FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF PATRICIA KAMRADT, KAREN MOONEY,

SAM BURNSIDE, ALISON BLACK, ALLEN STEBLE, STEPHEN KINGSNORTH, KEITH

WOODHOUSE, MICHAEL MADDEN, LIND GRANT-OYEYE, AND RICHARD W.
HALPERIN, AND EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.
A NEW ULSTER
ISSUE 92
JUNE 2020

UPATREE PRESS
 Copyright © 2020 A New Ulster – All Rights Reserved.

The artists featured in this publication 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)

Edited by Amos Greig

Cover Design by Upatree Press

Prepared for Publication by Upatree Press

 CONTRIBUTORS

This edition features work by Patricia Kamradt, Karen Mooney, Sam Burnside, Alison Black, Allen Steble,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Keith Woodhouse, Michael Madden, Lind Grant-Oyeye, and Richard W. Halperin.
 CONTENTS

Poetry Patricia Kamradt Page 1

Poetry Keith Woodhouse Page 3
Poetry Stephen Kingsnorth Page 5
Poetry Lind Grant-Oyeye Page 9
Poetry Allen Steble Page 11
Poetry Alison Black Page 16
Poetry Michael Madden Page 18
Poetry Richard W. Halperin Page 20
Prose Sam Burnside Page 24
Poetry Karen Mooney Page 28
Editor’s Note Page 32
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: PATRICIA KAMRADT

Patricia was born in Chicago, Illinois, and didn’t learn of her Irish heritage until well into her forties. She
writes poetry and short fiction.

1
A FARMER’S SIMPLE LIFE

The farms in my soul the plow is my wife

In good times and bad in bounty in strife
My fathers’ home and his father’s before him
Four generations strong
Side by side, we have worked this proud land
Every inch of earth was turned by our hand
Working the fields from dawn until night
The clean smell of soil after the rain fills my nose
The sweet song of the lark is joy to my ears
The brown dirt packed under my nails is a glorious feel
At peace and harmony as I sit on my plow
At one with nature I am here I am now
The warmth of the sun rests on my back
I am content and happy
I am one with the earth
Her blood runs through my veins
Through strong winds and gentle rains
We are bound together
Till death do us part
Giving all of herself like a mother’s love for her child
Asking nothing in return
Forever grateful to her and all that she gives
Respecting her thanking her as long as I live
For I am a farmer and she is my wife and I will love her and cherish her all the days of my
life. Amen

(Patricia Kamradt)

2
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: KEITH WOODHOUSE

Keith is a poet and musician from Cornwall. This is his first submission to A New Ulster.

3
DETENTION

Mental patients -
Goldfish in a goldfish bowl,
Under the consultant psychiatrist,
Under the watchfull eye
Of the universe.
Lying in our beds,
Spinning in our heads,
Bright sun through tall windows.
"Nurse, Valium, please."
Anything to slow it down,
I try and read
But I can't focus,
Someone is tapping a teacup.
Mania, Schizophrenia,
Clopixol Acuphase,
Hired muscle dotted about,
"Talk to the doctor on Monday Morning."

(Keith Woodhouse)

4
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: STEPHEN KINGSNORTH

Stephen, married to a Ballymena lass, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church in
Warrington, has had pieces accepted by some twenty on-line poetry sites; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry,
The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines, Vita Brevis’ Anthology ‘Pain & Renewal’ & Fly on the Wall
Press ‘Identity’.

5
THE MOMENT

Momentum starts with moment,

the given twist on handle door,
pane open space enabling climb,
a lyre bird, a key cuckoo call,
a rite of spring, known if unannounced,
the crossing front, changed atmosphere,
a flap of wings, moved paradigm.

(Stephen Kingsnorth)

6
RESISTANCE BRED

Grandfather, Ché on student wall,

aroused, still evenings works the crowd
of grandchildren gathered close to
hear his, now hoarse, recital turn.

Plaster scabbed by leprous spread, the

talisman to touch that long dead
work, medicine touch in colony.

Beyond the shade, alive in heart,

rising dust from dust, exhausted fumes,
tyres tread through sullen lads bent
on sloping, hangdog hungry home.

Despite the writ from see of faith,

Father’s witness of a different
tale, leads change under alter peace.

Resistance bread in homework spread,

unprotected, unpaid dues are
paid by son, who crossed the ways of
bandit men and refused drug haul.

The blood is up in stifled heat,

a distant bell, knees are bent, sweat
beaded hands still must cross the palms.

(Stephen Kingsnorth)

7
BABY GROWS

In Dhaka born, forty older than her land,

she aids her family health by
sweating in the city shop,
with black walls, and no safety checks,
where Buriganga river wends.

Singers hum their usual scales,

where, needling with her bare ten hands,
fingers fold the errant seams,
ensuring western prices cheap,
eastern lives, seems, cheaper still.

By rows of city’s towers,

from ranks of black-walled Bogside desks
where Foyle, the father, river bends,
another schoolgirl delivers birth,
where weighted baby’s first outfit
was fitted out in Bangladesh,
the baby-grow from sweatshop row.

At ranks of desks the girls make more,

for in the west the babies grow;
Bangla too, needs baby girls,
to be the future’s pension scheme.

(Stephen Kingsnorth)

8
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: LIND GRANT-OYEYE

Lind is an Irish poet with publications in several international literary magazines.

9
SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF KILKENNY

Hold your whim to trick one into writing

about friends, and other transients like blood
and ailments on old street corners waiting
with their gangster game plan to fold, then flood
folks. Life is a deep khaki pocketful
of old Irish Guinness gently seeping
through a bit of odd blue, a bit of grey
and I speak not of what you know of skies
Not of what should be or not be up there,
on one's dark trek from Letterkenny
all the way to the agreed middle-here
the smooth sexy corners of Kilkenny.
One day, we shall write again about bland
Today, indulge us our allocated shand.

Hold your showy songs about tomorrow

and its certain rising and growing time.
We know young and unpolluted marrows
find their youthful way southwards sometimes
Folks, life is a deep khaki pocketful
of old Irish waters slowly rising
above a bit of old dams, causeways.
Now, we may also speak of greying cumulus
and how it surely makes way for bright
streetlights holding forte and how they dress up
the empty streets of all these old counties .
Watch them await yet another morning,
when the June glow, rising from wherever
it decides to rise from these days,
reconciles with the streets once again.

(Lind Grant-Oyeye)

10
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ALLEN STEBLE

Allen is a contemporary poet that derives inspiration from self-growth and the beauty of nature. He enjoys
classical poetry and derives most of his inspiration from great poets like Shel Silverstein, Maya Angelou, and
Roald Dahl.

11
SONNET: LONELY SOUL’S INN

Come walk with me dear hunched shadow

Smile wide and raise your lowly chin
Take off your coat and let go of your woes
Let’s spend some time at the lonely soul’s inn

A place where there exists not pain nor sorrow

Or the scattered remains of a broken heart
Nor the bitter tears that closely follow
Just a place for a new life, a new start

Here at the lonely soul’s inn You’ll pay no fee

You can rest soundly your heavy eyes
And let Its mystic walls set your mind free
From the scars of the past and severed ties

So, relax for a while with a glass of tonic and gin

Enjoy your stay here at the lonely soul’s inn

(Allen Steble)

12
SONNET: IF I RISK NOTHING AT ALL

If I risk nothing in life or love, I indeed risk it all

For I only get stronger when I learn to take many falls
The iron horse of Greece, as a redwood so tall
Into the bolstered gates of Troy’s impenetrable walls

The shattered bones, the great grazes of that mighty leap

Are the steppingstones to achieve that impossible so-called feat
The feat to become more than the nobles thought I’d become
If I played my hand safe…safe with a nought outcome

I lost it all many times…and many more still will I lose it again
But never will that ever stop me…for no risk at all is the greatest pain
The blows life belligerently throws, will hit me hard and without cease
I’ll risk it bold…I will never fold for the length of my lifelong lease

To risk nothing in life is the greatest risk you could ever make
For the greatest triumphs exist, in the boldest chances you take!

(Allen Steble)

13
WHISPERED WINDS

On whispered winds
Crystal clear
I can see
Crystal clear
I can hear
High on this hill
Time stands still

Your fears will subside

Into the high tides
Despair does not dare
To sing its lullaby
-
-

Whispered winds
Pass me by
In the deep blue sky
They carry me
So gently
So peacefully

Time does not exist

In this calm abyss
Just one with the seas
Flowing with the breeze
-
-

On whispered winds
Time stands still
Time stands still

(Allen Steble)

14
SONNET: DEAR FUTURE ME

Dear future self, are you proud of me?

Did I set you up for sparkling success?
Or did I waste my youth in obscurity?
When you look back now, did I do my best?

Dear future me, do you like what you now see?

Did I take care of the temple in which you now dwell?
Or does your once silk skin sag from your bones like jelly?
When you look back now, would you say I invested well?

Dear future self, are you proud of what you have become?
Did I bring a beaming smile to your resplendent face?
Or are you now masking regret with bottles of tonic and rum?
When you peer back now, did I run my finest race?

So, when I am standing in front of a mirror in a decade or two

I will ask myself...are you proud of who’s looking back at you?

(Allen Steble)

15
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ALISON BLACK

Alison is a writer from Belfast. She has been writing for over ten years, and has written a variety of poems,
of real life rather than fiction, about relationships & friendships.

16
I MISS

What I miss is friends for coffee,

Meeting friends for lunch,
The freedom to shop whenever I wanted to,
I miss hugging friends for comfort.

I miss visiting the antique shops,

I miss going to Portrush meeting people there,
I miss socializing with people,
I consider this as a holiday.

To keep positive,
People are in the same boat,
Be appreciative of we have communication,
We still have mobile phones & email for contact.

(Alison Black)

17
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MICHAEL MADDEN

Michael has worked for many years in the IT industry, as a result of which he has been quoted in
publications as prestigious as the New York Times. This also spawned the successful blog The History Of (My)
Coding, a narrative in eleven parts detailing his experiences in and around various IT departments across a
forty year career.

18
LOCKDOWN CHORUS

Morning chorus amongst the blossoms

Soften and flick
Our gin soaked echoes
Behind and across our horizons.

Melodies of rejuvenated nature

Buzz in the sun soaked air
Cut by the silence
From the Nightingales.

Our distractions torn

Like reused PPE gowns
Soaked from seeping rain
But stand if you can.

Bursts of radiant shoots

Soaked in our sweat
Grow as well if not better
Towards the light.

(Michael Madden)

19
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: RICHARD W. HALPERIN

Richard holds dual Irish-U.S. nationality. His poetry

collections are published by Salmon and by Lapwing. A video of his
reading of the 20 April poem 'George Eliot 2020' may be viewed on the UK
Poetry Archive Now! WorldView 2020 website.

20
CONFINEMENT THOUGHTS

God is invisible.
Mathematics is invisible.
Covid-19 is invisible.
The music of Bach is invisible.
Betrayal is invisible
Until it happens.
What I earnestly pray is invisible.
Yesterday is invisible.
That there can be a photo of it
Is a joke.
The statue of Ozymandias is visible.
He has his reward.
What is most real is invisible.
It doesn’t need a mask.

(Richard W. Halperin)

21
A CHIPPED CUP

For the cover image of Tea in Tbilisi,

My publisher chose a photo of
A chipped cup ‘because life is chipped.’

My childhood was chipped.

I thought at the time no one else’s was.

My marriage was chipped.

It was I who chipped it.

I noticed today a chip in a cut-crystal glass

I’d just bought as a pressie for myself.
Neither the vendor nor I had noticed.

I once dreamt a galleon had docked outside my window.

A chip kept me from remembering more.

Middlemarch is chipped, thank God.

(Richard W. Halperin)

22
THE LANE

Edward Thomas’s poems level me,

Their solace and their beauty.
Today ‘The Lane,’ especially.

C.P. Stewart, as fine a nature poet,

Wrote his own ‘The Lane,’
After the beloved path he walked

In Easingwold.
One day he suddenly died on it.
It was his Arras.

He loved Edward Thomas

I love them both.
This is Easter morning 2020,

Jesus up and about.

(Richard W. Halperin)

23
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: SAM BURNSIDE

Sam was born in County Antrim. He is an established poet, writer, and educator, and received an MBE in
2012 for his services to the arts.

24
GUNS

He did not know what the boss’s real name was, he knew him only as the leader, the man
who now slid into the back seat, beside him.
No words were spoken. The gun appeared, lying naked in the palm of the man’s opened
hand, presented like an offering of some kind, a thing revered, then with a nod of his head
but without speaking, he slipped it into the pocket of the car seat in front.
The leader told him what had to do. Like a chef, or a scientist pursuing the outcome of an
experiment, he knew he would recognise the command and follow the recipe.
*
It was a week later when he strolled to the top of the designated and previously much-
reconnoitred location. He waited inside the bookshop there, as arranged, watching through
the window while pretending to examine a succession of books. He spotted his target, as
described, and stepping out onto the pavement following him closely. Walking casually until
they were outside the post-office when he stepped up behind him. He withdrew the gun
from its paper bag and holding it close to the base of the man’s skull pulled the trigger, once,
twice. He stepped around the already falling body and turned right at the bottom of the
street. He did not look back. There he stepped into the waiting car, was driven onwards for a
few minutes, got out as soon as the car stopped, strolled around the corner and climbed into
an old van that was waiting, engine running.
*
He had been here seven days, lying low, as instructed. The safe house was a cottage built
from the local stone that lay scattered about the rising slopes, standing half hidden in a in a
V-shaped hollow between two hills. Its approach road took the form of a gravelled, weed-
and-grass infested track that had been laid years before, cutting through the surrounding
fields. The first day there he sat in an old armchair beside the open fire. The third day he
took down the bottle of whiskey. The fifth day he finished it. That night he was gone – the
whiskey had done for him.
The whiskey and his thoughts: his thoughts were all about the leader.
He had been unable, deep down he knew this – was it that he was too young – to read the
leader’s mind – he was as deaf to what he knew to be its generational echo and blind to its
pre-historic cob-webbed maze of hurts and hatreds as he believed the leader was wide awake
to his.

25
The leader, he mulled on this, was such a dainty-faced man; but he had a reputation; he had
a ravenous appetite for action that led to product; let it happen, was known to be his
watchword.
*
He had no radio here. There was no television. The only punctuation to his days was the
sun’s setting and rising, the unremitting coming and going of light and darkness. In the night
there was no moon and the stars were hidden behind cloud. His circadian rhythms moved
and stalled, melting, one into another.
The landscape it occurred to him had been been built vaguely on the template of ocean
waves – little hump-shaped shadowy figures, some lying head to toe, yet interspersed with
other bodies, the lot thrown down willy-nilly in the cross-current of history with each one
having shouldered over itself a comfort-covering of dried ancient ferns, curled and webbed
and laced with wisps of dried dead grass.
During the dreariness of these final three days of constant rain-fall he had grown more and
more was fretful, with both his body and mind in a state of mild agitation. He now stepped
out into the still, calmness of a new morning: he rocked gently back and forth on the heels
and balls of his feet in unconscious time to the breathe-rhythm of the hills: last night’s storm
had been and gone, sweeping the hillsides clear of their accumulated debris while the rain
had washed the grass, leaving it a pristine carpet of a brushed green.
Below him, the icy blue of two small lakes, reflecting the sky above, rested, at blind peace,
inset on the green slope. For the first time he wondered…
He had not, he allowed himself to realise, he had not seen or glimpsed the policeman’s eyes,
or his face, had not known, nor did he now know, would never know… The leader had
appointed another to walk towards the pair, the stalker and the stalked, and to use a pre-
determined signal to confirm that this was the one, that now was the time. This other
unknown would raise a copy of a newspaper and then lower it as he passed what was a mere,
an anonymous, cog in a wheel, the representative of an oppressive force engaged in a dirty
war, a legitimate target.
A black animal – no, not an animal, a bird, a bird of prey, it must be, though, on closer
inspection, whether it be a rook or a crow or a raven, he did not know, he could not tell. He
stood, ignored by the animal as in its ravenous hunger it fed off the carcase of a dead sheep.
He gave no consideration to his own ignorance, nor did he think it strange, but rather
mechanically noted this – he did not know the name or nature of the wildlife in his own
country!
*
The headlights of two vehicles intermittently traversed the hillsides and occasionally directed
their beams high into the sky as they accelerated bumpily along the approach roads. The

26
roads – it was really one road that came to an acute bend just where the gravelled track led
off to climb to the cottage.
One vehicle approached from the north the other from the south.
From his vantage point outside the cottage he turned and dashed into the house where he
delved his hand deep under the cushions of the old sofa. He hauled out the gun and ran to
the yard. There he halted for a moment before a low stone wall before dropping the gun
down through darkness to the bottom of the well. He waited breath-bated till he heard the
abrupt splash as it struck water, before sinking.
Then nothing.
Back in the house he stuck both hands into a pail of icy cold water that sat in the porch and
held them there for a bit, before wiping them dry on his trouser legs. This in the belief that
any residue from the gun would be washed off his skin
He returned to the porch where he stopped and stood still, prepared to wait. The vehicles
too had stopped, their lights blaring like searchlights, seeming to seek him where he stood in
shadow.
He had emptied his mind of all thought.
Hr had been well versed if the time came what he should do, how to behave, to say nothing,
to empty his mind, to admit to nothing.
He was just for one instant peripherally aware of movement among the bushes by the yard’s
perimeter. Then his body slumped, heavily but neatly as if in one protracted rhythm, to the
porch floor, arms spread in almost perfect symmetry, his frame pirouetting in an arch of
beauty to the sound of a gun’s explosive stutter.

(Sam Burnside)

27
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: KAREN MOONEY

Karen has been scribbling lyrics and poetry and since 2016. Her work has been published in USA, UK and
Ireland. Most recent publications include Fevers of the Mind, Re-Side Zine, Poetry NI’s Four x Four and Pendemic.

28
APPRENTICESHIP

The craft was engrained within huge calloused hands, their whorls, valleys and ridges
blackened to reveal his unique identity. These hands were tools, trained to service engines in
Harry Ferguson’s, they worked on motorbikes, cars, lawnmowers and tractors. Toughened
with each new project, restoring old cars and bikes, they conducted an orchestra of
screaming valves in the garage at the end of our garden. His domain. A flick of the lights
from the kitchen signalled that tea was ready and the hands, rubbed on an oily rag, raised to
smooth Brylcreemed hair.

The smell of grease, oil and petrol announced his arrival. Woven into the overalls, it
overpowered any remaining traces of the Old Spice applied earlier in the day and he
commandeered the kitchen sink, temporarily scrubbing off his trade with Swarfega in the
kitchen sink before refuelling.

If it was a cold winter’s night, he would bring his work home, in that the engine would be
laid upon newspapers in the living room. Whilst he worked his magic, we sat enthralled.
With lessening physical activity, the hands softened, as did he, yet it seemed that oil still
coursed through his veins. He would read about engines, talk about them and listen to them.
Sadly, his own could not be restored.

the apprentice
craft mastered at eighty-four
time served

(Karen Mooney)

29
BONFIRE

As children, Dad drove us up the Rocky Road to see the bonfires

lighting up the Belfast skyline. I didn’t understand the significance but
appreciated the spectacle and had no desire to go near them, nor would
I have been allowed.

Carnival for all

Night sky illuminated
Keep a safe distance

Years later, attracted by the excitement I went to see one but perhaps it
was just a chance to see a lad I had a notion of. Singing, dancing, a
chaste kiss round the back of the boney and the fire was lit. That is,
until my damper deployed with the thoughts of a disapproving father

Youthful excitement
Drawn like a moth to a light
Afraid of the fire

Dumped like the remnants that would not take to the flame. Scarred
like the bonfire site, I learned that there were several components
required for a real fire, that they should be handled with care and even
more carefully set.

Putting out the flames

Charred to protect from danger
Setting a new fire

Well it doesn’t mean that you’re an arsonist if you light a few fires and
we’re all long enough
in the tooth to know that dying embers can be rekindled. Mind you,
sometimes those components have to be kept apart unless of course
the hearth is empty and you need the heat.

Hot ash can ignite

Flicker or a flame, beware
Playing with matches

(Karen Mooney)

30
MIGRANT WORKERS

The landing strip, a field outside of Ards,

car horn honking announces arrivals
who have flown here from Iceland. Their rewards
are the gleanings for winter survival.
Not just immediately recognized
as around here we're attuned to strangers
and jest of the distance between the eyes.
But close inspection reveals no danger
from blow-ins creating competition,
whether or not they even have passports.
Nature picks a preferred destination,
after all, we too, are imports of sorts.
Whooper Swans teach us the need for reason.
We say 'haste ye back' to help next season.

(Karen Mooney)

31
 EDITOR’S NOTE

Welcome to the June edition of A New Ulster. We have an amazing range of poetry and prose this issue. I’ve
enjoyed reading all of it, and I am hopeful that you will as well. We feature our first Lockdown piece it has
led to quite a few new pieces of art, prose and poetry as well as, uncertainty and financial concerns. I am
very glad to announce that I will be receiving a Covid 19 financial support package from the Arts Council of
Northern Ireland so that I can replace the computer, which died two months ago now. .

My father had Covid 19 and it has affected him quite badly it seems to attack the blood vessels which
frankly terrifies me as I have a bleeding disorder which puts me at greater risk should I catch it. I will
continue to promote poetry, prose and artwork to the best of my abilities and I hope you will all join us in
our next issue.

A New Ulster has published poets, artists and writers from around the world, we have published people
living in exile or who are currently living with the daily threat of violence because they are of a different
ethnic background or religion.

We are deeply saddened by the recent events in America which has shone a light on something that has lain
under the surface ignored by many, officially there are no statistics on police based deaths. Unofficially
however that number appears to be on average 1000 dead by police action, this year alone around 225
people have been killed of which 35 were Black, on average 23% of those killed were Black, those are
sobering numbers hopefully a peaceful solution is found and those affected receive justice. All lives matter
but right now we need to be aware of the Black Lives.

My usual ending does not feel right so I will close with a wish for, good health, and keep creating,

Amos Greig (Editor)

32