ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Featuring the works of Byron Beynon, Felino A.Soriano, Peter O’Neill, Michael McAloran, John Saunders, Strider Marcus Jones, Amy Barry, Neil Ellman, Gary Beck and Joseph Patrick Dorrian Hard copies can be purchased from our website. Issue No 33 June 2015
The June issue of Northern Ireland's monthly literary and arts zine featuring the works of Byron Beynon, Felino A.Soriano, Peter O’Neill, Michael McAloran, John Saunders, Strider Marcus Jones, Amy Barry, Neil Ellman, Gary Beck and Joseph Patrick Dorrian
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ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Byron Beynon, Felino A.Soriano, Peter O’Neill, Michael McAloran, John Saunders, Strider Marcus Jones, Amy Barry, Neil Ellman, Gary Beck and Joseph Patrick Dorrian Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 33
June 2015
2
A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig
On the Wall Editor: Arizahn
Website Editor: Adam Rudden
ContentsContentsContentsContents
Editorial page 5
Byron Beynon; Jobs Well Lane
Portrait of a Gypsy
Sunshine and Dust/ Corner of a Room
On Cefn Bryn
Felino Soriano;
Self Portrait Review of a 6:00 a.m. belief
And
Why questions conceal automated responses
Implicit compromises
Home as understanding compromise
Cultural queries inventing dilemma
Sound and the cylinder of its oscillating music
Learned behavior
Peter O’Neill; An Old man
Michael McAloran; #
John Saunders; Love no.2 The Days Before Decimals
Conditional
Belfast
Strider Marcus Jones;
Urban Distress
Us
Sunflowers
This Fibbing Sun
That Corner of the Day
Amy Barry;
Monday Blues
A New Season
The Revisit
Her Life Sentence
3
Neil Ellman;
In the Vastness of Sorrowful Thoughts
Vulgar Comedy
Eyes of Oedipus
Ancestor
Gary Beck;
Fractional Disorder
Departure Call
Gadgetry
Visitation
The Last Song
To the Cities
Joseph Patrick Dorrian;
Blood Liable
On The WallOn The WallOn The WallOn The Wall
Message from the Alleycats page 53
Round the BackRound the BackRound the BackRound the Back
absent of reclaim from out of origin forgotten/ as if to/ desire what hence forgotten
never having of the other than the final edge of/ raped stone/ (dry the eyes)/
vomits upon the sun-dead-else in the intro outro being in/ it is what then else/ drags
what hence through/ not a.../
impart of/ regulate of disrepair/ shines out of the arse of it does not until/ in blind sight
of/ contraspect/ devours what of in else of other than blockade/ fallen bodies/
nothing/nothing...
(Michael McAloran)
28
#... ...tapers tapers away rescinds unto in absent reclamation shadowed by/ breaking bone
snap sharp sky desolate recoil in the echo echoing/
eaten of the parameters where not thought reverberates a collective night endless to
expand within the split light eye’s blood whispering/
fallen falling fragments of flesh the upturned pam seeks to be filled with the nothing
of/
it bound by lock lapse deserted coffin spurious flame residual dissipation unsung
devour of blight winds/ in a mockery of milk teeth scattered as of seed dense amber/
eaten away the pulse bulb magnet nothing clad in the spectral design I lock fades in
and out unto absentee expelled excrement tone deaf subtle subtle/
fingers caress the blood flecked shattered glass of being in reductive blessed be the
obsolete regard taken from out of broken shells scattered pelts not a...
not a trace for tomorrow given to undone in drift reclaim erased by solace of none
spitting in the face of else what magnitude/
embers traces these are not for the/ vapours of words collected in the vocal expound in
resound of hilt/ none done days of vital absence eradicating the naught/
still-speech a collision vertebrae not an emblem to caress not the warmth of/ the flesh
of/ the eye fold in upon itself in gifted spasm nothing more of it/
shrapnel blight as was in terse of/ spits into the emptiness that cannot be other than/
recoils once more/
dead zone of approximate/ the sky has...colours the like of which unseen/
amphetaminal vibration/ skinned opiate reclaim/ and the bite of salve/ fading in fading
out...
(Michael McAloran)
29
Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note: John SaundersJohn SaundersJohn SaundersJohn Saunders
John Saunders’ first collection ‘After the Accident’After the Accident’After the Accident’After the Accident’ was
published in 2010 by Lapwing Press, Belfast. His poems have
appeared in Revival, The Moth Magazine, Crannog, Prairie
Schooner Literary Journal (Nebraska), Sharp Review, The
Stony Thursday Book, Boyne Berries, The New Binary Press
Anthology of Poetry, Volume 1, Riposte, and on line, The
Smoking Poet, Minus Nine Squared, The First Cut, The Weary
Blues, Burning Bush 2, Weekenders, Poetry Bus and poetry
24.
John is one of three featured poets in Measuring, Dedalus New Measuring, Dedalus New Measuring, Dedalus New Measuring, Dedalus New
Writers Writers Writers Writers published by Dedalus Press in May 2012. He is a
member of the Hibernian Poetry Workshop and a graduate of
the Faber Becoming a Poet 2010 course.
His second full collection ChanceChanceChanceChance was published in February
2013 by New Binary Press.
30
Love Poem # 2 (John Saunders)
Before I could spell the word
I searched for it,
knew it lurked nearby.
I opened every cupboard,
pawed pockets under the stairs,
anonymous boxes in the attic.
Even though I did not know its shape,
I was sure I would recognise it.
Tears of despair came to me,
I grew tired, fell asleep on the sofa
and awoke in her arms
as she carried me to my bed,
kissed my head, lay beside me.
31
The Days Before Decimals (John Saunders)
In the days before decimals
I knew my place.
The fire burned
with the fractions of off cuts.
That press under the water tank,
warm, dry, safe:
where words came to me
and my life was not measured in numbers.
Conditional
If I had listened
to her voice
ooze advice
into my ear
that evening
in seventy four
while I waited
for the five forty
five to Dublin
to educate myself
in life sciences
so that I would
shed any belief
and enshrine
utilitarianism
to survive the bullets
of chance
she would have died
a proud mother.
I didn’t.
32
Belfast 2013 (John Saunders)
The nicotine light of the pub
is a watery shade
and street puddles are blurred neon
of conflicted colours.
The hotel stands gallant
in disaster.
They said it could not happen
and it did
and they have salvaged hope
from failure.
I am in the shadow of adversity
picking at your risk,
helpless in the face of helplessness,
stunned before collision.
I have failed.
33
Biographical Note: Biographical Note: Biographical Note: Biographical Note: Strider Marcus JonesStrider Marcus JonesStrider Marcus JonesStrider Marcus Jones
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant
from Salford/Hinckley, England with proud Celtic roots in
Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five
published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical,
sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical
http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a
maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing
his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
His poetry has been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2
Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition;
Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary
Journal, 2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-
Day Poetry Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January
2015; The Collapsed Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and
Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life and Legends Magazine; The
She has worked in the media, hotel and oil & gas industries.
Her work has been published in anthologies, journals
and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad including in Southword Journal,
First Cut, Poetry 24, Red Fez, Misty Mountain, A New Ulster.
She loves traveling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris,
Berlin, Falkerberg- have all inspired her work.
When not inspired to write she plays Table Tennis.
She also loves Sushi and Trampoline Jumping.
40
Monday Blues
(Amy Barry)
Monday, the most hectic day
of the week. After dropping the children
off at school, I park my car,
and lean back in the seat.
Blustery wind gently
shakes the car.
Tuning in to Newstalk,
‘Dublin’s Spire will not be named
after Mandela…
French President reportedly picks
actress over first lady…’
Beat tapping to Paolo Nutini,
on the music channel,
Candy takes me back
to the serene hills in Nepal-
where I sip Jaandh,
as it sinks into me, I absorb
the unruffled ambience;
Sagarmatha!
You stand tall. Your crown
wearing gold at sunset.
Clouds alive;
Breathe, laugh and dance
around you…
Lifting the sleek coffee mug
from the cup holder, both hands
clasp its rubber grip.
I inhale the fruity aroma
of Kenyan coffee,
savouring
its strong taste.
Lulled, at silence,
a quiet moment I should be glad of-
in this little space
in my car
alone.
41
A New Season
(Amy Barry)
She inhales.
An odour of sexual ecstasy;
the heat of breeding season.
Mosses and ferns release their spores
into the air. A hawk rises in blinding heights;
shrills happy-in senseless passion.
A moth lays tiny, glassy eggs in perfect rows.
Bunnies, emerging for their first
lesson in life, grasping at sudden freedom.
In the garden of patchouli, mint, lavender;
she sees him,
intent in his inspection.
She likes his smell-
so earthy, a forest-like blend
of oak and aromatic bergamot.
He turns to her and smiles, plants a kiss
firmly on her lips. As if under a cloudburst
of petals, the air sweetens.
The dying leaves are gone,
replaced
by a luminous green.
42
The Revisit
– A Tribute to Mandela
(Amy Barry)
Today I had a chance to visit,
the place I had spent
most of my life,
where I had passed
the time calmly enough
where I had often asked myself,
‘What more-
am I suppose to do?’
Desperation pushed
me to take risks.
Sadness hit me
like an arrow,
entered my flesh.
Blessed be the part
of me that protects
from too much pain
and sorrow;
because when the torment
was too severe-
I felt nothing.
43
Her life sentence
(Amy Barry)
Numbed,
as wooden as a puppet,
she yearns for something to make sense.
Teardrops gathering
on her lower eyelid, waiting to fall.
Disappointment,
burns her eyes, her brain.
Hot blood rages
through her veins, she wants to thump
her fists against his chest, his face.
Pained memories,
like rough charcoal- sketches
in her soul,
wrongly remembered.
44
Biographical Note: Neil EllmanBiographical Note: Neil EllmanBiographical Note: Neil EllmanBiographical Note: Neil Ellman
Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published more than
1,100 poems in print and online journals, anthologies and
chapbooks throughout the world. He has been honored twice as a
nominee for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.
45
In the Vastness of Sorrowful Thoughts (Hans Hofmann, painting)
How vast it seems
the reach of sorrow
like a hand
across the universe
expanding in the mind
through the limitless
void of our days.
How determined
and pitiless it seems
taking hold of everything
from within and without
from birth to death
when even then
It never stops.
It is in the molecules
we breathe
the pattern of our genes
and sound of falling leaves
a sonnet written
to oneself
sorrow in the bones
as well as in the mind
how vast it seems
how measureless it is.
(Neil Ellman)
46
Vulgar Comedy (Paul Klee, lithograph)
No buffoonery
or burlesque
in the commonplace
before the pageant
of the burial.
No happy endings
in the ordinaire
between divinity
and the grave
At the gallow’s end
before the last
no last laughs
but life’s absurdity
and then the vulgar
comedy of death.
(Neil Ellman)
47
Eyes of Oedipus (Adolph Gottlieb, painting)
When he was a boy
Oedipus had a single face
with twice as many eyes;
and as a would-be king
more faces than could be counted
each one having twice, more or less,
as many eyes with which to see for miles
beyond the ocean’s wine-dark waves
to the front, behind and to his sides
through solid walls and into the minds
of men more royal than himself
like a bee that could see Invisible light
and like a snake the heat
but he could never see the prophecy
in the oracle’s bright light
that even with a thousand eyes
it seemed that like a child he had but one
and it was for the woman of his dreams.
(Neil Ellman)
48
Ancestor (Pierre Alechinsky, lithograph)
No tombstone with a name
and six-point star engraved,
no faded photographs,
no dusty portrait on a wall,
no yellowing documents
announcing his birth
his marriage or the reason
of his death.
The father of my father’s
father had a name, I suppose,
and lived somewhere
In the Ukraine or Belarus
speaking some other language
in another alphabet, I think,
he was a scribe, my grandfather said,
but my grandmother said
he shoveled manure
like everyone else.
Did he dream of miracles
made by God
or the shape of God Himself?
Did he stare at the stars
and wonder why they are
and when they will speak to him
in a language he could understand?
Did he foresee that I, his heir,
in an ancestral fog
would wonder who he was
when all I know
is that he once lived
and left nothing more
than the color of his eyes?
to use it.
(Neil Ellman)
49
Biographical Note: Gary BeckBiographical Note: Gary BeckBiographical Note: Gary BeckBiographical Note: Gary Beck
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an
art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published
chapbooks. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive
Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on
Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways (Winter Goose Publishing).
Perceptions, Displays, Fault Lines and Tremors will be published by
Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response will be published by
Nazar Look. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts
of Defiance (Artema Press). Flawed Connections has been accepted for
publication (Black Rose Writing). His short story collection, A Glimpse of
Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). His original plays and translations of
Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway.
His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary
magazines. He currently lives in New York City
50
Departure Call
(Gary Beck)
Some migrating birds
pass through New York City
unafraid of urban muggers.
Most pause in Central Park
undisturbed by night prowlers
who do their business on the ground
and rarely climb trees.
The birds who pause at Bryant Park
are much more nervous
in the vest pocket greenery,
jostling for room
with local sparrows
harshly aggressive,
unwelcoming to travelers
unwilling to share food,
impatiently awaiting
departing flights.
51
Gadgetry
(Gary Beck)
In the Stone Age
we understood our artifacts,
knew where they came from,
how they were made.
As invention evolved
we knew less and less
about our tools.
Then artisans arrived
who built devices
that made life easier,
more efficient,
more profitable.
As the Industrial Age
spawned new machines
beyond comprehension
of most people
who enjoyed the benefits
of labor saving contrivances
that changed the world of work,
engineers, mechanics,
building, operating
new systems
beyond manpower
to manufacture goods
for the consumption of many.
And we began to leave the soil
in great numbers
renouncing toil in the fields
for work in the factories.
When we tamed electricity,
harnessed it
for creation, convenience,
we did not understand it
merely flipped a switch
and there was light.
And our marvels multiplied
52
until we controlled
godlike power
to obliterate cities
at the push of a button.
We created new wonders
so even the poor
the homeless
carry cell phones
and the people
were connected,
texting each other
wherever they went
intent on tiny screens
not the hazards of the road.
The inventions of the few
beyond the comprehension
of the many
without the faintest idea
how communication works,
only slightly evolved
from primitive forebears.
53
Visitation
(Gary Beck)
Cousin Murray
long dead,
came to me in a dream,
told me
about his new app.
I vagued out,
just as of old
when he was alive.
Then he droned
about a great idea,
how much money he’d make,
just as he did
when he was alive.
54
The Last Song
(Gary Beck)
As my time dwindles
in this fleeting life
I strain to understand
the mechanics of existence,
the engineering of society.
I know there is a collective will
to function together,
irreparably divided
by clan, tribe, religion, nations,
frequently conflicting,
often uncooperative,
consuming the earth
in senseless destruction,
willing for all to perish
rather then compromise.
55
To the Cities
(Gary Beck)
We gather in cities
for safety, comfort,
a secure food supply,
conditions that only exist
with law and order.
So we left the land
for easier labor
than the backbreaking grind
of squeezing a livelihood
from begrudging Mother Earth.
Then we went to the factories
and discovered new enslavement,
instead of capricious Nature
we found the grasping boss.
But it was too late
to return to the farm,
gobbled up by the bank,
sold to agribusiness.
Production is only limited
by the energy of workers
mated with machines
that never tire.
Once the farmer toiled alone,
or with small family.
Then hordes labored together
and learned to count their numbers.
The baron who lived on the hill
overlooking the gritty factory
couldn’t just slaughter rebels,
so they purchased protective laws.
And when the workers wearied,
neglecting insatiable machines,
they used goons, police, National Guard
and forced their return to work.
56
The new lords of capital
did not have walls, moats
to defend their property,
just the rule of law.
And the workers were always wrong,
greedy and unreasonable,
always wanting more
then bosses would allow.
Conflict became a constant
and for a while it seemed
the workers had compelled
concessions from their masters.
But this was an illusion.
Throughout history, the lords gave
when they had to, but took back
as soon as they could.
57
Biographical Note: Joseph Patrick DorrianBiographical Note: Joseph Patrick DorrianBiographical Note: Joseph Patrick DorrianBiographical Note: Joseph Patrick Dorrian
Patrick is Belfast born bred and buttered as McDowell would say. He
retired from teaching in 2007 after 30 years struggling in west Belfast.
Patrick is married to Frances and they have 3 offspring all adults now. He
has dabbled with poetry for several decades as a means of escape and
last year Patrick had a poem about Palestine published in a magazine in
Europe, his first publication.
58
Blood Liable
(Joseph Patrick Dorrian)
It's red, we all have it, Some of us like to share it. A wonderful word, transfusion
is. Sure, they like to place it in Sentences dear to their hearts, A transfusion of
money for business. Meaning a possibility of extended life.
That loan has interest accruing.
The real meaning, the GIFT of blood Always so altruistic.
Yet, this can be sullied. Some fundamentalists refuse it, Preferring death. Some
look at the giver, Possibly a same sex sinner.
HE may be clean but why risk it?
But all blood is tested, checked, disposed Of if at all uncertain. (The aside) maybe
being homosexual Is transmissible, maybe queerness can be caught.
The fear is hidden, buried in text, read In a book that has been washed through
Several translations (that prefix again!), And the poor dears get confused, They say
they follow Christ, but are stuck In the Old Testament. So, no GAY Blood,
One wouldn't want to crack a smile.
59
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us some further us some further us some further us some further
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E-mail all submissions to: [email protected] and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to
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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!
60
June 2015 MESSAGE FJune 2015 MESSAGE FJune 2015 MESSAGE FJune 2015 MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:ROM THE ALLEYCATS:ROM THE ALLEYCATS:ROM THE ALLEYCATS:
We have a Go Fund Me campaign so as to afford better tuna.
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”.
61
62
Delve into the depths of humanity and criminal justice with Homicide Detective
Alex Boswell, in this thought provoking debut novel. Emily Donoho escorts her
readers on a breath taking journey through the city that never sleeps, and the
restless mind of one of its most dedicated servants. A tattered veteran of the
NYPD, Boswell is a man beset: the combined weight of his case load and personal
life grinding him down. The white lights are blinding, and the skyscrapers are
closing in. It’s time to reach for the shore or drown trying – In the Canyons of
Shadow and Light. (http://www.amazon.com/dp/151205268X/ref=rdr_ext_tmb)
63
64
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978-1-909252-39-4 Entwined Waters x Jude Mukoro
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978-1-909252-41-7 words to a peace lily at the gates of morning x Martin J. Byrne
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