ISSN 2053-6119 (Print)

ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of Vin McCullagh, Mary Lee,

Johannes S. H. Berg, Richard Halperin, Poul Lynggaard
Damgaar, Sam Murphy, Khaled Chalabi, Todd Mercer, Issue 80 May
Gerald Duggan, Marie Mac Sweeney and Alisa Velaj,.
Hard copies can be purchased from our website. 2019
A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig
Prose Editor: E V Greig
On the Wall Editor: Arizahn
Website Editor: Adam Rudden
Contents
Editorial

Vin McCullagh
1. Blackpeace Road
2. Compromised
3. Ballinarry
4. Magherinture
5. Irish Kings

Mary Lee
1. Things I Didn’t Know I Loved
2. Matins
3. Leftovers
4. Regard

Johannes S. H. Berg;
1. 72 Simile

Richard Halperin;
1. Waiting in Malta
2. A Letter, Unwritten, to My Father
3. At the Boulangerie des Invalides

Poul Lynggaard Damgaar;

1. The breathe of the pictures
2. My sandal foot
3. Minimal dictation
4. Distance of hope
5. Unseen Truths

Arsalan Chalabi trans Khaled Chalabi;

1. Lorca
2. The Last Tango in Kopenhagen
3. Oh, my love
4. A coffins in the sky

Todd Mercer;
1. Poison Man Can’t Shake the Chill
2. Where I’m at ‘til Medicare Kicks In
3. Uncovered
4. Evelyn Mulwray, Alkaline
 5. Lt. Lou Escobar’s Chinatown Apologia

Gerald Duggan;
1. A Fine Mess
2. Dark Clouds
3. Let Them Pay
4. Phones

Marie Mac Sweeney;

1. Lost Fields
2. In Townley Woods
3. The Green Door
4. October Oldbridge

Alisa Velaj;
1. Mad Amber

On The Wall

Message from the Alleycats

Round the Back

Sam Murphy;
1. Often Too Loud
2. Can I Buy All Your Oranges Please?
3. Libarian
 Poetry, prose, 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
Or via PEECHO
Digital distribution is via links on our website:
https://anuanewulster.wixsite.com/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 “Sheltered” by Amos Greig

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis.

Editorial

For some reason the editorial is always the hardest part of producing A New Ulster
the challenges of bringing coherent thought onto the page so to speak. Its been rough what
with medical complications, computer issues we had to buy new components and increased
cost of living things just seem to be designed to squeeze us dry.
In saying that though there’s always the means of escaping into other worlds through
poetry, prose and art be it photography or painting and drawing. We should always take the
time to step away from the hardships of life and indulge in art.
It is important for us to walk through fields of grass, along a beach or under a tree,
bring a book, sit and let yourself unwind, take an hour where possible to relax. I’ve been
using meditation and the above techniques they can and do help.
Life is challenging for us and let’s be honest school does not prepare us for the shock
and hardships of adulthood. Studies have shown that adults need play and music just as much
as children do. This issue represents some amazing work I’ve enjoyed reading them and I
hope you do just as much as I did.
Amos Greig Editor.
Biographical Note: Vin Mc Cullagh

Vin Mc Cullagh, is a retired mental health nurse. Vin wrote and

performed a monologue after he retired. It was about his experiences
with manic depression, you can see an excerpt
at https://vimeo.com/196294560
 Blackpeace Road
(Vin Mc Cullagh)

High up on Blackpeace road

A ceaseless wind cries through the high bog

Irregular rhythms of scythed air

Pulsed from lonely hilltops

As shadows rotate about the bladed turbines

Lost and alone stands the old National school

Silent now, the drone of educational hum, gone,

Innocent unlocked laughter echoes

In fear of the master’s whims

Soft sounds as the chuckling river

Ribbons in from the peaty bog

Laughing along relentless to the town lights

Where people no longer listen

Or hear the sounds of the night

High up on Blackpeace road my soul slips into

The wakening dark

My breathing mind seeks out the night, crooked sentry trees

Protect the way as air ghosts from the gone

Haunt the empty lichened cottages along the way

Out here in unfettered darkness

The inky contours of the nowhere hills

Hide an eggy pale moon,birthed slowly

From behind still ominous clouds

Whole and near it crowns a vast firmament

Above, lost beyond infinity ,unknowable

A silence of darkness enshrouds me

Standing here amidst the well clothed sheep

In this galaxied starry desert of unendingness

Absorbing the sound of the stone burbled water

High up on Blackpeace road .

 COMPROMISED

(Vin Mc Cullagh)

Perceptual usualness ,no ,it’s not here

Empty faces,emotionally bereft

Endless rocking soothes the being

Quickly, a high pitched scream

Rips frustrations apart

Intensity of cerebral rage

Compromised chromosomally

Young inheritors of hopelessness and helplessness

Trapped within a raw and intermittent fear

Where escape creeps away in the early dawn

As day heralds the hospital noises

The return of the living sentence

Wait, in a moment of tranquillity

A beautiful child stops nearby me

This woman child stricken and hurt

Fleetingly serene and peaceful

With breathtakingly beautiful smile

She touches my hand with child innocence

Quickly she runs again

Crying the pain and hurt once more

Of the human who cannot say .

 BALLINARRY
(Vin Mc Cullagh)

Eastern light mingles with melting dark

Swift morning seabirds ripple

Placid Swilly waters

With tiny touching skimming toes

Cross’ the stretching peppery Stragill strand

Where wavy water lines kiss the dampening sand

From an ancient murmuring peaceful sea

That carried the Earls to safer shores

On Ballynarry’s braes among whins and thistles

Cobwebbed spider cities glistening in soft dew

Intricate patterned, beguiles my mind and I

Walk by nights invisible traps on a beauteous morn .

Magherinture

(Vin Mc Cullagh)

Invisibly , out of the dark at Magherinture

Unrelenting pearly demons of beaded driven

Rain crash noisily, clattering across the window

Pane ,safety cosies me as I sit by the

Turf fire listening to the ire of the night

There is a crossness about the storm

Where angry nature’s called this fight

Cat’s eyes shine out from the turf-shed

Sheep stand quietly sheltering along hedges

,the dog’s eyes say a’m glad to be in out of that

Above the stone ditch and across the lane

Flummoxed trees wildly protesting

Up in arms branches ,swirling,shaking

Maybe arguing about things that

Happened last week before this stormy night

Now fighting on the catalyst wind

I hear furiously swelled burns racing

headlong over jagged and slippery rocks

surging,spitting ,froth tongued,galloping

endlessly downwards to meet the ominous

ponderous swelling river below

IRISH KINGS

(Vin Mc Cullagh)

Salty , harsh Atlantic rain

Sheet driven ,relentless

In darkening November skies

Below,the stone fort

Rocky remnants remain

Tumble down abodes

Isolated forgotten

And icy winds whip past

As ever

Above rounded stone Grianan stands

In sentry mode

Since Ptolemy’s time a high camp

For Irish kings

Where Norsemen and horsemen

And Englishmen rode , now

Traipsing curious tourists talk

Over silent cries of the vanquished .

Biographical Note: Mary Lee
 Things I Didn’t Know I Loved

(Mary Lee)

after Nazim Hikmet

I always knew I loved silent moments when

wonder creeps up beside me with a nudge –
a cup of coffee –
the steam warming my face
like the scent of a lavender candle.

I always knew I hated

qualms clanging in the background
that rob me of the luxury to exhale;
flimsy deceptions of resistance, habits
of distraction when I care too much
what others countenance me to be.

I always knew I loved tiny theophanies:

hues in eyes, transformative smiles;
the sound of rain on window panes;
bare trees; a warm bedspread;
the wonder of hot water on leaves
and ground beans; the smell of baking bread.

I always thought I wouldn’t like wine

until my initiation. I always knew
I didn’t like jostling crowds, embodied
smells and loud bells during gathered worship
until I realised these are harbingers
of transcendence to alert attention’s dimness.

Words can only hint at my heart’s dance

when I yield to immersion
in grace’s grandeur – everything I always
knew and didn’t know, dissolves in the beauty
hidden in a moment’s variety.
Matins

(Mary Lee)

This too is prayer:

bare branches allowing the sun to stream lighthouse beams;

the woodpecker on her oak tree;

swans and four cygnets;

stillness;

first stirrings: a snail, reaches the grass verge;

robins from branch to branch;

fog over rolling hills;

lanes shimmer;

fragrance of rain;

beads on wire fencing;

the embrace of air;

blue meadows of morning sky;

waves warmed in ochre orange.

Buttery blooms on agile stems gush

exuberance. I imbibe nature’s matins,

daily in my paradise.
Leftovers
(Mary Lee)

On my table steaming soup:

a bowl of truth from minced
meat, vegetables, purēes.

The world of commerce requires

me to believe this is just soup,
commodity to be consumed.

I know farmers
who grow and harvest produce –
the sacrifice my nourishment
signifies. I am indebted to them.

Unjustly treated garners of kidney

beans and corn visit my conscience
when I look into a saucer of this salad.

My hunch is my lunch shares

in the structures that keep others
hungry – workers whose children
can’t afford a meal today, keep

their pangs to themselves. In this

moment of full and plenty, nourished
by leftovers, I savour all life, from
soup to succour with gratitude.
Regard
(Mary Lee)

So then assemble me – tell me your favourite

memories of our sojourn. Build from fragments
maps that guide us forward to each other.
What new outlooks will we summon?
What collages will we create of the way it could
have been, had our love known its depth; had we
had courage to push the frontiers of honesty?

Let us assemble each other; hear compassion’s

call with tenderness, savour tastes of tolerance,
welcome discord with regard. Convert crises to
contriteness; strike our own note; release
even respectable self-agendas; tether escapist
tendencies; be buoyed by each other’s abundance;
thrive in the garden of kindness.
Biographical Note: Johannes S. H. Bjerg

Johannes S. H. Bjerg: Danish writer and artist who writes in Danish and English
simultaneously and mainly haiku and haiku related forms. 1 of 3 of the editors of
Bones - “Journal for contemporary haiku” (http://www.bonesjournal.com), and sole
editor of “the other bunny - for the other kind of haibun”
(http://theotherbunny.wordpress.com) and “One Link Chain” - a blog for solo
linked verse and haiku sequences (http://onelinkchain.blogspot.dk/) Has published
several books: http://megaga.dk/?page_id=530

Recent releases:

“your shadow of birds – 22 haiku sequences and their aftersounds / din skygge af fugle
– 222 haiky sekvenser og deres efterlyde”, Otata Library (www.otata.wordpress.com)
2019

19 Gestures and Their Corresponding Words - Timglaset / Timglaset.com (limited

edition; pdf version on www.timglaset.com)), 2018

6 Palimpsests / 6 palimpsester (ebook) 2018

Litanies / Litanier (ebook) 2017

Apple / Æble - a poem / et digt, ebook 2018, Amazon 2019

The Ear / Øret - a poem / et digt -Amazon 2019 and ebook 2018
72 Simile

(Johannes S. H. Bjerg)

like the core of an apple floating in zero gravity and someone says: Morning

like the arm that cannot reach what you desire: the beach, world peace, Mount Meru, the off-
switch on the mechanised kangaroo

like the table filling itself with things and papers that’ll help you remember that you’re not
stranded in a storm in Antarctica

like a door in the middle of the room with nothing behind it and a jar of eyes

like a rubber band that never worked as a substitute for a guitar string

like the tiny screw that probably fell off some electronic gadget hibernating in your shoe

like trying to find another word for cucumber because it’s such a wrong sound

like the shadow on your table that calls you Amundsen for no apparent reason

like a hollow screaming for fullness and a spoonful of strawberry jam

like a needle hanging just above your iris in a thread of light waiting for darkness
like the birds on the wires running through you Pieta-gland you’re a handless glove

like your repeated falling (naturally) with the rain of January and the lockless key in your
hand

like a puddle just deep enough to hold the moon, a crushed beer can and a twig

like the spirit animal you never found but the other that digs out planetary systems from an
ear

like a single note (D) echoing in a thimble full of whales and crumbling cities

like the cross-eyed archer you are shooting your arrows at The Pear of Doom

like the hand that shakes your eyes for rain

like the vague figure with a presence of a hovering rock of light

like your absentminded walking in crosses and horses

like when you refrain from commenting on the fly on the hero’s bald head

like something-something swaying and cutting something-something: sulk!

like the dizziness when another’s horizon goes through you

like a glass holding its own perpetual vortex

like the wing you lost in a dream about cardboard humans

like when you believed the stories Castaneda spun in his brain cocoon

like Victoria’s requiem while the rain falls and falls and falls

like you were someone else that did this to you: spoke without expecting an answer

like the stairs in your knee leading to a hall of tongues and tremors

like a mercury butterfly patiently waiting for its needle

like the stale chocolate passed down from your ancestral oak

like when space takes over your mouth and your chair becomes empty

like the offence you can make yourself feel attacked by pollen

*
like a thorn in the word elbow you set out to sea

like a leaf in the wind the leaf in the wind

like you wanted to say something but an apple got in the way

like the silence after your argument with the mirror

like a parrot machine your left knee insists on turning towards Betelgeuse

like the dismantling of the Put One Thing on Top of Another Thing Society and coins under
table legs

like the wishing well in Pandora’s eyes

like the simile that never made you think of swallows

like life was a party where everyone got drunk too fast

like the allegory that scratched your corneas during an untimely moth storm

like looking out on the ocean is a second head spinning on a stick

like F. was a pianist growing Hasidic dreadlocks to get a sharper F#

like the creaking doors in your house when you’re out

like the tiny shark in your shadow is an entrance to a bigger volcano

like the Evening Land’s Evening Land that cannot hide from itself

like when the years of pilgrimage ended up in turning a chickpea this way and that way

like not being able to remember a dream you cannot wake up from

like the scarecrow you once new when he was a rake

like living inside a bubble in a fish’s ear full of the consonants of waves

like when during a migraine you can hear the clouds scratch against the sky

like the elderly men who say that in reality there is no reality and pay their bills

like the elderly men who say reality don’t exist to any fly that’ll listen

like when your artistic source dries up and you begin to knit pets from barbed wire

like the needle in your eye becomes a gate for camels

*
like in poetry where everything is like something else like a penguin chainsaw

like squeezing a tear and calling it The Tree of Beginning

like not being able to swim across the calendar of pauses

like losing yourself in swans

like coming out of the earth amongst silent crocuses dreamless

like when having cold feet just means you’ll have to put on socks

like being envious of a blackbird and its direct connection with St. Francis

like acknowledging the train in you and write your own tickets

like stretching your skin to catch the light from Betelgeuse

like not being a radio yet full of songs you don’t know

like when you really want to be but you slip through your own cracks

like coming out saying: “I really don’t fancy Bob Dylan” yet you buy a yo-yo without string
like when the Germanic wars play out in your knee at knight and you’ve forgotten your Latin

like when you realise that the Aurora is just another attempt of trying to get your attention

like the word “skin hunger” cannot cover the slice of prosciutto nailed to table

like letting the night in because your lamps need something to do

..
Biographical Note: Richard Halperin

Richard W. Halperin holds Irish-U.S. dual nationality and lives in Paris.

His collections are published by Salmon and by Lapwing. His work is
part of the University College Dublin's Irish Poetry Reading Collection
Archive. These two ANU poems are from a short collection-in-progress
entitled All That Russia.
Waiting in Malta

Acts 28: 1-10

It was a nice visit. I forget

How many days. We accomplished

Some good things. Our hosts were

Good to us. Then we left, sailed off.

Did they know what we were about,

Really? Did we know what they

Were about, really? I think not.

The warm feeling of it remains

To this day. Of all I have written

About our travels, the little Malta piece

Remains my favourite: the lovely

Incomprehension of something

Entirely pleasant. I have a feeling,

Sometimes, that such experiences

May outlast the universe.

(Richard Halperin)
A Letter, Unwritten, to My Father

A letter, unwritten, to my father.

I am often in the middle of one.

I do not remember how I began it.

I’ve no idea how I’ll end it.

I am not very old in the middle of the letter.

And I am too shy to write much.

I shall make the middle Brahms.

My discovery tonight of the Intermezzo in E flat major.

He loves Brahms and may not know this Intermezzo.

He could use the solace of it

Although I dare not use the word solace

Or he will know I know.

He will be happy for me

That I like Brahms.

Except for the worst,

Brahms is always there.

It is easier to be in the middle

Of a letter to one’s father

Than near the end.

And how to begin it

Is always awkward.

(Richard Halperin)
At the Boulangerie des Invalides

The psyche is infinite,

Which gives one hope.

I have just reread ‘Byzantium.’

I never understand it

And I always understand it.

A poet sometimes sees

Where in the kaleidoscope

His chip is. Or hers.

Or every star

Which exists in the blood.

As I write – outdoors –

Pigeons descend to attack

And devour every crumb

Left by a customer.

Very Tennessee Williams.

Thank God for him.

I hold my notebook

In my hand.

A hand is as odd

As a notebook.

(Richard Halperin)
Biographical Note: Poul Lynggaard Damgaard

Poul Lynggaard is a Danish poet, author living in Aarhus, Denmark and since 2012 has
been connected to the Aarhus Centre for Literature, Denmark and Hald Hovedgaard, the
Danish Centre for Writers and Translators. Poul has had experience for several years with
residency writing. he is a member of the Danish Author´s Society.

In 2018 he took part in the international event ”LiteratureXchange”in their hometown

Aarhus, symposium," Ny lyrik fra Bosnien-Hercegovina"

Poul has been invited and took part in the International Poetry Festival ” Ditët e Naimit”,
Edition XXI, 2017, Tetovë, Macedonia. The director of the Festival: Shaip Emërllahu. Some
of their poems were translated into Albanian in the festival anthology ” Vallëzim
Refugjati”.

Poul also took part in ” Orpheus”, 2018 in Plovdiv, Bulgaria, invited by project manager
Elka Dimitrova and coordinator Anton Baev. International Festival of Poetry of Orpheus,
Plovdiv, Edition I, 2018, where some of his poems were published in the festival antology,
and he wrote an article for the festival and received a prize " The Lyre of Orpheus" for the
poem ” Dear City”.

His poems are printed in several Scandinavian antologies and Danish poetry collections ( 4
books)

His poems are also translated to other languages as Catalan, Slovenian and Bosnian for
publication in antologies.
Poul Lynggaard Damgaard,
6 poems

Photo: Lars Gundersen

Dear city

I want to tell about the gap between houses and the way the windows are beyond everything.
Do you know anything about that? Do you know the way neighbourhoods have been pulled
on a string through your consciousness, and the groups of people emerge on the fringe of an
area? I am not sure you do. Sometimes the zip of your coat is a downhill highway and you
turn your back, you throw your coat off, jump into the water and swim away. The shining of
your long wet hair is the light of the night´s illuminated space. On the corner of the main road
where the neglected house without windows used to be, a booth has been placed, where the
gaps and the building´s memories are being sold to visitors. Was it really your unknown
brother, or was it just you, I looked into the eyes right there?

Best regards
a house
The breath of the pictures

The walking opposite

the bridge in
my view.
I finish my
incidents. Now
the clock has started
to remind the river
about the stagnation
of the walking.
The water pushes
on to be
a moment
right now.
The storm is my mystery.
Everything is important.
The animals´ contact.
A blackbird stands just in front of me
without singing. The knee´s writing before the river,
where the statue is lying down.
Over the antique theater flies a drone
in the observation of the rows of seats.
My sandal foot

Deep inside the jungle an operation

is improving the insight. I'm reading that on a poster
turned up in an oak tree.
The plant has left the flower jar, my foot pushes to.
Cigarette butts fall out and I sense the smoke
like annihilated light. Every single small piece like broken glass
I will not step on. Balloons pushed aside in a concert
that stays on. Unsafe condition for the road users in the darkness
of the plaza. It's my little part of the world
which expands electrically. I thought for a moment,
that the bridge would be shorter if I continued
to avoid it. The fever has left you
far out in the landscape where I thought I could not recognize you.
Four bathers leaving an open jeep on a narrow path in the woods.
They read up engraved names in a tree for each other.
You return in a dotted line in 39 degrees of an understanding.
Climbing plants by a river, where even words grow wild in a sentence.
You are talking about the three rivers of your city. You are a significant impression.
Minimal dictation

A can opener
removes the lid to logic. That´s enough for now.
A wall´s removed windows.

My secret look towards the city´s edge

circulates as interruptiveness
in an abandonded park.

I would like to talk

about my absence as a diverse forest
where there are, after all, birch trees.

I get a sunset thrown at the back of my head.

You may call me nature.

Distance of hope

Always far apart, the voices are out of town.

An island before I wake up like a stretch. A drop
is falling down. A blind color in a lightning.
The deputy of the storm. Leaves of the flower there
rises to the neck to fall against the knee.
My cry without summer is not wine

Unseen truths

I look like myself in a letter. A location is changing identity.

You slide past my window along a coastline.
A heart faraway and the birds shadow
for the thought.
The houses of the sunset embrace each other.
My street's gate in infinite answer.
It's in the middle of the wall,
that I find an opening to the seasons.
Biographical Note: Arsalan Chalabi trans Khaled Chalabi

Khaled Chalabi is from Kurdistan of Iran. They are a Kurdish translator

and translate and publish some poems from Kurdish to English. They
have translated 4 famous poems from Kurdish to English.
 4 Poems by Arsalan Chalabi

Translator From Kurdish to English: Khaled Chalabi

3/28/2019

⃰ ⃰ ⃰

LORCA

At 5 in the morning

Lorca Smiles in the hug of sunrise

At 5 in the morning

Lorca heals the wound of stars.

At 5 in the morning

Lorca sings for fog

At 5 in the morning

Lorca reads poems for all the birds.

At 5 in the morning

At 5

At……!

Lorca is daily magazine

Every day

At 5 in the morning

is published on the skin of sunrise, stars hair, foggy spirit and the eyes of the birds!

*Federico Garcia Lorca, the famous Spanish writer and was born in 1898 and was
killed in 1936*

⃰ ⃰ ⃰
 THE LAST TANGO IN KOPENHAGEN

The mass of butterflies die in public toilet

The flight of birds dance in cemeteries

The dogs are getting in love in the subway

You and I standing in front of police office,
talking about the hot ass of trump’s daughter!

⃰ ⃰ ⃰

Oh, my love

Give me your hand

Let’s sing for devil in public toilet

let’s Dance with the fumes of the factories and

call God in train station

that the America has wiped out the dance of wheat flowers,
has burst stars,

hanged the forest and the light,

raped the Snow and crucified the rain!

Oh, my love

Let’s go to post office

because the America is in bughouse and his letters can’t reach his mother!

⃰ ⃰ ⃰
 A coffins in the sky

We were born with native language

We cried with native language

We smiled with native language

We were Toddling with native language

We have been growing up with native language!

We have being slaughtered because of native language
We have being executed because of native language
We have being prisoned because of native language

We were displaced because of native language!

Now my mother is bloody dove in Middle East

Has no sky to fly

no land to make nesting!

Now my mother neither cry nor smile,

her eyes are two winged coffins buried between the sky and the earth!
Biographical Note: Todd Mercer

Todd Mercer of Grand Rapids, Michigan was nominated for Best of the Net by in
2018. Mercer won 1st, 2nd & 3rd place of the Kent County Dyer-Ives Poetry
Prizes and the won Grand Rapids Festival Flash Fiction Prize. Recent work
appears in: The Lake, The Magnolia Review, Praxis and Softblow.
Poison Man Can’t Shake the Chill
[from the Lago Centrál Cycle]

The corn’s maturing late if at all

at the end of the summer of no summer.
No one can talk weather longer than a clutch of older farmers
whose furnaces kick on nights in July.

Cherries weigh down secondary branches,

but the red is slow in coming. Anxious harvest crews
stand ready to bring the fruit in, they idle around Lago Centrál.

Ole Poison Man must have a personal pipeline

from the tree-spray manufacturer. Bugs be gone and birds away,
little else to do but roll the rows, on the tractor in unseasonable cold,
fog above his sprayer tank like a cartoon’s speech balloon.

The sun seems semi-retired. Who knows if it plans to do more

than go through the motions next summer.
Every crop’s behind, the natives restless.

(Todd Mercer)
Where I’m at ‘Til Medicare Kicks In

I don’t care whatsoever

if you would like fries with that,
but I’m obligated to ask those who order
through that crackling speaker
and pull up to the window of time
where my life is at rock-bottom
and I’m sixty in a drive-thru gig.
I am sixty taking orders
from children and customers
who are always right, kow-towing
to Kevin, who is twenty-three
and has a couple C.C. classes
already knocked off. He’s our manager.
I accept it, don’t like it much
in my secret heart of hearts.
Take the fries, pass on the fries.
Even Kevin can’t care deeply.
The request is an up-sell technique.
Marketing experts know about the guests
who arrive planning just a burger, or a burger
and a soft drink. They have me ask
because of wide-spread weakness out there
for more fat, more salt. Invites to gluttony
from a disembodied voice. Friendly-Gramps tones
from a safe distance convince most to cave.
Would go ahead and do what you would
truly like to do? Either way is no skin off of me.

(Todd Mercer)
Uncovered

I’m not covered under Blue Cross / Blue Shield,

Humana for Humans or any other major medical
that’s real and Permanente. I like it here, on Earth,
but wasn’t aiming for a way to live forever.
Note to those who have faith that their insurance
can save them from disappearing like the rest of us:
best of luck with those efforts,
my fellow mortal friends. I don’t merit
office visit co-pays, Medicare or Medicaid.
No I didn’t make an appointment
with my Primary. What exactly IS
a Primary? The lingo. There will not be follow-up
or maintenance from medicos. No general physical.
Others ask Doc for prescriptions, whereas whatever
I’ve taken fell off the back of a truck,
if anyone’s asking. Glad to have a shot at living
nearly long as the insured do,
without help from Allied Health,
without a boost from the Good Hands folks.

(Todd Mercer)
Evelyn Mulwray, Alkaline

Drives
South,
as if
Mexico
lacked extradition.
Saline water’s in the fish pond.
If the devil’s real he’ll have little legal trouble
from drowning the Water Man there.
Widow knows to flee
the country.
Old Salt’s
girl
streaks.

(Todd Mercer)
Lt. Lou Escobar, Chinatown Apologia

We enforce the law, when wise.

The police don’t make the rules.
We don’t write the lists
of who gets passes, skates free
and who has the hammer fall hard.

Why fight the world’s ways?

You’re in to your neck, or out
in the high weeds, blind
to what’s real. Grow up. Forget
the civics class crap. That’s that.

(Todd Mercer)
Biographical Note: Gerald Duggan
 A Fine Mess

The lights are on but no one’s home at the office on the hill, but the people who don’t work there are
getting paid still. We need to pay them for their experience on how to bring things down. To keep the
fear of the other side winning so well keep them around. So, they can tell us nothing of what’s going
on and keep us in the dark, just feeding us bits and pieces about their secret talks.

So, they tell us they can’t tell us what’s been going on, it would jeopardise what they’ve been trying
to achieve for us for so long. I still often wonder how when they speak they don’t laugh when the tell
us they can’t tell us because it’s all for our behalf.

They are doing this because of all that’s come and been and it’s for all who they represent not just
orange and green. This is for everyone whether we let them marry or not, they should be thankful we
give our time to this and that we are all they’ve got. LGBT to MINORITY each will be treated the
same way but don’t go against us because we have the final say.

There’s always a silver lining for us and we call it DIRECT RULE, that’s simply being told no ones
listening by a different type of fool. I’m trying to be positive and not sound sinister but what good has
ever come to us from the rightest WESTMINISTER. Were still waiting for the money we got to help
us stay afloat, but it seems they’ve removed the life jackets as we struggle to stay afloat.

So, it doesn’t matter that the NHS is in crisis and the EDUCATION systems failed because the MPs
and MLAs for doing nothing still get paid. But we can’t put all the blame on them because they don’t
care.

BECAUSE THEY KNOW WELL VOTE THE SAME AGAIN AND KEEP THEM ALL UP
THERE.

G, DUGGAN
 Dark Clouds

So, the dark clouds are gathering now, and I know we will get through this

But I just don’t know how, and the dark clouds are gathering now.

And we have all got our places to fill, most at the bottom looking up at the hill.

Wondering if the people in power way up there, have our interests at heart,

And believing they still care, and the dark clouds are gathering now.

They say they want to leave no-one behind, and that you will find your place

If you just toe the line. They say the dreams their dreaming can be yours and mine,

Just keeps us up here happy because it’s going to take time.

But the dark clouds are gathering now.

So, the man at the top has told me to tell, the man at the bottom that things aren’t
going well.

And the man at the bottom should make do with less, so the man at the top can still have the
best.

And they are only doing it in our best interests; it must be done to get out of this
mess.

And the dark clouds are gathering now.

This can’t be right I heard someone say, just then they came and took them away.

In case the words they were speaking might have any sway, and the people would
think that

they owned the day, where did they take them will that’s all hearsay.

We gave them the power so it’s our price to pay, and the dark clouds are gathering
now.
Now I know that this darkness can’t last, we’ll have hope for the future by the lessons of the
past.

If you picture the light you can still see it still.

And I know you may think it only shines on the hill, but that could all be part of god’s
will.

When the winds of change come and we feel a new flow, the ones on the hill and the clouds
will all go.

What’s left behind is the futures were owed, not one that from them we all have barrowed.

But a future that everyone as equals has a say and the ones on the hill cannot take away.

GERALD DUGGAN.
 Let Them Pay

The only light the youth of today must look forward to,

Is from there phones onto their faces.

No future in their own land any more so they leave for other nations.

They will leave these shores to get away from the Brexit and coloured labels,

To get a better chance at eating from a fuller feasting table.

To leave behind the cries for the union, Irish language and a future they have lost,

That’s being pushed upon them with no thought given for the cost.

Decisions being made for them by people who don’t share their needs,

Who’ll push ahead with their views to fill their lust for greed.

Who say they care for everyone and all must have their say,

But your voice will only be listened to if it means they get their way.

So, for the sake of keeping Britain Great they’ll just let all the nurses leave,

They’ll open up more food banks because that’s exactly what we need.

Cut funding in vital services such as Mental Health and care,

And tell us its needed somewhere else but it was never there.

Put more pressure on our schools and put the teachers under strain,

And when they can take no more and strike say the unions are to blame.

Then charge the parents to make up the difference for their children’s education,

So, once they finish school, they can get a job in another nation.

All this so we can say we made our own decisions and Govan or own land,
 No more will we be told what to do or pay by a foreign hand.

All will be equal in Wales, Scotland and England too,

BUT if you live in Northern Ireland this doesn’t apply to YOU.

GERALD DUGGAN
 Phones

Lets all go out together, and sit together but alone,

Because nobody is speaking but just staring at their phones

No time for idle chit chat, conversation or just a look,

The only way to reach each other across the table is Facebook.

Just pings and message alerts are the only sounds you’ll hear,

Or the click from a photo for posting so more likes will appear.

All heads down with lite up faces are the only things you’ll see,

Then popping up for another photo on the count of three.

Then the food comes out just in time because someone nearly spoke,

But someone’s quick and gets another pic before the silences is broke.

That’s a good one says someone can you share that pic with me,

So, I can put it on my timeline so all the world can see.

Now dinners over its time to relax with some YouTube videos of cats,

Then the embarrassing moment when someone’s called out by the phrase of WHAT
PHONES THAT.

Then your all told to be quite because someone’s got a call to take,

And we must sit there quite as their voice becomes more fake.

So were all sitting but not listening and trying not to breath,

But why doesn’t the person taking the call say excuse me and the table leave.

So, we can get back to or phones and not listen while not speaking,

And check what we checked to seconds ago in case there’s something I might be missing,

And then you have the bit I love, and I find so funny,
Everyone wants to pay with their phones because they don’t have any money.

So, it takes another fifteen minutes to do transfers from phone to phone,

And then we leave a thankyou for tonight and ill call you when we get home.

GERALD DUGGAN
 Brexit

Don’t worry about this Brexit thing, it all will be ok.

How could it not look who’s in charge the Tories and Tereasa May.

They know exactly what they’re doing, they knew this from the start

Of course, they knew how the vote would go and pull the country apart.

They’ll make sure the Brexit is soft you just wait and see

And if anything is wrong with it, they’ll be told by the DUP.

Europe is not for us, they won’t save the NHS,

Let us make our own mistakes for we can do that best.

Let us decide where to put the Irish border, on land or in the sea,

So, one side still thinks their important to the union and the other will think their free.

We just need to get out of it with promises we can’t keep

Tell the farmers there will be plenty of money for their cows, pigs and sheep.

Tell business owners we’ve got their backs and interests at heart

They’ll reap the rewards of jumping in blind; it will be like a fresh start.

So, the winds of change are coming and that’s nothing they say to be feared

Do they mean that the ones that started this by the end will have disappeared?

Will LADOUR lead us towards the light away from all the pain?

Or is the light at the end of the tunnel an approaching European train.

Let’s not be all down hearted and maybe sinister,

Let’s have some faith in our leaders doing all they can in WESTMINISTER.

The vote was cast and that was to leave and that is at all cost

The vote wasn’t about what we might gain but about what we have lost.
 At the end we will have a parliament that will make its own decisions,

If they ask Nigel Dodd and the DUP for their permission.

It’s all going to be fun and games before it reaches the end,

BUT THE ONE THING WE ALL WANT IS FOR US AND EUROPE TO STILL BE
FRIENDS.

Gerald Duggan
 Because You

Because you’re not supposed to is the reason, so it was,

That I decided to start this poem with the word because.

And I know there’s people out there who’ll say that’s just not what one does,

But if you ask why this is they just say well because.

They’ll say that’s this is the way it is because that’s how it always was,

Because this is the way it’s always been done and can’t be changed by pressing pause

Because it’s always been this way form days that are now bygone,

Because if you start a sentence with because then that sentence is started wrong.

But because I don’t conform to this because it’s not my form,

Because I don’t usually stand in line and follow with the norm.

Because I decide on how I speak and say it in my own way

Because nobody corrects you now a days like you’re in a shakesphere play.

Because I decide on how I start my sentences because this is my own choice,

BECAUSE THIS IS HOW I COME ACROSS THROUGH MY WORDS AND

through MY

VOICE.

GERALD DUGGAN.
Biographical Note: Marie Mac Sweeney

Marie MacSweeney has been in love with words from an early age but came relatively late to
submitting and publishing. She writes poetry and short stories and has contributed to the historical
journals of counties Meath and Kerry. She had two radio plays produced by R.T.E.

Published in several anthologies, she is a winner of many awards including the Francis MacManus
Short Story for Radio Award, Bookwise Award, the Phizzfest Poetry Award, Kells Poetry Award and
the David Burland Award. Also published in numerous poetry publications throughout Ireland,
including Boyne Berries, The Stony Thursday Book, STET and Fortnight and shortlisted and placed or
commended in competitions such as Over the Edge, Listowel Writer’s Week, Goldsmith, Edgeworth,
Golden Pen and Bailieborough.

She won the Books Ireland Short Story Award for 2017, and was published in the New Irish Writing
Poetry section of the Irish Times during 2018. Published also in Irish Short Stories (Ed. David
Marcus), ‘Here’s me Bus’ (New York) and The Sunday Tribune. She had two poetry chapbooks
published by Lapwing, Belfast and also featured on Sunday Miscellany on numerous occasions.
Lost Fields

An árd réimse, réimse Molly, (1)

potato field; folly

of that poorly drained

flat field, and other

grassy shapes

offering no neat tag

but only humps and hollows

and countless gaps

in hedges where cattle

crush through,

agus na réimsi lom eile, (2)

clustered in the crinkles

and creases

of the hills.

And we made a litany

of how we tuned the land

and played it, punctuating

each plea with notes

urged into the soil

until it settled, until

our sons needed

to defend it,

until our grandsons

had it torn from them.

Agus sin é díreach mar a bhi sé, (3)

and ourselves today,

no longer “farmers of ye soil” (4)

where the planted forests swell.

_______________

(1) The High field, Molly’s field

(2) and the other bare fields
(3) And that is exactly as it was
(4) quoted in Marc Caball’s “Kerry 1600 – 1730”, the emergence of a British Atlantic
county’, Chapter 7, ‘Law & disorder in early 18th century Kerry’
In Townley Woods

Snow scurrying

among trees

blistering

the skin

of the sky,

each speck

stroking my face

felt kiss-wet when

the melt came,

stream too swift

to notice so trivial

an arrangement

of water,

pine leaves impassive,

shed cones

safe with my gathered firewood

before the snow fell,

the height of it,

the length

and breath of it
nothing other

than a revelation a mile away

from my kitchen table

until William’s soldiers

came thumping

through the valley

so that I had

to lie low here

or die…

_____
The Green Door

No matter how high

the black knocker

on the green door

it produces a thud

which rumbles through

the house of the man

who once lived here

by riverside gardens,

with fuchsia and lavender,

all manner of roses scenting

the air where he strolled

with his wife

until time poured in

to the hallway and drawing room,

the elegant bedrooms,

to the maple floor where

they danced with their friends,

as history sighed

in the streets of the town,

sobbed in its cold, dark lanes,

seeped into stones,

misery exploding

in mayhem and grief

while hubris

lingered still

behind

the green door.

I see that smoke

drifts

from the chimneys today.

Someone is setting

new fires, is blissfully

fanning the flames.

October Oldbridge

Oldbridge, abscission,

autumn leaves

and ready apples,

crunchy walkways

between mowed grasses,

river to the north,

southwards that crumpled ridge

and all horses crazily astray

but we know they were here,

and the scattered men

as memories

and the dead men ghosts.

Air is heavy,

a storm brewing

that is ours alone,

thunder beyond

the claims of history,

and lightening

so we plainly see

how much has been

pinched through

the idiom of ideology,

and that we might yet try

something out
in real words,

see what fits today.

_________

© Marie MacSweeney, Drogheda.

Biographical Note: Alisa Velaj

Alisa Velaj’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in many

journals and magazines, including . Poetry Space Showcase,
The Curlew, The Seventh Quarry, The Poetry Village, The
Stockholm Review of Literature etc etc She has been shortlisted
for the annual international Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in UK in
June 2014. Velaj’s poetry book “With No Sweat At All” (trans by
Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj) will be published by Cervena Barva Press
in 2019.
MAD AMBER

Mad people are usually needed in sunny days.

- Listen, Amber commands me. When dusk starts to set in, take a string of pearly beads and
leave them in the garden. Throw upon them a kerchief and put some pebbles around as a
mark off. At the earliest shine of moonlight, start singing like a cricket. This way, his soul
will enter inside you, the pebbles will fly away, and the beads will remain uncovered under
the moonlight. As if from underground, he will pop up in your front, pick up the beads, and
hang them around your neck. Finally, you will be dancing under moonlight.
- Amber, you must have been watching me, I tell her. You know that, when he brought me
the beads that night, we danced under moonlight. You must have been watching me, Amber.
She breaks into tears. Minutes pass and she is still crying.
- I don't remember watching you, she starts her confession. I don't remember. Noooooo...
- Worse even, dear cousin, you stole my beads when you came with your mother to
congratulate me on getting engaged. In the baptizing ceremony of little Noah, you were
wearing my beads.
Amber won't stop sobbing.
- I was given the beads by your fiancé, she says. Your lover, to be more exact. For you
claimed you got engaged, but I never saw him visit your home. He has dumped you. He has,
because he loves me. That's why he gifted me beads like yours. As I love you more than him,
I wanted to cast on you both a good spell and see you together as a couple. I used the beads
for the spell, so that he'd come back to you.
- Ooooooooh, oooh, growls Amber. You, ugly face, who don't care about him, but about his
gifts. You, lowly woman, who never speaks of love, but only of precious jewelry. Oooooh...
I let her cry and turn around to take a walk by the seaside.
- Farewell, Mario! Farewell! Farewell, o you mad man! I hear Amber screaming behind my
back, calling me by my fiancé's name.

INSANITY

Perhaps, this is one more insanity that will come to be forgotten. These nights, on the shore of
the glacial pond, the silhouette of a man appears in my dreams.
The snow is so amazing, so dreamy are the mountains that I cannot realize why this silhouette
should even occur. The man first displays his smile, then his head and body. Suddenly, his
body turns foggy, while the head and his meaningless smile remain pending in the air.
I want this foggy-framed man to leave me and never return. Same as there is no return for a
traveler's footprints on snow, once the next snowflake rules in...

(Alisa Velaj)
If you fancy submitting
something but haven’t done
so yet, or if you would like
to send us some further
examples of your work,
here are our submission guidelines:

SUBMISSIONS

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and anyone found to be in breach of this will be reported to the police.

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E-mail all submissions to: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to
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 May 2019’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

May has been a difficult month but we have somehow

managed to make it through I’m afraid there has been some delays
due to Amos’ asthma the doctor has had to change his medication.
Where does the time fly? It seems like it was only last week when we
were busy making the January issue meow!!.

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”.
We continue to provide a platform for poets and artists around the world we
want to offer our thanks to the following for their financial support

Richard Halperin,
John Grady,
P.W. Bridgman,
Bridie Breen,
John Byrne,
Arthur Broomfield,
Silva Merjanin,
Orla McAlinden,
Michael Whelan,
Sharon Donnell,
Damien Smyth,
Arthur Harrier,
Maire Morrissey Cummins,
Alistair Graham,
Strider Marcus Jones

Our anthologies

https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_present_voices_for_peace

https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_poetry_anthology_-april
Biographical Note: Sam Murphy

Sam Murphy is the Poetry Editor for Dublin based website HeadStuff.org.
He is based in Birmingham and graduated from the University of
Birmingham with a BA and MA (Distinction) in Creative Writing. He is
currently working towards a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of
Surrey. His poems have been published in Ink Sweat and Tears, Trashed
Organ, Mutability Lit and was commended in the Verve Poetry Festival
competition 2018. He writes about podcasts at haphazardreview.com,
tweets infrequently @Sam_Murphy00.
A New Ulster Submission

Often Too Loud

Car horns circled the round-a-bout as if they were loud


enough that the top floor of the high-rise could hear them. The tenants bewildering

look from inside the living room never went away like the early morning surprise 

of a gift or a handshake. My friend would never use his phone

on Tuesdays because his credit would have run out and he wanted to buy a burger 

with a voucher on the back of his bus ticket. Let

the situation develop over a few years and the let


signs on row upon row of houses were pulled down and loaded onto a loud

4x4, all stacked in the back seat. The image of the drivers bewildering

face never left my friend, it imprinted on his mind which was a surprise

as he only saw him once. He lost his phone

down the canal sleeping next to a discarded burger

van with the words ‘Birmingham’s tastiest, monumental Burger


2018’ scrawled in hipster font over the side. He let

his annoyance at the font pass, only to see the loud

colours of the canal paraphernalia: brick, crisp packets and the bewildering 

eyes of geese, chuckling to each other. He always left that place with surprise 

that they were not put off by his presence. The phone

booth next to him didn’t get any dirtier or greyer each time he went back to the spot. The phone cord had
been cut for years. He kind of fancied a burger

but let that pass, after three days of eating only them. Instead he went to a café called Let

down the road where the owner wore a loud 

sheepskin trench coat like Del Boy, it was a bewildering 

sight for his customers who would tip out of surprise,

at the cheap prices of coffee, tea and their speciality ‘A Surprise


Meringue Pie.’ No one knew what the surprise was. It was described, over the phone, 

to me by a critic as the best pie since he ate a burger 

from a van in Birmingham. He had forgotten the name of the van. My friend would let 

my other friend stay on his couch for a couple of days but his loud

snoring left them all, to be honest, in a bewildering

state. What they described to each other over breakfast was a particular bewildering 

sight. A grown man snoring like his breathing was a surprise

to himself. It would wake him up in his sleep like a phone

call in the middle of the night from an angry burger 

van owner who had had his business closed down when the environment agency had let

his hygiene rating be downgraded to an endless drown of humming that was too loud.
Can I Buy All Your Oranges Please?

We ate everything, pips and all. We knelt by the fire like in prayer, licking our fingers for every last taste of
orange. I’d never forget that day. That day repeats in my mind like a slideshow carrousel. My memory can
flicker and fade now like an old VHS but most of the time it’s clean and clear.
My sister found three oranges that day. We hadn’t seen or tasted an orange in months. The very feel
of them on my finger tips was enough to imagine the citrus on my tongue. I never really liked oranges but I
would have killed for them back then. Maybe my sister did but I never asked. We didn’t even peel them. We
sunk our teeth into every part of the fruit like wild dogs on a turkey leg.
It was years before I could ask questions again. Even asking what the time was, or sitting in a
restaurant and asking for their wine list gave me a weird kind of euphoria. It took even longer for questions
to reappear in my house. The removal of questions helped us though. Helped the country. Helped me. The
curve and accusation of the question mark needed to be taken care of. We are better now since we had a
pause on questions.
Every morning I open the fridge and all that is there are row after row of oranges. I hoard them. A
day rarely goes by when I don’t eat three or four. Every day I go to a different grocery store and ask one
question: can I buy all your oranges please?
Librarian

I found an old pack of cigarettes in the desk draw. Three were left. I lit one with a burning torn page from an
atlas. The smoke rose to the ceiling of the room, dissipating in the corner. I coughed from years of being a
non-smoker. I thought these must have belonged to the librarian before he left. I imagined him holding his
cigarette in one hand and stamping book after book in the other. Even after all this time I had that feeling that
it was wrong to smoke indoors. The storm had started several years ago but those engrained rules never go
away. Maybe smoking indoors is one of them. I dropped the cigarette on the floor and stamped it out.
I’ve been trapped in the library for days. I’ve burnt most of the books. I used the desks, and
bookcases as kindling. I pushed over the large bookcase to block the perspex front door. The roamers were
out looting again. It looked liked an art installation I saw once. When I first came here I just sat in the
children’s section for hours. I stared at the dusty books and wondered who was the last person to borrow a
book before the storm. Last week, I got lucky, I found a full vending machine. Since then I’ve lived off
skittles, and Wotsits. I’ll move on when they are all eaten. I’ll keep the last two cigarettes for later. For now,
I’ll memorise every capital city’s name from the atlas.