Featuring the works of Amy Barry, Maire Ryan, Rachel Sutcliffe, Maire Lecrivain, Mari Maxwell, Jax Leck, Oonah V Joslin, Felino A. Soriano, Yasmine Barry and Maire Morrissey-Cummins. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 11 August 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 Sera Csatt Dame Hultha‘s Pond page 8 Oonah V Joslin;

An Observation on Light In the Park 3rd July page 10 Songs of the primary meridian page 11 Notre Dame de Laval Roquecézière 1976 page 12 Maire Lecrivain;

Ode to an Unknown Inca Statue page 14 MacArthur Park in Five Parts pages 15-18 April 29, 1945 page 19 Jax Leck; Midnight on the Ben at summer solstice page 21 Mari Maxwell; Shukran - An Egyptian Thank You page 23 Magdalene Sunrise page 24 Maire Morrissey-Cummins; Autumn Charms page 26 Funeral day page 27 The Edge of Autumn page 28 Maire Ryan; Summer Senses page 30 The Bouquet page 31 Mr Tilsley page 32 The last meal? page 33 Felino A. Soriano Obscure and the notion of visibility page 35 Wondering of the onlooker page 36 Remembering the exact component page 37 Of tracing with an open hand page 38 Friction and the meandering of its warmth page 39

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Rachel Sutcliffe; A Kiss of Thornes page 41

On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 43 Amy Barry and Carmel Williams Amy Barry‘s work can be found pages 45-46 Maire Morrisey-Cummins; Maire‘s work can be found pages 48-50

Round the Back

Young Writers and Artists Section

Yasmine Barry page 53 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 77

Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

To be identified as the authors of their work.

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Editorial

August has come and with it the unpredictable quality of Northern Irish

weather. There are many positive events going on right now that the negativity of

last month seems distant.

The Belfast Feile celebrates its 25th anniversary and has opened in style and

the first weekend of August sees Sunflower fest return. Voica Versa will be

performing on stage. This is an auspicious moment for Belfast and literature we

have our first Poet Laureate Sinead Morrissey and we have seen the work of Martin

Lynch be recognised at a toast in Belfast.

Lapwing Publications will also be celebrating its 25th anniversary this year.

Lapwing‘s initial ethos hasn‘t changed over the years and continues to provide a

service for many poets in Ireland.

Finally A New Ulster turns one next month which is an impressive milestone

we are an indie production which seeks to provide a platform for new and

established artists. There have been some teething issues along the way and we have

made mistakes but importantly we are still here, still providing a service and we

enjoy doing so. Next month promises to be a massive one and we are looking

forward to it. We hope you enjoy the contents of this issue.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Sera Csatt

Sera Csatt is an independent scholar

specialising in pre-Christian esotericism

and mystery cults, Sera has travelled

extensively throughout Britain,

Scandanavia and Ireland. She also enjoys

cookery and equestrianism.

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Dame Hultha's Pond

The path down to the edge Is ever shady: always cool And damp, even on the Driest of days

When the sun blazes And the wind Seems too tired to care - yes

Even then on those days As much as In the grip of winter, There in the dark

The undercurrent pulses Through the dead water Of the little weir

Where Dame Hultha keeps house: Judging each deft spinster Or lazy slattern accordingly

Under Her veil of trees. Sera Csatt

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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 microfiction competitions. You can find out more at http://www.oovj.wordpress.com

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An Observation on Light In the Park 3rd July

It is not the leaves alone that move but rippling like flame, white river-light reflects on bark and canopy playing the breeze at its own game.

A single filament of web between cow parsley and sycamore

catches light and springs and strings the world out to a wonder note beyond our hearing. The trout that plops back

into the water sends up a circle message to the sky. A flotilla of ducks silently swishes chevron photons towards the sun;

Eight minutes; received and understood; life on Earth. Oonah V Joslin

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Songs of the primary meridian

Surrounded by a sea of space and time cut off on what should be this holy island

Amidst city fumes humanity chokes on finance.

Take a flower its colour, scent, its sound

Poppies know how to bloom and blow

high June Sunlight burst through darkening cloud extends to

twilight nights Summer‘s lightness

winter‘s gloom perfect instability

Either side of the equinox I plunge and soar parabolic

Oonah V Joslin

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Notre Dame de Laval Roquecézière 1976 I was twenty-two

still green didn‘t fully recognise the honour accorded.

The service was outdoors in the round I the only ecumenical element

Irish Baptist à la messe. Nervously I pronounced the old familiar, unfamiliar words: Notre Père qui est au ciel…

and they all said Amen then sang Ave;

the rock itself a stimulus to praise a high point

among nature‘s cathedrals. With reverence I joined in the procession to

their Lady of the Aveyron.

Only at this space of time am I taken up like the blink of an eye to that moment when

unaware I stood somewhere

close to the roof of heaven.

Oonah V Joslin

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Biographical Note: Maire Lecrivain

Marie Lecrivain is a writer, photographer, and the

editor of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Cuib Nest Nido, Illumen, Maintanent, A New Ulster, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, San

Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, The Shwibly, and others. Her poetry collection, Love Poems... Yes...

REALLY... Love Poems (© 2013 Sybaritic Press), is available through Amazon.com.

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Ode to an Unknown

Inca Statue Innocuous, at first,

you reveal your secret at second glance; fists clenched,

twin thumbs tell of intent your head, legs,

and torso infused with the purpose of moving up

into the melody of some unknown god‘s call - you are - curiously - alive.

Who were you,

I wonder as I marvel at the beauty of your form, Who were you,

that inspired the unknown artisan to immortalize you in this moment,

the only part of you that moves forward through time.

Marie Lecrivain

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MacArthur Park in Five Parts

Life is a lively process of becoming - General Douglas MacArthur

I.

A pair of swans glide through the water while the mallards cleave to the lake's edge

and ignore the remains of the dead seagull that float by.

An old woman totters under the weight of her 99-cent store haul. A family huddle

over lunch under a brace of palm trees

as a thrift store mendicant summons Armageddon through a bull horn on the corner.

These disparities

are bound together by the bright blue sky.

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II.

A red lily languishes on the ground, velvet petals on the verge

of wilt, stamen in vagina dentata formation as a trail of ants climb

into its crimson shadows. The industrial revolution

goes largely unnoticed.

III.

Near the Red Line Station stands a snake-handler decked in the solar-colored coils

of a boa constrictor. No reed basket, pipes or bazaar, just travelers in transit,

too busy to notice the low tech tribute to Mr. Kipling

and The Karma Man. The serpent raises its head

toward the sun... maybe its dreaming...

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IV.

99 cent store; the 21st century answer to the Middle Eastern Marketplace.

Hope burns in the heart of an emo Jesus candle. Dyphenhydramine

in purple canisters promise seven nights of sleep ease. Even food,

in all its forms... real or Monsanto.

All things can be found here almost –

all things...

No one is smiling.

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V.

I walk back along a cement path strewn with used dime bags and dry grass,

a perfect metaphor for wasted lives and dreams.

The muse within makes fun of me as I compose these lines.

Marie Lecrivain

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April 29, 1945

The Bride wore brown, accessorized with bunker dust. The Groom wore a frown. He knew time was running

out. All men face this choice. The necessities must be observed with a measure of sweetness and cunning, and, he knew it. She knew it as well; she‘d made

her choice - like a Pharaoh's wife - to follow him into the tomb, shape her body to his as the earth weighed down, the taste bitter on her lips - the almond brew - from the wedding toast. How much of his resolve crumbled

in those last hours? How does one change from the King of Genocide to a bridegroom, abruptly humbled as his bloody empire was destroyed? Here‘s the thing:

madness knows no bounds. And, he, with a heart of stone was human, after all, and didn‘t want to die alone.

Marie Lecrivain

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Biographical Note: Jax Leck

Jax Leck is relatively new to poetry but is not new to writing, Jax has had one science fantasy book published and another one the way.

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MIDNIGHT ON THE BEN AT SUMMER SOLSTICE

Coy, lush meadow land with purpled yellow flanks lulling me upwards.

Warmth from the day perfumed and humid sheening my skin

Tonight the moon iridescent and close will be my prize

Against obsidian skies a mirrored pearl

will light my way Over giants footsteps

I haul and scramble damp stone ledges With prayers for deliverance

Lochan an t-Suidhe gives me sanctuary to contemplate the basalt heights

But you are Nibheis the malicious one, the venomous one your snaking path - deceptive and deceitful

You call the Gods of Wind and Snow and the storm carpets and roofs me I am swallowed by the beast

No beacon light points home, no prize, just the price paid for hubris. Chastened and bruised and wiser,

steps heavy with sleep I leave the mountain.

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Biographical Note: Marie Maxwell

Mari Maxwell‘s work has appeared

online and in print publications in the

USA and Ireland. Among them: Flash

Flood Journal June 2013, The Galway

Review & Galway Advertiser, Haiku J,

Boyne Berries, Crannog, Revival,

Postcard Shorts, Coping and Barbie

Bazaar magazines and others. I also

had the pleasure of being chosen to

read my work at the Big Smoke

Writing Factory Flash Fiction Day in

2012. I received second place for

short story in the 2008 Dromineer

Literary Festival.

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Shukran - An Egyptian Thank You

We met in a Galway restaurant.

Strangers.

Yet not.

You spoke of habibi – love – in Egypt,

where you came from.

Then you spoke of the child you‘d have.

One day.

Not now.

Maybe, years from now.

You‘d chosen her name.

Ringing deep with the ancestors,

of 3,000 years ago.

Danah, you'd whispered.

Your soft voice rolling those ancient letters,

lovingly, reverently.

Eyes gleaming with pride.

Life, you explained, as it rumbled forth so that I

too was carried away by your glee,your passion.

For just that moment, centuries of life, living.

I went home with those three new words.

Habibi. Danah and Shukran.

Mari Maxwell

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Magdalene Sunrise

We took our pain sisters and out the window it went. On a November

morning. On the wings of angels. All that cruelty, all that anguish.

Floating on the breeze, free at last into the universe.

I stood watch. Thoughts and feelings swirling with smoke and flame.

Hungry it was. Like the wee ones awaiting morning gruel until mid

day. Irate, as it sought air and brittle bribery. And oh sisters it was

breathtaking. Blue flame and ruby red, roaring like a freight train. The

irons on the garments, left to right, press and lift. The hiss of the water

and homemade starch on the priests‘ collars. The screech of the nuns

berating, the pinch of cheek or pull of hair.

I gazed as it engulfed window sills and shutters. The very ones Sister

Maura guarded from. Her chiselled chin and beady eyes darting ratlike

to catch the misbehavers. It was catching now. Pyre light.

And oh sisters, I felt such joy. The walls coming down. Melting into the

landscape. A shell smouldering, cracking in the afternoon breeze.

Skeletal with each waft of fuel. Sightless eyes hissing with the passing

showers. I had no plans to wake this moment. Mourn this passing.

Instead I danced with flame and fire, embracing the petrol rags closer.

Releasing gutted childhoods. Freedom, sisters of mine, from the ashes.

Razing the dirty deeds down. And in the rubble magpie and robin lifted

into the skies. The rich steady throb of a red breast bursting into song.

Mari Maxwell

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Biographical Note: Maire 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.

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Autumn Charms

Proud apples crisp plump leafy branches, ripening my autumn garden

with round, fleshy fruit.

A hoarse breeze sneezes a cider sweet morning. Innocent as Eve, I pluck an apple.

I trace its firm russet skin,

moist with tender dew. I leave it on the kitchen table to tempt you.

Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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Funeral day

Laid to rest, buried under. Flesh to bone, dust to clay.

I taste the bitterness of loss, touch the salty sadness, feel the numbed torment

gathered all around. Agony of the mind

hammers broken hearts. Voices vibrate suffering, prayers throb the biting air.

Dark shadows bend leaden, gathered all around.

Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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The Edge of Autumn

Rowan berries cluster orange

ripening an August morning. Tart apples crisp knotted branches, fallen fruit softens wasp warm soil.

Blackcurrants burst sweet

bowing boisterous bushes. Spent raspberry canes rust birthing fleshy new shoots prickly with prospect.

The rambling rose laughs

sprinting the garden wall. Thorny veins throb purple under an waning sun.

A cloudy sea races beneath a stirring breeze.

Trees shudder the call to Autumn, their shadows dance the deck.

I stretch, brushing off the creeping dread of darker days

to come.

Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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Biographical Note: Maire Ryan

Maire Ryan McSherry started writing in 2011 and

was embraced into an online writing forum,

Splinter4all. Maire enjoys writing poetry and short

stories, normally derived from personal experiences.

Her favourite place for inspiration is Curracloe

Beach near her home in County Wexford. Maire

works full time in the financial services industry and

is a mum to two boys.

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Summer senses

Limoncello sappy sponge

drenches shell-shape cocoa whirls

Sketching memory shapes.

Cappuccino frothing steam

Soaks crystallized brown sugar

Scenting memory shapes

Titian evening sun

Kindles laughing lovers

Living memory shapes

Maire Ryan

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The Bouquet

The crimson bouquet.

Drenched in sentiment.

Traditional symbol of love and hope.

Clutched in a lover's clasp, it smiles.

Oozing blood petals drape a casket.

Drenched in sentiment.

Traditional symbol of sympathy and regret.

Velvety soft under a widow's foot, it comforts.

Every joy has a matching sorrow.

Drenched in sentiment.

Each rose competes with its tearing thorn.

If beauty be simple, kill me.

Maire Ryan

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Mr Tilsley

The battered tin hid the cloth,

blackened with life's grime,

elbow-greased from the brass plate,

bolted to our ocean-blue door.

It was a tradition like others,

fading into a newfangled reality.

The last char hobbled away,

without a lingering backward glance.

Our library tomes watched me die,

silently and unequivocally alone.

From above, an echo of laughter,

accompanying practising trombone.

Generations coveted the nameplate,

synonymous with societal success.

I the last, wrapped in white linen,

carried by paid bearers to the tomb

‗Here lies Thomas Tilsley, aged eighty-two.

Pre-deceased by Agnes, Paul and James,

Adored wife and sons, lost to life‘s battle.

Thomas, battalion leader in a War,

long since mothballed to folklore.‘

Maire Ryan

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The last meal?

I ponder on mortality, not from illness nor regret

Nor from a blackening depression nor remorse.

The sun shines, kids laugh, boats sail

Masts raised gleefully towards a rising wind.

For three days or more, I am finely tuned

to the smells, sights and sounds that make up an average day.

The description seems ridiculous as if milk dribbling on a cereal

or wax dripping from a vanilla candle should arouse the reader.

I am neither young nor old, but laughter in the streets makes me smile,

Chocolate melting on ice-cream pauses, extending the pleasure of

dipping a spoon.

A glass of merlot is as if served in crystal, not in a cheap glass from a packet of six.

In fear, I hug my children, they watch me oddly from their laptops.

I am not ready to meet the reaper and yet,

Basking in the setting sun, Morricone on the stereo and a steak

gratefully digested,

I thank heaven if it exists for my acknowledgement of the simplicity of

love and life.

Maire Ryan

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Biographical Note: Felino A Soriano

Felino A. Soriano‘s most recent poetry collections

include Pathos|particular invocation (Fowlpox Press,

2013), Extolment in the praising exhalation of jazz (Kind of a

Hurricane Press, 2013), and the collaborative volume with

poet, Heller Levinson and visual artist, Linda Lynch, Hinge

Trio (La Alameda Press, 2012). He publishes the online

endeavors Counterexample Poetics andDifferentia Press.

His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and

connection to various idioms of jazz music. He lives in

California with his wife and family and is the director of

supported living and independent living programs

providing supports to adults with developmental

disabilities. For further information, please

visit www.felinoasoriano.info.

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from Of isolated limning

obscure and the notion of visibility

watched a hand hold a hallucinatory rejection, apparitional in the gray of antediluvian physicality—

focus emaciates lands and divides the

fractioned fixations gauged or guarded by the personal incision effort breathes

around an hour‘s microscopic orientation, jaded or whole-then philosophy against

antagonistic freedoms, the irony of eerie momentums

disjointed as the skeletal desire to abbreviate existence‘s numerous

infatuations

Felino A Soriano

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wondering of the onlooker

long hand-drawn silver extension dimensional, whisper-small illusion philosophy hovers abstract the

concrete rise holding physicality‘s partial predilection, rotating within the ruminating

cycle self involves upon ordering of nuanced thought, numerical cyclic, circling onto the contour returning dynamic mention a

thinking position of waiting rewrites the definitional procrastination, wandering

into thoughts critical intuition and handmade aspiration

Felino A Soriano

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remembering the exact component

hustled momentum, sacred the wing of renewed compositions hum

buzz periodic hybrid

scarcity of sacred understanding this ascent briefly upheld softened virtue satisfied following dusk‘s evaporated

evening

Felino A Soriano

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of tracing with an open hand

glare and gaze a lacquer formulates finish shine of an aggregated dusk, the many becoming pluralized persons, hovering in the fiction of

camaraderie‘s fooling manipulation open requires losing a control to chaos‘ fundamental

freedom allowing an otherness to syncopate, search seer, chime

as the inward clock insists into accurate renditions

and the hand becomes articulate opening to conceal (hiding, though with secretive irony) certain mathematics, the

gale hasn‘t noted worthy trembling in the fixture of the body‘s incorporated languages, breathes

Felino A Soriano

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friction and the meandering of its warmth

core status foundation paradigm sustain correlations and the inward intuitive rhythms interrogated by wind-open ears and the watching

affirmations, relegated affirmation formal though the introduction missed portions of echo‘s cardinal infatuation:

many, the DNA cannot count beyond their syllables‘ tongue and shine of self-infatuation, this humor holds

squatting into hanker of delusion‘s manifest proximity to mirrored innuendos

Felino A Soriano

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Biographical Note: Rachel Sutcliffe Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from an atypical form of lupus for the past 12 years, since her early twenties. Throughout this time writing has been a great form of therapy, it‘s kept her from going insane. She is an active member of a writing group, has her own blog @ http://projectwords11.wordpress.com and has seen many of her pieces published in various anthologies and journals, both in print and online, including; thefirstcut and Every Day Poets plus the haiku journals Shamrock, Lynx, The Heron‘s Nest, A Hundred Gourds and Notes From The Gean.

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A Kiss of Thorns

Pip and Benjy bunny were happily playing hide and seek in the sunny meadow near their warren. It was Benjy‘s first birthday party later that afternoon so Mummy had a lot of secret things to do before everyone arrived. ‗Why don‘t you go and play in the sunshine for a while?‘ she‘d

said to them this morning, so off they had hopped, full of excitement about the party. ‗One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten coming to find you

ready or not!‘ shouted Pip before skipping away in hunt of Benjy. Pip was two years older than her brother so she usually won hide and seek and, sure enough, she could spot Benjy already. ‗Benjy you‘re making it too easy‘! Pip said in frustration! She loved

playing with Benjy but it was even better when all her friends and their younger brothers and sisters joined in too. However, today Benjy and Pip were the only ones out in the meadow because everyone else was

busy getting ready for the party. ‗No Pip,‘ sniffed Benjy as Pip noticed the tears in his eyes, ‗I‘ve hurt my paw, I found a great hiding place and was so excited, thinking this time you wouldn‘t find me, that I didn‘t see the pile of thorns. Look now I‘ve

got one stuck in my foot.‘ Sure enough when Benjy showed Pip his paw she could see the sharp brown thorn sticking out. They hopped back home as fast as they could,

Pip helping Benjy as he stumbled with his injured paw. 'Mum, mum,' she shouted as they got nearer the warren, 'Benjy‘s hurt!' Ruthie took off her apron and rushed outside when she heard their

voices. 'What‘s wrong? What‘s happened Benjy dear?' ‗I‘ve hurt my paw Mum,‘ sniffed Benjy,‘ we were playing hide and seek,‘ hic hic, 'but I didn‘t see the pile of thorns near the bushes,‘ hic hic 'and look now I‘ve got one stuck in my foot and it hurts.'

Ruthie leant over to get a closer look, then she gave a little laugh and put her arm round her son. 'Oh my dears, what a funny pair you are, that‘s not a thorn, that‘s from Mr Prickles, you must have bumped into

him and he‘s given you his kiss of thorns. He‘s a lovely gentlemen but he‘s a hedgehog, so you must remember not to get too near if you don‘t want a prickly kiss every time you see him! I tell you what let me bandage your paw then we‘ll go find him and invite him to the party

this afternoon so you can get to know him properly.‘ Rachel Sutcliffe

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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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AUGUST 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

Happy Lammas everyone! This month, we have two

pieces of prose, one is suitable for kittens. We also have another

young writer, who enjoys trampolining. We tried that once, but

were told off for scratching the safety net…

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‖.

44

Biographical note of Amy Barry and Carmel

Williams:

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Her poems have been read on the radio in Australia and Ireland. She loves travelling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work. Photos/ artwork for the two poems are by Carmel Williams, a talented photographer from Mayo.

45

The Meeting of Gazes by Amy Barry and Carmel Williams

46

The Aromas of Summer by Amy Barry and Carmel Williams

47

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.

48

House in the woods by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Jug and peonies by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

49

Road not taken by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Tea for two by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

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Woman by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

51

52

Biographical Note: Yasmine Barry

Yasmine Barry is in first year at the Community

College, Athlone. Her work is published in Static

anthology and in Plum trees. She plays Table Tennis for

Connaught team. She loves music, painting and

dancing. She gets her inspiration by jumping on the

trampoline in the back garden.

Young Writers and Artists

Section

53

A mother‘s prayer in Sahel

Life is hard in Sahel. Mother‘s eyes

gazing at the dry land, her parched lips thirsting for rain.

Her baby cries, hungry, suffers from disease.

She hums, soothes,

she comforts. In silence, she prays,

she hopes, help arrives very soon.

Yasmine Barry

54

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