anu issue 40

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ISSN 2053-6119 (Print)ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of , ,

, , , ,

, , , ,

,

. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

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A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall Editor: Arizahn

Website Editor: Adam Rudden

ContentsContentsContentsContentsEditorial page 5

Peter O’Neill;1. The Wall

2. Violins – the Deep Sea Reefs3. The Poet4. To a Passer-by5. Lethe6. Number 297. Bye Bye Blackbird

Matt Prater;

1. Lalochezia2. Empty3. Hurt

Kenneth Pobo;

1. Still Here

2. Training Wheels3. Abyss

4. Belle of Barmera Dahlia5. Mischief Mountain

Nancy Ann Miller;1. Falling in Love with my father in the Snow

2. Island Bound Mail3. I Re-Member

4. Bermuda Land Snail

5. Rock Solid

6. Sea Pudding

7. Crime Scene

Michael Mc Aloran;

1. InDamage Seasons

Steve Klepetar;

1. Li Bo Eats His Cake2. Li Bo and the Pleasures of Wine3. Li Bo Tastes The cup of Sorrow

4. Seventh Avenue

5. Ghost Song #6

Jo Burns;1. Loading the Mare

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2. The Pink Pussycat on Saturday Nights

3. The Bomb At the School Bus Stop

4. End of a Ceasefire5. Shergar’s Last Race

6. Liam and the Horseshoe Crab in Portballintrae

7. Swimming in Crop Circles.

Eamonn Stewart;

1. The Equerries

;

1. Auld Tripe2. Ashen sun

3. Toddles

4. A Thin White Line

5. After Philomena

Felino A Soriano;

1. Configuring Recollections XI- XX

Evelyn McAmis Bales;

1. Three Memories2. Legacy

3. Falling Away

On The WallOn The WallOn The WallOn The Wall

Message from the Alleycats page 53

Round the Back Round the Back Round the Back Round the Back

Barbara Gabriella Renzi;2. Interview

3. extractCarlos Franco-Ruiz;

1. The Zero Eye Review

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Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to:Submissions Editor

A New Ulster23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL

Alternatively e-mail: [email protected] page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is

available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQDigital 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 “Full Moon on water” by Amos Greig

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“There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t met ” Yeats.

Editorial

2016 is here and we have reached a milestone issue 40 and to celebrate we have our

largest issue to date. This will be a one off next issue we will return to our 89 page count. I still

find it surprising that I would ever be an editor of a literary magazine especially a monthly

based one, which has such a global following. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without your

support and I hope to keep delivering a service for new and established writers.

We have poetry two extracts from work by Felino A Soriano and Michael Mc Aloran as

well as the artwork of Barbara Gabriella Renzi and Carlos Franco-Ruiz.

Of course A New Ulster wouldn’t be what it is without the poets and artists who submit

their work each month and this issue features some very strong material as well as some first

time writers we also have some established names for you.

I consider myself as just a gatekeeper and today the door is wide open once more for

everyone to share.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

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Biographical Note: Peter O’NeillBiographical Note: Peter O’NeillBiographical Note: Peter O’NeillBiographical Note: Peter O’Neill

Peter O' Neill was born in Cork in 1967. He is the author of five collectionsof poetry, most notably the Dublin Trilogy comprising of: The Dark Pool (mgv2>publishing, France, 2015 ), Dublin Gothic ( Kilmog Press, NewZealand, 2015 ) and The Enemy, Transversions from Charles Baudelaire (Lapwing Press, Northern Ireland, 2015 ). In his review of The Dark Pool,the critically acclaimed American poet David Rigsbee wrote: Peter O' Neillis a poet who works the mythical city of Modernism in ways we do not often

see enough.' ( A New Ulster )

He holds a degree in Philosophy and a Masters in Comparative Literature,both awarded by Dublin City University. In 2015 he edited And Agamemnon Dead, An Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish Poetry with WalterRuhlmann for mgv2>publishing, and mg 81 Transverser. He also organised Donkey Shots; Skerries First International Avant Garde Poetry Fest in May,this year. He is currently hosting The Gladstone Readings once a month inhis home town of Skerries.

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The Wall (Peter O'Neill)

I pressed my lips against the cold stony

Surface of... it is tumultuous;

The inscriptions, the face off, your lips...

Pressed up against the stone cold chill of you.

You and I with our backs to Jerusalem,

Burning behind us like a second sun.

All the visions of the heavens that we

Once encompassed, the blessed scripture

Of what we both went through together.

The visions shared, all of the sainted days

Of hair and wine, the precious illuminations

Of what we once knew! All our psalms of

Wonder, compressed now into this stone wall.

The horizon is shut out, impossible to see through.

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Violins - the Deep Sea Reefs For Katie Melua (Peter O'Neill)

You hold your head up above the sonorous

Waves, their gentle orchestrations upholding

You, emotive; the deep warm currents of the

Heart-strings, pulling you right into the

Land and mindscapes, the impossibility

Of distance, which her voice summons,

A muse; call this listening, call this singing...

Plunging deep below the quivering

Tremors, her craft upholding you, and you

Alone, through the lyric, the heart's request,

The piece. or song, a microcosm of us.

Hold your head up above the sonorous waves,

Their orchestrations upholding you, emotive;

Their gentle heart stings pulling you in.

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The Poet (Peter O'Neill)

My life is ridiculous, I should be in the circus;

With a bible in one hand, the ever present

Mystery on high, and Jacob still with me

Holding dangerously the sacrificial knife.

My themes and motifs never change:

A beautiful woman, a hole, the sacred heart.

If I had a lute it would be silent,

And all the songs that I sang would be still.

I sit at my desk with the bloody light.

The contents on the surface forever change:

Lemons, apples, bread and wine...

But after I have eaten it is all lead, lead, lead.

I have filled whole forests of paper with my script,

And all of my books weigh like stone.

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To a Passer-by Transversion from Baudelaire (Peter O'Neill)

All about you the deafening street roars.A great dual ensues; O sweet majesty of pain...A wonderful Amazon passes you, with a litheHand, balancing between her hem and her brow.Noble agility, with aquiline limbs...As for you; you drink her in, with as much extravagance.From her perspective - the sky is livid, born of hurricanes;Her gentleness captivates, her pleasure kills...Lighting bolt...and it is night! - Fugitive beauty,Her fervent glance quickly rejuvenates...Will you only ever see her in dreams?Elsewhere, not far from where you are, it is already too late.Ignorant of you, and where you've gotten to, she who doesn'tKnow you. The one you could have loved...O, but how she knows you...

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Lethe Transversion from Baudelaire (Peter O'Neill)

For a long time now I have wanted to plungeMy trembling fingers into the depths of your hair;Come to my heart, deaf and cruel soul,Adored tigress, monster with the insolent air.Bury my poor headIn your perfume scented chiffon,And let me breathe in, like a wilted flower,The delicate odour of my defunct love.Christ! I want to sleep, more than live,In a sleep as soft and silent as death.But instead, upon your body, like polished bronze,I will affix my remorseless kisses.To banish the appeasement of tearsNothing is worth the abyss to be found in your bed,There, where deep oblivion lingers on your lipsAnd the waters of Lethe flow through your embrace.Ah, my destiny disrupts my delight,Yet I obey it like one pre-destined;A docile martyr, a condemned innocent,Whose fervour only adds to the torment.To drown my rancour, I would drink fromThe carnivorous pitcher plants, the nepenthes,Which grow at the bottom of that gorge,The one which has never imprisoned your heart.

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Number 29 (Peter O'Neill)

Heidegger's on the shelfalong with Baudelaireyou look upon themlike lightsilluminatingthe roominside the apartmentthe concrete wallscocoonall about you up on the hillcome the sea windsresoundingin great volleysyet insideit is deepand still

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Bye Bye Blackbird after a version by Miles Davis

For David Rigsbee (Peter O'Neill)

The open horn trumpets the notes onto

the November air, spiralling above the elm,

over the black hills, passing the isle of birds,

hurtling down through the temporal dimension,

bringing a metaphysical element,

which suddenly catches you unawares;

never expecting the autumnal burnish

to further uncover the cool vermilion

nestling under your feathered wing.

This darker avian girl swooping like a screech owl,

clutches you screaming towards a future.

Old jazz of wonder soon parting, migratory,

an anthem to our dogfighting days, or a

tune to spit a little fire on the gaspard of the nights .

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Biographical Note: Matt Prater

Matt Prater is a poet and writer from Saltville, VA (US). His work has

appeared in a number of journals internationally, including inGOWP

Zine, The Honest Ulsterman, The Moth, and Munyori Literary Journal.

Winner of both the George Scarbrough Prize for Poetry and the James Still

Prize for Short Story, he is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Virginia

Tech.

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Lalochezia—Ryan Comer

(Matt Prater)

If drunk wordsare sober thoughts,

stubis cousinto rum.

Our jointsare merciless—

hit,they hit back;struck, they strike.

Bone would takethe nuclear option

every time,

under anyprovocation.

No wonderwe would think

of peaceas a lambor a dove,

nerves cushionedor hollowed,

eliding whatwe really dowith injury.

Brother Ass,our avatar,

is less usfor his stink

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or his hide

than for histhin, incorrigable knees.

Empty—Todd Bailey

Jim Wayne Millerpraised the action

of hard lightin hard treesin January—

a yellow,particular joy.

In this way,rum islimb-light,

warm as anycoil-orange heater.

It iswhat is notin liquor

that makesliquor delicious.

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Hurt — Darnell Arnoult

(Matt Prater)

Some survivetheir holy gifts—

the partof themGod bleeds

through. Butin Van Gogh’s

miracle summer,at Auvers-sur-Oisein 1890, when

the whole worldseemed renderable

in blueand greenand gold,

that whole worldweighed immeasurably

on the master.Sometimes there isno answer

for this world

from its pleasures.

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Biographical Note: Kenneth PoboBiographical Note: Kenneth PoboBiographical Note: Kenneth PoboBiographical Note: Kenneth Pobo

. :

, , , ,

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STILL HERE

(Kenneth Pobo)

As autumn deepens, I check

the crack in the wall

where yellowjackets built a nest.

Late November.

They should be gone by now

even as they hover over the entrance.

Having been stung,I don’t wish them well—

or do I? I admire their tenacity.

Winter, the great Exterminator,

gets closer. We say they’re “mean.”

Maybe we’re mean, caulking up hives,

locking the queen in. Dead

carcasses on the basement floor

look so small, flight wiped out.

We sweep them up

For the trash. Fly,

yellowjackets. You know what’s coming.

We all do.

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TRAINING WHEELS

(Kenneth Pobo)

After my dad removed

my training wheels,he held onto the seat as I pedaled.

He’s 88 now, a widower,

in a retirement community. He tells me

how many people died there

during the week, also how many

are over 100. No training wheels

for old age. The hand lets go

and you’re off.

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ABYSS

(Kenneth Pobo)

A group beats a gay couple bloody

In the cityof brotherly love.

I picture that group

doused with lighter fluid

and set on fire,

people singing

and roasting marshmallows

as they scream, no one

coming to help.

I catch myself—

how close I am to

the abyss,

giving in to hate,

becoming them,

my feet at the edge,

so tempting to leapand let the abyss

be my new address.

Hate won’t stop it

from happening again,

won’t change a bandage

or soothe a wound.

The abyss is large,

its call seductive.

You never emerge.

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BELLE OF BARMERA DAHLIA

(Kenneth Pobo)

Blossoms blot out the full moon.

Even they must shrink back

into tubers that fit in my hand.

Each bloom tosses

one last pink spear

at November’s turned back.

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MISCHIEF MOUNTAIN

(Kenneth Pobo)

After the witch melts, a bad bout of water,

we see her steam and the monkeys get happy.

All is well. But wait! She’s not really gone.

Her steam became a mountain

and anyone who climbs her faces great danger.

She shakes the earth,

brings you to your knees. She can un-sky

a lightning bolt to aim at your heart.

You might be walking to the Emerald City,

historically a difficult journey,

and run into her mountain. So much

for being in a hurry to arrive. You think,

oh well, it’s not a very tall mountain,

I’ll make it. That’s the thing about mountains.

Size can mean little. Put your ear to the ground

and listen for a rumble.

That’s her.

Becoming a mountain wasn’t in her plans,

but she’s adjusted. Locals call it Mischief Mountain

which she likes. Under a full moon

she admits she got way too crazy

over a pair of slippers. Now

she makes wildflowers, some poisonous,

and from her peak she casts spells so potentthat she can turn the sun into a cheddar-colored

ping pong ball that she slams across

several darkening worlds.

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Biographical Note: Nancy Anne MillerBiographical Note: Nancy Anne MillerBiographical Note: Nancy Anne MillerBiographical Note: Nancy Anne Miller

Nancy Anne Miller is a Bermudian poet with three books

: Somersault (Guernica Editions ), Because There Was No Sea(Anaphora

Literary Press), Immigrant’s Autumn (Aldrich Press). Both Water

Logged (Aldrich Press) and Star Map (Future Cycle Press) are forthcoming

in 2016. She is a MacDowell Fellow published in Edinburgh Review,

Agenda , Magma , New Welsh Review, Stand, The International Literary

Quarterly, The Fiddlehead , The Dalhousie Review, The Moth, A New

Ulster, The Caribbean Writer, Bim, The Arts Journal, Wasafiri, PoetrySalzburg Review, and Journal of Postcolonial Writing among others . She

teaches poetry workshops in Bermuda.

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Falling in Love with My Father in the Snow(Nancy Anne Miller)

Because when we came to Americathe landscape was black and white,snow and dark bark like the blotted print ofthe New York Times he read on Sundays.

Because he brought us here in January,when sleet swept across the horizonlike a curtain to erase what I hadknown before, the colours of an island.

Because when he held the steering wheelin his hand, like a faucet he could turn offon, he was so happy as the traffic rushedby in the streams of water he was so thirsty for.

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Island Bound Mail(Nancy Anne Miller)

The sign at the Post Officeshows what a terroristpackage might look like.

Just like the one I send,has a clump of stamps inthe shape of Matisse’s Snail.

A school of fish swimsthe front, headed upfor the surface. Bits of

Scotch tape here, there,like a snapper scaled.And the loose brown

package paper, a sweatera sibling hands downto you, big, baggy,

the Shetland Woolunravels into the stringwound round and round.

The postmistress asks ifanything is explosiveinside. I want to say Yes!

Books have been known

to cause revolutions, pages

turning, fan many a fire!

The non-terrorist packagehas the US Postal Eagle.Swift, eyes anything out

of uniform, what strays acrosslines, roams 3rd class mail, itis eager to pick up in tallows.

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I Re-Member(Nancy Anne Miller)

Like a candle streaming light ontothe page, my fountain pen leaksTurquoise ink as I write about my isle.

I remember College Weeks when youthbuzzed the island, flocks of hummingbirds,left Mobylettes on Front Street like

group sex enmeshed in handle bars,

gears and bicycle chains. I re-memberthe sail’s envelope flap in the harbor

where the waves rose up in tips,the sea’s letter beneath in long handwriting we learned at Bermuda High School

for Girls. I remember shoving handfulsof Crow Lane’s Banana Bread in my mouthafter school, ingesting the island’s moist

soil. I re-member the light sugarcubed in limestone blocks, chalky,made houses brim, float like a poem,

the white washed roofs ascending,as Emily Dickinson said of poetry:the top of her head taken off.

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Bermuda Land Snail(Nancy Anne Miller)

It is handy to come with your own glue,so you can adhere to anything while

your shell whirls like a hurricane center,a spiral of action when you are so slow.

A kind of joke on you by nature, a ram’shorn with a fat awkward tongue. And to be

a tricycle of sorts, your feelers, rubbery,handlebars on a toddler’s clumsy first ride.

A measuring tape to record our earliestlife, white body, surf rushing to find a shore.

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Rock Solid(Nancy Anne Miller)

Bermudians don’t need rocking chairsto cool out, relax. The ocean will dowith the tide quick-sanding the beach,leaving while arriving, such a sway of water.

Bermudians remember the hand steadiesthe boat slapping up to the dock likea pup to a bitches’ teat, jumps up in the air.Bermudians need a solid chair while they

watch the horizon, see waves rise up likechildren to peek over the flat line fence,to see what is beyond. Need not be tiltedback, forth bringing it in, out of focus.

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Sea Pudding(Nancy Anne Miller)

That the sea would bake one, create a caramelsponge, spotted as Pauline’s, our cook’s face,her light brown skin dotted with moles.

Soft as the bodies of black woman, whotook care of us Colonial Girls. May sewingLiberty of London dresses for Cissette,

and Wendy, my Madame Alexander Dolls.Rita ironing shirts, transformed themfrom a gloppy jelly fish substance, stiffened

with the backbone of starch, while Ipestered her with questions. Evie cleaningmy privates as I sat in the tub, asking if

I had any company? The shock Americawas for me as teenagers babysat children,picked them up, put them down casually

as a plastic toy. Isochitopis badionotus, like the African Bermudian women whoraised me up, digest detritus from marine

snow, absorb what is discarded from above,but when stroked too much, throw up,extrude parts, and re-form with a spine intact.

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Crime Scene(Nancy Anne Miller)

I can’t go to the lake today,flat and round as the hurricane’seye which deadened all sound

through the casuarinas andpoincianna. Can’t watch asthe maple releases leaves:

small boats sailed by childrenin the Grand Basin Rondat the Jardin des Tuleries, Paris.

Can’t follow the road’s yellowribbon divider circling water,sections off an autumnal crime scene.

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Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note: Michael Mc AloranMichael Mc AloranMichael Mc AloranMichael Mc Aloran

Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). He is the author of a number of

collections of poetry, prose poetry, poetic aphorisms and prose, most notably

'Attributes', (Desperanto, NY, 2011), 'The Non Herein' & ‘Of Dead Silences’

(Lapwing Publications, 2011/ 2013), 'Of the Nothing Of’, 'The Zero Eye',

he'The Bled Sun', 'In Damage Seasons',(Oneiros Books (U.K)--2013/ 14);

'Code #4 Texts' a collaboration with the Dutch poet, Aad de Gids, was also

published in 2014 by Oneiros. He was also the editor/ creator of Bone Orchard

Poetry, & edited for Oneiros Books (U.K 2013/ 2014). A further collection,

'Un-Sight/ Un-Sound (delirium X.), was published by gnOme books (U.S), and

'In Arena Night' is forthcoming from Lapwing Publications. 'EchoNone' & 'Of

Dissipating Traces' were also recently released by Oneiros Books...

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nothing’s claim—

(from ‘In Damage Seasons’ (Oneiros Books 2013)

In Damage Seasons

(Michael Mc Aloran)

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...through lock of detritus/ acclimatised to the fallen lung’s parameters there’ll be to

drive the coffin head with nails birthing the fallen attributes

scarred without longing there’ll be the stasis of it the hearse of the ever-laughter spun

lest from out of darkened/ choke/ dead space and an empty pageant’s shadow

what forth birthed till struggle else in a pit of night cleft erased welts of teeth and the

searing of the salient grin of the none exposed of

struck out from or where till wonder as if to be were to know of it sudden till excise

the sharp stab of it the teeth kicked in blank spaces a vertigo of flesh of final

fragments

fragments raining falling from the banquet flesh for as long as can be recalled or what

words to drag from out of speechless sleepless a turning of black soil and therein of

silver lights eclipsed

foraging the breath long-asking of the want in terms of sunlight spit them out your

nubs your cancers dry-a-day-a-lock seethe in corners of dissolution’s breathing

razor glint in dead light churning of where the silhouette falls to nothing’s pulse

exigent time or the lack of breathing of the wind the meat of it bound till axial existyet not a trace non-death of a winter’s speech out of which stasis no nothing

forever what/ what bones of sky till breath reclaimed in the drag of here or there said

or not till shattered blackened out a clasp of the deaf sun and all the lights there have

never been or those that never were...

--

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...claimed yes forever claimed the eye still roving yes in the realms of the none or the

breath not taken settling as ash or a casket's knowing

rat’s pulse tread step-non-step the laughter of children here then spoken of what once

till on again the filtering through of the blood hence the cup lifted as if to spite where

there is none

mockery of the artery’s abnegation a pulse of rotting silences even breath there’ll be

sudden of in the bereft silences unclaimed

death yet always of the death yet as the spark’s breath subtle as the edge of a blade

cuts the semblance away the death mask sun there or else a kaleidoscope in a pit of

slashed belonging

from out which the dead longing what waste the blackened veins the puerile none of it

ever unto until erased what spun lie and the sudden of each the words no longer thereor having fled unto nowhere else

tracing no no power in a white sheet stained with the blood's advance the meat hooks

of all birthing and desire cracked stone a scattering of vapours vapours till din of

nothing asked of

head what head long distance ahead gathering there’ll yet spoken of as if the meat

knew better than the other which is the none perhaps knowing less or more no

distance to trace ash in a cold palm strike a match a blessed bloom will follow after

it will say less the walls there as always birthing the breath of none stillness stillness

of collapse catascope of bled shadow-knock a deft caress such was the memory

there’ll yet be detritus of the vortices of eye breaking forth in semblance of the benign

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wounds they say yet what wounds to breach when all is sudden tide a curved spine

snap shadow play and the play of shadows mocking the erasing dawn with fingers to

touch the dissipating vapours

outlived carried forth by what one asks as if to claim claim what winds to claim what

blood to claim what breath to claim spun alack in the none that is in subtlety of...

--

...static between the being and the breaking echoing bones a surge of foreign embersmemories shit-stained walls existence bleeding itself dry no marrow the taste for it

eradicated all asked of yet said without not a trace by design

there’ll be now circus attributes broken valves of teeth the flesh cast away into some

banquet of desire scattering forth

till claimed a headless barrage what head there was never the stitches bind the light

together the stitches birth the pale light of no consequence in a suicide of nothing

sudden in outcry muted birthed all stepped alone

eye what eye of shut till the last benign furtive as breath-stun harrow a sudden asking

of the build of it there or else stench reek of nothing of in the clear light of the

nonetheless

non-day or night basking of the following till clearness of speech there was never any

of the build to chase the fragrance away hollowed spat out collectively/ no/ that was of

another time

yet surging into nothing till ragged bone claimed the eye what eye still roving in the

nothing of it here or there but for an instant into what birthing clogged the breathalone

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such is the hearth of silence dragging its cold chamber into the death of all the death

of nothing else cold chill breath aside the breath aside the laughter of the still-born

ache

governed speech without name till obsolete till obsolete turning turning in the soil of

the unforgiving memory till dread or the echoes of the frozen light

shafts of breath reaching beyond the abattoir’s asking telling as if to drift were to be

but one in the vacancy of still-dread till shadow forth till shadowless all spun in the

absence of the word to grace the emptily of the meat’s futility

here now the room of that which closes its fist around the throat of breath becoming

ask of what winds to follow on from when the snare divides the breathing into nothing

claimed ghosting the impress of silent hands sands eroded time what time is there

ever...

--

...flayed or not a dead end sings sun the purpose of nothing teeth in a blaze twisted the

nerve’s steel claimed in vortices of the ever-redundant

lack barbed it says the skull says the head what difference till breathen begottenlaughs the foreign leg from out from under asking of the bleak till worship of

shadow cast a-dream they say sleep more or less to awaken in a majesty of shit tear

the life from the closure of the build etch the skin with gift of absolute mutilation a

broken tear flowing ever flowing

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what word there was it is said in the beginning there was nothing lying through the

teeth yes the teeth once again

approximately flesh depth till din of the non-received in the pissoir tide asking of thenon-beginning the non-ending there’ll yet be the laughter of the silent casket a closed

door surrogate of no purpose

yet still the sway of chains and the meat hook’s glint idiot laughter and the freeze the

incision bite what words to define the fucking meat of it the syllabus from aside the

darkness grazes till bleed along some silence in-between the none of being

bite down hard upon the vacancy gathering the lightless pageantry to the breast so

they say eye alone dreaming of the din eye alone in laughter stone upon stone till

nothing having gathered

deafened yes by uproar and the silent word that places itself beneath the tongue of

nothing herein the laughter of the claimed adrift what eye the eye of none vascular

deaf mute scattered to the winds

ill seen what sung the gift of blind lesser than kicks to the fissure a cold gathering of

futureless in the space of a/ the deft hand clipped settling to fall aside there’ll yet what

distance breathing alone

blood yes asking of silent though in the breathing of some dreamscape ever-forgottenthe lie of the flesh the headless wandering catacomb of breath and the eye unfolding

as if it never was...

--

...laughter still to knock upon half-worn the fingernails extracted a slap to the face

drag drag of time and all of its light still crawling from the laughter of the depths in a

non-space of lightless beauty

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unfolding yes flowering unto graven flowers the stench of all none in the streets of the

unclaimed blessed to fall what sung

these are the dead lands these are the unseen hands there or else the sun it mocks yet

unknowing sing along till breath recedes till the pulse absolves the self of none

here a light there a light the barbed rhythm of night endless dregs dregs and the none

till else along the way never motion and the grafted speech

close the door the rest will follow it is said such words resting never of the blossoming

death till claimed nothing less than was before till remembered no nothing ever

locked to the sky the sky dead space all around in the bask of the rhetoric of silences

enough to remove from glimmer of this or that in traceless broken upon the rocks of

abattoir’s removal

yet feeding feeding frenzy of barricaded teeth the split in the eye birthing the

emasculate what tears till final stretch nothing of the alack the meld of skyless pissed

upon once more till dearth of silent of

what spun long stretch of the obscene laughter till sky a-alock the din the retch of tears

till bled scattered the non sense a bleeding wind

ice of the true shadow till lacking dream till spun of the spent corridor non else in the

spurious of flesh burning to the hilt of it the death of galvanised

hence laughter longing and the breath of it till flesh eradicated till skyline of

apocalyptic colourings held to the throat what dense silver unto shadowing

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till pierce of none of the sunlight emptily absolved here now the traces the vapours

cleft smoke drifting from out of lung till resend until erased lung less foreign yes...

--

...surmise what grip delirium of the trace-winds cleaving away heave-ho nothing less

than of the claimed no nothing claimed asked of the yes spilled blood and the hollow

shadow’s breathing

claim claim of some sudden guillotine the light eviscerated here now the echoingspeech effortlessly abounding sudden as of silenced

an absolute of nothing for the given or the received stillness to breach in the knocked

barbed wire of solemnity asking of the breath ever asked of what light sheer of the

redeem nothing there begin again lacking the footfall ice in the veins of

till break as of sudden as of stripped the skin it dances dances dreaming then of the

bereft blessed the cull the words erased set to flame in absentee of now

what claim the lung of stun-light murmurs to drag from out of this carcass erasing the

candelabra light with the fruits of night’s bloodless

a dead zone cheer mockery still from out of reach till sunk sharp shock the blessed

align of teeth of bones here there or there ever after

the gouge torn ragged the fuck of it absolved clearing the landscape of what will till

exodus from out of none till naught’s breath floundering it flourishes flourishes

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non death a writhe of the gilded advance lock spun in spurious lights breaking from

out of which till claim of slaughterhouse and the naked foot upon the throat the light

unmasked

there’ll yet be said aloft the roving eye kicks dusts back up from the hearth of bones

stone adequate in the broken as of

(rattling all the while)

elected to this or that in an exile of benign murmurs given taken from the in-dreamingof shadow headless burrowing of the roving eye’s pageant of soundless blindness of

ash upon the tongue a subtle else a-bask...

--

...echoing veranda of exile streaming light of the blood’s dis-chase all absent but for

the teeth a-grind the bone break warp of the still-breath the eye glazed over in some

cadaver settlement

till chase of nothing ever-after in a pit of reclamation till arc of lessened in the glint

the shattering sky dense approximations of breath non-stir of the falling away

settled ash upon nothing’s bones the grind of no thing sonorous as the give or having

taken till the eye’s claim what yet till words erased mocking the sheen the flesh

burning away a showering of gardenias

there or never else yet stillness axial breath over and until again a claustrophobic

exigency of the gone no words to take it away and no way to give it back then or else

shadowed by lack cold wind desolate scarring

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lapse lapse until having breathed the light of the none in cylindrical of nothing having

ever the flesh swarming in the half-light

sing spun alone till dry of speech the asking of the prayers from the hollow entity untosome foreign grace traceless depth will in end no end in depth sing spun alone till

speech evaporated

exile cleaves a way the rotting teeth of the sun headless screams the skull evaporated

the tears that don’t come the absence of blood the meat stripped away till

with a slow hand gathering the non of the splendour dreaming less dead stone and a

claim add a claim to rest

there’ll yet be the price of it masking the nothing but brief till victorious as a carcass a

forgotten dream the head in sand wrenched from shadows obsolete

skip ‘scance a-dream of the willow orchard in the bleeding out from burst stitches torn

out with the teeth what matter a silver itch binds the reclaim in an adagio of twilight’s

longing...

--

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Biographical Note: Steve KlepetarBiographical Note: Steve KlepetarBiographical Note: Steve KlepetarBiographical Note: Steve Klepetar

Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared worldwide, in such journals as Boston

Literary Magazine, Deep Water, Expound, The Muse: India, Red River Review,

Snakeskin, Voices Israel, Ygdrasil, and many others. Several of his poems

have been nominated for \Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize (including

three in 2015). Recent collections include Speaking to the Field

( , 2013),

( , 2013)

( ).

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Li Bo Eats His Cake

(Steve Klepetar)

He invites me for his birthday,

so I bring a cake:

white frosting with red, white,

and blue balloons,

“Happy Birthday Li Bo”

scripted in red.

It’s the Fourth of July.

He shows me his present: colorful

balls he juggles with practiced ease,

tossing them high, and catching

and tossing until I lose count and they rain

down in a spectrum lovely as light

shining through cataracts in a wooded glade.

When I look at his skillful hands,

they are green, and then he’s a lizard

meandering through parting grass,

then a gray cat worrying a mouse.

When he reaches the laurel at the edge

of his yard, he’s a squirrel scrambling

up the trunk with mischief in his mouth

and eyes. I am glad I came. In the darkness

we watch fireworks across the river,

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gasping at the wild finale with its flashes

and noise and huge globes of colored light.

Then we go inside to gorge on cake, his eyes

glazed with joy as frosting coats his eager lips.

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Li Bo and the Pleasures of Wine

(Steve Klepetar)

He stops by with a bottle of wine,

a Saint Rita Hills Pinot. Red price tag

reads $44.95. “Got it at the tag sale

at Westside – 13 bucks.” I bend

a wire hanger, pull the cork. He pours

and we swirl and clink and sip.

Then I lick my finger, move it slowly

around the rim until vibrations ring

in our ears. “How’d you do that?”

and I show him how to get the feel,

smooth glass turning slightly rough

as index finger finds the purchase.

“It’s the wine singing!” he shouts,

face bright with grape and glee.

He scratches with his pen on a torn

page, a new drinking poem

about a traveler by a pool, toasting

the silent moon with melodious glass.

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Li Bo Tastes The Cup of Sorrow(Steve Klepetar)

He drinks the cup of sorrowwith dry lips, cracked from cold,

tastes the viscous liquorwith a tongue burnt by fires of rage,

feels its strange, thick sweetnessfill the hollow cavern of his mouth.

His eyes tumble in their sockets,his moans shake paintings from the wall.

His fingers uncoil slowly as feelingrushes back with surging blood.

He stumbles in a drunken parodyof dance, wretchedness fills his arms.

In the dead orchard’s silence helistens to a golden bird as it warbles

from its perch in the bent branchesof a pear tree.

Through the flood of day he swims,hair tangled with weeds and mud.

All night he tosses under blanketsthat roll like the unquiet sea,

where humpbacks serenade their mates

and sing cold lamentations to the watery moon.

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Seventh Avenue

(Steve Klepetar)

All day, rain spoke in its hissing voice:

“I have come from hills to take you

home, to bury you in salt and clay

and broken shards of shell.”

Everywhere puddles and mud.

On Seventh Avenue, cars snake

uptown in gullies of loneliness.

Past the park, angels gather in alleys,

soaked wings bent inward, past

lingering light glowing from proud

chests and breath fine as steel wool.

No songs as flames die in ash cans,

and a thousand fingers grated raw,

slip into pockets or disappear in rising

mist. “We are the way of the street,”

whisper droplets spreading in black

rivulets, climbing curbs. “We are only

melting moon, heralding the end of days.”

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Ghost Song #6

(Steve Klepetar)

“Are you so fast that you cannot see

That I must have solitude?

If I am in the darkness

Why must you intrude?”

Dylan

They intrude with rude mouths

of children, slathered with sweets,

or drunks patrolling midnight

streets with false jollity. They

intrude without kindness or cheer.

Their faces glow in glass panes

above my bed. I have woken to

the sweep of their motion between

walls, cold silence of their artificial

breath. I have shooed them with

brooms, with catcalls, with the thrum

of electric guitars. I have spoken

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cleansing spells and poured my

own tears on the dusty floor.

I have plugged my ears with wax

and lay down with cats in their

soft beds until moonlight woke us

and we slipped into the bowels

of night where we spit and danced

and tore our shadows into ripped

shards covering the blood-slick streets.

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Biographical Note: Jo Burns

Jo Burns is a 39 year old mother of three, living in Germany. She grewup in Maghera, Co. Derry. Jo is a medical scientist and hobby poet.

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Loading the Mare(Jo Burns)

Bought at the Garvagh show,she was a fine, well bred mare,an unbroken pony, six years oldwith a Connemara head.

She stole a look at the rustycattle box seeing demons slidingand spitting on its slats andcow shit splattered walls.

Her ears pinned flat, her muzzlesteamed, she whinnied in fearat the murderous space betweenher and hell that gaped before

They took the bar from the gate,whacked her deep to force her in;Three farmers trying to coax herinto her imagined pen of wolves.

I was a ten year old filled with fearwatching the frightened marerear up, flailing hooves cleavingair as she fell, beaten and panicked.

She lay prostrate wet with terror,but suddenly leapt like a haresnorting and twisting she cleareda fence into a field of sheep.

She cleared a five bar gate,

underhoof, interrupt, overcome.This Eochaid incarnate, as thoughin her sleep, cantering home.

Inside my eyelids, I saw her still pullinghorizons closer in gallop through dreams,and I dreamt of frisky Tuathasteeds under their fairy queens.

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The Pink Pussycat on Saturday Nights

(Jo Burns)

Waiting for the strobes to hit,for smoke to encircle our waists,feeling our slippery nipples riseas we lifted our glasses certainthat our songs are being sung.We would not sing the soldiers’ songat closing time, nor God save the Queen.We drank to joy, no care for division.

Inebriated shadows we see ourselvesin mirrored bars, the acronyms gone,as diesel gives way to double vodkas,a silver bullet as a homebound chaserand we fall back into safe padded carswith radios tuned to the same old waron Radio Ulster; slick-sliding, slippedby patrolling parents past army checkpoints,pulled lightly from night’s carousel,smoothed softly back into our beds.

.

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The Bomb At The School Bus Stop

(Jo Burns)

“Listen to the rain spit in new ashes/As you heft a load of dust that was Magherafelt.”

Seamus Heaney , Two Lorries

Lying around as drunk glass staggered,clinging onto frames to stand.When the earth wobbled under us,as stone collapsed into it’s own sand.

It was a weekend afternoon,watching some soap opera omnibus.We didn’t see the sweeping cloud,which blackened phone lines to wake us.

It touched our foreheads clenched and white,trying to glue shards, piece by piece,back to entirety in the shattered silent night.We couldn’t prolong the brevity,

of that moment before it broke on us,again, that peace explodes away.

On Monday we shared the bus to schoolwith the boys in convent blue,playing Kevin and Sadie as a rule,and later we would be segregated outand marched straight-laced in black and redto Tennyson, perhaps Sassoon,those late war poets but rarely Plath or Woolf,for war is more tangible than any human condition.

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End of a CeasefireOmagh 1998.

(Jo Burns)

Inverted alveoli, froth on black,have lost their lungs, once green,once intact. The bloodless dryhave fallen one by one among

Samhain’s haemorrhaging time.Slaughter’s month has come again.Grave rubbings scratched in sooty linesrob the ashes of past years Beltane.

The hawthorn which budded fresh in may,will be blanketed, shortly after cremation.As the ripen fruiting season dates into pastand the future hibernates under snow sedation.

The berries of the rowan have soured away.The blackbirds swerve in flight, drunk from most,to the sun which shows its back and abjures day,as we hunch under our harvests weight to home,

not to enjoy but to store from young pooka that roams,Devil Man! Red eyed and cruel. We get glimpsesof our cycles untravelled, while it bewitchesthem to believe all our labour inedible.

The cloth that binds unravels. For we don’t waitto try. We know we’re done. In apostasy,we, as foes, have joined on steed to raceand seal the year in gerrymandered deeds.

Sacrifices were paid too long to wicker in this realm.Now we handle in treaties, love nowhere to be found,and we abscond all relics and evidence of us and thento amnesty. No armistice. Our hands will be unbound.

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Shergar’s Last Race.(Jo Burns)

Note: In Farsi, Sher means Lion or Poem, Gar denotes possession.

The shape of the half moon,a ramp lowering as clicks of hoof and calkare hushed through worm hole,stretching a track too fine.The half moon,blinding jute pulled over the crescentof a crest to the withers, horse blinkered,trust through the round noose of a chain.

The half moonarch of the young eye in balaclava,

joined to fight a war. He has neverseen adrenaline quite like him before.The half moon,careful curved strokes, brushingthe white blaze brown from the kinkin his half moon swirlto the inflected smoking nostril.

The half moon,beams spread circumferentaround iron grill bars,fixing the stallion, for the momenthis white eyes roll upto see equuleus waiting.The half moonhock pulls as he kicks breeze block walls,demented, all out, roaring,

hind fetlocks torn, a coil unwinding,wailing, for a soft voiced stable boy.

The half moonsof torchlight dissectingkildare turf, tipping farm shedsup, turning swivel hooksand hangs of abbatoirs.A small girl bends her neckin arc after hearing news,

to pray for his returnwith both curved ears.

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The half moonbolt slid back through semi circular catch,kick latch curled open by black issue boot,the rasping hinge strains to unfurlon it's rusted unoiled axis.The half moonof a pushed stable half door,an arc of sawdust disturbedby one heavy, dutied, foot.The half moon, an armalite strapof a widow maker as the vertical nightis pulled, under crook of armpit,horizontal.

The half moon,caressed indented trigger by an index fingerwhich never stroked the curvatureof a velvet muzzle nor heldin the bow of thumb and palma galactic pulsing, racing, pastern.The half moon,flailing around fulcrum,riddled atactic,on the sloppy going of his own gore,cannon’s running every race over.The bend of heaving, steaming,lead filled flank falling to the floor.

The stable clock hands tick one moon more,untill last dawn groans gurgle from girthto a throat lathered in red foam.They ring in sinusoidal wave overthe bent curve of an arm, on axis,

forcing a spade into the dirt.Digging deeper and deeper,for him and the horse.

The half moonssigh, tick, search, rust, pat the earth down.They are locked or unmasked, hang, point back to floor,and the theta star of Pegasus stares in straight line toward Orion.

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Liam and the Horseshoe Crab in Portballintrae

(Jo Burns)

I’m the horseshoe crab.I scuttled from the wreckof the girona, to escapethe moon eyes of diversand sights of shark fangedsharp slipper limpetsdrilled and burrowed aliveby piddocks. I fled the open sea,where lobster pot’scloaked in bladderwrackhave taken many dear to me.

Here in the harbour, It’s calmer.The water lies ironedand ripples only dawn and dusk,when the fisherboat shakes planktonoff as dust then leaves the stretching shoresof the bay to smooth all flat again.Terns and black backs circumferenceas vultures, where the buoy linesecants, and the light-flashes dance,but they don’t bother much with me.

Today I was fed a line of old ham,and carved clamflesh, excisedby messy hand with a kitchen knife.Then hauled up in a fine meshof latitudes and longtitudes,a glistening lattice, bisecting the sun,which rose then eclipsedbehind protuberate head of a child,

who cried, „I,ve got it!“

He sucked in, to inflatehis eyes and we both tugged, wary.He knew one puff of impetus breathwould send me spinning, precarious.

He picked me up, ginger,as if I were a kicker’s splitting hoof,and lay me on the greasy, lichen slipway.

The boatclub of tipsy fathers remote,as far-off bleachers,

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he set me next to another,with one red tipped, broken, claw,then prodded us each on the carapacewith his bamboo fishing net.

We sprung up, set to take off.„horseshoe crabs on your marks, get set !“We shot through the starting gates,„Go!“. He’d waited,to watch our spindly gait,but in the lap of the ebb,I’d already galloped my lengths,an apron ahead, cadent,under the blanketof my bed, the atlantic.

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Swimming in Crop Circles.(Jo Burns)

It’s the hazy bleached air season of white,the stalks hunger and cling to the sun,ears tuned for the suck and swing of the scythesplitting ranks of phloem one by one.

Four boys and I swim enchanted in this butter yellow,rolling, crawling in circles, daring dives into terra.We taunt the proud, coarse, crackling wheat, flatteningit to dust, stamping into dried dirt for good measure.

The ripples in this bowl of golden waterspread from epicentre in these acres of timesof our lives, treading trenches in tidal swell,seeds scratching our necks and reddening our eyes.

We pause, spent, spy the rusted John Deere tractoron edge at this once dense amber sea of tranquility,now threatening to become a furied twisting water,we dive behind the few erect stalks we can see.

A farmer’s bank of molten wealth has been plunderedby concentrics the width of splayed 8 year olds.As we delay our crawl out from this itchy decadence,we survey the courtroom and prepare our trial defence.

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Biographical Note: Eamonn Stewart Biographical Note: Eamonn Stewart Biographical Note: Eamonn Stewart Biographical Note: Eamonn Stewart

Eamonn Stewart was born in Belfast1964. He trained to be an advertisingphotographer, worked in advertisingas motion picture cameraman.Eamonn studied film history atUniversity of East London. His workhas been extensively published in

magazines and anthologies.Presently, working pro bono instudent/indie films.

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The Equerries (Eamonn Stewart)

This poem was inspired by T. S. Eliot, Arthur Rimbaud. Lautreamont , and Paul Verlaine

The worst thing in life is getting used to things.

Thousands of hangovers traded for a spark of jamais vu .

Cats claw at trash bags flimsy as graphene

This was the veil that was lifted from me.

Callous, like modern mountaineers.

Oblates of the craving for oblivion.

Butterflies sip nectar. Houseflies sip ordure.

Waking, I was back in Byzantium

With the sounding boards calling the faithful to prayer .

It was just kids battering the plywood

That lazy builders left behind .

The fontanelles of the loudspeakers

Shed exquisitely tangible sounds.

Still, I overheard the drunk who said

Semtex looks like earwax.

They’ve swapped their grandparents fear

Of the iron lung, for the sunbeds and dread

Of not enough sun.

In the Loney they would have been Lachikos

But now, they are trendy comprachicos .

Whose faces are portentless Dodonas

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Do they tinkle in the dark night of the soul ?

Piercings evoke some Disney Saint Sebastien –

Their integuments anthropomorphic Lascaux

That Bradbury’s Illustrated Man would not know.

Carl Sagan said we are genetically close to trees.

Sunbeds turn their skin to bark – Ovid would have balked

At such metamorphoses.

Petals softer than real fontanelles

Pulsatile, pullulating in sloth.

The Anther is a finger and thumb

Rubbing scales from the gaudiest butterflies

Pluripotent odours, pollen climbing the viscosity of air.

An old man passing a black plastic bag:

The wind moved the neck, it looked like a Faithfull dog

As if acknowledging, the old man looked down.

On the loom of the park railings

An eclatique tapestry of the mundane.

The Mama and Papa tube recalled,

Like a prop from Dr. Who .

Proprieties in their Goldilocks Zone –

Pared with bigotry’s microtome .

They’ve swapped their parents fear

Of the Iron Lung for sunbeds and dread of not enough sun.

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In The Loney they would’ve been Lachikos

But now they are trendy Comprachicos.

Carl Sagan said we are genetically like trees

Sunbeds turn their skin to bark

Ovid would have balked at such metamorphoses.

Their faces are portentless Dodonas , or

Do they tinkle in the dark night of the soul ?

Piercings evokes some Disney Saint Sebastian

Their integuments anthropomorphic Lascaux

Bradbury’s Illustrated Man wouldn’t know .

Cigarette paper Golems – embouchures that rival flautists’

Send themselves off on pointless missions

Hungry as Pac Man, ravening without remission.

In synesthetic proprioception I feel

An asteroid with rings and water on the moon.

One day I will clear my mind of these things

How I bought shortcake in Brigadoon…

Here is their Burning Bush –

A creosote plant and triboelectric sand

It’s message for a tribe in a rush is

It’s really ourselves we cannot stand.

Cocaine is the Hamon on their blade.

They are flies on the axle of history

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Drunken with self-praise they cry

“See what a dust we raise !”

Glissandos on the metal head lice comb

One more Herostratic spliff

And they idyll ends in maundering

Chiliastic panic, The Palace of Wisdom

On the bottom of the Lethe

Where Lotos Eaters scoff Ramen Noodles

The synteresis is snuffed out .

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BiBiBiBiographical Note: Bob Shakeshaft ographical Note: Bob Shakeshaft ographical Note: Bob Shakeshaft ographical Note: Bob Shakeshaft

Robert Shakeshaft was born in august 1949. In 2004 he attended a creative writing course,this was his venture into writing. This course was run by Skerries poet

Edna Coyle Green. At this event he wrote his first poem – February field. He first attendedreadings at open mic with Michael O.Flanagan of riposte in the Glen of Aherlow a pub onEmmet road Inchicore. Robert read at the Inchicore village festival at that time it was heldin Kilmainham gaol. Robert has also poems published in riposte a broadsheet edited by

poet Michael O Flanagan.

Later he began reading in Dublin city with the 7 towers open mic in Cassidy’s ofWestmoreland st. in 2009 he submitted some of his poems for the 7 towers anthology. Alsohe has work published in the curlew collection of poems by Dublin writers in2009.followed on by the ardgillian writer’s anthology where he is a member and acontributor. A further two poems published in seven towers 2012- anthology.

Soon to be followed by inclusion in the 2013 publication.

Robert has read at the glor sessions run by Stephen James Smyth on several occasions.

Also he has read at the new bridge writers open mic.nights.Robert has recorded his poemson KFM radio as well as performing live on liffey sounds with the host Eamon Lynskey aDublin poet. Robert continues to write and read his poems at 7 towers new venue in thetwisted pepper in Abbey st.

20014 ,

.

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Auld tripe

(Bob Shakeshaft)

The smell of fresh strewn saw-dust absorbing

the pungent blood seeping from the block

as the skilled sharp knife cuts into the dead

bone splintered shrapnel flies

from under the cleavers deadly accuracy

one mistake will shout “oh fuck”

someone needs stitching

and a jab arse tetanus

lets a shout jump across the counter

“here is any of yeez serving “

“ok gorgeous what can I get you this fine morning”

“keep that talk for your own bit of fluff it won’t work on me

I want a decent pork chop one that won’t ruin me dentures”

A smile as broad as his hands crease his face

“sure we can’t have that “

“now trust me this will be as tender as a baby’s arse”

“I’ll take your word love go on give it to me”

“will that be all “

“no I need some tripe for himself –he has a bad stomach”

“serves him right drinking every bleedin night”

“mind you the honey-comb will only do!

“no worries only just in the door and fresh from the cows belly”

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“grand now how much do I owe ya”

“what say I round it off to seven schillings”

“highway robbery is what I say” ah but that smile of yours is priceless”

“ah jaysus I almost forgot the bowler gives us a bone will ya”

“a big one”

The band –saw starts with a high whine then it screams like a banshee

bone catches in the deadly teeth of steel pulling bone-meal inside smells the air acrid

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Ashen sun

(Bob Shakeshaft)

Moonlights pallid blossoms, white, wondrous,

have blotted out the sun,

soothes the soul of imperilled man dying

for death, prepare your heart, turns pale

with panic and pity, blood congeals

coursing to its natural state.

Loathing his life, his self, his transgression

eclipsed by perdition,

the enemy within seeks solace, forgiveness,

till the final beat breaths the end,

finally cremated in pallid ash.

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Toddles

(Bob Shakeshaft)

On early Sunday mornings after massmy father wheeled his bicycle

to rest against the window I reflectedsmall, as the red ridged reflector bright

as my eyes, keen my ears long the call“come on, hop on the bar”, I can’t reach yet,he scoops me up in one strong safe hand,then leather pedals the crank into action.

Linenhall Street fades in the distance, the tower

beckons the two of us along the Glasnevin waybeyond, my small mind drifting free, wherethe wind pulling, my auburn hair aflame,

sharp as fathers song Danny-boy,true in harmony, I tom-boy whistle, folding myselfinto his strong safe heart pumping love,he chins my crown, letting me know all is well.

We approach the ornate gates of angels,in stillness, Toddles tilts against granite walls,father hunkers down, unclips his ankles,reach full height. Steps are measured true

to the tiny grave, simple as the wooden crosscarved by fathers skill, is etched Danny-boy,my only brother, born to die before his timeto know me, a loving sister, bent on knees of prayer,

I help our father place fresh bought flowers,as we clean-rake white stones, purethe whispered words pour over our lipskiss his name, turns us back

to the morning in reverse, O’Connell’s towerrounds us home in silence…till his booming voice celebrates, Danny-boyin sunshine and shadow, all is at peace.

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A thin white line (Bob Shakeshaft)

Shut up the dog barking,

draw close the black curtain skylet the sun smile another day,

allow silence transcend.

The loss is so sorrowful,yet it must be,no answers, no consoling,

pain, more pain.

The truck on the sharp bend,way over the white linethat decides life or death,

crunched in the screaming metal,meshed in splintered body partspainful flesh stained,

in life giving blood.

Offering no more, nowrivulets red in frantic passionescape inanimate being,

inanimate as the mangled bike.

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After Philomena (Bob Shakeshaft)

for fifty long years my heart was scalded in thinking of you

I carried my sinwith a heavy guilt the sisters of mercy left

a shame of my choiceto fall for a handsome man who made me feel

a love so pureas the infant boy that spat from my love nest

to the Magdalene laundrywhere all the cleansing could not lift my stain

except that hour givento mothers like a tormented daily reminder

that any day soonmy precious bundle would be sold for a thousand

of their green dollars

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Biographical Note: Felino A SorianoBiographical Note: Felino A SorianoBiographical Note: Felino A SorianoBiographical Note: Felino A Soriano

Felino A. Soriano is a poet documenting coöccurrences. His poetic language stems fromexterior motivation of jazz music and the belief in language’s unconstrained devotion tobroaden understanding. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best othe Net anthologies. Recent poetry collections include Forms, migrating, Of isolatedlimning, Mathematics, Espials, watching what invents perception, and Of these voices. Heedits the online journal, Of/ with: journal of immanent renditions. He lives in Californiawith his wife and family and is a director of supported living and independent livingprograms providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities.

Visitfelinoasoriano.info for more information.

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a selection from Configuring Recollections

from XI – XX(Felino A Soriano)

On friendships

Each newrelational camaraderiebuilt an effort ofclarity toward speakingin braided, memorable text.

Friendships were similar in height.

Fiction of worlds wore my favorite shirtexterior to the closet holding its colorpure.

Eventual,as in autumn’s dissolution

winter’s cold into the corporealpivoting of disagreements and

friction’s diligent and subsequentsilencing echoes.

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rehearsing the collection (Felino A Soriano)

at 15 Ishook my own hand

a piano solo philosophy thatstayed in an etching diligenceuntil 16

alone was a rendition of trioconversationwithmy companioning booksangled atopmy desk awaitingdiligent eyes and theontology of hands toengage whatcannot be rehearsedwithin the language ofa systematic reverie

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Origins (Felino A Soriano)

an obligation wrotemy infrequent name into a chapterof devoted prose, desired

articulation to portendemotion from my girlfriendwhich, unlike my reflectionalbehavior

needed continuousemblems of others’dialogue to feel belonging,

inherited togetherness—

my language, though a softenedwhisper-crawl paradigm ofneeded change—this change

of desire to speak withinhow my thinking exposedtruant fulfillment and dexterous

affirmations—

inside a Friday’s silence anawaiting for school’s Mondayto interpret weekend boredom I

opened a notebook and examinedthe quietness

of each nocturnal page, the/my internal music,

an immediate rhythmexposed dimensional languagewith

each syllable an abstractclarity confirmingalabaster idea

would become an

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inexistent fathom ofprior articulations, asthe poetry unknownby the hand and speaking

image wouldwrite toward my girlfriend areactionary

reciprocation I practiced toenchant and replicatefrom the interior

obfuscationfrom where this languagetranspired

silence, the undeveloped virtue

within these echoes. syllables crawl.my good eye, silent. night, an origamisubstitute. all these voices, control,curtail. nothing expands, oscillates.why the memory fades, an allusionto death is the momentary awakeningtoward north, an always north.

Of leaving

don’t explain,—: the bend of your shadowarced into the grasping of my name

unfastened

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this distance cannot enunciate me well

Iam from the privilege of incisive hands

theorigin of sound and bodies’encounter

withprophecy of form without a name todetermine approbation

orsoliloquy ofdetermining timeline or

deterioration of choicein the fathom of misplaced percentage

of existence’s alphabetic

misspelling

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Biographical Note: Evelyn BalesBiographical Note: Evelyn BalesBiographical Note: Evelyn BalesBiographical Note: Evelyn Bales

Evelyn Bales, a poet living in Kingsport, Tennessee, has been published in

ournals and anthologies throughout the Appalachian region and beyond.Her chapbook, Kinkeeper, was published by Finishing Line Press,Cincinnati, Ohio, as No. 18 in their New Women's Voices Series. Some ofher poems were performed by the Palm Beach, Florida, RepertoryCompany in the play Tapestry: The Voices of Women Poets.

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Three Memories (Evelyn Bales)

Three memories of that first lovehave followed me these fifty years.A boy at summer camp, fourteen.His skin smooth, glowing.The sun jewelling his fair hair.

Cold lake water beadinghis chest. Our eyes met,then shyly dropped, our heartsfeeling beyond all reasonwhat we could not know.

The autumn of '57 drivingthe wetlands along Horse Creek,a sea of cattails, an exaltation.A host of red-winged blackbirdstaking flight, our talisman.

One frosty January night,the earth rimed in ice,he raised both arms to the heavens,calling down the numberless starsto name the measure of his love.

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Legacy (Evelyn Bales)

Suppose the paths that once divergedhad come together then,before you chose the single lifeand I the marriage bond.

Our son might walk the path you tookto fish this teeming pond,And sun-kissed girl in pinaforemight take her brother’s hand

And lead him through these treasured fieldsyou held in trust for them.while we from side-porch watched enthralledthe wonders we had wrought.

‘Mid lovely supposition, reality intrudes.

Your farm may pass to other handsnot skilled in plow or herd,and ruder folk might raze your hearthto build unmemoried stone.

But hearts can move in union stillwithin that other realm,where souls transcend the mark of yearsas surely poets can.

From shadowed porch I’ll write to you,our stories will unfold.And words will be our legacy,

My heart your hearth and home.

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Falling Away (Evelyn Bales)

Out here under the trees,we rest from autumn’s choreand fall side by side on cushionof multicolored leaves.

Red, pink and orange maple leavesdrift on us like a patchwork quilt,their dust motes mingled withthe hickory leaves’ musty essence.

We rue the oak and beech leavesthat will remain until late winter,their rustling accompanying winter wind,their tenacity assuring we will rake again come spring.

We watch woodsmoke from our neighbor’s hearthwisping skyward as two hawks wheel and turn,and we are carried away like time travelersto that day you first showed me this place.

The years fall away thenleaving us seventeen againcoming to this place wherewe dreamed the home

That stands just behind us,gray cedar and ancestral stone,roof gleaming in the sun,the front entrance welcoming.

But we are in another time

when love was new and tender,full of hopes and dreams,when even time was young.

The children, seldom out of mind,fall away here, too;and we are alone, lovers still,the last leaves drifting slowly down.

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If youIf youIf youIf you fancyfancyfancyfancy

submittingsubmittingsubmittingsubmitting

something butsomething butsomething butsomething but

haven’t done sohaven’t done sohaven’t done sohaven’t done so

yet, or if you yet, or if you yet, or if you yet, or if you

would like to send would like to send would like to send would like to send

us some furtherus some furtherus some furtherus some furtherexamples of yourexamples of yourexamples of yourexamples of your

work, here are work, here are work, here are work, here are

our submissionour submissionour submissionour submission

guidelines:guidelines:guidelines:guidelines:

SUBMISSIONSSUBMISSIONSSUBMISSIONSSUBMISSIONS

NB – All artwork

must be in either BMP or

JPEG format. Indecent

and/or offensive images willnot 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!

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November 2015 MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:November 2015 MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:November 2015 MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:November 2015 MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

Like the tide the last few months have had their ups and downs

but like cats we bounce back and land on our feet.

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”.

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Biography: Barbara Gabriella Renzi

LULE

I have been painting and drawing since my childhood and my art has always been

the intersections of dreams and sweet memories and very often a metaphor of life and

of my interiority.

The waves of the sea are also the waves of memory. Every time I bathe in the sea o

memory I change the waves and my memories and my memories change me.

My paintings are visual evocations of my childhood: swimming in the warm sea

water and floating on and playing with the waves, the internal peace that we lose

when we grow, the food and the life in the moment that we forget to live, being thehappiest child on earth when tasting and eating a lemon lollypop, the smell of coffee

in the house, the taste of sugar with a drop of coffee and that of cinnamon cakes…

The various images and patterns of my paintings emerge from my night dreams,

slowly taking shape as a description of my interior world. They are metaphors of my

life and of the different layers of my soul. I mainly use acrylics and oils.

Lule - Barbara Gabriella Renzi

Lule started painting under the direction of Italian painter and sculptor Bruno

Caviola. She has developed her original style thorough an on-going exploration of

the qualities and combinations of textures, colours and materials. Her art has its

origin in dreams and memories and it is a metaphor of her life and interiority.

Lule has extensively exhibited in Northern Ireland, Italy and Germany. Her recent

exhibitions include solo shows at Synch Space (Bangor), Common Grounds (Belfast)

and at the Crescent Arts Centre.

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Painting by Barbara Gabriella Renzi photography by Giulio Napolitano

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Biography: Carlos Franco-Ruiz

Carlos Franco-Ruiz (°1987, Managua, Nicaragua) is an artist who mainly works withpainting. In 1988, as the civil war was winding down his parents immigrated to Miami,FL. Carlos was raised in Miami, in the neighborhood of Little Havana. At the age of 14,he was accepted into the Commercial Art Magnet Program at South Miami Senior HighSchool in 2002. After graduating, he would continue to pursue art as a career andcompleting his Bachelor of Fine Arts at the University of Miami in 2011. In 2013, hemoved to Uruguay and continues to follow his passion for painting where he recently hada solo exhibition "Fractured Moments" at Roggia Galerie to showcase his latest body ofwork. Currently lives and works in Sauce, Uruguay.

www.franco-ruiz.com

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Dark nights by Carlos Franco-Ruiz

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Discarded wool online by Carlos Franco-Ruiz

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The Exchange by Carlos Franco-Ruiz

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Lapwing Publications

List of works published during 2015

978-1-910855-16-4 As I Was Pulled Under the Earth x Grant Tarbard978-1-910855-15-7 Lucky x Graham Buchan978-1-910855-14-0 Mice at the Threshing The Memoir of Richie Roe x Arthur Broomfield978-1-910855-13-3 Impromptus for George Erdmann & The Good Samaritan x John Gohorry978-1-910855-12-6 Ventriloquist's Dummy x David Andrew978-1-910855-11-9 Forms of Freedom x Sam Burnside978-1-910855-10-2 At the Edge x Kate Ennals978-1-910855-09-6 Annals x Martin Burke978-1-910855-08-9 Glencree Riverain x Judy Russell978-1-910855-07-2 The Enemy: transversions from Baudelaire x Peter O'Neill978-1-910855-06-5 Escape & Other Poems x Nina Sokol978-1-910855-05-8 Assassins x Martin J. Byrne978-1-910855-04-1 Blue Flower x Richard W. Halperin

978-1-910855-03-4 Fifty-Three Poems x C.P. Stewart978-1-910855-02-7 Fault Line x Paul Mortimer978-1-910855-01-0 Fathomable x Jane Morley978-1-910855-00-3 I heard an Irish Jew x Gerry McDonnell978-1-909252-98-1 The Last Fire x Helen Harrison978-1-909252-97-4 Speck: Poems 2002 - 2006 x Alice Lyons978-1-909252-96-7 Smithy of Our Longings x Tim Dwyer978-1-909252-95-0 The Trouble with Love x Fern Angel Beattie978-1-909252-94-3 Broken Hill x Keith Payne978-1-909252-93-6 Frequencies of Light x James R. Kilner978-1-909252-92-9 Conversations in the Dark x Valerie Masters978-1-909252-91-2 He Robes me Royally x Helen Long

978-1-909252-90-5 Landscape of Self x Aine MacAodhaAvailable at£10.00 in UK£15.00 outside UK(due to UK international postage rates)978-1-910855-13-3Impromptus for George Erdmann & The Good SamaritanIs in A4 format and £15.00 UK £20.00 outside UK978-1-910855-14-0Mice at the Threshingis a memoirB di t f bli h i b it l i t

anu issue 40

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