ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Marcus Strider Jones, Helen Harrison, P D Lyons, Marie Lecrivain Judith Thurley and Marion Clarke. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 29 February 2015
2
A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig
On the Wall Editor: Arizahn
Website Editor: Adam Rudden
Contents
Editorial page 5
Marcus Strider Jones; The Dance pages 7-8
Its so Quiet pages 9-10
Pyramid Prison pages 11-12
Hats of Sociopathic Eclipse page 13
The Division Bell pages 14-15
Ninety Nine Percent in Tents page 16
Two Misfits page 17
Helen Harrison;
SEEDS pages19-20 POTATOES page 21
Haiku page 22
P D Lyons;
Magumbo page 24
Shhh & Grandview Avenue page 25
The Tree the Wind Lives In &
Lovers w/ the Cello Player page 26
Thank You page 27
Marie Lecrivain; Hemingway’s Veil page 29
State of the Neighbourhood page 30
Judith Thurley; Siraj Eyad Abdul page 32 Villanelle page 33 Me Caso Hoy pages 34-35
May page 36
Life is a Beautiful Dream pages 37-38
3
On The Wall
Message from the Alleycats page 40
Marie Lecrivain;
Marie’s work can be found pages 42-43
Marion Clarke;
Marion’s work can be found page 45
Round the Back
Press Releases Book Review and editorial pages 46-48
4
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/
Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman
Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland.
All rights reserved
The artists have reserved their right under Section 77
Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
To be identified as the authors of their work.
ISSN 2053-6119 (Print)
ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Cover Image “Equine Shadows” by Amos Greig
5
“Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and
history only the particular.” Aristotle.
Editorial
February is for many a quiet period Imbloc was only a few days ago and the weather
is starting to turn I’ve had a great deal of fun working on this issue and I believe the quality
of the submissions speaks for themselves.
The poets voice is one which sings the praises of passion and shines a light on the
darker aspects of humanity. A poet can use their words to inflict a barb or to help lance an old
wound. For me poetry can be a key for enabling Peace and Reconciliation.
Northern Ireland still bears the scars of the Troubles and we have started to stumble
over Peace and Reconciliation there is an emphasis on the past and history here sadly that history
can itself be biased and only helps pollute the future for other generations.
I’m pleased to say that we have reached a global audience and that we will continue
to operate as a platform for up and coming voices. We have some strong work from P D Lyons and
Judith Thurley some of these pieces will make you think and some will make you wonder at the
world around you. I hope you enjoy this issue and find something which stays with you. Our next
issue will be released in time for International Women’s Day.
Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!
Amos Greig
6
Biographical Note: Marcus Strider Jones
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from
Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A
member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are
modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and
metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a
maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his
saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
In 2014, his poetry has been published in A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27,
The Screech Owl, Catweazle Issue 5, Calliope and The Gambler
magazines; Degenerates Voices For Peace-Vagabonds: Anthology Of
The Mad; Killer Whale Journal; Dagda Publishing; The Huffington
Post USA; Writer’s Ezine; The Poets Haven-Vending Machine Poetry
for Change Volume 5; Sonic Boom Journal and The Open Mouse.
His poetry has also been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2
Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition;
Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal,
2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry
Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed
Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life
and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine;
Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry
Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal and East Coast Literary
Review.
7
THE DANCE
(Marcus Strider Jones)
pull the roof off
knock the walls down
touch the forest
climb those mountains
and smell the sea
again.
watch how life
decomposes
in death
going back to land
to reform and be reborn
as something and someone else.
there's no great secret to it all.
no need to overthink it through
food and shelter
fire and shamens
clothes and coupling
used to be enough
with musicians
artists
and poets
interpreting the dance.
then warriors with armies
religions with god
and minds buying and selling
stole the landscape
and changed time.
smash the windows
break down the doors
melt the keys
rub evil words from their spells
and puncture the lungs of their wheels
before they kidnap you from bed
call you dissident
hold you without charge
wheel you out on a stretcher
from waterboard torture
for years
without trial
in Guantanamo Bay.
they are selling
8
the sanctuary
we made
with our numbers
bringing back chains
making some of us slaves
outside the dance
in the five coloured rings
making winners
and losers
holding flags and flames.
9
IT'S SO QUIET
(Marcus Strider Jones)
it's so quiet
our eloquent words dying on a diet
of midnight toast
with Orwell's ghost-
looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket
pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet-
our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin
re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes
that came to him
in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools
where conscience learns to lie within.
not like today
the smug-sly haves say and look away
so sure
there's nothing wrong with wanting more,
or drown their sorrows
downing bootleg gin
knowing tomorrows
truth is paper thin
.
at home
in sensory
perception
with tapped and tracked phone
the Thought Police arrest me
in the corridors of affection-
where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats
in collapsing houses, all self-made
and self-paid
smarmy scrotes-
now the Round Table
of real red politics
is only fable
on the pyre of ghostly heretics.
they are rubbing out
all the contusions
and solitary doubt,
with confusions
and illusions
through wired media
defined in their secret encyclopedia-
where summit and boardroom and conclave
engineer us from birth to grave.
10
like the birds,
i will have to eat
the firethorn
berries that ripen but sleep
to keep
the words
of revolution
alive and warm
this winter, with resolution
gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,
to be reborn and speak.
11
PYRAMID PRISON
(Strider Marcus Jones)
in detritus metronomes
of human habitation
the ghost of Shelley's imagination
questions the elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse engineered
that suddenly appeared
as evolution yesterday.
her monster mirrors dark wells
of monsters in our smart selves,
the lost humanity and oratory
that fills laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism's
ectopic extinction.
this is our pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the debased
opposite steps of extremism,
like Prometheus Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching sphinx
abandoned by missing links.
free masons of money and wars,
warp the alter of natural laws,
so reason withers
and wastelands rust-
no longer rivers
of shared stardust
in the equal symphony of spheres
in space,
12
filling our ears
with subwoofer bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.
13
HATS OF SOCIOPATHIC ECLIPSE
(Marcus Strider Jones)
the cream
is a nightmare
seldom a dream,
that blood rare
stream
that rises
unstopped,
soured by bullies
whose wisdom has no worries
and despises
those who are not.
when truth becomes twisted
then hard fisted
and spoken rotten
over all we have forgotten,
you know the mask
want it to last
over us like the past.
they want us to be clones
of skin and blood and bones,
like frightened, servile drones
grateful but outcast.
corruption is the god
of the Significant,
so be wary as you plod
if your mind is wired different-
sordid business
gives soiled forgiveness
now the politics and technocrats
are Fixed:
let your individuality and normality
be the sense and conscience
against these hats of sociopathic eclipse.
14
THE DIVISION BELL
(Marcus Strider Jones)
they have civilised
the language of hatred
and corruption-
turned it into condensed
subliminal codes
to be absorbed
passively
and aspired to
through elite worship.
this softening,
that swims in intercourse
with Oppositions
and Self mandates
it's wars and poverty-
hides the bodies
from presentations
where the Smile and Fist
work together.
there is no Division Bell
that Speaks and Moves
with and for
the majority
marching past outside-
like Natives
carrying their bags of belongings,
being screened and moved
from lush lands
early into cemeteries
or onto cattle trains
out to desert Reservations.
the Doors
of cold centuries
blow open,
and we see
how Treaties
are still Broken and Abused-
by those we entrust
who have turned
the Globe of Everything
we are meant to Share
into something Bought and Sold
15
all Right to be Owned and Inherited.
most sheep don't Mass for much-
just a patch of grass to graze
and a shack to shag and sleep in-
a few, have their own field
and privately furnished rooms,
but when they all adore
w and k's first tour
on the front page and tv news
for twelve days of conditioning,
or letch and leer over the tits on page three-
the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law
makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-
until it comes for them.
16
NINETY NINE PERCENT IN TENTS
(Marcus Strider Jones)
in the compound of this room
we make our tent
with revolution's loom
knitting a firmament
that challenges corrupt times
with solemn slogans
to plutarch totems
simply marked on cardboard signs.
resistance kindles in the dark
and breathes new poetry and art
like a cultural tsunami
elites can't beat with armies.
these sincere spears
of human spheres
stand soft spoken,
peaceful, but not broken
like disciples in fabric domes
chanting social justice tomes
while Jesus circles existential
throwing speculators from the temple.
we don't need money in our tent
to make each other feel so spent-
only the sea shore, forest and mountains
to trickle streams and spurt fountains,
unlocking love when the cradle rocks
the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.
17
TWO MISFITS
(Marcus Strider Jones)
it was no time
for love outside-
old winds of worship
found hand and mouth
in ruined rain
slanting over cultured fields
into pagan barns
with patched up planks
finding us two misfits.
i felt the pulse
of your undressed fingers
transmit thoughts
to my senses-
aroused by autumn scents
of milky musk
and husky hay
in this barn's faith
we climbed the rungs of civilisation
so random in our exile-
and found a bell
housed inside a minaret-
with priest and muezzin
sharing its balcony-
summoning all to prayer
with one voice-
this holy music, was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.
18
Biographical Note: Helen Harrison
Helen was awarded funding from ‘The Arts Council of Northern
Ireland’, to study writing and poetry at ‘The Poets House’
Donegal during April last year, and gained inspiration and
knowledge during the 7 day course.
Helen has performed poetry at the Garage Theatre in Monaghan,
and at Monaghan Art Show. She has also performed at the ‘Bray
Arts Show’ in Wicklow, and has poems in the ‘Bray Journal’.
Helen enjoyed the pleasure of sharing some of her poetry,
through reading, on ‘The Creative Flow’ on Dundalk FM.
Helen has appeared at Belfast’s ‘Purely Poetry ‘open mic events.
She has recently been long-listed for The Allingham Festival prize.
And has had poems published in a recent edition of A New
Ulster.
Some of her poems are on a blog: ‘poetry4on.blogspot.com’
which is named ‘words4thought’.
19
SEEDS
(Helen Harrison)
1
On a Sunday in mid-summer
right at the edge of the park
you come to me;
talking future plans,
shining eyes,
and a heart that dared.
We saw ourselves
buying a car to travel
down to the coast
whenever we took the urge
All planned out under the elm
of eager spreading roots.
Many seeds scattered
ideas with wings on the breeze
hope floating all the way
towards the sea along winding
open-windowed roads.
20
SEEDS
2
Smashed in spring - the last
season you inhaled;
lying singing on the back seat.
The front driver’s side was saved,
letting me drive
to dreams that died.
Dreams have a way
Of coming at you by the front
And leaving by the back door.
I pass it now, the car
In the scrap yard
At the edge of the town
It’s only half now.
21
POTATOES (Helen Harrison) I can smell the sweet potato peel Upon my skin - and I visualise walking Amongst the summer rows. I pick over the box of earthy potatoes. When I pull one that is perfect I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget - Buried in my memory - a charm. I peel back happiness from the soil, Memories drop into a watery bowl; The day we planted them - sowing Love which had lain on the edges. Uncertain, I nearly threw love out With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges. Instead I wrapped them and stored them In a cold shed - for spring planting; I can already see your face shining pride At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance; The posture of the accomplished soul - your eyes, Stare lovingly at each planted offering.
22
HAIKU – Helen Harrison
SURVIVAL
Nurtured and nourished
After late spring arrival
The flowers flourished.
SCAVENGED
They picked the ribs clean
Inside the frozen carcass
No waste in nature.
LANDINGS
Winter birds landed
Fuelling idea during flight
Poems like seeds sprung growth.
WINGS
The frequent fluttering
Wings on winter bird table
Helped my poems take flight.
GROWTH
Those fresh spring ideas
After a frost-sharp silence
Cleared the cluttered mind.
to look at my bare face to find
a moroseness sharper than its facial
striations –
23
Biographical Note: P D Lyons
Tim Dwyer has recent publications in the Boyne Berries, Burning Bush 2, North West Words, Ropes 2014, Skylight 47 and wordlegs. His current manuscript is entitled Smithy Of Our Longings: Messages From The Irish Diaspora. He is poetry consultant to Catskills Irish Arts and a member of Irish American Writers And Artists. He is a psychologist at a correctional facility, grew up in Brooklyn and lives in the Hudson Valley of New York State. His parents were from Galway
24
Magumbo
(P D Lyons)
in the back yards of the moon
mountains ever silk
a cigarette a champagne
a dress for dinner
as if we would ever
be back
the only true things
ghosts unable to sleep
unable to abide the weight of age and flesh
princess and the cats
a woman afraid of her own jungle
hunter of the caged
a man afraid of mortality
how could our hungers meet?
how could our true nature reveal -
those ghosts we fear so much,
all the spirit we could have been
all we trade away so cheap.
in obligation of our evenings
entitlement of our heritage
sweat black the spear singers
sweat black the towel holders
as if the pale god held sway
with out the guns of our own steel
with out the cripple nature of our own fears
we could never make our way a way
25
Shhh (P D Lyons)
young legged dream
blue moon tights
pillows of lies
languid skirts
smudged red lips
shhh like smoke
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Grandview Avenue
We were walking
Hand in hand
Up the hill
In the rain
I had your bright red scarf
Wrapped around my head
Traffic swished by
Lights on
Wipers squelching
We didn’t know what the day would bring
But I turned my face up to the sky
Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me
(Waterbury Ct 2011)
26
The Tree the Wind Lives In (P D Lyons)
the tree the wind lives in drowses
a whisper something on the road
rain windows your passing soul
promises like rides to every hitchhiker never kept
smoky speculations headlight hide and seek
behind some kind of lace hung by my visiting mother
as if ever earned a simple gratitude
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lovers w/ the Cello Player
envy of every straight male
hugged by those knees
arms for which the word sinew was invented
hands entwined by pure blue vines
exquisite needles drawn from every inch
spread through
return to
our randomly occurring bodies
until this moment never knowing anything
27
Thank You
(P D Lyons)
My first cigar of the season
and I think of you Gabriel
I too have my river
like yours but different
although how different can rivers of men really be?
each travels the same
easiest option
easily taken
to the same sea
never stopping
each deals with whatever
is thrown into it
no matter what
only disappearing into the same saline never ending sea
does that sea greet you now
women you have loved and been loved by
comrades of good and not so good words food drink
fine smoke from properly rolled cigars
angels through an unlimited jungle of stainless sky
28
Biographical Note: Marie Lecrivain
Marie Lecrivain is the editor-publisher
of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a
photographer, and is writer-in-residence at her
apartment. Her work has appeared in various journals,
including Edgar Allen Poetry Journal, Maitenant, A New Ulster, The Ironic Fantastic, Nonbinary Review,
Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg
Review, and others. She’s the author of The Virtual
Tablet of Irma Tre (© 2014 Edgar & Lenore’s
Publishing House), and she’s the editor
of the anthology Near Kin: Words and Art inspired by
Octavia E. Butler (© 2014 Sybaritic Press). Her
avocations include alchemy, alternate modes of
transportation, H.P. Lovecraft, Vincent Price, steam
punk accessories, and the letter “S."
29
Hemingway's Veil (Marie Lecrivain) (Inspired by Hemingway's "Secret Pleasures") In the beginning, I watched my hair grow In the mirror, or at the glass windows at Maxims Where it looked longer after drinking my aperitif. I felt the locks curl about my ears of their own Accord, like Pauline's slender fingers, A tender and guilty caress that stripped me Of all desire to write, hunt, or to watch My hair grow in Maxim's windows. But since I'm not the most patient of men, And to hasten the growth, I stopped wearing suits, Bathing, and letting my wife caress My ears, as I feared this would make The follicles lose their desire to grow Over the broad terrain of my brow, And down the long line of my neck. Days pass. Weeks pass. The hair strives to cover As much ground as it can. I can't go to Maxims, Or Shakespeare and Co. without being Treated like a hobo, or that I'm too poor and too Mental to enjoy a good meal or borrow a book. My hair falls into my eyes and over my ears, A thick curly veil my body wove for itself. Today, I prepare myself to ford the stream From the left bank of the writer to the right bank of journalism. My hair obscures my vision. I can no longer watch where I step.
30
State of the Neighborhood (Marie Lecrivain) To protect and serve. This was a promise we could count on before days of remote CCTV cams and drones. In a lawless land, this is de rigueur. But now, take note of the stepped up presence of military ‘copters in our skies and the unsmiling people who freeze at the arbitrary need for the LAPD profiling of our friends and neighbors. I never leave the house without my wallet anymore, in case this happens to me. I believe it just might when I’m going to the store or out for a stroll one lovely spring day. What price freedom when trust is thrown away?
31
Biographical Note: Judith Thurley
Judith Thurley had her poetry pamphlet Listening for Hedgehogs published in 1995 by Lapwing Press in Belfast. She has since had poems published in Ireland, the US and Newfoundland & Labrador. She has had non-fiction nature prose published in A Wilder Vein by Two Ravens in Scotland and wrote a chapter on the nature poetry of Ulster as part of A Natural History of Ulster. She is a member of Word of Mouth Collective and QUB Writers' Group
32
Siraj Eyad Abdul-Aal
(Judith Thurley)
aged only 8, of Khan Younis,
I stood on the steps of Broadcasting House
and upheld your name for the cameras.
I pressed your name against my breast
as if that might succour you,
as if that might halt the missile,
as if that might unmake of rubble your home.
Siraj Eyad Abdul-Aal, aged only 8, of Khan Younis,
when we posted the thousand beloved names
of your dead neighbours
on the wall of Broadcasting House
saying them aloud, chanting justice, chanting
stop! -
we might as well have been
talking to the wall.
Siraj Eyad Abdul-Aal, aged only 8, of Khan Younis
I wish your mother to know
that I am still saying your name,
even here, even now.
33
Cameron climbs the stairs of the Ulster Hospital.
(Judith Thurley)
He took us two at a time with such virility!
(We were burnished the night before with polishing wax).
He trampled on us; he’d no time for disability,
on his pre-election tour of this healthcare facility.
(His helicopter was paid for with income tax).
He took us two at a time with such virility
as he strode, the picture of alpha-male health and fertility,
all pelvis and outstretched hand to the Unionist chaps.
He trampled on us, he’d no time for disability
and his eye scoured the hall; oh, we never saw such affability!
as he waved at the people whose jobs he was planning to axe.
He took us two at a time with such virility,
dismissing the workers’ fears and vulnerability
with a jovial grin: Vote me in! Then you can chillax!
He trampled on us, he’d no time for disability.
But the woman who cradled the child with the growth in his back,
stared him out, unimpressed by his gung-ho go-getter-bility.
He took us two at a time with such virility:
he trampled on us. He’d no time for disability.
34
Me caso hoy
(Judith Thurley)
Me caso hoy:
mis novios el mar
y el viento del norte.
El uno besa mi cara,
el otro bana mis pies.
El cormoran es el oficiante;
la garza real y arao negro,
nuestros testigos.
Olas y gaviotas tocan y cantan
y es solista
el mirlo de Belfast Lough.
Mis suegros seran
el sol y la luna
y mi familia las
cuatro estaciones.
La luna de miel
es aqui mismo
y seguira hasta que
me muera.
¡Que ningun hombre me atrape!
¡que ningun hombre me aprisione!
¡que ningun hombre me gobierne!
35
This is my wedding day.
(Judith Thurley)
This is my wedding day.
My grooms; the sea
and the north wind.
One kisses my face,
the other bathes my feet.
The cormorant is priest;
heron and black guillemot
our witnesses.
Waves and gulls
sing and play
and the soloist is
the blackbird of Belfast Lough.
Sun and moon
will be my in-laws,
and my family
the four seasons.
The honeymoon
is right here
and will last
till the day I die.
No man catch me.
No man imprison me.
No man govern me.
36
MAY
(Judith Thurley)
For Louis J, aged 2
I want to see the ribbons
Yes, the ribbons are beautiful
Where are the ribbons?
The ribbons are in a box
Where is the box?
The box is in the loft
Where is the loft?
The loft is up in the roof
Where is the roof?
The roof is on the school
Where is the school?
The school is among the trees
Where are the trees?
The trees are on top of the hill
Where is the hill?
The hill is above the town
Where is the town?
The town is beside the sea
Where is the sea?
The sea is behind the house
I want to see the sea.
37
life is a beautiful dream (Judith Thurley) my son on top of the hill waving his arms at me not quite in silhouette for it is still just light and behind him the great light of the sky and the sky arches over him and over me and I know if I turn, behind me there is the rustling sea and carving into the sea the golden curve of fields and trees a lean-to and huddle of hawthorn and whin the Point I can feel the sea’s restlessness I am inhaling the sea’s perfume her seaweed baths her pebble garlands and the universe is a shimmering bay between two juts of land and beyond them another cove another point and beyond that I learn that a moment like this is eternity where even the guttural the banal are an echo of the passion of heaven and when the robin and the blackbird
38
sing and children’s voices chime and drift on the salty air we are already in heaven and my son is on top of the hill waving to me against the light of the sky
39
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.
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!
40
FEBRUARY 2015’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
We still need more tuna. Arizahn still needs more gin. Send
tuna and gin quickly please. And James Bond (not the current one) to
work the tin opener, ta muchly! Valentine’s Day is looming once
again…well done John Byrne for spotting last issue’s deliberate mistake.
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”.
41
Biographical Note: Marie Lecrivain
Marie Lecrivain is the editor-publisher
of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and
is writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has appeared in
various journals, including Edgar Allen Poetry Journal, Maitenant,
A New Ulster, The Ironic Fantastic, Nonbinary Review,
Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and
others. She’s the author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (©
2014 Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House), and she’s the editor
of the anthology Near Kin: Words and Art inspired by Octavia E.
Butler (© 2014 Sybaritic Press). Her avocations include alchemy,
alternate modes of transportation, H.P. Lovecraft, Vincent Price,
steam punk accessories, and the letter “S."
42
Accidental Isoceles by Marie Lecrivain
Camoflage by Marie Lecrivain
43
Lethe by Marie Lecrivain
44
Biographical Note: Marion Clarke
Marion Clarke is a writer and artist from Warrenpoint, County
Down. Her poetry and fiction has appeared in literary journals,
including Burning Bush II and The Linnet’s Wings. In 2013 her
entry was long-listed in the Desmond O’Grady international poetry
competition.
An advocate of Japanese-style short form poetry (haiku, senryu,
haibun, haiga and tanka) Marion’s work has been widely published
internationally and in 2012 she received a Sakura Award in the
Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Competition. Highly
commended in the Irish Haiku Society’s International Competition
in 2012 and 2013, she was delighted to be placed third in last year’s
event. In 2014 she was the overall winner of Dublin’s Carousel
Summer Haiku Competition and last November was invited to read
her poetry at the launch of the inaugural Seamus Heaney Award in
the Linen Hall Library, Belfast.
45
Pearl-Moon by Marion Clarke
46
In this edition, Assistant Editor and Senior Alley Cat Wrangler Arizahn reviews a
recent independently published novel from Texas - Ashes Upon The Snow (Carroll C.
Martin), and asks awkward questions of our attitudes towards literature.
Ashes Upon The Snow is a supremely gradual suspense, and a challenging read.
Author Carroll C. Martin demonstrates his deeply rooted connection to the source
material from the very first page. He paints a vivid image of the gritty innocence of
rural life within 1920’s Texas. In addition, his personal experience within law
enforcement ensures a detailed coverage of the investigation and subsequent trial.
However there is a recurrent tendency to over clarify that jars with the overall subtlety
of the narrative. Additionally, the author flits through time when providing back story
information. This isn’t easy to read as there are no clear indicators as to when it is
happening until after the event has been read about.
The effect of these co-existing memoirs for the characters is unsettling, as it is
difficult to predict how or when the main plot will proceed. And perhaps this is one of
the novel’s strengths: the reader is unable to sit comfortably with it. It is a window
into a reality that is far removed from our own, despite it having been inspired by real
world events. Whether this work requires an editor or merely a patient and attentive
reader can only ever be a matter of perspective. What remains as undeniable is that the
author knows precisely where he is taking his audience and won’t be rushed. This
dogged, inevitable approach conveys the unrelenting march of history all too well and
renders the reader as utterly powerless in its wake. Not everyone enjoys this form of
storytelling, and it is truly delightful to find an example of it enduring within today’s
quick fix society.
It is also intensely surprising. This style of writing is dying out, leaving our shelves
and minds poorer for its passing. Ask yourself this – how many times have you been
disappointed with the content or narrative tone of the latest so-called best seller? Why
47
are so many of the current titles available at a vastly reduced price so very soon after
their release? We could perhaps point fingers at the dreaded e-book market. “Blame
the independent authors; blame online sellers; blame those who won’t charge a decent
price!” But instead let’s be blunt. It’s not down to them at all. It’s down to the reader
base that refuses to buy anything at a price where it can be sustainable.
This isn’t as much of a concern for the established publishers. Mainstream book
selling is a balancing act of clever marketing and cut throat production techniques.
The reason that it is so difficult to break into this world is because those running it
will only risk taking on those that they can reliably sell. And that means that they want
formula. When the standard fare consistently sells enough copies to cover the cost of
producing it, you don’t change the recipe. At least not until enough consumers notice
that the flavour is unsatisfactory. By that point there will be another title ready to
shoulder the mantle of latest best seller, and another author hoping to close the
difference between their advance and the production costs. Only then can they hope to
receive any royalty payments.
Independent authors struggle to keep on trying in the face of such inevitable ennui.
Why should they pour out another measure of their soul if no one is prepared to
acknowledge their craft? Every ten pages of a finished novel will represent on average
two weeks of hard work – anything from six to ten hours of solid graft per day. With
an average page count of three hundred, this means that there has been a year’s worth
of effort involved. This includes not only writing, but research and development,
typesetting, proofing, revisions, perhaps even artwork. There may be expenditure
required for those authors who cannot manage the whole circus single handed. The
end result is a labour of love; a dream made real despite the pressures of the author’s
everyday life and career – and it will stand the best hope of selling if it is priced at
£0.99 to £3.99 per copy.
These prices render producing a printed copy impossible for the independent author. It
would actually cost more to make the book than they would receive from its sale,
hence the tendency to go straight to e-book editions in the hope of garnering enough
revenue to validate an eventual print run. Their only other viable alternative is the
print on demand formula, with its inevitably higher price tag. The author must be
prepared for a doubly uphill battle to win enough interest to be able to sell their work,
and they will only receive the royalties once they have sold enough copies to translate
into £100. At perhaps thirty pence average royalty amount per copy, this will take a
while.
Little wonder that the literary agents remain so powerful; holding the connections to
mainstream publication and all of its supposed financial benefits. “You must have an
agent; an agent will mean that you are taken seriously; an agent opens doors.” In my
view, more doors are blocked by the expectation for authors to have agents – they
have become the priesthood of literature. Authors are believed to be incapable of
representing themselves and sadly most accept this to be true. It is arguably a myth
which suits agents and publishers a little too well. Modern technology has enabled a
freedom of expression that was undreamt of in previous eras. With this freedom has
come the tendency to regard self-publishing as the contemporary vanity press. But is
48
this genuinely the case, or are independent authors better than some might like us to
believe? The official stamp of a mainstream publishing house is no guarantee of
quality. Typesetting and proofing errors aside, there is no denying that the overall
standard for literary technique has stagnated.
Having been delving into the available material on both sides of the fence, I have
concluded that the only real difference is in marketing. Certainly there is good and bad
literature being produced by all involved. And of course we as readers have every
right to demand that what we consume should fall into the former category. However
we also need to question our outlook with regards to the value of literature. Because
whether they are commercially published or independent, it is fair to say that authors
are not doing this for the money; or at least not after the first time that they attempt it.
They write for the same reason that birds fly, and it is past time to appreciate this.
(Where the deuce has the usual cat gone to?)
49
50
LAPWING PUBLICATIONS RECENT and NEW TITLES
978-1-909252-35-6 London A Poem in Ten Parts Daniel C. Bristow
978-1-909252-36-3 Clay x Niall McGrath
978-1-909252-37-0 Red Hill x Peter Branson
978-1-909252-38-7 Throats Full of Graves x Gillian Prew
978-1-909252-39-4 Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro
978-1-909252-40-0 A Long Way to Fall x Andy Humphrey
978-1-909252-41-7 words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne
978-1-909252-42-4 Red Roots - Orange Sky x Csilla Toldy
978-1-909252-43-1 At Last: No More Christmas in London x Bart Sonck
978-1-909252-44-8 Shreds of Pink Lace x Eliza Dear
978-1-909252-45-5 Valentines for Barbara 1943 - 2011 x J.C.Ireson
978-1-909252-46-2 The New Accord x Paul Laughlin
978-1-909252-47-9 Carrigoona Burns x Rosy Wilson
978-1-909252-48-6 The Beginnings of Trees x Geraldine Paine
978-1-909252-49-3 Landed x Will Daunt
978-1-909252-50-9 After August x Martin J. Byrne
978-1-909252-51-6 Of Dead Silences x Michael McAloran
978-1-909252-52-3 Cycles x Christine Murray
978-1-909252-53-0 Three Primes x Kelly Creighton
978-1-909252-54-7 Doji:A Blunder x Colin Dardis
978-1-909252-55-4 Echo Fields x Rose Moran RSM
978-1-909252-56-1 The Scattering Lawns x Margaret Galvin
978-1-909252-57-8 Sea Journey x Martin Egan
978-1-909252-58-5 A Famous Flower x Paul Wickham
978-1-909252-59-2 Adagios on Re – Adagios en Re x John Gohorry
978-1-909252-60-8 Remembered Bliss x Dom Sebastian Moore O.S.B
978-1-909252-61-5 Ightermurragh in the Rain x Gillian Somerville-Large
978-1-909252-62-2 Beethoven in Vienna x Michael O'Sullivan
978-1-909252-63-9 Jazz Time x Seán Street
978-1-909252-64-6 Bittersweet Seventeens x Rosie Johnston
978-1-909252-65-3 Small Stones for Bromley x Harry Owen
978-1-909252-66-0 The Elm Tree x Peter O'Neill
978-1-909252-67-7 The Naming of Things Against the Dark and The Lane x
C.P. Stewart
More can be found at
https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/home All titles ￡10.00 per paper copy or in PDF format ￡5.00 for 4 titles. In PDF format £5.00 for 4 titles.
