ISSN 2053-6119 (Print)

ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of Paul Anthony, Peter O’Neill, Paddy Mc

coubrey, Byron Beynon, John Jack Byrne, Patrick Joseph Dorrian,

Ellie Rose McKee, Chris Murray, Rachel Sutcliffe and Laney Lennox. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue No 20 May 2014

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A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall Editor: Arizahn

Website Editor: Adam Rudden

Contents

Cover Image “Equine Garden” by Amos Greig

Editorial page 6

Paul Anthony;

How Eugene P. McCurdy got his name pages 8-14

Peter O’Neill;

Ulysses page 16

The Master page 17

Malebolge page 18

Hadji Bay page 19

On Reading Neil Patrick Doherty’s Translation page 20

Ireland 2013 page 21

Paddy Mc coubrey

Grace page 23

Moiras Dream pages 24-25

Susans House pages 26-29

Byron Beynon;

Ilstan Wood page 31

THE CATHEDRAL AT ELNE page 32

RUE DE L'UNIVERSITIÉ page 33

Personal page 34

John Jack Byrne;

In You page 36

Heroes page 37

Stoirm Sneachta page 38

Patrick Joseph Dorrian;

Weekend At Home page 40-41

Ellie Rose McKee,

Bubbles page 43

Timezones page 44

Travel for One page 45

Chris Murray;

Famine Ship at Murrisk Abbey page 47

Rachel Sutcliffe;

Poetry Spring Series page 49

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Laney Lennox;

On the Death of Bobby Sands pages 51-53

On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 55

John Jack Byrne;

John’s work can be found pages 67-68

Round the Back

E.V. Greig Legend of Greymyrh extract page 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 Oldface & Times New Roman

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.

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Editorial

“Look back over the past, with its changing empires that rose and fell,

and you can foresee the future, too.” Marcus Aurelius

Once again we find ourselves on the Fourth of May a holiday time borrowed by

a fictional setting. For those reading on the launch date “May the Forth be with

you”. As I put the finishing touches to this issue I take a moment to reflect on

those who are taking part in Worker’s Marches across the world.

Here at A New Ulster we still believe that poetry is as ever about the

individual, the artist and their place in society. It is a celebration of their work

and a window into their techniques. A New Ulster is open to experimental and

traditional poetry styles and approaches. Poetry can be a scapel to lance the

poisons of history both personal and worldwide.

This issue features a strong example of experimental and local poetry

from many voices and styles as well as a range of short stories. Come this

September we will have been in production for 2 years. That’s two years as a

semi independent monthly arts magazine/ ezine hybrid. I have plans as we move

towards the future.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Paul Anthony

Paul Anthony is a sixty three year old retired university lecturer.

His first book is The Adventures of the Tricycle Kid. Published

on Amazon, it is a humorous account of growing up in Belfast in

the Fifties and Sixties. He is at present working on a book of short

stories and a novel about the Book of Kells. He toggles between

homes in Belfast in the North of Ireland and Clonmellon in the

Republic

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How Eugene P. McCurdy Got His Nickname

(Paul Anthony)

Eugene P McCurdy left the Tax Office on the grounds of stress when he was

forty. He had been shifted between various departments in an effort to find

him something less demanding but even the most trivial of pen pushing

exercises was alas too much for him. It was with mutual consent, a meagre

incapacity benefit, routine speeches and stale sausage rolls that he left on April

4th 1973, at four twenty nine, never to return. Both the Tax Office and he

breathed a huge sigh of relief.

A singular and meticulous little man with a boringly mathematical brain

and a head full of useless facts and figures, he returned to the now empty

maternal home to decide what to do with the rest of his life without work.

Apart from making resin paper weights, he had no hobbies and women did not

feature in his life any more.

He had been briefly engaged to Annette in his early twenties but she

decided on fresh pastures when he informed her one night, in the build up to

the long awaited baptismal love making session, that the Gross National

Product for Peru had risen for the first time in twenty years. His grief on her

departure lasted but shortly and he helped himself to overcome it by buying a

state of the art betamex video recording machine. It had a remote control

which plugged into the back of the television but did not have a lead long

enough for him to sit back and comfortably watch his increasing stock of films

for the discerning gentleman. So nightly he could be seen through the window,

hunched over the screen, remote control in hand like an Eskimo ice fishing.

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He soon found a use for his well filled brain. As was the custom in many parts

of no go Belfast in the seventies, he joined a club where he could partake of

modest refreshing tinctures in the hours which he was forced to fill before his

nightly celluloid entertainment. Such clubs abounded at this time – some legal

– some less so, and it came as somewhat of a surprise to his few friends that

he became a fully paid up social member of the local pigeon club. Neither a

fancier nor an observer, it was a strange choice for a little man with a

permanent suit who would have been called dapper in the fifties but in the

sombre seventies he looked somewhat archaic.

One October afternoon in the otherwise empty saloon, he was regaling

the near atrophied barman, Barney, with everything he needed to know about

the Eurovision Song Contest when he was told:

“Christ McCurdy. Why don’t you do the quiz tonight? It would be a

breeze for you with all that shit that’s in your head. The Lofters are lookin’ for a

fourth man. You’d be a Godsend. I’ll tell Big Joe and you show up here at 8.00.”

Surprisingly McCurdy agreed and he joined the Lofters at seven forty

nine that evening. Before the start, Big Joe was informed that a Hawaiian

stamp of 1851 with a face value of two cents, was the sole reason Gaston

Leroux, a Parisian philatelist, murdered its owner Hector Giroux. He also told

him that honey bees have hair on their eyes and that Bruce was the name of

the mechanical shark in the Jaws movies. All of this in between three visits to

the toilet, courtesy of his diuretic medicine which he took for his blood

pressure. Big Joe was beginning to wish that he had taken some of his own

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special pills but had to make do with serial pints of Guinness. He looked over at

Barney who winked back at him, continued to polish glasses and mouthed,

“That’s the last time you’ll call me a baldy bastard!”

Although scoring ten on the boredom scale, McCurdy also scored with

ease in the quiz knowing that every citizen in Kentucky must take a bath once a

year by law, to win the prize of a bottle of Bull’s Blood which “incidentally” and

“interestingly enough” came from the Eger region of Northern Hungary.

Preferring a chilled Riesling himself, it was up to the rest of the team to quaff

the Bulls Blood which they did as chasers to the copious pints of Guinness

which they also downed with stunning regularity. McCurdy thought of

reminding them to sample the wine first and perhaps find a spittoon to eject it

after aerating it in the mouth but wisely decided not to.

This became the routine for Wednesdays. After the quiz, he would walk

the mile to his house through darkened streets with heroes lurking in the

shadows, stopping at the local chippy for a fish supper with extra vinegar. At

home he would ceremoniously remove the trademark suit and don T shirt,

sweat pants and checked slippers for his nightly liaisons with Helga Sven,

Marilynn Chambers, Linda Lovelace, Mary Millington and the like. On the

occasions when he watched Ann-Margaret, he kept the suit on as a mark of

respect as she was a “classy lady” but who unfortunately kept her ample

charms under wraps.

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Unfortunately, his newly acquired social lifestyle could not be supported

by his invalidity stipend. He looked around for “positions” which would provide

some extra revenue to fund his new found love for the “black stuff” but few

were forthcoming. That was until he was told sotte voce by Big Joe one evening

that the Infertility Clinic at the Royal Victoria Hospital would pay a handsome

sum for his man eggs. Never for a second thinking that this might be a wind up,

he beetled off to the Clinic and within a few weeks discovered that his man

stuff was as slippery as a Lough Neagh eel and had a mobility which would seek

out the most shy and retiring of female ova and do the business.

He decided, therefore, that “his essence” as he preferred to call it could

be put to better use than it had been for the past number of years. He

presumed Ann-Margaret would not mind so he signed up as a donor making

thirty pounds a pop which in those days was quite a sum. It maintained a

continuous flow of Guinness, the occasional luncheon in the Skandia and a new

pin striped suit.

On the final night of the quiz, he helped his mates scoop first prize of a

bottle of Power’s whiskey by astonishingly recalling that Thomas A. Edison

spoke the first words “Mary had a little lamb” into his newly invented

phonograph. The whiskey was cracked open and although he had some

business to attend to at the hospital the next morning, he drank his share, as

neither blood nor urine samples were involved. Celebrations duly over, he

lurched home negotiating the burned out cars with some difficulty.

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The half of his fish supper with extra vinegar which was slowly sliding

down the front of his suit attracted more than a passing interest from a group

of Republican tom cats who followed him to his front door in the hope of a

meal before going on active service. The one who was obviously the

commandant hurled himself at his twenty seven and a half inch inside leg and

with a combination of claw and tooth dug in and managed to get a generous

portion of batter puncturing McCurdy in the groin in the process. He tried to

swat it as one would do a bluebottle but with no success.

He fell through the front door, cat firmly attached to his privates, made

straight for the kettle and poured its contents over the feline hanger on. It

squealed and bolted out the door. He aimed a kick at its disappearing rump,

spectacularly missed and connected with the fridge instead. It was now his

turn to squeal, louder than a girl but not as loud as the cat which he had just

half drowned.

Eugene P switched on his Baird television and new recorder with

cordless remote control. As his chosen movie for the evening was Carnal

Knowledge with Ann Margaret, he kept on his suit but hoped she would not

mind if he put on his slippers as his right foot was now throbbing and swelling

rapidly and his left one smelled of vinegar and cat’s piss. With the Guinness

and Powers having fully kicked in, he never made it past Jack Nicholson and Art

Garfunkel’s initial meeting at Amherst College and drifted off on the sofa

before Ann-Margaret (“full name Ann-Margaret Olsson” ) came on screen just

fractionally after her bosom.

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A bloodied and slightly sore Eugene P McCurdy, woke from a drunken

stupor late for his hospital appointment. He hobbled to the bathroom to

obtain the wherewithal for his £30 and rushed to the bus stop, legs more than

slightly apart to ease the pain in his groin. As the previous night had been one

of some minor unrest, the buses were not running so he high tailed it down the

Falls Road in his pin striped suit stained with the remains of batter and extra

vinegar, and the pair of tartan slippers which he had forgotten to take off. He

arrived at the Infertility Clinic, sweating, breathless and carrying the sample of

his essence in a brown paper bag, only to be told, straight faced given the

circumstances, that it was too late to use and would he mind going home and

trying again.

Now it is the wont of the clientele of drinking clubs and the like to

append nicknames to people with slight deformities or abnormalities or to

those who have had defining moments in their lives which need to be marked

and shared with the world. It is really a form of endearment and those who

name one day can be those who are named the next so no offence is ever

taken. The Balmoral Pigeon Fanciers Club ( Social Section) was no different.

Members basked in the glory of such names as “Stone in the Boot”, “Lamb

Chop”, “Vincent Vomit” and “Half a Lip” and quite often no one knew what

other people’s given names were.

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The self appointed Nickname Selection Committee at its next meeting

could have had a field day with Eugene P McCurdy given his catalogue of

disasters the week before. It chose not to and after only a short discussion he

was named “Slippers”, the handle to be formally awarded on his next visit to

the Club and to remain with him forever more.

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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill

Peter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967, he spent the majority of the nineties in

France before returning to live in Dublin in 1998. His debut collection Antiope

(Stonesthrow Poetry, 2013) was critically acclaimed. ‘Certainly a voice to be reckoned

with.’ Wrote Dr Brigitte Le Juez (DCU). His second collection The Elm Tree

(Lapwing, 2014) was also very well received. ‘A joyto behold.’ Ross Breslin (The

Scum Gentry). He is currently working on his seventh collection, when he is not

translating Le Fleurs Du Mal and Augusto Dos Anjos.

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Ulysses

(Peter O’Neill)

Taking the idea of texts containing

Architectural structure, we could see

The corpus of a writer then as being

Analogous with a state, or country;

Each book, or tome, a city and we,

The readers, its citizens who come and go.

The author James, in this case then, being God.

He being as omnipotent and yes, scary!

I walked along the streets of Ulysses, through its pages

For many years, admiring the crumbling

Georgiana, as I like to do in Dublin.

Then, one day I met a chap called Sam Feck It,

He was hiding from the Minotaur in some alley way.

“Dedalus, the bastard,” he muttered, “ Forgot to leave us all some rope!”

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The Master

In memoriam Samuel Beckett

(Peter O’Neill)

Populate the mind, an obscure terrain,

With contemporaneous geographical

Matter, such as the common ordinance

Of sheep, house flies and a solitary tree.

All of which are imbued with mythological

Status, evoking Cain, Cyclops and Aeneas.

That’s three civilisations in one implant,

Causing temporal resonance in the hippocamp.

Because of metaphor our worldly hurt is shared;

We all equate with the great salty wounds

Of Ulysses, laugh at the dicks in Euripides.

Because of metaphor, when I look

Northward, in place of the blue arteries

Of the Mourne, I see the Argo.

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Malebolge

(Peter O’Neill)

For Michael Mc Aloran

I marvel anew at the design inherent

In the intestinal walls, as the earliest patrons

Of MOMA must have, when they first

Caught sight of Frank Loyd Wright’s stairwell.

Of course, the exhibits mounted on those walls

Also share common currency with the

Gentle motions of stool which cascade along,

Ever so gently, to the eternal gateway to Armitage Shanks.

Which has me thinking now of that artist

Who spent fifteen years drawing metropolis

Constructed of fecal matter, housed in the Tate.

And Beckett, for whom Art had deeply scatological

Resonances. I am reminded of the rivers of shit

In Comment c’est through which all words are borne.

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Hadji Bey’s

(Peter O’Neill)

The Emporium of Hadji Bey’s Turkish Delight,

Situated on Patrick Street in Cork City, was a

Place of magical encounter which I entered into

In either the company of my Father, or my Grandfather.

Inside the aroma of rose, orange and lemons pervaded

As the sunlight illuminated, in great shafts beneath

The shop front blinds, the towering minarets of the

Glass jars, which housed the preciously powdered,

Sweetened delights bearing with them, in the taste,

The opulence of adventure; disbarred then momentarily were we,

From the assassinated, crucifying norm of the local patriarchs.

While, in this enchanted place, mere mortals appeared then

To be resplendent in eternalised mesmerism, our very tongues,

Containing the sweetest delicacy of our dusk filled evenings.

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On Reading Neil Patrick Doherty’s Translation

‘The Picture of the Conqueror’ by Oktay Rifat

(Peter O’Neill)

My mother, once a stewardess with Pan Am,

Used to have a little copper memento of

The great dome of the Haghia Sophia, which she

Picked up in Istanbul, hanging above the old black telephone.

As a child I would spend hours alone in the laminated

Wooden hall, contemplating the dome, imagining

Far off lands, other lives and the possibilities

Of an unlimited universe still, as yet, unexploded.

These mental excursions used to be brutally interrupted

By the shrill ringing of the telephone, a surreal

Artifact containing its electronic Muse.

Like Sultan Mehmet, I crossed whole phalanxes of scape,

The invisible hordes adhering to my every whim,

I then the Emperor of my own absolute desolation.

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Ireland 2013

(Peter O’Neill)

We are not a serious nation.

As a people perhaps not the most critical;

Not being the best on the receiving end ourselves.

All our faith having been lost in the Church,

We jumped aboard Mammon with an equally

Fervent relish, and now look at us!

But just as I grow despondent

I am struck by an image of a high cross,

One of those Celtic ones with the great

Lozenge interlaced into the design,

Distinguishing it from all others.

Were not those our great glory days,

Pre-Vatican, when Patrick walked freely

With the pagan, embraced as he was by that other Sun?

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Biographical Note: Paddy Mc coubrey

Pat mc coubrey is a Belfast born writer, he lives in lurgan.

Pat was shortlisted for 2012 Desmond O Grady poety contest,

Pat has not had a collection published yet.

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Grace (12)

Paddy Mc coubrey

in a garden by an apple tree,

the old man sat alone.

the children knew to let him be,

for these moments were his own.

he watched his flowers with cherished pride,

mixed shades of summer blue.

three waiting angels by his side

his smile showed that he knew.

it was much too soon that he was gone

before the sun began to shine

his memories all are carried on

with the wisdoms of his mind

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Moiras Dream

(Paddy Mc coubrey)

She confided in me

of a place by the sea

on a hill that looks down the bay,

the fishing boats sit

on the shore for a bit

and fishermen live day by day.

And seabirds will fly

in the warm morning sky

and dip and dive with an ease,

their scattered calls

with each new fall

is carried along on a breeze.

The days will be spent

with time that is meant

for doing things like never before,

starting each day

with a walk on the bay

sketching driftwood lost on the shore.

I know that i ll find

a new peace of mind

i know each day is my own,

i know of the strife

of a past city life

and the battles i frought there alone.

And all that i need

is a new kind of creed

and someone to share my dream,

to hold my hand

and understand

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just what my visions mean.

On an old rocking chair

by a table thats bare

with a candle burning down bright,

i ll write about love

and the stars above

in poems as deep as the night.

With a sense of boheme

i ll live out my dream

and never look back to the past,

this fateful quest

will more or less

lift every curse that was cast.

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Susans House

(Paddy Mc coubrey)

I

At susans house

theres a rusty gate

on the moss covered roof

sits a broken slate,

the garden still

is overgrown

of plants and weeds

with names unknown,

and the neighbours then

can still recall

how posies grew

near the gable wall.

The rainbow colours

all are gone

as tones of gray

just linger on,

In susans house

just beside the door

last weeks mail

lies still on the floor,

and the shapes on the carpet

are faded and worn

for next to a table

is a coat thats torn,

and along the hall

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its dusty and bare

except for some clothes

that are draped on a chair,

the smell in the air

is hard to conceal

as nightime drops

theres a sense of unreal.

In susans head

shes seldom alone

in a hidden world

she calls her own,

of which the doors

are tightly shut

for her once keen mind

is anything but,

and still the demons

come to call

they scale her mind

and refuse to stall

as they leave her world

a broken land

they release emotions

she cant command.

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II

She sat in the dark

on this her darkest day

wrapped herself in sorrow

for it seemed the only way,

she tried to shed a tear

but nothing seemed to come

for all senses and feelings

were renderd vaugh and numb

and she had an inner pain

she frought so hard to hide

and she cursed the world she knew

and she cursed the world outside.

But everything she longed for

she tried but could nt find

she seemed forever trapped

in what she could nt leave behind.

Everything was hazy

as time was passing slow

she stared into the distance

as confusion seemed to grow,

she only had one throught

as the pain was closing in

some said it was an option

some said it was a sin.

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III

Above susans house

the moon is full,

thro' the rain and wind

comes a sudden lull,

that brings a silence

and a passing chill,

that seems to linger

there until,,

the wind once more

blows cracked and loud,

and the moon gets lost

behind a cloud.

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Biographical Note: Byron Beynon

Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications

including The Warwick Review, London Magazine, Poetry Wales and

Cyphers. His collection Nocturne in Blue and Human Shores (both from

Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).

31

ILSTON WOOD

(Byron Beynon)

Returning again to the footpath

we followed it through the wood,

sounds of a nearby stream,

a fluidity of notes and fresh tones

for our breathing shadows,

alert to the surviving senses all around.

The sculpted faces of the trees,

with nature's canopy

wide-awake under which to meet

a memory of something real,

spreading towards a darkening green.

Swallow holes, summer banks,

birds we could not see,

with wild flowers rewinning the landscape;

this threatened gallery

where history blends

with the vital air,

a secret undergrowth

waiting patiently,

the way through

trodden by the ages

that brought us here.

32

THE CATHEDRAL AT ELNE

after the painting by J D Innes (1887-1914)

(Byron Beynon)

The geology of paint:

a strata laid before the viewer

where the foreground

climbs the calm hill.

The inner stillness of sky

engaging the mind

with various shades.

The cathedral points

to a heaven

it cannot understand.

Recurring questions,

with foundations

growing from a palette,

coming nearer

to the upheaval of eternity's surname.

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RUE DE L'UNIVERSITIÉ

(Byron Beynon)\

The metro worms

to another area of the Left Bank,

Rue de L'Universitié, where at number 9

T S Eliot once stayed

during 1911, his lonely but romantic year,

nine years later

to the same address

James Joyce came with his family;

he walked in the Bois de Boulogne

with his wife, Nora

the day before the publication of Ulysses,

his nerves on edge.

Both men knew early on

that they would be uneasy

with the blank rectangle of paper,

the unsettled challenge of words

called them, and like the scientist

who completed the experiment,

recorded the conclusion – fingers

stained and tired -

with a clear and cool mind.

34

PERSONAL

(Byron Beynon)

The colours do not really matter,

each verb,

each tense and letter

convey their own shade and texture.

They are personal and you

their instrument:

sharp vowels

cut their course

opening the eye

like new life

after the rain.

35

Biographical Note: John Jack Byrne

. John [Jack] Byrne lives in Co. Wicklow ,Ireland

he has been writing for almost 6 years mainly

poetry; Traditional and Japanese short form and

has had some published success in UK , USA,

Ireland in Anthologies, Magazines ,Ezines

/Journals his blog can be found

here: http://john-isleoftheharp.blogspot.ie/

36

In You

(John Jack Byrne)

I don’t need the morning sun

or the deepening sky of blue

I don’t need the lark to sing

because I have all that in you

I don’t await the summer breeze

or thread that morning dew

no need to watch an eagle soar

because I see all that in you

I don’t need to slake the thirst

of flowers to keep them new

or pick the golden daffodil

when their scent is all in you

How beautiful are swallows ?

in the barn they fly right through

the blackbird sings at eventide

of the love I have for you

I don’t see the golden corn

in the fields I stroll with you

no sights will ever distract me

when my eyes are fixed on you

The cuckoo’s far off mating call

and the constant pigeon cu

sounds which make sweet harmony

in the love I have for you

37

Heroes

(John Jack Byrne)

The mountain dark

with shade of pine,

bright summer sun,

sweet memories mine

Small boys playing

act out their dreams

of childhood hero’s

on silver screens

Hop-along Cassidy

and Robin Hood

ride make believe horses

through shadows of wood

Goodies and baddies

in all kind’s of plots

each day after school

all learning forgot

Contented and happy

the drama played out

wash bloody knees

to Mother’s angry shout

Now the day’s over

climb into bed

turn off the light

the comic is read

38

Stoirm Sneachta [ haibun]

(John Jack Byrne)

Whilst visiting Galway last weekend I took a trip to Inis Meadhóin

known as the Middle Island ,one of the famous Arran Islands off

Galway Bay . I was in awe of the one hundred and sixty or so

population living on this last cultural stronghold which is predominantly

native speaking. One thing amazed me that with all the history

of their island to talk to strangers about , the main topic of conversation

was of the” stoirm sneachta trom” [ heavy snow storm] which hit the

Island at the end of year twenty ten, apparently the first snow to ever fall on

Inis Meadhóin.

os cionn an tu

a gealach corrán

luionn

[above the thatch

a crescent moon

rests ]

39

Biographical Note: Patrick Joseph Dorrian

John was born in East Belfast. He holds degrees from Durham and

Newcastle. John taught English for some years to 11-18 year old students

then worked with teachers exploring the concept of learning for 8 years .

Free-lance educationalist but now semi-retired. John lives between

England and France.

40

Weekend at home

(Patrick Joseph Dorrian)

I remember the black and white days;

when we minded ourselves, walking,

through the brickfields of Beechmount

to the 'Murph, avoiding the bullies and streams,

passing from my house to my friend's. There;

Frozen like a photograph, the family room

crowded by adult daughters come to visit,

the dad and older brother fresh from

McAlpines and Wimpeys on a weekend break.

Freshly laundered they sat awkward,

familial strangers, tired from the train and boat,

strained with the prospect of returning.

Eating a family meal and watching the clock

leaking the minutes till it was time to go.

Time to leave the acres of unemployment,

time for the hostel that would take

blacks, dogs and the Irish,

time again for unhappy songs in pubs

in places deemed Irish quarters,

losing their place in the family home,

41

losing their faith in a loving God,

feeling as abandoned of those caught liverish

in the cold bedroom of a London Street.

I remember the black and white days

and the streets of England widows,

gripping the letters with the weekly remittance

to be squandered on food and rent,

the family allowance book already hocked

to some friendly loanshark.

And all the while the thin children smiled

and the shawled wives aged before their time.

No one to colour their hair for, no one to share their bed

but wondering was he alright in digs, was he eating well,

not drinking too much and hoping he was celibate too.

42

Biographical Note: Ellie Rose McKee

Originally from Bangor in Northern Ireland, Ellie lived in Lincoln,

England for three years. Since then she has spent six months living

in Oxford and a considerable amount of time travelling elsewhere

around the UK. She is the author of 'Still Dreaming' and 'Wake' -

collections of poetry and short stories - is currently working as a

freelance writer and finishing her first novel, a love story with the

working title 'Rising from Ashes', in her spare time. Blogging since

2008, Ellie also dabbles in fan fiction. You can find out more from

visiting her website: www.ellierosemckee.com

43

Bubbles

(Ellie Rose McKee)

Blown with gentleness

To glide through the atmosphere

Some hitting objects

Breaking upon them

Some resting on the ground

Quite successfully, for a time

Some not making it past

The wand

Some big

Some small

All falling

None lasting forever

(ce n'est pas à propos de bulles)

44

Timezones

(Ellie Rose McKee)

No matter where you are in the world,

Even if it’s yesterday there,

Or tomorrow already,

You’re never going to be further apart in time from anyone else that walks the

earth.

You can move closer, and bridge the gap,

But there’s no bigger timezone than where you’re at,

On the opposite side of the globe.

And if you had enough money, you could be back in a day.

A whole day’s a long time to fly,

But nothing, really, in a lifetime.

In this age we’re living in, there’s very little keeping us apart.

Only a day, at most,

Just think about that.

It’s what keeps me going

45

Travel for One

(Ellie Rose McKee)

I am a traveler

Everyone asks me

‘Table for two?’

‘Bedroom for two?’

‘Will you be wanting to take advantage of our two-for-one offer?’

‘No’, I say,

‘I travel alone.’

46

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. Chriswrites 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.

47

Famine Ship at Murrisk Abbey *

(Chris Murray)

‘L’heure bleue’ for Aad de Gids

That almost night

at Murrisk Abbey.

Darkness begins to drop

its black capillaries, its ink blots.

Rorschach animals ink sky’s ultramarine

seeping their blue tones into the sea.

The reek looms above Murrisk Abbey.

Altared, a blown bouquet

tissues its stem toward

the famine ship,

bone-souldered

its graven skeletons

knit ‘ship’

it baulks the dark,

blacker than the fallen sky,

the fairylight houses.

Blacker still than stone.

48

Biographical Note: Rachel Sutcliffe

Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from a serious autoimmune

disorder 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 the British Haiku Society and the online writing

group Splinter4all, has her own blog

@http://projectwords11.wordpress.com. She has been

published in various anthologies and journals, both in print

and online, including; A New Ulster, Prune Juice , Every

Day Poets, Shamrock, Lynx, The Heron’s Nest and A

Hundred Gourds

49

Poetry-

Spring Series

(Rachel Sutcliffe)

spring stirs

each dawn

a little greener

spring morning

the birds and I

singing

spring skies

the young chick

stretches its wings

spring garden

the smell of fresh soil

on warm hands

spring sunshine

the laughter of children

in the school yard

spring forest

between the branches

less sky

spring breeze

the gentle applause

of leaves

spring showers

the slugs and I

take a stroll

50

Biographical Note: Laney Lennox

Laney Lenox is a senior peace studies major and

creative writing minor at Millsaps College in Jackson,

MS. He studied abroad in Belfast for the spring

semester of his junior year.

51

On the Death of Bobby Sands

(Laney Lennox)

Mass was solemn, the lads as ever brilliant. I ate the statutory weekly bit of fruit

last night. As fate had it, it was an orange, and the final irony, it was bitter.--

Excerpt from Bobby Sands’ diary

I was in a lonely apartment that week—an apartment a man had lent me

because he was never there. His bedroom door was closed when I moved in and

I never opened it out of fear. Belfast has a lot of ghosts and I thought he might

have one behind that closed door.

One day in that apartment I watched the film Hunger. That was the first

time I saw Bobby Sands die. I’d later see him die in other films and news clips.

I’d watch footage of his funeral, see him in all stages of death. But this first time

was by far the worst. I just lay in the bed while the final credits rolled, disturbed

by the fact that the bed I was in looked eerily similar to the hospital bed Bobby

occupied in his final days. I wanted to get up but I couldn’t, held there by some

force stronger than my own will and volition. I finally got up because I wanted

to see if I could eat. I put a slice of orange in my mouth. As I bit it, the juice

squirted out from the pressure and I immediately spit the slice out into the

trashcan. I found it bitter and strange. I stared at the bitten, but not chewed,

section and wondered what it meant.

52

It may seem odd to be eating an orange in Ireland—citrus fruits and the

cold aren’t organically linked in our minds. But they were something I

purchased every time I went to the grocery store. By some strange course of

logic I was convinced that if I didn’t eat oranges every day in Ireland I would

get scurvy. Like sailors of old who contracted the disease on the high seas, I

was on a new journey in a new world, where many Americans still don’t

venture, afraid because of bad memories.

It wasn’t until later that I read his diary, discovered the experience he also

had with an orange in Northern Ireland. By then I was back in the United States,

sitting in my parent’s house. It scared me when I learned of this strange

coincidence. Maybe a part of me subconsciously thought it meant I’d meet the

same fate. Dying for something I believe in is not something I’ve ever wanted

to do. Living for something I believe has always been my dream. Dying would

interrupt that.

After my attempt with the orange, I didn’t eat again until I felt

lightheadedness coming on, it just didn’t seem fair not to wait. I repeated the

process—rose out of the bed, opened the fridge and got food. This time I kept it

down. It wasn’t much, just a few crackers and some hummus, but that day it

seemed like the largest meal I’d had in a long time. Energized from food, I

walked out into the Belfast air, crisp even in July, and it was like a baptism.

Bobby Sands was elected as an MP while on hunger strike, giving the

53

Republican movement and the Catholic community hope in democracy as a

means to achieve goals without violence. Bobby’s death also resulted in a large

amount of recruits joining the IRA, but the bad doesn’t take away the good. I no

longer felt despair. I walked past the 300-year-old McHugh’s Pub, past City

Hall where the flag no longer flies, and didn’t stop until I got to the bottom of

the ninety-foot Celtic cross on the side of St. Anne’s Cathedral. It is important

to spend time around things we must look up to. I looked at what had been there

long before I was born and what would be there long after I was gone, come

hell or high water, peace time or bombs, and I found that the persistent specter

hope had found me again.

54

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!

55

May 2014'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

Never tread barefoot on broken glass. We have heard a rumour

about a new Fantasy series to be released later this year. Worlds will end

and spiders will talk, and watch out for the giant elves too – The Legend

of Graymyrh has been called a marvellous new take on the High Fantasy

genre. This issue contains an excerpt on pages 61-62.

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”.

56

Biographical Note: John Jack Byrne

John [Jack] Byrne lives in Co. Wicklow ,Ireland he has been

writing for almost 6 years mainly poetry; Traditional and

Japanese short form and has had some published success in UK ,

USA, Ireland in Anthologies, Magazines ,Ezines /Journals his

blog can be found here: http://john-isleoftheharp.blogspot.ie/

57

Daisies by John Jack Byrne

Her Hair by John Jack Byrne

58

Adrift by John Jack Byrne

Summer Heat by John Jack Byrne

59

60

Biographical Note: E.V. GREIG

The author is a graduate of QUB, and considers that experience to

have been time well spent. They have been writing for the sake of

writing for as long as they can remember, and intend to keep doing

so until they run out of stories to tell. “The Legend of Graymyrh” is

supported by the Arts Council NI and the National Lottery. The

completed work will be released on sale as a series of e-books from

October 1st 2014. Printed copies will be available to order at a later

date.

61

THE LEGEND OF GRAYMYRH

BOOK ONE: BLOOD AND ASHES

(E.V. Greig)

“So what brings you to Briersburge, Uncle Ranulf?” Naomi Du’Valle smiled up at

the man whose gauntleted arm she leant on. “Do you intend to steal my husband away to war

with you so very soon after our wedding? I have scarcely had a chance to show him around

all of the keep and here you have returned in full armour and with a face like the end times

were upon us!”

Sir Ranulf Von Rosenhof III regarded his ward with a heavy heart. How was he to

tell her of what was coming to their world? How could he destroy such happiness? Losing

her beloved Skegyl had been pain enough for her. Thank whatever merciful entity watched

over them for Bandhir! The mercenary had brought back the warmth into Naomi's broken

heart. He had entertained her with songs and magic tricks - slowly teaching her to smile

again. He had saved her from wasting away and for that Ranulf knew that he would be

forever in the man’s debt. But love was not enough to save them now. Naomi was far closer

to the truth than she realized.

“Uncle Ranulf! Spare me a word or two, will you?” Naomi glared at her favourite

relative in some irritation, her blue eyes narrowing beneath her jet black brows. She sighed

and shook her head. “Oh, look, will you please just tell me what troubles you so?”

Ranulf stopped walking. “Well, my dear it’s like this: the end times are indeed upon

us. Our world is doomed and there is nothing that I or indeed anyone else can do to save it.”

Naomi stared at him for a long moment. Then she uttered an obscenity so colourful

that she could only have learnt it from Skegyl. A passing maidservant blushed and ran away,

62

covering her ears. Naomi sank down onto the cold stone floor of the corridor and buried her

face in the skirt of her gown. The great red hound, which was her constant companion,

growled at Ranulf from behind its muzzle. Ranulf frowned: thinking it to be a little odd that

Naomi had agreed to muzzle her beloved pet. Perhaps it had bitten someone.

He shrugged and knelt beside his niece: his black and gold enamelled breastplate

heavy and awkward as he hugged her. “Do not despair, my niece; for I have a plan, you see.

A plan that is both bold and audacious in its endeavour! Whilst I cannot save our world, I

believe that I may have discovered a means by which it is possible to tear open a doorway to

another world through which we can escape - along with a few others.”

Naomi shook her head. “How many is a few? And how do we decide who is to be

saved?”

He stroked her hair. “I can bring Briersburge and every creature within the walls but

that is all. The folk of this keep are good people - they have not been corrupted by the evil

that is slowly poisoning Kaseden. Your influence here has kept them safe until now but you

do not have the power to shield them any further. A terrible era has arrived - an age of

daemons and unspeakable things! The elves have already fallen, the dwarves too and the

tribes to the far north. Niece - there is nothing left on this world outside of Briersburge that

can be saved. We have to go, Naomi. We have to go now.”

63

64

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