ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of Lorraine Caputo, Michael Whelan,

Marcus Strider Jones, J.S. Watts, Paula Matthews, John Byrne,Al

Millar, Jack Grady, Kevin Higgins, Barbara Gabriella Renzi, David

Atkinson, Amy Barry,Marion Clarke , Helen Harrison and Amos

Greig

Voices for

Peace Anthology

December 2015

2

A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall Editor: Arizahn

Website Editor: Adam Rudden

ContentsContentsContentsContents

Editorial page 5

Lorraine Caputo; 1. Peace Flag

2. A Thousand and One Nights

Michael J Whelan;

1. Prospects for Peace

2. Pristina

3. Beirut

4. On This Beautiful Day

Marcus Strider Jones;

1. Resist, And Dance, Remain

2. Somewhere in France

3. We Move The Wheel

4. Lothlorien

J.S. Watts

1. Broken Parts March Past

2. Replacing Helicopters with Buzzards

Paula Matthews;

1. Bullets

John Byrne;

1. Who Helps a Mother

2. In Whose Name

Al Millar;

1. ‘Peace’ – I’m Not really sure what that means?

Jack Grady;

1. Resurrection

2. Bosnia at War’s End

3. Two Refugees

Kevin Higgins;

1. After Paris, Friday 13th

3

David Atkinson;

1. Abercorn

2. fallujah birthdays

3. nature poem

4. museum of the welsh soldier

Amy Barry;

1. Still flickering in the darkness

Marion Clarke;

1. Haiku

Helen Harrison;

1. After the Drought

Amos Greig;

1. White Rose

2. Spasms

Barbara Gabriella Renzi;

3. Pace

4

Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to:

Submissions Editor

A New Ulster

23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL

Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com

See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is

available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ

Digital distribution is via links on our website:

https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/

Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman

Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland.

All rights reserved

The artists have reserved their right under Section 77

Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

To be identified as the authors of their work.

ISSN 2053-6119 (Print)

ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Cover Image “Peace March” by Barbara Gabriella Renzi

Photography by Giulio Napolitano

5

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

Editorial

This is a special edition produced in response to the wave of violence, which has swept

across the world this year. Peace seems like such a far away goal at this time and the year is nearly

over there are dozens of religious holidays coming up and yet we seem to have not learnt from the

violence of our past.

I felt that something had to be done even if it was just a small gesture a means to show that

there is more to this world than bloodshed and hatred. Mass shootings in America, the divisions in

Syria and the constant bombings and internecine strife, kidnappings by Boko Haram, attacks in Mali,

Paris, Israel and Palestine and of course on the streets of Belfast my home town.

It is almost depressing however I know that there are people working on the ground to bring

about peace, who bring communities together and who show that there is another way. There are

mass outpourings of support and care for many people for the homeless and the refugee.

Christmas is a time of giving so thanks to all of the poets who supplied their voices for peace

I present to you this issue. No matter your religion or lack thereof we are all human, we bleed the

same colour and have the same hopes and dreams so I present this issue and ask you to share the

message far and wide.

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig

6

Biographical Note: Lorraine CaputoBiographical Note: Lorraine CaputoBiographical Note: Lorraine CaputoBiographical Note: Lorraine Caputo

Lorriane is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her poetry and

narratives has appeared in over 100 journals in Canada, the US, Latin

America, Europe, Africa, Asia and Australia, as well as in eight chapbooks

of poetry and twelve anthologies. In 2016, dancing girl press will be

published her collection, Notes from the Patagonia. Lorraine has also

authored several travel guidebooks. In March 2011, the Parliamentary Poet

Laureate of Canada chose her as poet of the month. Lorraine has done over

200 literary readings, from Alaska to the Patagonia. For the past decade, she

has been traveling through Latin America, listening to the voices of

the pueblos and Earth.

Several of her poems had appeared in Nº 8 (May 2013) of A New Ulster.

7

PEACE FLAG

(Lorraine Caputo)

Time and place shift

with a smell

or a rooster calling

Again I am

walking earthen roads

through the mountains

& puna

I am sitting in the dim

of an adobe home

hearing her & his story

weaving through our space

They capture on these weavings

of my pen across this space

wrapping us together

in a warm human blanket

That scent that song

& so I soar

over emerald jungle green

along sapphire seas & pearl shores

8

The strand I gather

weaving

weaving our Spirit whole

9

FOUR THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS (Lorraine Caputo)

A young woman returns

to this bomb shelter

The other women & children

gather ‘round to give

her dried fruit & tea

Her small hands, her dark eyes tremble

as she recounts to us

Almost trapped in the open

she was afraid to move

Fearful that, then,

the tracers would find her

I swallow her bitter words

The pin of my head scarf

pricks the tender skin of my chin

What is the best thing to do

if one is caught like that?

I ask

Don’t move

& read the Koran

the women tell me

But I don’t know Arabic

Just hold this copy of the Koran

Allah hears prayers in any language

My long dark sleeves brush the

small dark-green book

placed in my hand

Dream time

& dream place

shift

The bombing began again

we huddle outside

a building’s door

& as soon as we can

we slip in huddling

10

praying beyond the

grimed glass façade

The rain of munitions

now is constant no respite

Gold streak after gold streak

after gold … after …

They paint disappearing

lines through our

clenched eyelids

We clench each other tight

this old woman & I

Our headscarves touch

Gold streak after gold

& the white flashes

of their explosions

so near us

Our breath silent explosions

of fear to move

will find us

Fear to think even

a complete

thought

Tracers

Gold streaks

We dare to lift our heads

just a bit to talk

Tracers Tracers

Gold streaks

white flashes

Tracers tracing

I don’t know what to do

I whisper

Just keep still & pray

Tracers tracers

tracers tracing

11

Gold streaks painting

white flashes burning

clenched eyelids

Our bodies clenched

in a tight embrace

My hand clenching

the small green book

How I wish I could read

even one prayer

my mind whispers

How I would like to read

just one …

Dream time

& dream place

shift

Darkness

deathly stillness

No tracers

We run

low

to bushes

in the middle of the road

Afraid our movements

be detected

Deathly silence

darkness

& we run

low

to a glass façade

Slipping through

the doors

Down the

silent

darkened

corridors

12

Our footsteps sharply echoing

& left

down another corridor

towards a light

burning

the darkness

Towards lighted rooms where

the women & children

where shelter, dried fruit & tea

await us

13

Biographical Note: Michael J Whelan

Michael J. Whelan is a soldier-poet, writer & historian (Curator – Irish Air Corps

Aviation Museum) living in Tallaght County Dublin. He served as a United

Nations peacekeeper with the Irish Army in South Lebanon and Kosovo during the

conflicts in those countries, which informs much of his poetry. He was 2nd

Place

Winner in the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award 2011, 3rd

Place Winner in the

Jonathon Swift Awards 2012, shortlisted in the Doire Press and Cork Literary

Manuscript Competitions and selected for the Eigse Eireann/Poetry Ireland

Introductions 2012. His work has appeared in the An Cosantoir, Hennessy New

Irish Writing, Poetry Ireland Review, the Red Line Book Festival and many other

literary magazines and newspapers. A number of his poems appeared most recently

in The Hundred Years War - Modern War Poems anthology edited by Neil Astley

and published by Bloodaxe (UK) He has published two books The Battle of

Jadotville: Irish Soldiers in Combat in the Congo, 1961 (2006) and Allegiances

Compromised: Faith, Honour & Allegiance - Ex British Soldiers in the Irish Army

1913 - 1924 (2011). He was awarded an MA in Modern History from the National

University of Ireland (2006) and an Arts Bursary for Literature from the South

Dublin Arts Office in June 2014. To sample his work

visit michaeljwhelan.wordpress.com/

14

PROSPECTS FOR PEACE

(Michael J Whelan)

The rubble hospital

delivers a dead new-born baby

into the hands of a doctor of history,

who studied conflict resolution

for his Ph.D. thesis

somewhere in the West

before volunteering as a teacher

in a school in Palestine

for a nine month period,

when the war intercedes

and demands of him his views

on the prospects for peace

when the New World Order

is finally adopted

by the nations of the Earth.

15

PRISTINA (Michael J Whelan)

It was only a moment

but he looked into me.

Could see me as clearly

as I see him after all this time,

his eyes piercing my soul,

digging deep.

I’m at a main junction in Pristina,

my jeep is turning left into

the raging river highway

near the barracks flattened by

NATO bombers a few months before.

I’m counting satellite dishes that

seemed to over populate the high-rise

landscape overnight,

‘a sign of normality at last perhaps?

The rusty orange car catches my attention.

Starting and stopping in a crazy fashion,

like a piece of farmyard machinery that

hasn’t seen a road in years, fueled with

kangaroo juice, its driver on the loose.

I caught his eyes then, as he lay across

the back seat. The agony in his face as they

reached out to me and I saw what remained

of his leg. The ball of his knee hanging,

attached by loose skin and gristle

and wrapped in a bloody white shirt.

The drivers took control then and sped

in opposite directions. I couldn’t help him

but I know he sees me,

like I can see dead people.

16

BEIRUT

(Michael J Whelan)

Under a halo of shells,

safe in the wide open arms of hell,

she considers the prophecies,

(the burning buildings,

the smell of smouldering tyres

and charred bodies).

She longs to conquer her own future,

walk tall under pine trees,

breathe in the Hyacinths

and pick the Damask rose.

ON THIS BEAUTIFUL DAY

If a fireball momentarily sucks air from the windows

on the inside of a packed rush hour bus,

where people seconds before looked out

upon the market places of Televiv and Beirut

and you are watching in the future on your TV

from somewhere in the world,

water hoses cooling the cinders of a city street

much like yours,

the particle faces of commuters

being scraped from walls and sewers

then you are

,

like me,

the lucky one

having nowhere to travel

on this beautiful day.

17

Biographical Note: Strider Marcus JonesBiographical Note: Strider Marcus JonesBiographical Note: Strider Marcus JonesBiographical Note: Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant

from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and

Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books

of poetry http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusj.... reveal a

maverick socialist, moving between forests, mountains, cities and

coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England,

Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous

publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology:And

Agamemnon Dead; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington

Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine

Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine;

The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely

Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary

Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic

Arts; Don't Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead

Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Syzygy

Poetry Journal Issue 1 and Ammagazine/Angry Manifesto Issue 3.

18

RESIST, AND DANCE, REMAIN

(Strider Marcus Jones)

your alluring

love recurring

elated

sated

eyes

soften me with sighs

that wake the blood

to pump and rise

underneath my hood.

the darkness

combines

and defines

us into one completeness

in this mass bleakness.

i hope we cut the chains of chance,

when we join the crowds in Spain

and France-

to resist, and dance, remain.

19

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE

(Strider Marcus Jones)

loving you

is my violin

playing four seasons, constantly within-

melodic notes.

walking through

each interval

is integral-

joined tangents turn to jokes.

affection

bonds the spectrum

of experience

to existence

in our senses

standing without fences

we gypsy dance

somewhere in France.

20

WE MOVE THE WHEEL

(Strider Marcus Jones)

we move the wheel

that turns through each mistake,

giving motion

to the roles we chime

until both trickle out of time

like brittle steel

that rusts and breaks

into lapsed devotion.

less, or more,

you imagined it was sure

sharing the road

with you,

treading under dark, grey and blue

sky, wondering where it went going

to unfold

in fates wind blowing

fondling your full face

to some top-to-bottom place.

we have moved the wheel,

only to reveal

our high Metropolis

is still the same Acropolis

of extremes and obscenes

spreading gangrenous genes.

we have separated Dream from Time

and live in mirages

like Bacchus and Libera

duped in an era

condoning crime,

altering the images

of it's illustrious self

stealing the wealth

of massed, divided synergies.

21

LOTHLORIEN

(Strdier Marcus Jones)

i'm come home again

in your Lothlorien

to marinate my mind

in your words,

and stand behind

good tribes grown blind,

trapped in old absurd

regressive reasons

and selfish treasons.

in this cast of strife

the Tree Of Life

embraces innocent ghosts,

slain by Sauron's hosts;

and their falling cries

make us wise

enough to rise

up in a fellowship of friends

to oppose Mordor's ends

and smote this evil stronger

and longer

for each one of us that dies.

i'm come home again

in your Lothlorien,

pursuading

yellow snapdragons

to take wing

and un-fang serpent krakkens,

while i bring

all the races

to resume

their bloom

as equals in equal spaces

by removing

and muting

the chorus of crickets

who cheat them from chambered thickets,

hiding corruptions older than long grass

that still fag for favours asked.

i'm come home again

in your Lothlorien

22

where corporate warfare

and workfare

on health

and welfare

infests our tribal bodies

and separate self

in political lobbies

so conscience can't care

or share

worth and wealth:

to rally drones

of walking bones,

too tired

and uninspired

to think things through

and the powerless who see it true.

red unites, blue divides,

which one are you

and what will you do

when reason decides.

23

Biographical Note: J.S. WattsBiographical Note: J.S. WattsBiographical Note: J.S. WattsBiographical Note: J.S. Watts

J.S.Watts lives and writes in the flatlands of East Anglia. Her poetry and

short stories appear in a diversity of publications in Britain, Canada,

Australia and the States and have been broadcast on BBC and Independent

Radio. She has published four books: a full poetry collection, "Cats and

Other Myths" and a multi-award nominated poetry pamphlet, "Songs of

Steelyard Sue", both published by Lapwing Publications and two novels, "A

Darker Moon" - dark literary fantasy and “Witchlight” - paranormal fantasy,

both published in the US and the UK by Vagabondage Press. A new poetry

collection, “Years Ago You Coloured Me” is due out from Lapwing

Publications in 2016. Further details at: www.jswatts.co.uk

24

Broken Parts March Past

(J.S. Watts)

This, the song of broken parts,

may be hummed to the march tune

of your choice.

By a quick one, no two, brave boy;

don’t let that leg stump

break your stride.

It is a theme for any time or season

but is tuned to the months

heavy with the fallen,

waiting for the drop

of russet and gold

to cover the fresh dug earth

with chestnut palls and

fig leaf yellow.

Take this eye patch, lass,

to keep the sand out of the socket.

I use two myself,

saves turning a blind eye.

Focus only on the major notes,

the gleam of self importance

in that polished sense of worth.

Respect the uniform,

not the chap who wears it.

There’s no harm, my son,

in losing an arm

if your long, empty sleeve

is always worn with a tie,

top button clenched shut

to keep those thoughts in place.

You could see yourself in these shoes

if you had your eyes

or any feet left.

Hat squarely on your head when out of doors

until it’s blown clean off, that is.

One family, one body,

one tune to step out to,

one, no two

and while I’d like to feel your loss

all empathy got cut off

25

in the drilling and the bashing

and the sharpened shiny tones

of the brass notes’ clarion call.

Still, there’s no shortage of raw parts

that’ll polish up nice and fresh

before they’re broken and ground

beneath the timeless drum roll

and the pride of the march.

26

Replacing Helicopters With Buzzards

(J.S. Watts)

I had become almost used

to the gyratory throb and roar

gulping the air above the house

as the choppers routinely trooped past,

hovering low over my roof

seemingly close enough to snatch

the suddenly vulnerable chimney pot

before continuing their straight-line flight

to somewhere militarily important.

The slicing of their untired blades

mechanically cleansing the nearby sky

of the naturally winged.

Winds blow by. We are all,

allegedly, the poorer now.

Feeding austerity, the soldiers packed

up their kit bags old and new

and left; the barracks mothballed

in their slipstream.

Across the empty sky spread

above my roof, the hollow mew

of the buzzard calls out now.

Steady feathered fingers reach

towards the chimney, but do not touch.

The buzzard is intent on the fields

behind the house, hovering

to snatch a rabbit,

or other small creature,

living and dying out there.

27

The heavy beat of large wings clearing

the sky of smaller birds.

What do I know, but a sky full

of buzzard wings strikes me

as a better world than one

booming with rotor blades.

Yes, the helos make a strength

I benefit from and

young men and women die for me

to keep my peace.

A world of wide blue skies and broad green grass

seems a precious peace to me.

Though the rabbit may think differently.

28

Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note:Biographical Note: Paula MatthewsPaula MatthewsPaula MatthewsPaula Matthews

Published poet and playwright Paula Matthews is currently

editing The Launchpad, Creatively Directing Marginal

Theatre and training as a theatre director via the Arts

Council Northern Ireland. Mentored by Moyra Donaldson

and Jo Egan, she published her first children's book this

year and has decided to be someone who brings voices

from the margins into the centre of her work. She thinks

peace is more precious than rubies.

29

Bullets

(Paula Matthews)

(For S and D on the occasion of

people posting bullets through your door.)

I’d take them from you

and melt them down.

Dissolve the bullets,

discard the deadly gun.

Not so rigid now,

they could shape-shift.

Forge a bullet-chrysalis,

insides transformed for flight.

Fly far from your door.

30

Biographical Note: John Jack ByrneBiographical Note: John Jack ByrneBiographical Note: John Jack ByrneBiographical Note: John Jack Byrne

John(Jack) Byrne lives in Co. Wicklow ,Ireland he have been

writing for almost 6 years mainly poetry Traditional and

Japanese short form and have had some published success

in UK , USA, Ireland in Anthologies, Magazines ,Ezines

/Journals http://john-isleoftheharp.blogspot.ie

31

Who Helps a Mother

(John Jack Byrne)

Who helps a Mother

as she weeps in the dust

who affords her protection

when the sword is thrust

Who hears her cries

when she’s all alone

for all her dead children

who will atone

Once she had loved ones

jewels of her heart

then a bomb from the sky

ripped them apart

She calls on her god

for a reason why

he choose to do nothing

and allow them to die

Who helps a mother

distraught in the dust

what hope for tomorrow

when her god she can’t trust.

32

In Whose Name

(John Jack Byrne)

Is not the sky for all of us

and the clouds that float above

what was the word he left us

not killing or hate ,but love

Was it not he who calmed the sea

and raised a friend from the dead

why do you use his name to kill

and not evoke it for good instead

A day is coming when answer you must

you with the bomb and the gun

It is no God but evil you serve

no salvation for the deeds you’ve done.

33

Biographical Note: Al Millar

From Donegal, lives and works in north Antrim. Loves English language used well. Keen interest in

Scots vernacular poetry in Ulster. In 2014, edited with biography and introductions 'Frae the Causey to

Apolaypse' the poems in Ulster-Scots and English by

John McKinley of Dunseverick. Enjoy writing poetry and prose in English and vernacular, and both

together. Outside of literature hobbies include climbing hills in Antrim, Donegal, in fact any beautiful

hill anywhere, also politics, and eating nice food.

34

‘PEACE’ - I’m really not sure what that means?

By Alan Millar

A poem written specifically to submit to Voices for Peace an Anthology, organised by

A New Ulster, in the days following the November 13 2015 terrorist attacks in Paris

and other atrocities in Beirut, Nigeria and Mali.

For some reason after sitting down to write,

My initial thoughts on ‘PEACE’ focused on what I believe ‘peace’ is not -

‘Peace’ is not some wanky one liner posted in a comely swirling font

By people who don’t seem ultimately very ‘peaceful’.

Or elevating your own world view into a presumed and righteous paradigm

Waiting for the one who contradicts this to be the ‘peace breaker’.

Two of my pet hates about ‘peace’ I confess!

But no, that was the wrong approach.

Be positive!

But how?

I suppose I could divide ‘peace’ into ‘personal’ and ‘collective’,

Offering a sense of the personal ‘inner peaces’ that I have known,

Celebrating how much better these were than those painful states of distress or

turmoil,

And suggesting ways of encouraging more of these ‘moments of peace’

In myself and others;

Rising above any burrowing angers, fretting or pettiness,

Using my good sense, intuition or experience!

35

Or do similar for the collective,

Perhaps starting locally,

Sharing memories of where our ‘divide’ was transcended

By diverse collections of individuals focused on modest yet noble goals,

Who won small victories for humanity and community – YES!

In the often bleak public landscape created by Ulster’s petty sectarian war!

Reinforce the point with a swing of the facts -

That those with diametrically opposed political and cultural views

Could have soured the lot with hateful tension,

But chose instead to be ‘peaceful’,

Because of good sense, kindness, convention or whatever!

Moving on, I could suggest us as a metaphor

For a world cleaved apart by religion and politics;

For something infinitely bigger, wildly more terrible,

Point the finger at these stone their own, murderous, fanatical iconoclasts

Who claim the inner ‘peace’ of Islam,

But are not ‘peaceable’ people.

Then flag up for balance, and I suppose ‘peace’,

Europe’s wealth and colonial past, our legacy of holocausts and mandates!

But then it gets far too huge and abstract,

And the ‘do not tar all with the same brush’ point not even made yet,

As it very forcibly must be made in these circumstances!

36

So it’s back to personal again!

Maybe my travels in pre Daesh Syria -

Years ago, after crossing the border alone from Turkey,

I found the ordinary Muslim people to be hugely hospitable,

Leaving positive memories of individuals briefly met -

Imad George on the train to Aleppo, who liked western radio;

Or the quirky village pharmacist who for some reason called Bulgaria – Bulgarry;

Or the friendly young men who showed me around a coastal town,

(They had hand guns, true, but don’t Americans love bearing those too?)

(And who are we to talk in Northern Ireland anyway?);

Or watching Syrian holidaymakers out for a evening stroll,

Wearing too many clothes for a Mediterranean beach, especially the women!

The scene seemed old fashioned, or something like that,

Different just, but very pleasant.

Or drinking tea with four brothers,

When I witnessed the most profound thing ever -

Their mother seated herself on the floor in the middle of us all,

With a small basket of wheat,

Just enough for a loaf or two,

And began intently checking every grain, flicking grit to one side wheat to the other,

A scene unchanged in thousands of years, I thought.

‘It’s beautiful’ one of the brothers told me after, looking out across the countryside.

‘Yes’, I said, but it was too dry and rocky for me.

37

Travelling is brilliant; it leaves you more at ‘peace’ with difference,

And it stays with you and is sharable.

Finally, to the point -

Somehow reconciling ‘peace’ with the indiscriminate slaughter of innocents,

In Paris, Beirut, Nigeria, Mali and other places?

Including “Beirut, Nigeria Mali and other places” along with Paris,

Contributes to ‘peace’ I am sure.

Though I am compelled to state as a European,

That we have to protect and defend ourselves,

Our homelands and peoples!

Not an attitude with any natural philosophy of ‘peace’ built into it, I admit;

One that, sadly, could ultimately even mean war – I hope not!

But necessary given the circumstances, I think.

But don’t blame the refugees, they are fleeing these philistines!

Land invasions and carpet bombing won’t work, despite what the hawks say;

Is there not a cycle here? -

The West invades, loses the political will after a decade,

Then withdraws,

Leaving countries more volatile than they were before?

In trying to articulate my disquiet at the wave of very un-‘peaceful’

Often highly militant reactions to the Paris attacks,

38

On social media, and by some political leaders,

I produced the following -

‘Peace is complexity, war is simplicity’

‘Understanding is complexity, anger is simplicity’

I was trying to trumpet in a positive way,

The folly of the furious simplistic reaction!

But I saw, and not even immediately,

That all I had,

Was a couple of ‘wanky one liners’, and not even that original,

Though not as yet attired in fancy font and posted!

This subject is too big for me really; I don’t know its dimensions.

Though I’d say that there’s more ‘peace’ in me having tried to say something

Than having said nothing at all.

39

Biographical Note: Jack GradyBiographical Note: Jack GradyBiographical Note: Jack GradyBiographical Note: Jack Grady

Jack Grady is a founding member of the Ox Mountain Poets, based in

Counties Mayo and Sligo, in Ireland. He is a past winner of the

Worcester County (USA) Poetry Contest, and his poems have been

published in Ireland, the United States, France, and the United Kingdom,

including such literary journals as Crannog,Poet Lore, A New Ulster, The

Worcester Review, North West Words, and Mauvaise Graine, among

others, as well as in And Agamemnon Dead: An Anthology of Early

Twenty First Century Irish Poetry, and in the online anthology 21 Poems,

21 Reasons for Choosing Jeremy Corbyn.

The poem Resurrection was previously published in And Agamemnon

Dead as well as in 21 Poems, 21 Reasons for Choosing Jeremy Corbyn.

The poem Bosnia at War’s End was previously published in A New

Ulster, issue 32.

40

Resurrection

(Jack Grady)

I have a dream that one day

armies will shoot with songs instead of bullets

generals will shed uniforms for the saffron hues of Hari Khrishnas

Buddha will hold conference calls between New York and Geneva

St Francis will cradle again the birds of Assisi

even insects will have no reason to fear us

Lao Tsu will return to expound on mountains

that freedom never crowns conquest

never plants flags beyond borders

The dead will rise to expose

those who killed innocence and blamed the innocent

those whose lies hatched our hatred and turned us into murderers

those who will hear their grim laughter

silenced by their cries of spontaneous confession

Machiavelli will erase The Prince as a fraud

Wolfowitz will tell us all Neocons

are trapped in the chaos of the clueless

the Kennedys will unmask their assassins

and spend a week granting absolution

to plotters who never imagined it possible

41

Isaiah will weep with joy as Ariel abandons Dimona

and its shell is claimed by sands of the Negev

Wahhabis, spellbound, will intone

the poems of Rumi; Shia and Sunni

will greet each other with kisses of kindness

while sabres of rage remain sheathed

and the sacred book’s lions

lie down and purr to the licks of lambs

in a Kabbalistic Bride’s Reception

of jungles, forests and fields redeemed

Nuclear arsenals will explode with a pop

harmless and hilarious as clouds of balloons bursting

we will at last hear the trees speak

tell us why they are rooted

and how their quiet peace

resurrects flowers and leaves

Ghandi will walk with Jesus on water

they will hail the resurrected dreamer—

Martin Luther King—

while he hauls into his boat

constellations of fish

with silken nets of starlight

42

Bosnia at War’s End

(Jack Grady)

lamp that still flickers

pistol uncocked

in a clay pot

where a flower blooms

pale neck

viewed

through a pane of glass

with a slanting crack

soldier

with one boot

on the doorstep

moan

light

as a whisper

shudder

like the flutter

of moth's wings

43

arched back

chill of joy

surrender

and release

a crow suspended

on the bed

of the wind

at last

a good night's

sleep

44

Two Refugees (Jack Grady)

In her eyes, he sees an anger

harder than onyx.

In her breath, he hears a silence

more thundering than drums.

In her stance, he reads

the muzzled rage

of ten thousand women

raped in war.

Though he loves her,

he dares not touch her,

for fear he would find in his hands

the disinterred bones of Srebrenica

or she would turn to him

the cold carcass of her cheek

to suffer

the mute contrition

of his lips.

45

Biographical Note: Kevin HigginsBiographical Note: Kevin HigginsBiographical Note: Kevin HigginsBiographical Note: Kevin Higgins

Kevin Higgins is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has

published four collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen,

Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), & The Ghost In The Lobby (2014). His

poems also feature in Identity Parade – New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and

in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). His

poetry was last year the subject of a paper titled ‘The Case of Kevin Higgins: Or The

Present State of Irish Poetic Satire’ given by David Wheatley at a symposium on satire at

the University of Aberdeen. Mentioning The War, a collection of his essays and reviews,

was published by Salmon in April, 2012. Kevin’s blog is

http://mentioningthewar.blogspot.ie/ . and has been described by Dave Lordan as “one of

the funniest around” who has also called Kevin “Ireland’s sharpest satirist.” In October

Kevin will be teaching a master class on ‘Satire and the Political World as part of the Irish

Writers Centre’s Poetry Masterclass Series

http://irishwriterscentre.ie/products/the-poetry-masterclass-series Kevin is satirist-in-

residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon. His next book

2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins will be published by NuaScéalta very early

next year. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems will be published by Salmon in

Spring 2017.

46

After Paris, Friday 13th

(Kevin Higgins)

for Regina Doherty & Donald Clarke

Professional sidekicks immediately begin

showing elected officials of diminutive significance

where France is on the map and how to spell

“humanity”.

Spectator columnists begin

Ejaculating fiercely in their pants. People

with no known opinions

begin expressing them freely

as a drunk piddling on a pavement

their ancestors also once

ecstatically piddled all over,

during the Franco-Prussian War,

or the War of Jenkins’ Ear.

The Prime Minister of tiny

Ireland tearfully remembers the time

Padraig Pearse brought

Maximilien Robespierre

to Ros Muc, as he signs

the book of condolence. Everyone agrees

now is not the time

to question

the melangé of antibiotics, cortisone,

shark liver oil the patient’s been on

this past fourteen years

though her face is turning

blue. There is a time

and a place, and we’ll hopefully

never get there.

After the great successes

at Baghdad, Falluja, Kabul, Helmand;

the obvious answer

is bomb Tunisia, West Beirut, Bradford.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the south of the country

the Minister for Public Defecation

writhes about in a bath

of hot mustard to celebrate

47

this even better day

than the time he injured himself

bravely issuing a press release

against the gypsies who so obligingly

battered a constituent’s granny into

the Kingdom no one ever gets to.

48

Biographical Note: David AtkinsonBiographical Note: David AtkinsonBiographical Note: David AtkinsonBiographical Note: David Atkinson

David Atkinson is a poet and this is his first submission to A New Ulster

49

ABERCORN

(David Atkinson)

Between quadratic equations

and trigonometry

we found time to snigger

at each squeak of her leg

as she limped back to the board,

and we thought nothing about

her regrets.

Lingering for a second cup

that afternoon,

because the craic was good.

Or how she sat down first,

on a seat near the window,

while her friend sat by the door,

and didn't walk away.

With each squeak,

with each snigger,

regrets.

50

FALLUJAH BIRTHDAYS

(David Atkinson)

When you were given to us

I gave you my name,

I rubbed the inside of your mouth

with a soft date,

I sacrificed two sheep for you,

and we feasted.

For you first birthday

I gave you a stuffed camel,

for your second birthday

I gave you building blocks,

for your third birthday

I gave you a drum,

for your fourth birthday

I gave you a jigsaw puzzle,

for your fifth birthday

I gave you your favourite book,

for your sixth birthday

I gave you prayer beads,

for your seventh birthday

I gave you a puppet,

51

for your eighth birthday

I gave you a football.

For your ninth birthday

I gave you new clothes,

I gave you an empty box,

I washed you clean

and kissed you,

and we wept.

For your tenth birthday

I gave you flowers,

for your eleventh birthday

I gave you flowers,

for your twelfth birthday

I gave you flowers.

52

NATURE POEM

(David Atkinson)

for Shimah

A nature poem

should be about

snow hushed woods late at night,

a rainbow's refracted light,

counting rings on fallen trees,

glades full of honey bees,

autumn's harvest, summer flowers,

the sun, the earth, the moon, the stars,

a nature poem should be about

clouds and daffodils.

It should never be about

beaches without children,

oceans without boats,

dawn without birdsong,

sunrise without hope,

bedtime stories by moonlight,

digging holes in the sand,

lives measured in days,

never holding her hand.

Shimah, nature.

53

MUSEUM OF THE WELSH SOLDIER

(David Atkinson)

He gave Jack a musket

to hold, to feel its weight,

and demonstrated how to load it,

charge, ball, and wadding,

and the damage

a musket ball could do

to a steel breast plate.

He let him try on an officer’s helmet,

complete with flowing plume,

hair cut by soldiers

from horse’s tails,

to keep them clean,

and, to prove a point,

showed him an oil painting:

horses charging into battle

with neatly trimmed tails.

He told us, with a sense of irony,

how the first VC

presented to a Welsh regiment

was given to an Irish man.

He told me that Ireland

54

is a beautiful country.

He had been twice,

Tyrone and South Armagh,

and he hoped to go back,

for a holiday this time,

now that things were better.

I said that he should,

and hoped if he did

boys as young as my son

wouldn’t throw stones at him,

and that women my wife’s age

wouldn’t spit in his face

and call him

“a murdering Brit bastard”,

and that a man the same age as me

wouldn’t shoot

his best friend in the back

and leave him to die in his arms.

We’re off to Lanzarote this year.

But maybe next year,

if I can convince the missus.

55

Biographical Note: Amy BarryBiographical Note: Amy BarryBiographical Note: Amy BarryBiographical Note: Amy Barry

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

56

Still flickering in the darkness

(Amy Barry)

Acts of complete madness,

devouring their minds,

ready to die, not clinging to life.

Arguing the rights and wrongs,

facing death

with careless composure.

Spilling blood. Seeping blood.

Smearing blood, almost dead.

In clouds of smoke,

killings unleashed

without mercy.

Words seething in rage,

flickering candles guide

the mourning city.

Unreal as a dream,

the messy process of dying,

of life cut short-

too soon.

57

Biographical Note: Marion ClarkeBiographical Note: Marion ClarkeBiographical Note: Marion ClarkeBiographical Note: Marion Clarke

Marion Clarke is a writer and artist from Warrenpoint, on the east coast of Northern Ireland. Earlier this year she won the Financial Times ‘Poet in the City’ haiku competition and was placed third in the Irish Haiku Society’s contest and Croatia’s Ivanić Grad Pumpkin Festival competition in 2014. In 2012 she received a Sakura award in the Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival contest. Her work is featured in the first national collection of haiku from Ireland - Bamboo Dreams as well as in international journals including Frogpond, The Heron's Nest, Modern Haiku and Haibun Today, as well as in London's Financial Times and Tokyo's The Mainichi. Some of Marion’s poetry and artwork can be found at http://seaviewwarrenpoint.wordpress.com/

58

Haiku

(Marion Clarke)

Ulster hedgerow

the steady click

of golf balls

for Seamus Heaney

Chinese Translation (Traditional)

阿阿阿阿阿阿

穩穩穩穩穩

高阿高高

59

Biographical Note: Helen HarrisonBiographical Note: Helen HarrisonBiographical Note: Helen HarrisonBiographical Note: Helen Harrison

Helen Harrison was raised on the Wirral, seven miles from Liverpool, by Irish parents, and

has lived most of her adult life in the border countryside of Co Monaghan, where she is

married with a grown-up daughter.

Her poems have been published in A New Ulster, North West Words and The Bray Journal.

Her first collection of poetry ‘The Last Fire’ was published during 2015 by Lapwing.

60

AFTER THE DROUGHT

(Helen Harrison)

The climate that dampens a human heart

Is the one where the heron thrives, feeding

Nourishment they need; frogs, insects and seeds.

Though seasons that flow can suffer drought

As humans suffer pain and doubt, until all

That’s left to soothe a heart; is art.

To tap-in to ones creative zone; find a

Calm in every climate; like a herons

Individual-path of flight. Put your human

Mind to use; make no excuse for unnecessary

Hardship; find your gift then feed your art

To find some peace within your heart..

Tap-in to ones creative zone; find some -

Peace through flight-paths of release.

61

Biographical Note: Amos GreigBiographical Note: Amos GreigBiographical Note: Amos GreigBiographical Note: Amos Greig

Amos Greig is the publisher of A New Ulster, he is an artist and a poet whose work has

been used in various anthologies including And Agammenon Dead, De Profundis and

Poetry in Motion anthologies and poetry projects.

62

White Rose

(Amos Greig)

We are the White Rose in winter bleak,

solitary, defiantly rising above the dust and grime,

challenging the seasons our midnight scent

draws out admirers as we stand alone.

Our roots run deeply becoming one,

with the soil, here is the constant

truth unambiguous we are the same,

a flower in the dark our thorns protect.

We are the White Rose our colours,

bleached by harsh weather here a hint of spectrum

reveals our past self.

No country, creed, flag or superstition.

Our roots intertwine, mingling below the surface,

shoring against the storm, hail, snow and sun

our thorns protect and yet we are constantly

on guard wary of the gardeners touch.

We are the Winter Rose solitary in our confinement,

heads held high to catch the breeze,

carry our sirens call, moths come calling

in the twilight hours pulsing to the even song.

63

Spasms

(Amos Greig)

Social cohesion was our dream,

we the gardeners and cultivators of tomorrow,

watched in sadness as rot set in,

turned our hopes into bitter memories.

Future's potential sparkles like

embers on the breeze as,

tomorrows burn like

yesterday's discarded leaves.

Like carrion calls, Twitter,

comes to life informing

of the ongoing strife,

hyenas circle the fire.

Deirdre of the sorrows sheds her tears,

turns from the fire, pulls her shawl

tight around her shoulders.

youths take to the street with blood on their mind.

Time has shown that nations come and go,

only nature remains triumphant,

armed with shield and spear

she hunts humanities creations.

We are embers on the wind,

fireflies dancing, fleetingly,

time consumes our brightness,

masked by modern lies.

64

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 of 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 the happiest 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.

65

Pace by Barbara Gabriella Renzi photography by Giulio Napolitano