Date post: | 01-Apr-2016 |
Category: |
Documents |
Upload: | amos-greig |
View: | 226 times |
Download: | 3 times |
ISSN 2053-6119 (Print)
ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of John Urso, Paddy Mc Coubrey, John Jack Byrne, Alan Garvey, Colin Honnor and Peter O’Neill. Hard copies
can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 22 July 2014
2
3
A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig
On the Wall Editor: Arizahn
Website Editor: Adam Rudden
Contents
Cover Image “Wishing Well” by Amos Greig
Editorial page 6
John Urso;
Kiss Me Kate Part One pages 10-19
Paddy Mc Coubrey;
Almost Titanic pages 21-29
John Jack Byrne
Conflict page 31
Canvas page 32
Ruins page 33
Alan Garvey;
RIVER ROAD page 35
THE BUTCHER page 36
ANIMAL ACTIVITY page 37
Colin Honnor;
Yews page 39
The Armistice Line page 40
Ahbendphantasie pages 41-44
Mytholmroyd page 45-46
Mytholmroyd, Hebden Bridge, Heptonstall page 46
Crow Fall – Crow Lift pages 47-49
On The Wall
Message from the Alleycats page 51
John Jack Byrne;
Maire’s work can be found pages 53-56
4
Round the Back
Peter O’Neill; The Empty Too: Language and Philosophy in the Works of Samuel Beckett
Arthur Broomfield pages 60-64 Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to:
Submissions Editor
A New Ulster
23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL
Alternatively e-mail: [email protected]
See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy
distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14
8HQ
Digital distribution is via links on our website:
https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/
5
Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman
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.
6
7
Editorial
“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running
with them.” Marcus Aurelius
We start this issue with some news namely a change of address for us of
course such a carried a fair few hiccups most of which we have managed to
overcome. Sadly there are a few issues still affecting us so our Facebook page
will be quiet for a while whilst we get sorted out.
This issue features a short story by Joe Urso the second part will be
featured in next month’s issue as well as an essay by Peter O’Neill. We accept
short stories and essays all are welcome in our pages. 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
8
Biographical Note: Joe Urso
Perhaps writing my own epitaph would be the most
accurate, and concise, introduction: He was 54. He spent
his days earning a living cleaning restaurants and bars
which gave him the freedom to make a life by writing at
night. He was in love with the same woman for 42 years.
Though never married and often apart, they were devoted
to each other.
A few of my stories have been published in The
Penniless Press, Prole, Synchronized Chaos, Subtletea, and
Damazine.
As a writer for so long, sometimes I feel invisible. At
first glance this may look like a poor pitch, but invisibility
is part of the wardrobe of a constant observer. I believe a
story should be written well enough to describe itself. I
spend my evenings attempting to meet this standard.
9
Kiss Me Kate Part One
by
Joe Urso
“Don’t give out those lips of yours to anyone else but me/Anyone else but me/Anyone
else but me - no no no/Don’t give out those lips of yours to anyone else but me/Till I
come marching home.”
I am certain that if the Earth survives another 10,000 years and my father’s bones
with it, the technological advances of forensic science will reveal he did not have an
artistic bone in his body. Despite what would be considered overwhelming evidence,
my father sang those popular tunes from the ‘40's; his world when he was a boy.
Before I could read, I whistled. I remember my father’s stories about reading the
Sunday comics and listening to the radio on December 6, wearing knickerbocker
pants, being chased by the girls in his neighborhood as he pulled his red wagon in
search of anything metal. Then he showed me a picture of The Andrew Sisters. I
remember thinking how LaVerne looked just like Aunt Jay from Scranton, one of my
favorite aunts. After Uncle Jackie died, she would take the bus from Scranton and
visit us at least twice a year. I had so many aunts, a few with the same first names, the
city they lived in became their surnames as if they were Princesses from medieval
Europe – Aunt Anna from Albany, Aunt Anna from Brooklyn, Aunt Anna from
Binghamton. When I sit back drinking my coffee, these memories are the company I
keep.
10
We lived on Morris St., a working class neighborhood lined with maple and oak
trees in front of homes occupied with two parent families.
Today you would venture a jaunt past pock marked buildings inhabited by crack
heads, the trees replaced by parking spaces, the corners keep company with 2am
Whoers. But in those early days it was our street, our world, in the neighborhood my
father remembered as home during The War. My father was young, virile, singing all
the time. On Saturday and Sunday mornings he would take me to The Park. I have
those photos too, walking hand in hand with my Dad on the tree lined path directly
across the street from our house. Dad bends down on the ground, props me up on his
knee, somebody took a picture.
“Climb upon my knee Sonny Boy/Though you’re only three Sonny Boy”
These tunes rent space somewhere in the back of beyond my brain with the X
Tables and The Lord’s Prayer. When I am 68 and sitting back, drooling, pissing on
myself while my hand shakes like a humming bird’s wings, I will remember 9x7, The
Our Father, The Andrew Sisters, and my father. His face painted with joy as he sings
to me, as I recall how much he loved me.
*************************
After she rang off, I smiled while slowly shaking my head at a 25 degree angle.
She had to be. Only a foreigner would phone an Investigative
Journalist and not the police for justice.
11
Justice, like an ancient corpse, is buried deep. If she called a second later, my phone
would have been off and I would have been on my way to the airport. She could have
left a message, but if the number is unknown the message is deleted. When Life
happens like that, when a second and nothing else decides between the left or right
side of the fork in the road, you have to wonder who is keeping Time. You have to
wonder which God is crowning your insignificant ass as important enough to place the
fate of someone else’s life in your hands. Mind you, I really do not care a rat’s ass
about this philosophical crap. I am an instant convert to any religion which prevents
me from taking a jet ride.
–Hello.
–Yes, Mr.___. . . I am sorry. My pronunciation you see is not so good.
–It’s a burden of a surname to pronounce. Call me John. And you are?
–I have forgotten my manners. My name is Lara Avtakin. I apologize John for this
intrusion into your privacy. I hope it is not too inconvenient.
–Not at all Lara. May I call you Lara?
–Yes please do.
–It’s a beautiful name. A beautiful story - Dr. Zhivago.
–Yes. You are familiar with Pasternak?
12
–Oh yes.
I was five years old. My brother and sister were wishes incubating inside my
mother’s dreams. It was just the three of us, a summer night at the drive in. Years
later my mother told me I cried so hard they had to leave. I can imagine the tension
shaking down my father’s hands squeezing the wheel. I can feel the beads of sweat
dripping over his face, as if his face was mine and he was the boy wailing away in the
rumble seat. Then his shame, the shame I later witnessed so often in his eyes, shame
as he beat a retreat past the ranks of cars, maneuvering our VW Bug around the field.
My mother. . .I can see my mother turned around in her seat. The disappointment I
later witnessed so often in her eyes burrowed into my memory. She looked past my
me, past my father, searching for one last look at Julie Christie in Omar Sharif’s
arms. My mother told me I started whistling the theme song the following day. It
remains with me. It is the truest sound I ever heard. So sue me. I was making time
with Lara. So did Yuri Zhivago.
–So Lara, though I would like nothing better than to talk Pasternak with you, I assume
you called for another reason.
–Yes. I once read an article you wrote. The piece and your name has stayed with me.
Perhaps you understand this – you read something and it sticks you like a pin and
leaves a little scar you hardly see but always feel.
–What I write is not intended to cause any pain. Not any lasting pain.
13
–I assure you no permanent damage was done. Some scars are practical. Later, my
research on this article permitted me to trace it to the newspaper that published it. I
spoke with an editor, a man named Frank Wan-
--Oh yes, Frank. So whatta ya know, an editor now! Just a private joke Lara please
continue.
–I told him my circumstance. He gave me a phone number. He said you would be
pleased to hear from me.
–For once he was right. Now that our connection is established, what can I do for
you?
–It is my son Filat.
***************************
I arranged to meet Lara in The Park the following Sunday. A walk in The Park is
the chaser to a double shot of vodka story.
–Who’s the man with Filat?
–My father Ilari Avtakin. Filat’s father, well. . .
–How about we make a deal. We both let our pasts rest to focus on your son’s
future.
–Agreed John. He looks so happy.
14
–For a little boy, I’d say above average happy.
–Well yes, but I was thinking of father.
–Oh yes. They look right at home.
–I imagine fathers walking with their sons in The Park look the same wherever you
live. There was a Park near our apartment in St. Petersburg. My father began taking
Filat as a baby as soon as he could be brought outside. I think Filat’s first memories
must be of The Park – the footpaths bordered by trees and old statues, the great open
space filled with what each day brings into it. There was a lake and a 17th
century
brick boathouse with a pavilion on the shoreline, and a narrow dirt path surrounding
the circle of the shore. And of course his grandfather singing to him. I have a picture
of them. . .see.
–Yes. I have one just like this. Myself with my father.
–Do you-
--I don’t carry it with me. I have it hidden away. Funny, but I never thought I’d have
the chance to show it to anyone. Well, it’s easy to see they are close.
–Immensely. From our apartment window, I would watch them cross the avenue hand
in hand.
I could tell - even in winter through the frost covering the glass - they continued to
sing those American show tunes my father loves. I would ready the tea, then wait to
15
hear the metallic echo of their singing bounce off the corridor walls.
Father was a modest civil servant. I never knew my mother. He told me she was an
American who worked at the embassy, and their relationship had to be kept secret.
They could not marry. She was compelled to return home without me. I do not know
why. He never said. I never asked. I have the feeling father never expected he would
see her again. I think in his mind she lives through the songs they sung together, the
songs he now sings with Filat. I cannot say if I ever believed a word he said about
her, even if she was my mother. It makes no difference to me. I never had who I lost,
so I lost no one. He has always been so good to me as a father and now to Filat, I no
longer think the truth matters. Perhaps searching for the truth reaches a point of
diminishing returns. Every family has an empty space in their hearts. She is ours.
Father learned all about The American singers from my mother – The Andrew
Sisters, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra. They would sing together has they took their
walks through The Park. He would sing to me when I was a little girl, now he sings to
Filat, and Filat sings to his classmates.
–He was expelled for singing!
–Not particularly. For kissing.
–Now I remember his story! I didn’t put two and two together.
–Put two and two together?
–When you first told me Filat was expelled, I didn’t add it to the story I previously
16
heard in the news about a boy being kicked out of kindergarten.
–Yes I see.
–I am usually quite good at putting two and two together. You have to be in my line
of work.
–Yes I see.
–I’m boring you with my nonsense. I must be getting old.
–Getting old is not so bad. Consider my father.
–How did he take the news about his grandson?
–I have not told him. The only news he listens to is the BBC on the internet, so he
would not hear about it from local media. I could not tell him. He would not
understand. I do not think I understand. Besides it would break his heart. What truth
is worth the price of breaking someone’s heart? The old folks have a saying back
home in Russia: “When a kopeck is placed is someone’s hand there is an empty
pocket in someone else’s pants.” Nothing is free on this planet. Everything comes
with a cost.
So too our bodies have to work for the air they breathe, so why do people think their
lives are free? Now I am the one who is boring you with my nonsense. So too does
Filat not know what happened. He believes he is on special holiday from school. He
is too young, too innocent. I could not think what other to do. I am trying to protect
17
my son. I am trying to protect the both of them.
–One day you will not be able to protect Filat, you know this.
–Yes.
–As for your father, I wouldn’t worry too much about him. From the look of him, I
don’t think anything would prevent him from singing. You are right to protect your
son. I say this from a man’s perspective who was once a boy. Even I use to be one
you know.
–And the cutest one in The Park on Sunday afternoons I am sure.
–You are much too kind. . . My father would take me to this Park when I was younger
than Filat you know. We lived right over there, see. . .Well, here’s to fathers and
sons. And grandfathers and sons.
–And to little boys.
–Agreed. Though I would not want to be one in this world today. I think I’d prefer
being a bird, someone who is pushed out of the nest in twenty days instead of twenty
years.
–But such a short life, and so little time with your mother.
–True. I think you should continue to protect Filat. Protect him for this reason – if
the boy knows the truth and believes he has done something wrong, though we know
he hasn’t, he will be scarred with shame that cuts below the marrow. If you believe
18
anything I say believe this – it would have been better for the kid to have grown up in
The Soviet Union, church-free and guilt-free, than over here where people litigate for
the right to ruin a little boy’s life over an innocent kiss. A kiss by a five year old boy
can be nothing else. Damn the day it becomes a crime.
I know, a bit dramatic. The story was worth taking to the stage. I am hedging my
bets with God; the impression I leave behind at such a moment might be my only shot
at immortality. So I’m a selfish bastard watching out for my soul. I had my reasons.
My intentions were not heroic. Since my guardian angel is on permanent sick leave
with its Boss, my #1 rule is watch your back. I am not going to be stranded in the
dead of winter on a troika with an Oliver Twist in a Russian accent. To wit, plan A
called for one more move before I left The Park. Saying good-bye and leaving Lara,
I skirted a dirt path - one of two running parallel about twenty feet apart. The one I
walked bordered the street, the other lined a long row of pine trees in between whence
walked Filat with his grandfather. I was searching for the sign that would convince
my back if I hitched a ride with a Russian, I might find myself on the road to my
salvation.
We were ships passing in the night. I was configuring their destination. They were
singing their way back to my point of departure.
“Don’t give out those lips of yours to anyone else but me/Anyone else but me/Anyone
else but me no no no/Don’t give out those lips of yours to anyone else but me/Till I
come marching home.”
This is why the world loves Oliver Twist, the honest boy surviving in a cruel/
19
calculating/money-loving/violent/self-righteous city who needs a little bit of help
without having to say please. Not a Judge’s decision nor a Politician’s propaganda
will turn this trick. You will not hear Gary Owen whistling on the wind. The 7th
Calvary will not be coming. And all the guardian angels are hibernating. One human
being is going to choose to save another. Done deal. Simple as that. No vote
necessary. Just one person to climb the cross. Oh no, not me. Thanks for the
thought, but I must disappoint. I will not be the one with splinters up my ass.
Next stop, the other mother with the other little lover.
To Be Continued
20
Biographical Note: Paddy Mc Coubrey
Paddy was born in belfast, lives in lurgan
shortlisted for 2012 Desmond O Grady poety contest,
nothing published as yet,
21
Almost Titanic
( Paddy McCoubrey )
The April sky was gray and dull,
as dull as the day before.
Through the screaming come a lull,
as Carpathia neared the shore.
From the corner near the Masters clock,
for as far as the eye could see,
the numbers swelled along the dock
as they waited impatiently.
The questions numbered many
but answers they were few,
details were scarce if any,
with no one telling what they knew.
The humming wire was buzzing loud
as the news began to seep,
it quickly inched along the crowd
"that Titanic had sunken deep".
A man from WhiteStar was heard to say
22
that all on board survived,
but cautious hope being the only way
till all and one arrived.
Many there said a desperate prayer
for their nearest and their dear,
their poetic words filled up the air
in the hope someone might hear.
Tom Dooley blessed himself again
as he cursed that wrenched ship,
his throughts were of his Martha jane
and why she took that trip.
He buttoned up his tweedy coat
against the early morning chill,
he felt a dryness in his throat
as an east wind blew at will.
The sun above was trying to shine
but could nt break the clouds,
as a gray mist on the waterline
neared towards the crowds.
who watched the ship with focused eyes
23
till it reached the weathered pier,
in the air the anguished cries
were mixed with doubt and fear.
Captain Rostron watched the scene unfold
now looking stressed and pale,
thinking of how fate took hold
that began the nightmare tale.
"it was sometime close to midnight
the sea was calm and fine,
we were sailng by the moonlight
all was steady and on time.
I stared up at the late spring sky
till i heard the 1st mates bell,
and whispered thanks to God on high
for all onbroad were safe and well.
Then a belt of coldness broke the air
like a northern winter chill,
it caught us quick and unaware
but we were ready for it still.
24
An icy wind filed across the deck
but everything stayed quiet and fine,
till the older lad from the Radio shack
reported ice bergs along our line.
So without delay and little haste
we cut our engines low,
each man knew the threat of waste
and no man acted slow.
For no chances would we dare to take
we double manned the nest,
and if we tried we could nt break
so we changed our course due west.
It was just before the Artic split
when the SOS come in,
it reported that an icebergs hit
and soon sinking would begin.
So the master and the first mate
rallied everyman to call,
as we raced to save Titanics fate
hoping God would save them all.
25
We knew where she d been sighted last
so set our course for there,
and every minute quickly passed
as i ordered to prepare.
This was started then forthwith
with a call for everyhand,
volunteers come sharp and swift
from every mother, child and man.
Who cleared the deck and all its lots
as we kept a steady speed,
the engines hit at nineteen knots
closing in on natures deed.
The clock was set on three fifteen
when we saw Titanics flare,
about 4 clear miles were lodged between
our position and where they were.
It was here our courage went beyond
the fear of what we d find,
what we needed when it come upon
26
was a clear and steady mind.
Now not a ripple stirred the sea
it was much to calm and still,
it was here that Titanic used to be
and now lost to fates cruel will.
From the darkness come a heavy yell
then another one behind,
so we sounded out the landing bell
as we set about to find.
And we were lucky for the fullest moon
we could ever wish to see,
with sunraise coming on us soon
we were dreading what might be.
The Titanic now was lost from sight
and gone was the Whitestar pride,
all we saw in the growing light
was endless bodies scattered wide.
27
Scattered further then we could see
that it strained the naked eye,
but for then we had to let them be
as our prioritys were high.
With engines cut we anchored down
and hoped our prayers were willed,
it hit in deep for what we found
boats were empty and unfilled.
On every face we saw the pain
and felt their anguish too,
each had a scar that would remain
till all their days were though.
Mr Franklin Brown our medical man
a doctor of the highest esteen,
proved vital to our rescure plan
along with his dedicated team.
Who treated the survivors down below
with warm blankets, clothes and food,
from engine one the heatpipes flowed
all running steady as best they could.
28
They sat and stirred with little said
for the shock had hit them deep,
of the nightmare hell from which they fled
still the memory they d have to keep.
The Pastor spoke then said a prayer
with his wife and eldest son,
about a grieve we all must share
when this tragic night was done.
But i dont think God really mattered now
for these victums of circumstance,
each one must have wondered how
they ended up in this hell of random chance.
With the streamship California near
we anchored up with speed,
then we consulted with our engineer
and give the order to proceed.
For the flow of icebergs was still a threat
and we had a cold wind blowing down,
our fullest speed and course was set
29
without haste for New York town.
We made good along the Boston strait
despite a rain and wind that blew,
all passengers were more sedate
from the ordeal that they d been though.
On the orders from the Whitestar line
we were told to sit at bay,
before docking down at fifty nine
on that dark dull April day."
30
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/
31
Conflict
(John Jack Byrne)
I see the troops prepare for war
with their rockets, tanks, and guns.
Always ready to start the killing,
these soldiers, humanity’s sons.
I witness the conflict and trouble begin,
with protesters banging their drums,
truly not happy with what they possess,
they face rockets, tanks, and guns.
How many to die when the shooting begins ?
while these soldiers show most willing,
no one will stop to count the cost,
when it’s time to start the killing.
Who will clean the blood from their wounds, ?
pity all these mothers sons
bound to die without a by or leave, ?
by these rockets, tanks, and guns.
Have lessons not been learned at all, ?
by soldiers, humanity’s sons.
They’re about to do what’s been done before,
using rockets, tanks, and guns.
32
Canvas
(John Jack Byrne)
You are more beautiful than the night
where I look upon starry skies
wrapped in dark and moonlit bright
a vision as lovely as your eyes
I gaze far out into this space
where time goes on forever
a creator’s work which shaped your face
beyond all human endeavour
Of all the stars that sparkle bright
none shine as bright as you
all gathered in the milky way
your beauty still heads the queue
Come the dawn this canvas wiped
has such beauty faded away ?
but I can sleep and rest assured
you’re beside me night and day
33
Ruins [Haibun]
(John Jack Byrne)
I’ve always been one to explore old ruins, and cottage ruins especially.
One place in particular I love, is the hearth or fireside, usually in
this space the chimney is still standing, here my imagination drifts back to the
gatherings which inevitably took place around such areas in the home. The
“cooking over a turf fire, the story telling, discussions about the days happenings ,
plans for tomorrow , the music and singing“.
If ever a place was aptly named it was this part of the house, which was the
centre of the home. I find myself wondering if they got the spelling correct, should it
not be the “Heart” instead of the “Hearth”
replacing the leaves
the moon
Autumn evening
34
Biographical Note: Alan Garvey
Alan Garvey’s poetry has been widely featured in magazines and
anthologies. Three collections of his poetry are published by
Lapwing Publications, though he recently self-published his fourth
chapbook of poems, Avalanche of Shadow.
35
RIVER ROAD (THE BEND)
(Alan Garvey)
Not that he took
his hands off the wheel
Not that a difference was made
in flats or high heels
Not that the Strip was lethal
from motel to bar
Not that they were afraid
to be driven so far
Not that it wasn’t the simplest
of plans
No trace of them came to light
in his hands
36
THE BUTCHER
(Alan Garvey)
“Sometimes you’re nothing but meat.”
Tori Amos, Blood Roses
Roll of breast, ham and thigh,
chestnut, milk or mocha feast
for the famished eye,
seen but untouched,
bunched and crushed
contradiction of flesh –
anyone’s for the taking
but for the gusts of bills
that flutter into a clutch.
Ruffled muchness of round
pounds and ounces, glistening
shoulder & shank, mesh
net sectioning
shaven flesh,
muffled rump pumping
37
its way past his windscreen,
parading itself to a wound-
downwindowmeatcounter.
38
ANIMAL ACTIVITY (MEDIA REPORTS)
(Alan Garvey)
Rodents will pick at your mother,
nostrils a-twitch, noses glittering
in the underbrush, shank claws flitter
across cracked fragments of femur
crunched for its marrow. They dance
from one end of the stage to the other,
spotlit by a sunbeam as it trickles over
the major notes of your mother’s fingers.
They are learning to watch and record,
to communicate in the simplest of signals
against the ambient hum of a river,
connecting wires and currents
they relay pictures of gravesites and finds
to families saying grace in neighbouring states,
TV in the background as they sit round
and give thanks for their dinner.
39
Biographical Note: Colin Honnor
Colin Honnor
Widely published poet in numerous magazines in
print and online ; collections, mostly from small
presses and private presses include From
Underground (Mirabilis 1986); Dante; Cavafy;
The Somme; (Yew Tree Press). A former editor
of Poetry and Audience, he runs a fine arts press
in the Cotswolds.
40
Yews
(Colin Honnor)
They are the fig trees of the west
To fruit feed the nest of yearlings
The serendipitous flock
Gothic perpendicular topiary,
Topiary of iron and verdigris
And bitter arils, gnawed,
a language with which the tongue sours.
The horse eats and is skittish
Propinquity of the brood mare
The unloved princess cups the bole
That are the bows length, the arrow's flight;
yellow dye for scapegoat and outcast.
Planted in stone these feathery spars
sign and seal the skies' warrants
fledged longbows arc in the flight of buttresses.
In gardens May service girls in swings
cusps of lore clenching a Roman nail
as armoured, groan under their brittle branch
whose turned shaft measures the length of memory;
the oasis quiet from the fall of Acre
the fall of arrow-shot in exhumed chivalry's
broken fingers from which a tom signature
is confirmed as the wind sighs through their green cirrus.
41
The Armistice Line
(Colin Honnor)
How well their names address them!
They yield the grey clay of the buried soil
in a kind of deliverance.
Yearly they surprise from flagged fen
or starred field of poppies....
Sniff the odours of chalk, loam, hot flint
the share turns and taste this bitterness
yellowed almond shaped fragments
fallen from the unredeemable blue
horizon, the barbed faces and the eyes
this chemical crop grimaces
at the field’s edge. And, if you can
watch this twisted field unmoved
stunted shapes hang from the grey bowl
where now evenly we pick from maps
the place names like forgotten rivers of myth
that there is something to inherit after all
not soldiers’ tales or a clutch of medals
underground where the waters darken stone
of this broken armistice line.
42
Ahbendphantasie
(Colin Honnor)
"...like some prehistoric beast
or the tumulii of a vanished tribe..."
W G SEBALD’S The Rings of Saturn
I
Tarred styptics of wood signs its turpentine
from aquium rites lutus shields sheiling
ooze of Ouse, Auld and Orfe snakeskins
unite they retreat castorum quarantined
polymorph you engrave igneous, sediments imperium
become their corals, you coral pebble alios
scatter to vanish, to emerge, spine, molar shingle
rattles a border merging of ocean's artforms
licked label labials gurgle chuckle their sluice
wind blown in the reedy sluice
abandoned into the mud
abandoned to the mud and seabirds
your suave and soigne daughter
photographs as a fresh casual atrocity
conventions of polderlands
outlaw such sophistry
bitumen wood of the Thames barge
they abandoned to the
orts its broken backed keel
it opens on promontories of light
the sun winks and water sings
through gapped ribs we used to sit
here daydreaming of silver and aquamarine
afternoons, as Sutton Hoos rose out of the sea
and a pigeon flies up in the next room
carpenters of sunrise, noon-gold, earth-prism
as the tide works its own passage, nosing
in homage to shingle, to
43
mudflats, courting it will betray
with lifting and taking
shed tribe...."
your daughter on camera video films
the box of Sizewell, hunched
in its concrete mausoleum
of dead waterbirds
they are the grimoire
of this age, feet winged in silt
time-lapse images of flight
their contrails of flight
patterning arabesques
and will have outlasted dinosaurs
saurian, raptreplites bright intelligence
winged-sheathed- lensed eyes
broken wine of sea, brittle ophuiroids spread
their tarry fingers of shale
he seems to slip through grey door of himself
the grey ghost of history, smiles
finger to grey lip
sips the instant
then mists
wiped from eye
their contracts in the sea
that rattles the shingle off Dunwich, and offshore
islands the compact
conventions outlawing
soak and sink, sodden with the weight
of their landfill
the compliant mineral earth
dredged, barged,
tarred wood belches bubbles
from aqueous rancid mud flats
the broken backed keel
the seeping leathers of spilt inhabitants
44
where dawn becomes sunrise and then sunlight
rose to purple blue to gunmetal
in a painter’s light, where they stood
like fisherman to capture the morning lure
where the wind may free
the wind rings freeform its freedoms,
constant from its absences
where the absolute gathers,
filling the space between things
II
No cleansing tides, drowns
the murmer of conversation
from the next windbreak
starred with mineral run off
and the eels
sensing open water,
mussel-bearded elver clutched
hatches to fry and swims.....
45
Mytholmroyd
(Colin Honnor)
I
Their rookery chants
raucuous singenspeil
black crow smoke spreads and flies
into grey-blue, into skies
As I walked out in Heptonstall
coal-burnished crow among the elms
waddled on gravestones, pecked at mosses
in blue-black darks sink hidden
to where only instinct is in its blind eyelights
stared sightlessly out of its element, air
that Jurassic eye invoked its intoxications
scythe-beaked, nodding
at some unanswered question posed
by Homer Lorca Poe or Pound
or by Aeschylus, Frost or Ted Hughes.
As I walked about Mytholmroyd
granite cliffs pinched their brows accusing
of unromantic crimes, unconsidered
that crow dropped, a broken pilot
Tolstoy’s, Mandelstam’s, Akhamatova’s crow
Magri’s crow of the pampas tugging
at his pony’s entrails, or Celan’s smoke-crow
hovering above death-chimneys
envoy to winged-oblivion, of black-silhouette
of Kremlin’s crow-hooded eyes
or Sophocles’ night-watch crow, cawing
to murderous wife and son
the Furies’ crowsfeet above Mycenae.
As I walked out of Hebden Bridge
that crow spreadeagled, cawed, familiar
of hollow skulled Kampuchean, Armenian
Rhwandan, echoes from scree-pike to sheep-fell
46
in dumbed bell of its throat bones
as Homer’s flocked feasting crows
beaks carrion-bloodied like them dead
like Baskin’s Aeschylean crows
carbon-black soaks images in Arches
in feral frown-lines of his honing graver
as primitive-heretical beak stabbing piercing,
mystic-music chorus singing lode-eyed more-than-rage
showers in their ludicrous dance scattering
as late-sown winter wheat feasts living carrion.
II. Mytholmroyd, Hebden Bridge, Heptonstall
These the lost craggy granites and grits tower
dwarf man in his clutched and clenched myths
a feral stink and furred ruff by the roadside mimicked by inscriptions ; wooly tined
dags sharped on burred hawthorn
and the cenotaph of Heptonstall, cold pilgrims seeking significant otherness
firs he 1athes to stones and trees
as you cross a broken stir, fearful, tremble more is instinct with impossibilities of your
nature
emigma to your unresolved lives
and instantly the sky darkens
an ice-cream van plays, come buy the stone clouds fixed in summer's flint-fire .
III.Mytholmroyd II
Gone those chapels, gone the ironies
texts and homilies like wagging fingers
into riverbeds and quarries
where the Wordsworthian peak frowns
the broken lamplighter's clogs
become cobbled streets stretching away
from stone cliff to bone black brow of cliff
admonish you to millstones
the milestones clogs notched
the abundant words like threads flying shuttle
47
from the fanged frame to bury
in linsey and cotton waste
the undifferentiated myth, the odour of tar and linters
God snores in the drifts
of words would come to him
III. Crow Fall
As I was leaving Heptonstall
these snagged branches roused from plumed sleep
in the millennial heartfires
ream burns spilled to outfalls of memory
shingled on pebbles to sigh back their gape-staddles
field spilled bloodied sunsets burn sight carting
yew crying churchyards
weeping
pitiful stones to aggregate
this agglomerate knobs and knurls
far fields spilled their own blood in the sunset
the churchyard cried yew
-- pitiful stones to aggregate humanist
burnt stone, fire in letters
mason’s tink chink water thrush tap
humanist grieve, despair, kneel, but name.
its agglomerate knobs and burls
sobbed back to the black of its glacier
then the crows began to lift like hang gliders
pouring their exclamations from
the mytholmroyds of their own imaginations
their wings from molten light
hardening to blackness
the eels their questions marks, exclaimed
spreading accidental blacks across
cord-bands of new-ploughed snow
raucous singspeil of their rookery chants
their crow language of affront, of attack
48
no compounds, back to excellences
spined as a black book pierced by bookworm
shows a hundred eyes in its bitten boards
the black stars unexplained remained pulsing
their visible red shifts or falling
like a lens consumed by magnification
to a sun’s heat.
he was out of his element air
drinks dew pecks air birch sap twig birchlit
gunmetals of feathered ravens wing
burnished crow
in blue-blacks of its blind eyelights
stared sightless
out of the element air earth water fire
eye invoking as a drunken orgy
silvered rivers trickled among stones
yellow hollows scalpel beak
drogue head snoop head
granite teeth narrow in mouths
moors furrow brows accuse
your rebarbative pathos, pitiful
tug at the entrails of your oblivions
where the successor of end is quark
and the toteriphilgyphum is phage:
smoke-crow hover above
death-dreams smoke chimnney
IV. Crowlift
As I walked out in Heptonstall
I saw a burnished crow among the elms
waddled on gravestones, pecked at mosses
in the blue-black of its blind eyelights
stared sightlessly out of its element, air
eye invoking as a drunk’s, scythe-beaked, nodding
49
at some unanswered question posed
by Homer Lorca Poe or Pound
or by Aeschylus, Frost or Ted Hughes.
As I walked about Mytholmroyd
granite cliffs narrowed their accusing brows
that crow dropped like a broken pilot
Tolstoy’s, Mandelstam’s, Akhamatova’s crow
Magri’s crow of the pampas tugging
at his pony’s entrails, or Celan’s smoke-crow
hovering above death-chimneys
envoy to winged-oblivion, of black-silhouette
of Kremlin’s crow-hooded eyes
or Sophocles’ night-watch crow, cawing
to murderous wife and son
the Furies’ crowsfeet above Mycenae.
As I walked out of Hebden Bridge
that crow spreadeagled, cawed, familiar
of hollow skulled Kampuchean, Armenian
Rhwandan, echoes from scree-pike to sheep-fell
in the dumbed bell of its throat bones
as Homer’s flocked feasting crows
beaks carrion-bloodied like them dead
like Baskin’s Aeschylean crows
carbon-black soaked into virgin Arches
in the feral lines of his honing graver
as primitive-heretical beak stabbing piercing,
mystic-music chorus singing lode-eyed more-than-rage
showers in their ludicrous dance scattering
as late-sown winter wheat, the living carrion.
50
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: [email protected] 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!
51
JULY 2014'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
The birds have eaten all of the cat food again!
In other news, Arizahn is muttering about making ANU
into an online only publication, in order to protect the
environment. So anyone who has opinions on this, please feel
free to contact us; your views as readers/contributors count and
Arizahn reckons no one reads this bit.
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”.
52
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/
53
boring crowd by John Jack Byrne
54
Her Kiss by John Jack Byrne
55
Your Goodbye by John Jack Byrne
56
her scent by John Jack Byrne
57
58
59
Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill
Peter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967. After spending the
majority of the nineties in France he returned to live in Dublin
where he has been living ever since. His debut collection Antiope
(Stonesthrow Poetry) appeared in 2013, and to critical acclaim.
‘Certainly a voice to the reckoned with.’ Wrote Dr Brigitte Le JueZ
(DCU). His second collection The Elm Tree was published by
Lapwing (2014), ‘A thing of wonder to behold.’ Ross Breslin ( The
Scum Gentry ). His third collection The Dark Pool is due to appear
early in 2015 (Mauvaise Graine).
60
The Empty Too: Language and Philosophy in the Works of Samuel Beckett
Arthur Broomfield
Cambridge Scholars Publishing
(Peter O’Neill)
The Empty Too is a sentence taken from Worstward Ho, Samuel Beckett’s
penultimate prose work, first published in 1983. The emphasis is on the
definitive article, which in the normal use of language acts as a referent to
perhaps a person, place or thing (s) . The hands, for example. But, in Worstward
Ho, Arthur Broomfield reminds us, language, by Beckett, is not being used in
its normal way. Here, in the text, Broomfield underlines, Beckett wishes to free
language. Empty The of hands – ‘No hands in the-.’1Beckett’s only concern,
Broomfield reminds us, is ‘that language is the real that is haunted by non-
being.’2 It is a refrain that Broomfield continuously underlines in this short
work, which comprises of five chapters, each one, apart from the first, treating a
single work by Beckett (Film, Godot, How It Is are the other works treated) and
runs to just over 100 pages.
In a later text, like Worstward Ho, Broomfield’s point is highly pertinent, and
one of the very real pleasures of The Empty Too is that it, rather forcefully,
encourages the reader to return to the texts themselves in order to explore
further Broomfield’s claims.
The twain. The hands. Held holding
hands. That almost ring! As when first
said on crippled hands the head. Crippled
hands! They were the words.3
1 Beckett, Samuel: Worstwrd Ho, Calder Publications, London, 1999, p. 32.
2 Broomfield, Arthur: The Empty Too, Cambridge Scholars Publications, 2014, p. 81.
3 Ibid.
61
And here we must intervene. The words, not the hands!
Here now held holding.
The words, not the hands, on the page. And here we must draw attention to the
beautiful bold print of all of Beckett’s later texts, whether they be published by
Calder or Minuit, the unusually large printed words on the surface of the page.
At once so different, even physically, to all other prose texts published during
the author’s own lifetime. The great white spaces on the page purposely leaving
room for the reader to breathe; Beckett was always the most generous of
writers, in content and form, his vision encompassed into the very fabric of the
book. In these two publishing houses no author was better served.
For Arthur Bloomfield, Waiting for Godot is the greatest example of the
inherent dislocation of being and non-being, and where, funnily enough, it is
exactly this dislocation between the very real of language and the unreality of
the physical world, or at least that as perceived through the senses, which gives
a lot of the play its most comic moments. In fact, the play, as Broomfield reads
it, is best seen, can only be seen, through this light. Hence the constant play on
doubt which goes on between Vladimir and Estragon, who are, according to
Broomfield, not tramps at all, but astute philosophers, grappling with the very
real of language, unchanging, and so very assuring, to the existential nightmare
of the physical world around them where nothing is permanently valid, and so
constantly up for unending debate. Broomfield is as his most convincing in this
chapter, as it is nothing less than an exposition on what it actually ‘is’ in the
play we find so immensely enjoyable, hilariously enough, even if we have no
real idea why- now we do! And it ‘is’ funny, so wildly comic. Broomfield, in
what is perhaps his greatest gift in the book, elevates Beckett’s humour as it
really is.
To understand that articulated language is interposed
between the void and itself gets to the philosophical
core of Beckett’s thinking, i.e. that language, being the
real, eliminates the void (see chapter 5) . Beckett’s
created dimension in Waiting for Godot is the place
where the real becomes aware of its reality, and this
62
reality is contrasted to the ultimate void over which
non-being, the perceived world, is suspended. (Broomfield, p.41)
All of which helps to further clarify the almost dazed performances of the
actors, in a good interpretation of the play, caught as they all are in this alternate
dimension, to the audience for example. There is a profound distinction being
underlined by Beckett/Broomfield here, a Copernican tilt to the inner tension in
the words, in which the conflict between Being and seeming to be, or non-being,
literally plays out before our disbelieving eyes. For now, when the theatre
curtain opens it is opening upon the void to which we all, as members of the
audience, as readers of the play, are now actively participating in. In theatrical
terms, Godot is the nearest thing we have, in language, to the splitting of the
atom. This is why the humour is so insanely comic. This is why when we laugh
we do so hysterically. Or don’t, as the case may be. Detractors of Godot
relinquish the void back to its ‘proper’ place, over Never Ever Mountain, as
opposed to the crucifying slapstick of the everyday. For the latter would imply
perhaps some kind of moral responsibility. The latter would imply a profound
shift in our understanding of the language within languages.
Arthur Broomfield’s treatment of Comment C’est / How It Is is less convincing
then the analysis of the previous two texts, primarily because he treats this text
only in the English translation, and while his analysis of Godot (also originally
written in French) more than stands up, so many vital elements, other than the
‘language of the real’ are left out in Broomfield’s analysis of this key work that
I was left feeling rather frustrated. Perhaps the difficult lies in the sub-title of
Broomfield’s book – Language and Philosophy in the Works of Samuel Beckett.
This subtitle is so vast, due to the subject’s immense linguistic and
philosophical knowledge, that by inserting such a subtitle after the main, one
expects a complete analysis into all of the linguistic and philosophical ideas
which Beckett evokes, and this is my only problem with Arthur Broomfield’s
remarkable little book. It does not, due to the sub-title, fulfil its brief, and for the
following reasons. Perhaps ‘The Language of the Real in the Works of ’ might
have been a better choice!
63
For, if you are going to write a book about Beckett and language surely one
would expect the writer of such a book to discuss, and in depth, Beckett’s multi-
lingual fluency – the majority of his literary output was written in French, yet he
also treated his work in German. Why? Unfortunately, Arthur Broomfield offers
no reason in The Empty Too. And this is a shame, for surely the case for ‘the
language of the real’, it being so dependent on the notion of non sensory related
input, is a hard case to defend when the choice of language, as determined by
Beckett, is so obviously based upon the senses themselves, particular those of
speech and sound? When one reads the work aloud in French, as one must, and
then one reads the exact same piece of text in English, one can clearly perceive
how the sound of the words alters our very understanding of the piece. We do
not think in the same way when we think in French as we do in English, and this
difference is voiced. The meaning of the two texts profoundly differs. Beckett
himself was intensely dissatisfied with the English treatment of his work,
despite the fact that he himself worked painfully at it for months on end. ‘It
could only be, he wrote to John Calder, ‘at the best, a most lamentable à peu
pré’ (approximation).4
Another aspect to consider; Deirdre Bair, Beckett’s much unfairly dismissed
first biographer, signalled very early on the work’s indebtedness to French
Symbolist poets of the nineteenth century.5 Rimbaud’s Illuminations being a
case in point, Rimbaud being famously associated with his words of
encouragement to other poets advocating ‘ Je dit qu’il faut étre voyant, se faire
voyant.’ / ‘I say one must be a seer, make oneself a seer.’ 6 Rimbaud famously
prescribed a methodology of déréglement de tous les sens/derangement of all
the senses7. If one considers Comment C’est/How It Is from an alternative
linguistic perspective to Bromfield’s, which advocates a language ‘emptied of
non-being’; that is to say stripped of all reference to the world as perceived
through the senses – one is then forced to deny a whole influx of
interconnecting points of reference , or correspondences, which can only leave
one feeling that Arthur Broomfield’s ideas on Beckett’s ‘language of the real’ is
but one entry, or tool, albeit a very important one. As the influence of Viconean
linguistics on Comment C’est/ How It Is is clearly outlined in the tri-partite
structure of the text, corresponding as they do to the three ages of man. The
4 Knowlson, James: Damned to Fame, Bloonsbury , London, 1996, p.495.
5 Bair, Deirdre: Samuel Beckett: Vintage, London, 1990, p.554.
6 Rimbaud, Arthur: Complete Works Selected Letters, Translation and Notes by Wallace Fowlie, The University
of Chicago Press, Chicago & London, 1966, pp. 306/307. 7 Ibid.
64
work seen in this light makes it his most Joycean, and must send us back to
Beckett’s own early study of the Neapolitan father of hermeneutics.
Here form is content, content is form. You complain
that this stuff is not written in English. It is not written
at all. It is not to be read- or rather it is not to be read.
It is to be looked at and listened to. His writing is not
about something; it is that something itself.8
The whole emphasis “Be-ing” centred around the senses. Surely some food for
thought there?
8 Beckett, Samuel: Disjecta, Grove Press, New York, 1984, p. 27.
65
66
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.