A New Ulster issue seven
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Transcript of A New Ulster issue seven
Featuring the works of Amy Barry, Neil Ellman, Oonah V Joslin, Michael Loughran, David McLean, Maire Morrissey-Cummins, Chris Murray, Felino A. Soriano, Rachel Sutcliffe, Rachael Stanley, Brigid Walshe and Adrian Fox. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 7 April 2013
2
A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig
On the Wall Editor: Arizahn
Website Editor: Adam Rudden
Contents
Cover Image by Amos Greig
Editorial page 6
Amy Barry;
The Causatum page 7
My Mother page 8
Shadows on the Irish Sea page 10
Neil Ellman;
The Charisma of Wild Dreams page 12
The Palace of the Windowed Rocks page 13
Ventriloquist and Crier in the moor page 14
TIME – camouflage moss green page 15
Oonah V Joslin;
Love to the power page 17
Sunday School Trip page 18
My First Elephant page 19
Mopping up Lessons page 20
Sunburst Skirt page 21
Cinders page 22
Down to Earth page 23
Paint box Philosophy page 24
Michael Loughran;
The Daily Peals page 26
Concern for the Dead page 27
Batman in Carnlough page 28
Bellurgan Point: A Portrait page 29
On Ellis Island page 30
David McLean;
Subject position & sunrise page 32
Unimportant swords & the gray page 33
Where it was page 34-35
Maire Morrissey-Cummins;
The Commute page 37
Letter to my daughter page 38-39
The Measure of Life page 40
Rusty Clippings page 41
Guilt - A Small Life page 42
Chris Murray;
A reed song page 44
3
Felino A. Soriano;
Of trumpet page 46
+13+ page 47
+14+ page 48
Rachel Sutcliffe;
DisOrder page 50
Sunday dinner page 51
Rachael Stanley;
2053 page 53
Brigid Walshe;
Regrets; for the way we were page 55-56
On The Wall
Message from the Alleycats page 58
Maire Morrisey-Cummins;
Maire’s work can be found pages 60-66
Round the Back
Adrian Fox page 68 Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to:
Submissions Editor
A New Ulster
24 Tyndale Green, Belfast BT14 8HH
Alternatively e-mail: [email protected]
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/
4
Published in Baskerville
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.
5
Editorial
March has been a fairly good month artistically speaking there are so many
publications and anthologies coming out that I am reminded or the arrival of birds as they
journey from the Saharan deserts. My own work has been published in three anthologies and
I’m working on several art pieces as well.
As March ended and April approached we were hit by some fairly heavy snow fall here
at A New Ulster. It affected our power and left us snowed in for roughly seven days. One
benefit of this was an opportunity to engage in some painting and a few sketches. I did miss the
launch of Poetry in Motion’s launch of Moments the anthology that one of my poems
appeared in. The poem in question was written twelve years ago at the John Hewitt summer
school.
I found myself wondering how long is it reasonable to wait to try and get a poem
published? I had never submitted this poem to any journal or publication before there is a
period of waiting which chafes at the nerves the anticipation and worry. I understand what it’s
like to wait for that letter, email or phone call. That is why at A New Ulster we try to respond as
quickly as possible to each and every submission. Sometimes there are so any submissions
though that there may be delays in communication.
We have been experimenting with recording poetry and have been using Soundcloud
as well as Audicity. If we can get the kinks worked out we will look into adding sound
recordings of poems onto the website. Speaking of the website I’d like to thank Adam Rudden
for all the hard work that he has put into making the website not only look amazing but
functional as well.
Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!
Amos Greig
6
Biographical Note: Amy Barry
Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. Her
poems have been published in anthologies,
journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Travels
to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all
inspired her work. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.
7
The Causatum (Japan-March 2011)
Quivering fear,
a dread of another. They all were listening,
to the voices on the radio. Children, families
stared at the sky
darkened to the same gray as the water,
they couldn’t tell where the sea ended
and the sky began.
They shook their heads, searching for answers,
the crisis spiraling out of control.
What could be salvaged?
In the center of the room,
two village elders, on their knees,
had fallen silent. Smoke from joss sticks,
veiled their ancient faces. Sunken eyes,
flabby jaws, their lips moving.
Supplicating.
Amy Barry
8
My Mother
I remember,
she struggled to open her eyes,
fought her way through delirium,
her lips wrinkled like dried dates.
Dazed by heavy medication
she slept then woke confused,
alarmed, floated in and out of dreams.
Her cheekbones protruded
her smooth pale face,
the smell of urine lingered on
her once white dress,
she had become nothing
but bones, and frail misfortune.
In the cloudless sky
one winter spring morning,
she opened her eyes
her pupils dull,
she took my hand,
placed it on her breast,
she knew, sobbed softly,
steadying herself on me,
‘Take good care of yourself.’
9
Thinner, smaller, the life force leaving,
Silent,
I knew,
I had to let her
Go.
Amy Barry
10
Shadows on the Irish Sea
Pain gathered in his chest,
a sense of being marooned,
so thick, it clotted,
choked his breathing.
His wife, lying
in some unmarked grave,
he wished he was invisible,
had evaporated into green-silk,
and misty air.
Sun set in sharp autumn chill,
black shadows, quavered,
her image
on a rippling sea.
Amy Barry
11
Biographical Note: Neil Ellman
Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. More
than 700 of his poems appear in print and online
journals, anthologies, broadsides and eleven
pamphlet/chapbooks throughout the world. He has
been nominated twice for Best of the Net, as well as
for a Rhysling Award from the Science Fiction
Writers Association.
12
The Charisma of Wild Dreams
(after the painting by Jonathan Lasker)
Charismatic spells and charms
magnetic lure of turbulence in dreams
the allure of the senseless wild
draws us in, compels;
we wander in a briar patch
of artefacts and memories
lost travellers through a world
familiar but foreign
overgrown but desolate
filled with unfamiliar truths
we are attracted to
to the wilderness in dreams
as if it were the truth.
Neil Ellman
13
The Palace of the Windowed Rocks
(after the painting by Yves Tanguy)
I live here
in the palace of the windowed rocks
among the shadows
cast by pinnacles of salt
anticipate the nether world
defeated by the sun
the moon, the universe
my own conceit
I, hidden, secreted
behind hot glass and stone
I, alone
among the stalagmites
that rise from hell
contemplate my destiny
and wish that I were never born.
Neil Ellman
14
Ventriloquist and Crier in the Moor
(after the painting by Paul Klee)
My voice reverberates
though empty rooms
impersonates the wind
the trees, the moors
another’s life
I am here, there
wherever you hear
me throw my voice
I am there
still here
I masquerade
the likeness of myself
in wood
I pull the strings
or it pulls mine
my voice is its
or its is mine.
Neil Ellman
15
TIME - camouflage moss green,
(after the painting by Takashi Murakami)
Seconds in hours
days in weeks
months in stolen years.
Centuries pass behind a cloud
and disappear.
Millennia camouflaged
In moss-green oblivion—
this masquerade of life
concealed by time.
Neil Ellman
16
Biographical Note: Oonah V Joslin
Oonah V Joslin was born in Ballymena and now lives in
Northumberland from where she edits the e-zine Every Day
Poets. Oonah has won three MicroHorror prizes and has
judged both poetry and nmicrofiction competitions. You can
find out more at http://www.oovj.wordpress.com
17
Love to the power
(Practically speaking, a physicist needs only 39 digits of Pi) to make a circle the
size of the observable universe.)
true
love is irrational
a transcendental
constant
symbolised by a circle of gold
x diameters
like a kiss
to travel revolutions
is one of the biggest numbers known
bigger than the universe requires
without recurrence it goes
on and on
you and I and love to the power
the answer to infinity
Oonah V Joslin
18
Sunday School Trip
The sash window with its leather pull-up strap
too heavy for young arms
defies me
but once open, hands and head push through
to feel the breeze, taste smoke,
the danger of tunnels.
Scratchy seats stipple dimples on knees
mother fusses, warns and clucks as the train
clacks on over the points,
to the end of the track and safety of buffers.
We return each year to beach and salty sea,
salt crisps, sandwiches, sandcastles, sandals, sand;
a long day’s play.
Clink of teacups in the orange hall echoes
sanctimonious supervision.
Later supine on the seat
I imagine
the net rack above me filled
with fishes and loaves.
The long day has been swallowed
by a whale I fit into my new bucket
along with razors, crab shells,
star-fish-peppermint-rock-pool dreams.
The seamless joggling rocks me, rocks me, rocks me
as any child
making his journey home.
Oonah V Joslin
19
My first elephant
My first elephant
thought we were twins
my sister and me, dressed in Sunday best.
Couldn’t tell the difference between
me in blue and her in green,
like he’d never seen children before.
He raised his great grey trunk
sniffing
all wrinkled
not neat as pins like us
not flecked with tweed.
Splattered with mud he was and curious.
I moved away
cautiously.
Decided I didn’t like zoos.
I was afraid
I might mess up my shoes.
Oonah V Joslin
20
Mopping Up Lessons
Fifties cream and brown
classroom décor,
teacher’s frown.
Graffiti-carved oak desks with
lift-up lid and turn-down seat.
Unfathomable symbols everywhere.
Writing well,
blue-black Quink ink.
Everything neat on the line.
Cast-iron chimney stove rose
high as times tables.
Row upon row,
of third-pint bottles wait in crate;
frosted silver caps
thawed by the stove for break.
I suck the slick of sour, gloopy cream.
Swallow hard.
Throw up.
They call my sister from the yard
make her get a bucket;
mop it up.
Humiliation.
Salt of tears
made permanent by pee
sours all success.
Oonah V Joslin
21
Sunburst Skirt
My yellow skirt was pleated
like a million rays of sun
it rose, covered in roses;
formed a circle as I spun
around and round, it twirled
open like summer flowers
white, orange, yellow, green,
lemon sear-sucker blouse
fluffy bolero puff-sleeve top
cascading waves of golden locks.
Was there anything in town as bright
as my feet in citrus ankle socks
or me in my sunburst skirt?
Oonah V Joslin
22
Cinders
They called it a ball
I dressed for a ball
in a ball gown of blue
all chiffonny new
under-layered with net
Cinders, eat your heart out!
I’ll never forget
the look on their faces
my mini-skirt friends.
Nothing erases
their pitying looks
as they begged me to stay.
There was no magic coach to whisk me away
and so the story ends
unhappily.
Oonah V Joslin
23
Down to earth
Give me the feet for seven measured years
laced into start-rites
broad of toe
and I will give
you the woman
teetering a moment
on high heels
toying with the idea of
platforms
but not for long.
Oonah V Joslin
24
Paint Box Philosophy
Shades of green
jade, bottle, Brunswick, sap, emerald, forest
mine all mine. I find
the perfect purple for tree trunks.
Ask my mother what the white is for.
At twelve
I’ve twelve long months
ahead
in which to dance
and dare
to read, write, paint and be
this living book.
White is for mixing.
Jaded,
control illusory,
sap dry.
The older self, afraid,
seeks ochre-rich shades;
warmth for the sombre crimson
of my own, dear blood.
White was for muddying.
Oonah V Joslin
25
Biographical note: Michal Loughran
Michael Loughran, 22, was born and raised in Belfast, Northern
Ireland. He spends much of his time wandering with a notepad and
an untrustworthy biro. He's had work published with Crannog, The Poetry Bus, wordlegs, inksweat&tears and The Journal.
26
The Daily Peals.
Clappers interrupt each morning
with laboured, sonorous thwacks.
Birds skitter on branches, and scarper -
no competing with that racket!
They even meddle with thoughts;
an oxidized bell welcomes itself
to tea, custard creams and the remote.
It is enough to drive you mad,
a bit like Sweeney, the mad king.
Was he really? S'pose he wanted peace
from bells that cluttered the country
and it was all an elaborate ruse?
Never just the one, either. Many ring,
often just out of sync, each toll louder
than the previous. Do bell-ringers pant
and tug their ropes in competition?
There is even the Angelus on RTÉ.
Not ringing through foggy dew, but T.V,
making each chew on dinner considered,
like a dog caught with a slipper.
Michael Loughran
27
Concern for the Dead.
Be certain about it, then bury me.
Tumble me into a trench. Drop me
into the deeps of a cave. Get an axe.
Excoriate. Feast on strips and slabs.
Slather my skull in red ochre...
No. Put me to rest among others.
Nestle a pet between my ankles.
Sprinkle the grave with periwinkles.
Make sure I'm anatomically correct,
that my legs and arms are in check.
Lend me a sword, lay it lengthwise,
pommel against my chin, east to west.
Elevate the ground. Build a mound.
Construct a dolmen like Poulnabrone.
Embalm me. Scramble my brain.
Replace my eyes with obsidian...
Do whatever it takes, then leave.
Leave the body to deteriorate
and convert what it was, again,
as it always has, and will again
until all remaining stars go out.
Michael Loughran
28
Batman in Carnlough.
I left him there, slanted-eyes skyward,
somewhere near the marram, half-buried
as a wall of cumulonimbus edged in;
granules accrued on his grey-blue suit,
submerged a yellow belt, black boots,
black cape, and swallowed a prong-eared cowl...
I look back and wonder if the tide came
and rescued him. If, from the shallow grave,
it delivered him, and returned him to Gotham.
Michael Loughran
29
Bellurgan Point: A Portrait.
Landscape fatigues. Sky, a sepulchral expanse,
and ground,
another sepulchral sheet, though this' muculent,
converge on a horizon out on a bitter, rippling sea.
On this grey canvas are stranded boats, who bore
the brunt of gales and slanted rains, and yet – colour
splashes of it
on the boats; red, blue, and green leap from grey.
Their masts matches. Windows catch faint light.
I find myself among the boats, stomping sediment,
forming footprints
with each laboured step, peeling flakes of paint,
calling crews long disembarked, spooking birds
(who, back among long-grassed banks, vanish),
inspecting trails of viscera on decks, and tapping
panes upon panes in search of hoary seafarers,
who may or may not have tall tales to tell,
until I lose track of time, and place, and name.
So I sit
and sink into earth, look back at a pallid cottage
reduced in scale, and rest beside a scarred trawler.
Blank beams puncture clouds, pools reflect
paler heavens,
and I wait, wait, wait for some incoming tide.
Michael Loughran
30
On Ellis Island
Breath waxed and waned on windows.
Sullied adults and children looked in awe
at Manhattan, it gleamed across the way
and I stood watching from the present,
as mothers bit nails and twisted garments
fearing inspections and long detentions
or an untimely return home with the lame
in a cramped, leaky boat rocking eastward
across the vast, sub-zero graveyard.
I paced the same scuffed wood floors,
and smelt myriad odours; sea, sweat, lovers -
memories that lingered in stitching.
In one frigid room a priest performed
make-shift mass, coats as pews, hands gestured
skywards: prayers. Did their stoicism lessen
on arrival day, now they were but hours away
from an expectant cousin, a kindly patron,
and a dusty fourth floor room in a tenement?
Along the narrow sick-bay corridors, echoes,
a thousand tongues, and high-pitched squeals -
cries as doctors prodded with instruments.
I followed the steps of millions into the dock,
from weary, aspirational men and women
to tourists who flock year upon year to check
if a family member survived that journey
and got a foothold in that blooming country.
Michael Loughran
31
Biographical Note: David McLean
David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since
1987. He lives there with his dog and cats. In addition to six
chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry
collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press,
2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and
LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010).
His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is coming in
2014. During 2013 a seventh chapbook SHOUTING AT
GHOSTS is forthcoming from Grey Book Press. More
information about McLean can be found at his
blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/
32
subject position
the subject posits himself
somewhere in the sentence
with deliberate gender
and massive attacks
of ponderous and pompous -
the golden fucking bowl,
insolent subject at home
sunrise
the sun comes up
as if apologetic,
and submerged somewhere
spin the ironic stars
their massive absence
everywhere -
they are not in us,
not here,
they purr as fat as cats
and we are still nowhere
David McLean
33
unimportant swords
they dress words up
like unimportant swords
somebody forgot after a battle
once, one that didn't matter much;
just sticks and stones for children,
which do not matter either,
because the earth is for bodies
and blood, and not one of us
likes to do enough living
the gray
the gray is death and forgettable,
dust and muffins, so a text
is nascent sexuality
becoming itself again,
remnants and ruin, corpulent
cadavers dancing where nothing
takes many chances -
we are the absent dead
and we are the dancing
David McLean
34
where it was
i
where it was there was just one evident god on the apparent water, as if every
washing machine had long since surrendered itself and been sold because of
dreams or for some other impossible reasons, it was the living death of trees that
might come together to stand outside a house and bless it or curse it, depending
upon their temper and upon the weather
ii
a shaded glade for the decline of memory
and all the harsh and punitive fathers, all the medieval
children who are ghosts and dead
and centuries away, maybe
light dancing on a dead leaf,
it might just have been
dreaming
iii
and you were still sleeping motionless, a burden on some bed that might have
been mine since time begun, or maybe just a few years and a personal history
that never seemed important, just the blood that rises in veins while Cadaver waits
impatient on his mouldy pillow like a sexy extra in a zombie move . the water was
in my veins like time was, and you were a tribute and a tributary, unnecessary
rivers running out of Eden and forever and spreading everywhere like
consciousness of the Other being nothing and superfluous, being arrows and
answers, the spastic dance of all the other absences
iv
and we bled memory, Amanda,
like night lies down to surrender passion
naked on a cannibal god's plate,
and no Jesus to wash the needy feet
of all the deaf lepers, all the dead men
just time still waiting to end
and be memory again
35
v
and the necessity of resurrection was not your perpetual motionlessness, not the
sun leaping up like a spring duck from frozen water to assert life and the dreadful
inevitability of eternal return. it was just you and me and dirty sheets, another
nothing to be, not nights of the white Christ, just this tenuous subsistence, the
timelessness of memory in me, you alive, here in me we are always need and
night
David McLean
36
Biographical note: Máire Morrissey-Cummins
Máire is Irish. She is early retired and has found joy in
writing and art. She loves to get lost in words or paint.
She has been published with Every Day Poets,
Wordlegs, The First Cut, New Ulster, Open Road
Review, The Galway Review, Bray Arts, Notes from the
Gean, Lynx, A Hundred Gourds, and many online and
print magazines worldwide.
.
37
The Commute
The train empties
dark coats
shuffle the ticket barrier
spilling into the station.
Collars upturned,
shadows shudder
a biting night.
Bodies collide
diverging the pavement.
A bus engine hums,
stench of diesel
fouls the air.
Shadows bounce
under the lamplight.
Legs scramble waiting cars.
Doors bang,
headlights blare.
The crush of bodies
calms as I crouch
the grimy night.
Key in the latch,
smiling eyes greet me.
My heart warms
as I close the door
on the daily grind.
Máire Morrissey-Cummins
38
Letter to my daughter
“I sat down to write to my daughter and this poem unfolded. I realised
when I was writing it that she grew up in Holland and her Irish years
were just a few and she now lives and works in Madrid due to the
recession. She is my Irish girl but she hardly lived here. I hope someday she will
return as I did.”
I used your mug for my tea today,
I thought it needed airing.
Your name etched in green
with the Irish flag flying,
a white shamrock growing on the side.
It is a fine mug,
from your Kylemore days,
befitting your name,
testament to your Irishness.
As I hold it up, it catches the light.
I see the flash of orange,
but your Dutch life comes to mind,
and then a splash of red
taints my thoughts as I acknowledge
your new Spanish life.
With your Irish mug in hand,
you are my cailín na hÉireann
but you barely lived here.
The sun is shining today,
the garden radiant
with a glint of your touch
in the chard, still growing strong.
And the mustard cress,
from one seed, a massive mound.
You, who had no interest in gardening
have left so much of your spirit behind.
The yellow rose has more buds
than it could ever hope to bloom,
39
and the white Lilac is sweetly scented
especially for you.
I smile to myself,
mo leanbh beag bán-dearg
and I wish you were here today.
Lunch in the garden has no appeal without you.
The new teak loungers
lonely on the deck,
they await your return.
The fold-up table, weathered
from our years of use.
It holds memories of your wonderful salads,
displayed and presented lovingly
in the wide ceramic bowl.
I think of the countless pots of tea,
the elder flower cordial
and the jam we made together
as we journeyed
through our Greystones years.
I look at the garden,
there are traces of you everywhere
in all your glory.
Note: Kylemore days – Kylemore Abbey Boarding School, Galway, Ireland
where my daughter studied for five years while we lived in Holland.
The school has recently been closed sadly.
my cailín na hÉireann = Gaelic for my Irish girl
mo leanbh beag bándearg = Gaelic for my little pink girl
Máire Morrissey-Cummins
40
The Measure of Life
She coiled her hair
in curling tongs.
Ringlets danced
her shoulders,
bounced like springs,
down her back,
as she cocked her head
to usher me into her room.
I glimpsed her blithe look
in the mirror.
My little girl
still playing a game
of dress up.
Fixing her makeup,
her cheeks contoured,
eyes sparkling,
lips, a glossy shine,
I basked in her glow,
in glory and wonder.
I recalled the tears,
the years of straightening
her twists and turns.
We hugged with pride,
a Master in Psychoanalysis.
And as we commenced
to her graduation,
the rain lashed
her curls straight.
Máire Morrissey-Cummins
41
Rusty Clippings
The old lady who lives
in the house on the seafront,
stands with rusty shears
trimming her hedge of purple Hebe.
Elbows bent, she clips salty air,
watching for people passing by.
A sprawling house
in a state of disrepair,
her life exists in a solitary room.
Loneliness seeps
from faded rose patterned wallpaper.
Curtains sag, stale with senility.
A tired burgundy carpet
threads the stairs
to a forgotten world.
Framed photographs
stare from the mantelpiece,
their faces buried in her memory.
Her eyes gaze out the sea,
absorbed by the soothing swish of the waves.
Her life story held in the flow
of an ever changing tide
and the rusty shears by the hedge
Máire Morrissey-Cummins
42
Guilt - A Small Life
A granite seat
by the seafront,
the wild winds of June
wrap around me.
I stare out to sea
eyes well up with tears
her angry words
clog my mind.
Alone with my thoughts,
fears unravel,
weave with the salty sea breeze.
I taste freedom,
a burning strength
surges within.
I close my eyes
breathe in the briny air,
unbridle myself
of my mother's guilt,
her small world
a game of blame.
I watch seagulls dip
wings outstretched
skimming reflections.
Seaweed sways
in sun-filled tide pools,
waters lap
clouds drift
anxiety abates.
I stand to leave,
the wind shifts behind me
urging me on.
My hair catches the breeze
swept up in a gale,
coat flapping
I’m almost ready
to fly.
43
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)andthe 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. Chris writes 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.
44
a reed song
whistle-in
sing the hollow-pipes
of bird-bone or leg-tube
jointed to.
leech into soil's black trauma
a double-reed will always carry down
its muffled tune
from contort of leaf to nub of root
there is bone substance to
the fallen bough as
there is to the winged-bird
both perfume.
a maerl of
barely encloses both
the feathered and
the not,
a shell maybe -
Chris Murray
45
Biographical note: Felino A. Soriano
Felino A. Soriano has authored nearly five dozen collections of
poetry, including Extolment in the praising exhalation of jazz (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2013), the collaborative volume
with poet, Heller Levinson and visual artist, Linda Lynch, Hinge Trio (La Alameda Press, 2012) and rhythm:s (Fowlpox Press,
2012). He publishes the online endeavours Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His work finds foundation in
philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz
music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is the
director of supported living and independent living programs
providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities. For
further information, please visit www.felinoasoriano.info.
46
from Quintet Dialogues: translating introspection
Of trumpet
┼12┼
rewind
to the version un-yet developed, for the body
imposes impractical skeletal survival
leading to culture-birthing importance of etched circumstantial
freedoms,
—prisms engage solely when
attended, attained,
affirmed through windows and willingness to
perforate temporal re-living, inadequately labelled
in the sobriquet of reminiscence
Felino A. Soriano
47
┼13┼
fascinated colours
fissures the indentations’ gradated freedoms
of
modular
travels unravelling
as do fingers among a weakened momentary hiatus of trust
lavender into gray
yellow manifestations abridging darkened necessary
meaning
meandering across fallible landscapes
hovering or when silence
recreates angled listening, absurd
Felino A. Soriano
48
┼14┼
outside the
photograph of silence escaped each exposing hand and
the
reuniting aspects of sound or
improvised collaborations of nuance
the
unframed body paused
or quoted
an
onlooking
dichotomy
“____________”
following release the corporeal
insignia left within steps’ organic
feature of ambulatory understanding
Felino A. Soriano
49
Biographical note: Rachel Sutcliffe
Rachel Sutcliffe has suffered from an atypical form of lupus
for the past 12 years, since her early twenties. Throughout
this time writing has been a great form of therapy, it’s kept
her from going insane. Rachel is an active member of a
writing group, and she also has her own blog which may be
found @ http://projectwords11.wordpress.com She has seen
many of her pieces published in various anthologies and
journals, both in print and online, including thefirstcut,
Barefoot Review and Every Day Poets plus the haiku
journals Shamrock, Lynx, The Heron’s Nest, A Hundred
Gourds and Notes From The Gean.
50
DisOrder
There’s a crumb on the carpet
Ignore it,
You’ve hoovered today.
There’s a smudge on the sideboard
Forget it,
You’ve polished today.
There’s a mark on the window
Leave it,
You’ve cleaned today.
I can’t
Can’t ignore them,
That crumb
That smudge
That mark.
I’ll clean
Then it’ll be ok,
One day
Won’t it?
Rachel Sutcliffe
51
Sunday dinner
As a child it was my job
To lay the table
For Sunday dinner.
I remember the Sunday you called
As I laid the table
And the scent of roast dinner
Wafted through the house.
You told us she’d died.
My favourite Aunt
Was suddenly
No more.
Still now
Years later
Every time I smell a roast
That wave of shock and grief hits
Yet again.
Rachel Sutcliffe
52
Biographical Note: Rachael Stanley
Rachael Stanley has published poetry in Ireland and overseas. Her
work has been published in Static Poetry volumes II and III, Everyday
Poets, Wednesday Haiku at Issa’s Untidy Hut, Riposte, The First Cut,
and News Four.
53
2053
It’s in the news, the year 2053
the year that Ireland will make
the final payment on her national debt.
The offenses of the few inflicted on the many
for a lifetime and beyond.
Before my head gets lost in fiscal details,
it’s the date that catches my eye and makes
me gasp momentarily for air.
For in 2053 I’ll be ninety-eight
and I wonder where I will be
and whether I should opt for
cremation or burial.
Man does not live on bread alone
nor can he live solely on fresh air.
This prompts the question whether there’ll ever
be a marriage between the solid matter of currency
and the esoteric element of air?
I ask whether we will ever learn to render unto Caesar
and unto the Absolute in equal measure?
I ask these existential questions, but all that comes to me
between the silent pauses are curiously self interested ones.
Where will I be in 2053 when time will surely have run out for me?
Will I still be here, waiting for the unknown to come and claim me
or will I have travelled to a place or state of vision and knowledge
and find that once again, I must return to learn the lessons unlearnt
while I was a flesh and bone child of the earth?
Rachael Stanley
54
Biographical Note: Brigid Walshe
Brigid Walshe usually produces combined artwork and poetry pieces
most of which can be seen on her blog. After reading about the
Magdalene Laundries Brigid was moved to produce a poem and
artwork based on how she felt. Brigid’s blog can be found
http://brigidwalshe.wordpress.com/
55
Regrets for the way we were. By Brigid Walshe
56
Regrets for the way we were.
From belly to finger, pious stares.
Cold, judgemental, religious glares.
Tell tale body, giving life,
Bastard inside, not a wife.
Slut, whore, carry the blame.
Motherly pride, matriarch shame.
Secret birth, agonising pain.
Unfeeling detachment try to feign.
Tears unshed, bright they shine.
Decision made for this child of mine.
Blue, black eyes sadly reproached,
But unstoppable now the time approached.
I held you close, I held you tight,
Whispered of love, through the dead of night.
I touched your face, caressed your skin,
My miracle of love, you are not a sin.
They sent you child, to the arms of a stranger.
To love, protect, keep from danger.
Years long passed, your life I have missed.
Only memories and aches, for the brow once kissed.
To a better life, they sold you away.
Yet all of my life, the price I would pay.
Brigid Walshe
57
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
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These guidelines make sorting through all of our submissions a much simpler task, allowing us to spend more of
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58
APRIL 2013'S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
If you are reading this, then we shall presume that you were not
devoured by a rampaging yeti. Congratulations on avoiding such a grim
fate during our most recent ice age. We Alleycats spent it indoors, but
our proof reader went out on several cross country type runs with their
hounds. Running…snow…dogs…no, no logic there at all!
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”.
59
Biographical Note: Máire Morrissey-Cummins
Máire is Irish, married with two adult children. She lived
abroad for many years, working in Holland mainly and
Máire lives between Wicklow, Ireland and Trier,
Germany at present. She loves nature and is a published
haiku writer.
Máire retired early from the Financial Sector and
found art and poetry. She is really enjoying the
experience of getting lost in words and paint.
60
Emigrant Lives by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
61
Midnight Sky by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
62
Primroses Peep by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
63
Unravel by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
64
Moon on Waves by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
65
Nesting by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
66
Sheep drifting by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
67
Biographical Note: Adrian Fox
Born in Kent, England of Irish parents, returning to Belfast in
1967, Adrian has an M.A. from Lancaster University and The
poets house, Donegal. He was taught by the great poet James
Simmons.
Adrian’s poems have been published by Cyphers, Poetry Ireland, the Honest Ulsterman, and The Black Mountain Review, as well as four collections by Lapwing and Lagan Press.
His poems have been translated into Hungarian; and whilst in
Hungary, Adrian taught in the main university as part of a
peace programme in 2003.
He has produced a CD, ‘Violets’, a homage based on the lost
lives of all who died in Northern Ireland. In addition to all of
these, Adrian is also a painter and teaches poetry online at:
www.adrianfox.org
68
THE FORM OF THESE WORDS ARE CREATED BY THE MOMENT.
Why do we want to create a magic formula for yesterday, form is the moment
and the word the moment creates the form. Form is not a structured way of
saying something you've written, a formula a haiku or a sonnet. Do you want to
do what was done yesterday and go the academic route to refine it or do you want
to do what's you?
Jack Kerouac one of the great beat writers told us to 'write as if were the first
person on earth' and Wallace Stevens told us that 'the theory of poetry is the
theory of life'
THE FORM OF THESE WORDS IS CREATED BY THE MOMENT.
Beat poetry was new and experimental as were the words of Walt Whitman and
when we heard it first we went wow and since then have tried to fit our words into
the past’s parameters but it was the moment of change that created those magic
words, so we've got to let the moment create the form. Beat poetry is named so
because it captures the essence of beat poetry it has life a rhythm a pulse. Ok I
know I fall down on the grammatical front but isn't all new writing politically and
grammatically in or incorrect?
THE FORM OF THESE WORDS ARE CREATED BY THE MOMENT.
Form is a moment lost in time and we harness that moment with words, form is
not a way of saying something written on a page, we know that we can never
capture that moment but why not create a moment from that moment not by
reliving the formula but by creating a new form from the magic of a form it’s not
its steps that creates its magic it’s the moment. Words have a rhythm a magic of
their own and they find a rhyme within the moment (the form). We can never
reproduce the magic of a haiku or a brilliant villanelle but it was the combination
of words that caught that moment.
Life is experimental, we are stepping into the unknown (if we want) stepping into
truth, our truth, let us create the dimensions of our truth of our moment and as
Joseph Attila said let the 'silence of our dreams take on a human form'.
MY TRUTH
Adrian Fox
69
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