared loudly could you hear the screams were you trapped in his nightmare instead of your dreams A midst shells and gas when he cried out your name did you curse those responsible all the warmongers to blame When the telegram came with that knock on your door the horror made clear a loved one’s no more Such was his sacrifice on the killing fields of France when he marched off to war it would be your final glance

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DEMENTIA (john Jack Byrne) There are times I try to reach faded memories locked in the back of my mind, hiding what’s lost of me behind a foggy screen Perhaps there is some secret code I could use to access these caverns, to unlock a part of my life where I was once forever happy, and every day a warm and sunny one. I could revisit part of these sought after pages, to a time when the clouds above my head were bright fluffy ones, and the sky that housed them, a deep blue. Where that path I thread always seemed to be totally carefree, the butterflies and bees willingly accompanied me, and the hedgerow’s were a fusion of many colours. Somewhere lost in that brain fog is a young handsome boy with auburn hair, with soft skin and seemingly endless energy, a boy who was impatient to grow up and follow his dreams. In a mirror I look on this old man who can not remember his name, an old face with wrinkles and blotched skin, and a mouth that once passionately kissed many women, can not hold the saliva within.

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Tanka (John Jack Byrne) silent as the owl she carries her love to me this Irish colleen on snow white wings flying to my heart the gliding eagle scent of the tall pines and the golden sunset her beauty follows me to this stranger's land a stroll in her garden among the busy­Lizzy and forget­me­knots she once planted trying to recall their names see how they gather these swallows bringing summer to a close... I ache for your love in this far off land

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walking on the beach and my mind wanders recollecting youthful days the same waves return again and again picking blackberries we move slowly along the hedgerow... her bruises much blacker now

Happy Birthday The written word they say will stay from dreams the phrases come finding homes within” A New Ulster” where truths will not succumb All scribes they come together many poets of the day willing to write their stories humanity on display “A New Ulster” is their window a place to have their say now I have no more left to write just to wish you a Happy Birthday !

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Old habits die hard (A.J. Scott) The guilty pleasure of an evening cigarette; ten to one, autumn. Cold, brisk mid­week air mixed with Burning ‘bacco smoke. The cold spell nips with threat of frost, alerts the senses. Each sensual exhale eases the brisk of night. Calm. The stress of the day burns away, what a shame it comes to this. Old habits die hard. Further pleasure from a late night beer; ten past one, excess. The warmth of the kitchen compliments Lingering ‘bacco smoke. Fridge light consumes the room, coldness trickles out. Just one tin will take the edge off the night. Sleep. The troubles of tomorrow are lost in the bottle, it always comes to this. Old habits die hard. Bed offers pleasure found from no other; twenty past one, release. The quilt offers protection from all but Staling ‘bacco smoke. The battle of the senses creates a restless unease. The futile attempts of past are lost in the night. Gone. Sure, a cigarette serves to calm the nerves, it has come to this. Old habits dies hard.

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Expectations (Maeve Heneghan) The funeral director locks the door, his job done for the day. Spotting us latecomers, in a suitably reverential tone he asks if we would like to pay our respects, it’s no bother at all. In a room to the left, I stare into the face of my own mortality. I expect to recoil. It is a beautiful face, a face belying its age, a face of peace, a face without pain. Her ruby red lipstick and pink painted nails, give me comfort. We offer our thanks, sign the visitor’s book, and walk back out into life.

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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!

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During my stroll by John Jack Byrne

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Cascade by John Jack Byrne

New Love by John Jack Byrne

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My dreams by John Jack Byrne

Birthday by John Jack Byrne

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Unremitting, unapologetic and unmissible: A New Ulster’s Assistant Editor Arizahn reviews the exhilarating risk that is provided in Standing at an Angle to My Age by P.W. Bridgman...

Of P.W. Bridgman’s terse mastery of the short story there is no doubt. The eighteen tales that are observed within this volume are indeed that: observations. Brutal, raw and real, the vivid truth that lights them is almost horrific in its brilliance. There is an air of both Frank O’Connor and Stephen King about them. The near forgotten Gothic brilliance of Sheridan Le Fanu bubbles to mind as realness becomes just a little too familiar to be safe.

This is writing that sneaks up on the reader, leaving them reeling in its wake with just enough sensibility to think hard upon the content. Perhaps the only criticism may be placed upon the knowing quality of the young: there is a little too much omniscience to be sensed in their phrasing. However these are memoirs as opposed to presences; if we allow for this then the suspension of disbelief once again eases. Although in reality, Bridgman grants little ease and that slip back into belief is a dangerous one.

No mercy is spared to the reader and those of a sentimental nature may care to pause before indulging in some of the darker pieces. For example, the poignant dignity of Ceann Dubh Dilis is an utterly delightful but deceptive prelude to the subsequent visceral quality lent by the depravity and violence that is portrayed within De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum and Sir. And with a surprisingly feminist stroke despite the maleness of the narrator, Young Love in the Braeburn Road both stuns and relieves with the neat unspoken justice dealt in its closure. The odd unconfirmed connection between Trading Places and Cutting Words hints at a woman that is ignored at peril.

To conclude: read with caution, but don’t miss out upon reading it.

Standing at an Angle to My Age is written by P.W. Bridgman, and published by Libros Libertad Publishing Ltd.

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LAPWING 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.

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