FEATURING THE TALENTS OF Michael Boyle, Ailbhe Curran, Gary Beck, Terri

Metcalfe, Terry Brinkman, Jack Stewart, Heather Sager, Madeleine White, Niamh Murray,
Oonah V Joslin and Saeed Salimi Babamiri EDITED BY AMOS GREIG
A NEW ULSTER
ISSUE 115
June/July 2022

UPATREE PRESS
 Copyright © 2022 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 Michael Boyle, Ailbhe Curran, Gary Beck, Terri Metcalfe, Terry Brinkman,
Jack Stewart, Heather Sager, Madeleine White, Niamh Murray, Oonah V Joslin and Saeed Salimi Babamiri
 CONTENTS

Prose Michael Boyle Page 1

Poetry Ailbhe Curran Page 4
Poetry Gary Beck Page 15
Poetry Terri Metcalfe Page 24
Painting Terry Brinkman Page 28
Poetry Jack Stewart Page 30
Poetry Heather Sager Page 41
Poetry Madeleine White Page 46
Poetry/Prose Niamh Murray Page 58
Poetry Oonah V Joslin Page 65
Poetry Saeed Salimi Babamiri Page 69
Editor’s Note Page 71
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MICHAEL BOYLE

Michael Boyle is a native of Lavey, Derry, Ireland. His poems have appeared in the “The
Antigonish Review”. “Dalhousie Review.” “Tinteain” and “New Ulster Writing.” He was
awarded “The Arts and Letters” prize for poetry in 2014 by the government of
Newfoundland and Labrador. Michael has also written articles for the Irish language
magazine “An t-Ultach. He is currently completing his first poetry collection “Whin Bushes
from Drummuck.” In June 2017 he presented a paper in Magee College, Derry, on the Irish
poet Seamus Heaney. In 2018 he gave a talk entitled “Echoes from the Barn Barrel.” to The
North American Celtic Language Teachers Conference in St. John’s, NL. He currently lives
in St John’s NL where he conducts a historical walking tour. www.boyletours.com

1
Advice from the Master.

In May 1993 the future Nobel Poet Laureate Seamus Heaney gave the Pratt lecture at Memorial
University of Newfoundland and later in the cozy confines of The Ship Inn he signed one of his
books with the inscription, “From one South Derry man to another.” Then, he explained to me that
his sister Anne told him not to go back home if I didn’t say hello to Mickey Boyle away out in
Newfoundland.

Like Heaney I grew up on a small farm in County Derry and a highlight of our summer was when
with my brothers and I walked our cattle four miles to Bellaghy fair. After the animals were sold my
father along with Paddy Heaney (Seamus’ father) had a bottle of stout in Breslin’s Bar on Main
street.

I went to St Joseph’s Teacher Training College Belfast to major in Physical Education

However, I didn’t make the cut and I had to transfer to a three-year course. English was now my
major and for the next three years I had Heaney as my teacher. The first thing I observed was
Heaney’s enthusiasm and love that he had for language. Aftermy G.C.E. A levels I was convinced
that I was finished with poetry forever. It seemed that poetry meant taking notes from the
blackboard and parroting them back for exams.

In the first term I had teaching practice in a West Belfast school and Heaney was my
observer. I jumped into my lesson with ‘great gusto’ and without waiting for the class to settle. Six
students in the front row were keyed into my entire art lesson, but for the thirty other students it
was like a circus. Afterwards I expected some tough words from Heaney. I don’t remember all his
exact words. But one sentence I do remember.

“Mickey.” He said and then he paused.

“You must always make the silence speak.”

This advice I have cherished from that day on.

The young Seamus Heaney that I knew- was willing to experiment with teaching approaches to
literature .I vividly remembering one Easter he introduced us to Elizabethan drama as he directed

2
us in an “Everyman” passion play. We performed it for the all the students in the College. Heaney
tried “to do drama in the round” and so as well as using the stage he had actors around the hall.
There were no props, costumes or music and the focus was on the spoken word.

One outstanding skill that Heaney had with was his relaxed manner in which he could both
introduce and read his poems to make them come alive. Listening to Eliot and Yeats read their
word you could fall asleep. Back in my desk at College Heaney’s voice made poems hypnotic as he
was relating everyday experiences. You only can really understand poetry if it is well read. Heaney
didn’t tell us how to read but being the real teacher he showed us by example.

Back at school students had endless compositions on “How to make a fire or fix a puncture?”
However Heaney emphasized creative writing over compositions. He encouraged us to write on
mundane topics like on a Sunday evening when people want to use the bathroom. At the same time
a teenage daughter is taking her time getting make on up for a dance that night.

I will never forget the day Heaney brought a large red record player and some L.P.s. He put on a
vinyl record and asked us to write expressively. At first we were confused, but later we loved this
novel experience. Heaney in the poem “The Play Way” describes the reaction of a class of pupils in
Belfast to this exercise. Heaney used improvisation to break the sterility of the classroom. He
experimented in drama, creativity, sound poetry and the music of what happens.

Finally, I have my poetry collection about the same county Derry rural landscape where Heaney
grew up. So many decades later and many miles away I can now reflect as a ‘callow youth’ I was
once -truly in the presence of the Master.

(Michael Boyle)

3
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Ailbhe Curran

Ailbhe Curran is a teacher, researcher and writer from Co. Tipperary, Ireland. Ailbhe has been writing
poetry since her teenage years and was a prize-winner in the Cavan Crystal/Windows Publications National
Student Poetry Awards in 2008. As well as writing poetry, Ailbhe also writes short stories and will have some
of her stories published in the short fiction journal, Literally Stories, in August 2022.

Ailbhe is heavily involved in researching and promoting arts education in Irish schools and has written and
presented on the subject nationally and internationally. She has a particular interest in how arts education
can be used as a vehicle for social change and her most recent academic article on the topic was published in
the Routledge Companion to Drama in Education in May 2022.

4
Dear Saturn

I met you last year when you were but a passing star in the night,

A flicker, a wink, after summer evening’s delight.

Back then you were a stranger for the Earth was my world

And you, a distant traveller with a silent prophecy unheard.

But alas merriment’s blindness hid the tales I was once told

About the time-travelling goddesses who at night dress in gold,

Shining a light down on our follies from way up above,

Their blinks coding the scripts of our futures in hope, pain and love.

Oh I do wish I knew then of what I now know

So that I could have built a ladder to the skies from suffocation below,

Leaving behind the crumbs of memories, all our friends and our foes,

And flying off with the space discs we feared once ago.

But now, on Earth, we hide wilting in the shadows

As we all try to shoot ourselves

Off to Saturn afar

5
Where on the comforts of its concentric rings we could lay

And travel in the predictable lapping of waves,

Just like a sailor steering a ship upon the sea

Guided by stars’ pathways to a world that still could be.

For he knows the next morn where the sun will be rising,

Where the wind will be blowing and where the birds will be flying,

And he knows how to navigate his ship safely out to the ocean

Until sunlight settles to slumber amongst all the commotion

And we hear our ancestors’ murmurings as their dust begins to rise

With Saturn – the brightest – like Olympia’s torch to the sky.

Every night I try to sit with this sailor beneath my Saturn the free,

Stuffing my fingers like corks in my eardrums from the relentless swells of the sea

So that all that is seen is the ever-expanding blackness of fate,

And all that is heard is the rhythmic, celestial humming of some other-worldly place.

(Ailbhe Curran)

6
At the Graveside

This is a place I see all strangers, pretenders that know me,

My hands drooping like droughted lilies withered through shaky sympathies.

We stand outside where life is beckoning and I see trees and birds and bees,

But inside I wonder why darkened hollows are scripture of eternity.

We marched here through the stone-white village straight from the body-poachers,

Who took her some moons ago and saw fit to lay her like all the others.

Without hearing spirit’s grumblings, they just do their duty as gold dictates,

And after their package’s delivered, they too will stroll away.

They set her down next to the empty and where the doom doth lie,

But still the chatter, it continues, shrugs and suspicious smiles.

A cloak of mock regality is tossed upon her pre-made tomb,

But I know it cannot protect her now from fear, from rot, from ruin.

Covers shaded with the Holy Ghost thrown upon her simple treasures,

A dresser filled of queen’s finery that would protect her through all weather;

A lamp that once glowed gold of hope casting light on tomorrow’s horizon;

A chiming clock with cuckoo calling for the Angelus to enlighten.

7
The indiscriminate digs of theirs knocked nature from its perch,

And now all I see are her caressed garden roses dying in lonely dust.

The roses lame upon the soil, they speak no omnipresence,

Weeds choking them right to the flower, petals lost to time and predator.

A single one is thrown upon the coffin of silent chaos,

The snipping done so blindly of another life they caused to leave us.

I almost see her hand emerging to take it back to place of birth,

But she misses as she starts to float a little deeper back to earth.

Jesus broke the bread and shared it the night before his death,

But the nourishment proved futile until He rose once again.

But my tears I fear won’t recreate the time of Jerusalem,

That’s been lost to wars and ravages that scraped the world so thin.

They’ll swear that Mary sold the crib rather than to leave the spirits lying still,

To stay and stray amongst season’s changings, to dance and roam at will.

I’ll nod my head and let them steal my keys back into her world,

Because grief squeezes chords of clarity into an unvoiced hold.

8
They’ll come and divide the takings, her years of personal gems,

Faded letters from young lovers, storied artefacts that mean nothing to them.

Shutting the door, they’ll leave a barren shell hollowed of its stories,

Shining paint and carpet grass smothering the roses.

They’ll talk there for a while and say this all was for the best,

To strip a house of memories, to snatch eggs right from her nest.

They’ll tell themselves that her ornate angels will always remind them of her,

But they’ll drift into Ago’s attic and fall behind the stolen drawers.

The forbidden sign nailed through once-ripe foliage prices a palace never known,

A cost that doesn’t befit the numbers on the new gravestone.

Mother and father accept the stinging rain that now strikes upon the landscape,

And I don’t know why I still dream of sunshine when it always lies in wait.

The priest pontificates on everlasting and all we thought we knew,

The book of Genesis to resurrection, rainbows of His promises to you.

But with grief-glazed eyes we wonder if still there is that one Truth,

Amongst the whisperings of her wilting prayers with dreams still left to root.

We stand now by her side and where she forever lays,

9
The ground rumbling on as if her passing was just order of the day.

Then the only Truths, they came to reach me and with me they did stay,

The final moments, left to linger on in memory’s cave.

Poisonous murmurings of will and probate,

Christ’s poinsettias singing on a sinking grave,

Bracing hands we know to kneel and pray,

But still, the world,

It takes away.

Still the world,

It takes away.

(Ailbhe Curran)

10
Fish’s Final Feast

I can’t believe after all these years that those periwinkles are still stuck on the rocks,

Clinging to stability, to what they know and remember is always comforting.

I wonder how long they have been there and what they have seen.

They were there so many years ago when our feet

Were dancing with merriment around them

And they are still there now in the stony silence,

Their hardened shells holding the memories of mine.

Boiling the picked periwinkles in the pot,

Carrying them along the wind-beaten sandy beach,

Salty from the seashore.

Wet feet leaving prints of children’s pitter patter,

Marks of innocence spread defining all the family’s branches

As if you could carve the tree from them

Alone.

We raced together to the house

11
Falling over and through the face, feet, and arms of each other

As we charged through the door.

Our parents did not turn to see who was there or who was theirs as we were enmeshed,

Children tangled together in webs of giggles, one leading into the other.

We inhaled the salted life of the sea as we rushed to the table,

Exhaling with the shared hope and happiness of

One moment’s joy to behold.

My brother and I gutted the mackerel together with father,

Our rolling laughter like the waves of the Western sea

Which once harboured the fish we plundered

As it swam with life.

Lips wrenched open and gaping,

Eyes round with alarm,

Like he was straining to mouth a warning but

When I tried to hear it, it was gone.

We finished preparing the family’s summer feast,

Forgiving ourselves for the life we had stolen so that we all could eat.

Together afterward, each single bite, we savoured with delight

But I feel forgot the definition of its end.

12
The whole fish’s fleshed out memories flying down our throats

And never to see the sea again.

When we left, I thought we were next day returning.

But we stayed away.

Time passed like the tides then, comforts on the surface but crushing pain beneath the crests,

And I, not realising until much later of all that was left on the shores

In their wake.

When we went out again there was no fish,

No sign of life’s breath or love’s warmth on the beach where we once played with our cousins,

The rocky fields I once wandered, hands clutched, with my own siblings.

When the reel carried empty each time, I thought again of that fish

Through the pain moulded on the creased lines of my father’s face.

Gutted, its life lining our stomachs and

Never to be regurgitated again,

Never to swim in the ocean where my father and his siblings once swam.

Only this time, not gutted together between a proud father and son and daughter

But gutted ruthlessly

Between brother and sister and brother,

13
Each carving out a pound of flesh for each other.

Its taste was no longer delicious, but

Burning, stinging poison.

(Ailbhe Curran)

14
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: GARY BECK

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a
living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and
translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced OffCl Broadway. His poetry, fiction and
essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 34 poetry collections, 14
novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 7 books of plays. Published poetry books include: Dawn
in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors,
Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order, Contusions, Desperate Seeker, Learning Curve and : State
of the Union (Winter Goose Publishing). Earth Links, Too Harsh For Pastels, Severance, Redemption Value,
Fractional Disorder, Disruptions, Ignition Point, Resonance, Turbulence and Lacerations (Cyberwit Publishing.
Forthcoming: Double Envelopment). Motifs (Adelaide Books). His novels include Extreme Change (Winter Goose
Publishing). State of Rage, Wavelength, Protective Agency, Obsess, Flawed Connections and Still Obsessed (Cyberwit
Publishing. Forthcoming: Call to Valor). His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe
Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing). Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other
stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). Collected Essays of Gary Beck (Cyberwit Publishing). The Big Match and other one
act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume 1 and Plays of Aristophanes translated,
then directed by Gary Beck, Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume II, Four Plays by Moliere translated then directed
by Gary Beck and Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume III (Cyberwit Publishing). Gary lives in New York City.

Men At Arms

For thousands of years

men fought with shield, spear, sword.

Gunpowder did away with shields,

but for hundreds of years

men shot at each other up close,

butchering by proximity,

nerve or losses deciding battles.

Then the leveling machine gun sang

its song of welcoming death.

Most Generals were still fighting

15
the wars of spear and shield

with little thought

for the common soldier,

still considered a peasant levy,

lives decided by commanders.

Then the tools of war advanced,

death delivered more remotely,

except when Generals remembered

the good old days of clashing armor,

the dead and wounded

punishment for modern war.

Vehicles joined the ranks

still piloted by humans

and big battles were obsolete,

though massive invasions occurred.

So the nature of war was changing,

at least for those who notice.

Too many still anchored in the past

too willing to expend the lives

of men and women entrusted to them.

If modern warfare evolves

16
it may become bloodless for some,

but there will always be

unreconstructed monsters

eager for destruction

of life and property.

(Gary Beck)

17
Disintegration

When an individual dies,

except if he/she is valued,

families, friends, fellow workers,

hurt for the loss of a loved one.

With the passing of time

they will be forgotten,

life will continue,

which brings stability

to human existence.

When a civilization falls,

like the Roman Empire,

great disturbances take place.

Neighboring societies

grow or contract, gain or lose

as those who maintained order

in the surrounding chaos

no longer prevent

the eruptions of violence

that devastates tribes, small nations,

once regulated by the power

of a mighty colossus

that once controlled much of the world,

18
then declined, crumbled, collapsed,

leaving behind uncertainty,

mourned by some, forgotten by most.

(Gary Beck)

19
Class Dismissed

Liberal arts graduates

are pleased with their educations,

assuming they’ve learned a lot

in four years of study.

But a capitalist society

of rapid innovation,

incrementing technology

initiated by A.I.

makes most liberal grads

superfluous to the system

requiring specialtys

to nurture the wealthy.

(Gary Beck)

20
Cannon Fodder

The German soldiers

in World War I

were trained for war,

beaten if they didn’t obey,

marched, fought, died

for the Kaiser.

The Japanese soldiers,

in World War II

were trained for war,

beaten if they didn’t obey,

marched, fought, died

for the Emperor.

The Vietnamese, Afghani’s

all grew up

with endless war,

poor diet, poor future,

never stopped fighting

The American soldier,

just out of high school,

worried about

21
clothes, social media,

a date for the prom,

completely unprepared

for the rigors of war.

Many return home with

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,

courtesy of hardened enemies

unaccustomed to comforts.

(Gary Beck)

22
Lapse

Solemn promises

are meant to convey

the deepest commitments

often meant sincerely,

but passage of time,

erosion of feelings,

so many causes

change the nature

of earlier intentions,

leading to abandonment.

(Gary Beck)

23
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: TERRI METCALFE

Cumbria native Terri Metcalfe moved to Ireland with her Mayo born partner and two children in 2019. Considering
herself a working class northerner, and from a very down to earth, tools of the practical trade family, she never
thought it acceptable that she might be a serious poet, although she’d written since the age of about 15, “Living near
Westport, such a hot bed of creative talent, really opened my eyes to the possibilities, and also I realised I was
stereotyping all working class northerners by assuming they weren’t interested in poetry, which was exactly the kind of
judgement I was trying to avoid!”

24
Goddess

I am neutral

in these clouds of womb comfort.

I am the felt, ovulating moon

and I rise to meet the earth’s fabric,

piece by soft quilted piece.

I am umbilical cotton spires

standing tall above the horizon.

I stand beside the planets,

a fixed point of elemental grey

counting the remaining druids.

As I enter the world’s lagoon

I am osmosis blue, a tidal embryo.

I cry high decibels of red lipped wolves,

ripping the night to shreds,

desire like galaxies, breaking into threads.

I love through the eyes of a kaleidoscope,

a child of love’s burden.

25
I am fearsome as the sun

burning energy whale-like as I give life

to life, death to life, ashes to the ground.

And when I lie laden with soil

I am the grassy knolls of headstones, reborn.

I am goddess

and I survive.

(Teri Metcalfe)

26
Goliath

Mostly I am small as a droplet,

the ocean falls away as I become

part of the blue swell,

breaking to white foam.

I am common as sheep,

penned in with the near-static herd

I become a faceless number,

tagged like livestock for market.

I live in the distances

that collide with moons,

an empty show and tell,

pried by telescopes.

I am muted by rainbows

parading themselves with their golden fables.

Lies!

You are blank skies.

And at times I am desert-vast

I cannot see past my own giant,

My Goliath roams free.

27
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: TERRY BRINKMAN

Terry Brinkman started painting in junior high school. He has had painting shows at the Eccles Art Center
and paintings published in the Literary home girl volume 9 & 10, Healing Muse volume 19, (2019), SLCC
Anthology (2020), and in the book Wingless Dreamer: Love of Art. Detour and meat for tea; The Bangor
literary journal Issue 13 and 15, Barzakh 2022, Cacosa Magazine and The New Ulster.

28
Terry Brinkman

29
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JACK STEWART

Jack Stewart was educated at the University of Alabama and Emory University. From 1992-95 he was a
Brittain Fellow at The Georgia Institute of Technology. His first book, No Reason, was published by
the Poeima Poetry Series in 2020, and Jack’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies,
including Poetry, The American Literary Review, Nimrod, Image, and others.

30
Lots Frau

by Anselm Kiefer, oil paint, ash, stucco, chalk, linseed oil, polymer emulsion, salt and
applied elements (e.g., copper heating coil), on canvas, attached to lead foil, on
plywood panels

Lot went out of the door to the men, shut the door after him, and said, “I beg you, my
brothers, do not act so wickedly. Look, I have two daughters who have not known a man; let
me bring them out to you, and do to them as you please; only do nothing to these men, for
they have come under the shelter of my roof.”

Genesis 19:6-8

The sky, stripped bare

as a medieval fresco

emptied of its saints.

No halos anywhere,

not even tossed onto

the thick ash and oil

and emulsion that dominate

the plain that stretches toward

a point of no return,

something beyond the evil

of the horizon.

Eventually, the ash and salt

will flake onto the marble

31
of the gallery floor,

the stucco chip. Eventually,

the title in the foreground—

Lots Frau in a childlike

hand—will be absorbed

into whiteness like she was.

I want to know her name.

How her eyes saddened

when she packed their belongings,

the beds broken down,

the robes she made for their daughters.

Was she Rivkah? Tamara?

Were they Chagit and Tova,

celebration and goodness,

their wrists dusted with grain

from grinding wheat that morning?

Were their heads still bowed

from the night before when their father

offered them to the crowd of men outside?

These grays are so desolate.

Lot’s wife’s stomach clenched

when her husband proposed

the girls’ rape.

32
The plywood this is painted on

is as ragged as her cry must

have been when she looked back

at the destruction, just before

she felt the salt hardening her blood

white as her scream.

Barely

a day later, the girls carried

loaves of bread to their father

and nodded when he expected them to.

In the kitchen, they prodded the ashes back

to life and smelled burning houses.

For three weeks they did not speak,

understanding the viciousness

of angels.

(Jack Stewart)

33
Litany

The litany of parents' deaths

Almost at an end,

In my 60s, I am still too young

To have my friends start dying.

Just this year, John, who

Left Chicago dawns

To their own cold solutions.

Then Gregory, gray-bearded as if

All of the cigarette smoke

Settled there when he gave them up.

And now Matthew, who did not agree

With me on anything but urgently

Offered to drive my mother

In the onset of her blindness.

Names of popes or saints

Or simply a WASP generation

Of fathers, they are mine,

And is it anger or love

That follows them to the edge

Of the grave and stands

There crushing the rose heads

In its fist, refusing to toss

34
The petals in? The earth stains

My fingers like a nicotine

Obsession. I won't let words

Soften like the cushions

I knelt on in yet another church.

Once more, clouds

Of chrysanthemums

Billow on a cross;

The scent of fern strengthens.

I can't read music

To stay on key for any hymn,

And what am I to say

To the shouldered wood

As it passes again?

(Jack Stewart)

35
Degas’ David and Goliath

Not the usual ballerinas,

But, like them, the boy believes

In a beyond he does

Not look at in his concentration,

Muscles focused more than eyes.

His arm is up, like a whip,

And the giant’s head is smudged

With red, the bursting blood

That runs into his beard.

The entire painting is smudges,

From the bright earth

To the clouds drifting in

Over the hills behind Goliath,

Who stands spread-eagled,

His arms stretched out

As if tied to air.

The stone that “sunk in his forehead”

36
Is the rough jewel

Of death’s dark diadem,

Balance and grace reclaiming

The plain in this moment,

The enemy troops

About to crumble

Into the distance

like crops in drought.

This is the distance created

When no one imagined

Wind would spin sand

Into pirouettes again.

Is it a story about faith

or lack of faith?

David stands with knees bent,

The scene a tableau

Of confidence that has

Vanquished both arrogance

And despair,

37
The birds and sheep still silent

As the sliding cello-notes

Of the death-groan fade.

(Jack Stewart)

38
Charcuterie

We’re eating a still life for dinner.

I watched my daughter construct it,

Measuring the angles of each

Wedge of cheese, each width,

Delicately crumbling the edge of the bleu.

Then folding the overlapping slices

Of the meats, the veined prosciutto

A pink river curving between

The brie and Manchego,

The disks of salami like a ruffled hem.

She chose moon grapes this time

And placed them in opposite corners,

The stems barely visible,

Settled cups of honey and jam

Next to the cheeses. A scattering

Of pecans and cashews. Ramekins

Of green olives. Dried figs. Three kinds

Of crackers and toasted slices of a baguette.

(My role is the wine, pouring

To the right level, making sure

39
It is cold enough to mist the glass.)

A meal fit for a monogram,

And arranged to be ravaged—

Plates stained, crumbs scattered,

The butt-ends of bitten figs here and there.

A meal that celebrates desire for perfection

And hunger for destruction,

The residue of emptiness, of fulfillment

The same. A slip of wine left in the bottle,

Flakes of crust on the tablecloth,

A cloudy lip-print on crystal.

Cheese and jam smear the blades

Of the still-shining knives.

(Jack Stewart)

40
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Heather Sager

Heather Sager lives in Illinois, USA. Her most recent poetry appears in Five Willows, The Bluebird Word,
Otoliths, Poetry Pacific, Version (9), The Orchards, Red Eft, Magma, Bluepepper, Poets' Espresso,
ActiveMuse, Ygdrasil, Shabd Aaweg, The Bosphorus Review of Books, Lothlorien, and more. Heather also
writes fiction, most recently for The Fabulist, The Stray Branch, and others.

41
The Day Trip

When traveling in California,

my grandfather and I saw

a drive-through redwood tree.

An ancient living sequoia

had been turned into a tourist attraction

—tunneled through

so cars can drive through

the tree’s ancient core.

Grandfather and I didn’t speak,

and I was left to wonder all my life

what he thought

of this chained, sad redwood.

Soon after, Grandfather died,

and it was too late.

A landscape painter,

silent, brooding,

he didn’t often say

what was on his mind.

If I would have asked him,

would he have told me?

42
I didn’t ask,

because on that day we stood

together, before that abomination

of a sight, my breath caught

in distraction amid

the shady glade of greens

and browns, the otherwise healthy

vegetation that surrounded the sickly tree.

All these impressions flooded me

and, confused, I stayed quiet.

Years later, the single question,

the question meant to be asked,

arose.

Now, I have a word

for how the victimized tree

has looked in my memory.

I think it looked embalmed,

this hollowed-out tree,

even though it was still living.

The bark, that day,

a too-gray shade of brown-red-orange,

43
as SUVs and sedans drove through.

Perhaps this color explained why,

upon seeing this tree,

my breath felt extinguished,

my body gray.

The tree not radiant like those other,

glistening redwoods I saw

when traveling through

those many places, free, in California.

No strings attached to us, no cars.

(Heather Sager)

44
West coast wedding

A gin and tonic

on the deck

sunset

on the bay

the geoduck hides

eyeless in marshy reeds

imagine an orca spout

a killer whale

a keg’s being tapped

foamy amber beer smell

wrappers and plates

left on the floor

from the wedding band

People mill in suits

flower dresses

someone dear sobs

in the shadows of a tree

(Heather Sager)

45
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MADELINE WHITE

Madeline White is a writer and artist who has previously published (Mother of Floods and who has also runs
Write On Since its launch in 2019, Write On! Has gone from strength to strength and the online Write
On! Extra, launched at the start of the pandemic, has complemented this strong, authentic voice, with Write
On! Audio the podcast coming online a year ago. The Write On! Suite of publications showcases writing
talent by combining emerging and professional writers and adding and sponsors – literary partners and local
businesses – into the mix. Insight into writers lives and voices, along with advice and the latest releases
remains at the heart of publications that are passionate about quality and equality, in equal measure.

• See the latest edition here

• Write On Together shares how you can get involved as partners, sponsors, creatives and writers.
• The Editor’s Introduction gives up-to-the-minute information around themes and submissions.
• The Write On! Audio Podcast

Her latest book of poetry is Horse and the Girl published by Lapwing Publications.

46
Dawn

8th May 2020 (lockdown)

This morning as I ran towards the sea

A blooded teardrop hung there,

Regarding me reproachfully.

I ran on, my feet pounding empty streets.

Their rhythm echoing the heartbeat tracking my progress

And the crimson glow pulsed across an endless horizon.

As I turned back, I saw a disk blazing brightly

Burning away the yesterdays

From a sky willing to light up my today.

(Madeline White)

47
Reflections

15th May 2020 (lockdown)

As I ran out this morning

The cloud-fractured blue

Reflected the hue of the dappled sea.

A honeyed warmth spread over me as I looked towards light unfurling,

Chasing peaks and troughs of the curling whitecaps.

Then I looked up.

But, finding the source too bright

I came back to those waves.

It came to me then, that it was equally brave

To seek my light there.

Its mirrored reflection a safer connection

To my reality.

(Madeline White)

48
Different eyes need different views.

16th May 2020 (lockdown)

I ran out later on today

And took a different path

Here the horizons weren’t as stark.

But to my surprise, I could look with different eyes:

Tasting birdsong on leaves which nodded at my passing

Feeling the dappled green boughs whispering over my skin

As they formed a victory arch under which I passed.

Even the discarded cardboard fish and chip box had its place.

Its fecund roadside bower making it seem

As if the earth had given birth

And was now restaking a claim on its making

With seagulls quibbling over contents

And the grass nibbling away sharp edges

This detritus from human gain.

Became Life renewed.

Different eyes need different views.

(Madeline White)

49
The Fighting Seagulls

9th June 2020

As I ran out just after noon

My head screamed, ‘NO, it’s far too soon!’

My soul said, ‘open that front door,

Put aside what went before.’

Despite the fear and quiet despair that wanted me to stay right there.

With feet of clay and veins of lead I followed what the second said.

But I was Blind to the sea, Deaf to the wind, Cold to the sun

Until two fighting seagulls interrupted my run.

Posturing pride over territories spied,

The life held in angry cries spilling from pavement to road

But even so, when a van hit them, they died.

Gone in an instant: Outstretched wings, and razored beaks seeking out weakness

And remaining: Grey bleakness covered in the redness of death.

50
Before I could reach to see

A car came and did the same.

All that was left was a bloody mess.

White feathers that had danced in currents of air

Forever trapped by the anger that put them there.

(Madeline White)

51
White Shadows
In Memory of Shiloh, RIP July 12th,2020

Go find a white hebe

Hold it close
Stroke it with fingertips
It will feel like my nose.

Next Spring find a catkin

Hold it near
Touch your lips to the furry down
You’ll be nuzzling my ears.

Go catch a white feather

Then let it fly
And as white shadows the green, green grass
You’ll hear my hooves thunder by

Go watch a raindrop
It will reflect your blue eyes
In them you’ll see mine.
Dark rings, azure skies.

I am the cloud that passes

I am the breath that lingers
I am the white shadow
That flits through your mind.
52
I didn’t leave you behind.

Where I have gone you will come

Where I am now you will be
We’ll rest together, you and I
Under an apple tree.

(Madeleine White)

53
54
“The Horse And The Girl is a sustained sequence of

conversations between Madeleine White and the ‘Horse’

who is her confessor, her comforter and her one true

friend. ‘What do you do to look after yourself?’ is taken from

the poem ‘Age’: an example of the exquisite relevance the

collection has for everyone trying to survive the

vicissitudes of life in our times.White shows a

considerable ability as a storyteller and poet now and in

the future.”

Dennis Greig, Publisher

55
THE SOUND OF SILENCE

(Taken from The Girl and the Pony)

“Be still,” says the Girl, “I want to listen

to the wind making

ice-christened branches

clatter in the hard frost

Squirrel chasing along them after the nut he lost.”

So they ride on.

hushed stillness following them -

swallowing them.

And the twig cracks

and the saddle creaks

and the kestrel cries

and the Earth sighs.

Heavily, moistly, the laden Sky hangs

over a hard earthen crust. Violence masked.

Eat or be eaten, roots twisting

mice nesting, moles digging

genesis of life in the sound of silence.

And the branch breaks

and the saddle creaks

and the kestrel cries

and the Horse breathes.

Listen to the darkness.

Clanging against the hazy grey

of the Road

56
heavy tyres masking the vastness

of what lies beneath.

And the stream seeps

and the saddle creaks

and the rook rattles

and the jackdaw cackles.

Life is formed in darkness

and like the shiny toys of a magpie

light can be just noise

sometimes shining so brightly

it hides the truth.

A distant dog barks, an icicle cracks.

Horse’s hooves clatter

as it shatters

(Madeline White)

57
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: NIAMH MURRAY

A recent Communications university graduate, Niamh Murray has always had an interest in and desire to write. From
multiple two-page novel attempts and a poetry book in primary school, to blogging and a communications role today,
writing is something that Niamh is passionate about and is luckily able to do regularly. She lives in Belfast with her
thirty-five houseplants, which she loves (and names) dearly.

58
Gan teanga, gan anam

(Poem)

I always was a beautiful speaker

You would hear me for miles around

I could use my words and tones

To paint images only with sound

Sentences long and descriptive

Vocabulary extensive in range

I could convey any thought, hope or message

With my words and the way they're arranged

I was never a lazy speaker

And I was never short for words

I could describe precisely what I wanted

No vagueness or ambiguity would be heard

My language was a thing of beauty

One of my finest possessions

It made me who I was, really

My identity, my pride, a blessing

Then I began to lose it

No, that's not fair - it was taken

I was silenced and my words erased

My sense of self, my identity was shaken

I was told no one could understand me

I was insulted, mocked, and ignored

59
I was threatened, undermined and spoken over

Until I almost couldn't take any more

But still I longed to speak

And I'd do so every now and then

It wasn't my memory or skill that I lost

But my chances, my opportunities, my permission

I never forgot how to shape my tongue or my lips

How to move them to create sheer beauty

But anytime I made a sound or a peep

They'd make an effort to try and mute me

I still had my voice, my beautiful voice,

I remembered every single sweet word

I could try all I wanted

I could speak but I wouldn't be heard

At first I put up a fight

But my resistance gradually grew weaker

You would hear me speaking less often

A voice once loud, had now become meeker

But a part of me never gave up

And a part of me will always resist

A part of me will always hold on and fight back

And trust me, I will persist

I mightn't speak as much, but I speak

I'm not understood all the time but who cares?

The point is I'm being acknowledged

60
The point is once more, I am heard

They can't take my speech away from me

They can't silence me anymore

I used to mutter, utter and murmur

Now I speak and one day I will roar

I have hope and I have faith

And I know that the day will come

When I can say, no - when I can shout the words

That are ready to come off my tongue

Labhróidh mé, béicfidh mé, éistfidh tú

Ní bheidh mé i mo thost

Is í seo mo theanga agus maireann sí

i gcónaí agus go deo

(Niamh Murray)

61
Taken

You’re born into a family. A poor family. They struggle to make ends meet, but they get by.

A rich family from another town come along and decide that they want to adopt you. They want

you, not your brother or sister, just you. They don’t really care about you or want to help you, it’s

about power. They want to show that they’re better than your family. It’s what they do. They go

to different towns and do the same to other children. They want to show that they can take what

they want because they have the power. Money always has the power.

Your family don’t want to give you up, but the rich family come with lawyers and papers and a

legal battle that your family can’t afford to win. They aren’t able to fight them off and keep you.

So, you grow up in the rich family. But you’re never really a part of it. Your adopted parents don’t

pay you much attention, and God knows your new brother doesn’t like you. He doesn’t want you

in his house, you’re a burden. You should go home. Where you belong. But that’s where you

were when they took you. You were home and you were happy. They adopted you but didn’t

want you. They treat you with hostility and disdain. You get money, yes. You get clothes, yes.

You get things your own family couldn’t give you. But it’s still not “home”. You talk like them, you

dress like them. But you’re still not one of them.

When they take you home they rename you, to take away your identity and ties to your real

family. They can do this, you see. They have the power to do so. You’re called by this name, but

you don’t answer to it. You correct people when they say it. Because it’s not your name. It never

will be.

62
As you grow up, you revisit your old town. You see your family and friends. You’re happy to see

them, you missed them, you want to be with them. But for some reason they don’t feel the

same. You’re not one of them anymore. You don’t dress like them, or talk like them. You’re an

outsider. What are you doing here? You’re a traitor. You’re one of “them” now, so go be with

them. But you didn’t choose to be one of “them”. They took you. You had no choice.

Your adopted family couldn’t be bothered with you anymore, all you do is cost them money and

you don’t give them much in return. You were a waste of an investment really. Your real family

could try to get you back now, it’s been a long time and they have more money. But it seems like

they don’t really want you back now. It seems like they’ve moved on. They’ve learned to live

without you. They can sustain themselves. Your old town is different than it was, you see.

People are no longer poor. They’re wealthier and happier and the rich families don’t come

around anymore, thank God. They haven’t been around in a while. The rich families aren’t nice.

So you aren’t nice.

So, what do you do? You’re living with a family who don’t like you. They mock people like you,

like your real family and from your old town. They make jokes, dress up, they attack people like

them. You hate it. You try to stop them, tell them it’s wrong. But, if you don’t like it, go home,

you’re told. Go back with these families because it’s where you belong.

But where do you belong? You’re not happy with the rich and they’re not happy with you. But

you can’t go back to your real family because you’re not welcome there either. It’s too late now

to go back. You tried and tried when you were younger, put up numerous fights. But what’s the

point if don’t want you anyway? You spend your whole life trying to make them see that you

want to be with them, you never wanted to be taken away, you had no choice.

But one day they’ll see. One day they’ll realise how desperately you fight and have fought to be

back with them. The rich have less control now, they can’t own you forever. Maybe in a few

years, when you’re 18. There’s a court case then. Your family can decide if they want you back.

63
You’ll always be one of them at heart. You never changed. You dress differently, you talk

differently, but you act the same. You’re still the you that was taken away. Your old family may

not know who you are, and your new family may not either. But you do. You know where you

belong and that’s home. Home is Ireland, and you are the north.

Niamh Murray

64
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: OONAH V JOSLIN

Oonah V Joslin (nee Kyle) was born in Ballymena. She was a teacher by profession and has won
prizes for both poetry and micro-fiction and served as Poetry Editor in Every Day Poets and The
Linnet’s Wings. Her book “Three Pounds of Cells” ISBN: 13: 978-1535486491 is available
from https://www.amazon.co.uk/Three-Pounds-Cells-Oonah-Joslin/dp/0993049370 and you can
see and hear Oonah read in this National Trust video. The first part of her novella A Genie in a
Jam is serialised at Bewildering Stories, along with over 100 other pieces of writing. You can follow
Oonah on Facebook.

65
My Mother Taught me Birdsongs (Deconstructed Birdsong Pantoum)

the blackbird and the dove

repeat repeat repeat
their choruses of love
coo hoohoo - I’m a pretty bird - clean yer feet

repeat repeat repeat

throughout the spring
coohoo hoo - what a pretty bird I am - toreador tweet tweet
‘cos it has a nice ring

singing throughout the spring

the same varied choruses of love
all the pretty birds doing their own thing
the blackbird and the dove

(Oonah V Joslin)

66
Cheviot Dream (an Aisling)

Spring arrives here -- in the proper North

real men show no respect -- for changes
in climate here -- Summer's a variant of winter
darkness abolished -- light dominates
loving the zing -- the tingle of May mists
southerners are soft -- the penalty an overcoat
Mother Cheviot -- feet of solid stone
cards wool -- calling her babies home
her voice lilting -- lost in coastal frets
she greets me – as I were a sister's son
wraps me about – in her cloak
asks my name

(Oonah V Joslin)

From Vindolanda

My dearest sister,
know that I am well
here in this most northern garrison.
No vines grow here but meat we have and oil
and this new road brings regular provision.
My wants are few. The local folk have skill
in making, doing, mending. My vision
of the future is happy but one day I hope we will
embrace again. Do write me soon and tell
me news from home.

(Vindolanda is a Roman fort and museum on Hadrian’s Wall, famous for its letters.)

(Oonah V Joslin)

67
All Our Stuff (a Duplex sonnet)

What happens to all our stuff when we’re gone?

This last will takes a great deal of discussion.

At some stage we must deal with that discussion.

Death can deal a sudden blow to any one.

It’s always sudden and always a blow.

That’s the wind of change that drives us.

Stand against it or use it as a propeller.

See me flying high for a while but don’t

envy my brief moment in the sky.

Soon enough the wind will bring me crashing,

crashing to earth, all twisted wings and feathers,

like so many notes of birdsong, scattered to the breeze,

remnants, ashes of a little life. Nobody will care

what happens to all our stuff when we’re gone.

(Oonah V Joslin)

68
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: SAEED SALIMI BABAMIRI

Saeed Salimi Babamiri: Kurdish translator and poet. His published books in Iran are Kurdish translations of “Half
an Apple” and “The Mouse's Wedding” a play and a story in verse, both for children. He has many other
translations waiting to be published. His major long translation from Kurdish into English verse is “Mam and
Zeen” by Ahmad Xanee. It is known as “Kurdish Romeo and Juliet” which is ready to be published

69
How did you find it in your heart to fill deer dreams full of knives?!

To throw stones at peace pigeons and disturb their flying lives!

You bloodthirsty magistrates in many years!

May you never enjoy a house or any home, because you forbade laughing and made us burst into
tears.

How on earth can you be from earth, when you throw dough and dust on a rose ring, when you put
some dying snakes on the path of growing and rising.

Shame on you!

You by cement spoiled springs and hopes,

You were only men of devil when you became a lullaby song and made hanging loops out of baby
cradle ropes.

May you be wiped off the face of the earth, when you scatter seeds of darkness and cut off bright
words and my mirth.
(Saeed Salimi Babamiri)

70
 EDITOR’S NOTE

I apologize for the delay in this issue there’s been a lot going on lately and time seems incredibly short, it
hasn’t helped that my eye sight has been playing up. It turns out that one of the medications has been causing
issues with my vision I’ve Glaucoma, its manageable and there’s no permanent damage which is a relief but it
has impacted on my ability to work as either an editor, a publisher or as an artist so a lot of things ended up
delayed.

We’re no where near finished with the journal and will continue to produce for as long as I’m able, I’m going
to need to do a lot of work on the website in the near future and that’s going to be a time-consuming process
as I need to transfer all of the issues from the old website over as it no longer works properly and many of
the issues that were on it have disappeared leaving nothing but broken links. I’m also afraid that the hard copy
edition saw its price go up due to costs by the printers and supply chain woes and that we cannot currently be
read in a number of countries either online or in paperback that’s a shame and completely out of my hands
right now.

Happy reading, good health, and keep creating,

Amos Greig (Editor)

71
 LAPWING PUBLICATIONS

‘IN A CHANGED WORLD’

Over the past number of years technology has transformed poetry publishing:
shop closures due to increasing operational costs has had an impact,
to put it mildly, shops are releuctant to take ‘slow moving’ genre
such as poetry and play-scripts among other minority interest genre.
The figures given a few years ago were: we had 5000 bookshops in the UK-Ireland
and at the time of the research that number had dropped to 900 and falling:
there was a period when bookshops had the highest rate of ‘High Street’ shop closures.

Lapwing, being a not-for-profit poetry publisher has likewise had to adjust to the new regime.

We had a Google-Books presence until that entity ended its ‘open door’ policy
in favour of becoming a publisher itself. During that time with Google,
Lapwing attracted hundreds of thousands of sample page ‘hits’.
Amazon also has changed the ‘game’ with its own policies
and strategies for publishers and authors.
There are no doubt other on-line factors over which we have no control.

Poetry publishers can also fall foul of ‘on consignment’ practice,

which means we supply a seller but don’t get paid until books have been sold and
we can expect unsold books to be returned, thus ‘remaindered’
and maybe not sellable, years can pass!
Distributors can also seek as much as 51% of cover-price IF.they choose
to handle a poetry book at all, shops too can require say 35%
of the cover price, which is ok given floor space can be thousands of £0000s
per square foot per annum..In terms of ‘hidden’ costs: preparing a work for publication
can cost a few thousand UK £-stg. Lapwing does it as part of our sevice to our suthors.

It has been a well-known fact that many poets will sell more of
their own work than the bookshops, Peter Finch of the Welsh Academi
noted fact that over forty years ago and Lapwing poets have done so for years.

Due to cost factors Lapwing cannot offered authors ‘complimentary’ copies.

What we do offer is to supply authors with copies at cost price.
We hold very few copies in the knowledge that requests
for hard copies are rarely received.

Another important element is our Lapwing Legacy Library which holds all
our retained titles since 1988 in PDF at £4.00 per title:
the format being ‘front cover page - full content pages - back cover page’.
This format is printable as single pages: either the whole book or a favourite page.

72
 I thank Adam Rudden for the great work he has done over the years
creating and managing this web-site.

Thanks also to our authors from ‘home’ and around the world for entrusting Lapwing
with their valuable contributions to civilisation.

If you wish to seek publication please send you submission in MW Word docx format.

LAPWING PUBLICATIONS

POETRY TITLES 2021

All titles are £10.00 stg. plus postage from the authors via their email address.
PDF versions are available from Lapwing at £4.00 a copy,
they are printable for private, review and educational purposes.

9781838439804_Halperin Richard W. DALLOWAY IN WISCONSIN

Mr.Halperin lives in Paris France
Email: halperin8@wanadoo.fr

9781838439811_Halperin Richard W. SUMMER NIGHT 1948

9781838439859_Halperin Richard W. GIRL IN THE RED CAPE

9781838439828_Lennon Finbar NOW

Mr Lennon lives in the Republic of Ireland
Email: lennonfinbar@hotmail.com

9781838439835_Dillon Paul T WHISPER

Mr Dillon lives in the Republic of Ireland
Email: ptjdillon@gmail.com

9781838439842_ Brooks Richard WOOD FOR THE TREES

Mr Brooks lives in England UK
Email:richard.brooks3@btinternet.com

9781838439866_Garvey Alan IN THE WAKE OF HER LIGHT

9781838439873_McManus Kevin THE HAWTHORN TREE

Mr McManus lives in the Republic of Ireland
Email: kevinmcmanus1@hotmail.com

9781838439880_Dwan Berni ONLY LOOKIN’

Berni Dwan lives in the Republic of Ireland
Email: bernidwan@gmail.com

9781838439897_Murbach Esther VIEW ASKEW

Esther Murbach lives in Switzerland though she also spends time in Galway
Email: esther.murbach@gmx.ch

9781916345751_McGrath Niall SHED

Mr McGrath lives in County Antrim Northern Ireland, UK
Email: mcgrath.niall@hotmail.com

9781916345775_Somerville-Large GILLIAN LAZY BEDS

9781916345782_Gohorry & Lane COVENTRY CRUCIBLE

Mr Lane lives in England-UK and due to the recent death of Mr Gohorry
Mr Lane will be the contact for this publication:

73
74
 The Horse And The Girl
Madeleine White

Launching June 27th: “Uplifting, joyful, thought-provoking

and wonderful."

Madeleine’s debut collection, The Horse And The Girl is a series of 30 linked narrative
poems, conversations between the ‘Horse And The Girl,’ looking at issues such as
relationships, climate change, growing older, life, death and change in general. It offers a
wry, poignant look at the world around us, with a strong environmental slant.

The collection has been written from the perspective of a woman in middle age and the
relationship she has with her horse and is based along the coast and marshlands of east Kent.
Although not strictly ‘ballad’ form, they form a ‘contemporary ballad.’
Paperback £10 Digital £4
Says Madeleine:
ISBN 978-1-7396447-3-4
“I wrote the first poem on a day where I was feeling quite down and put it on my Facebook
Page Count 56
page. I had a flurry of responses: significantly more than usual, in fact. There were a number
of comments, including one that they could see this as the start of a series. Evidently, so
could I… as the rest of the work, based on my own experiences with my mare Lucie, came
pouring out in a relatively short space of time.”

As well as being original and authentic, the voices in The Horse And The Girl are relevant.
They call on us to embrace life and the world we live in, the message being that if we notice
the small things, we have a better chance of seeing the big picture.

The Horse And The Girl is currently being serialised on BBC Radio Kent, playing
every Tuesday between 9-10pm until early July. You can hear People from the
collection on this link: https://bit.ly/people-poem-horse-and-girl .

Selected ARC reader comments:

Mary Walsh, Leader Barking Foxes, Poetry Stanza

“The collection explores many of the environmental issues we face today and also the joy and
tranquillity of wandering through the wild places that remain in the countryside. Uplifting, joyful,
thought-provoking and wonderful."

An office worker in her early forties:

“My friend’s parents died fairly recently, and her horse has been her coping strategy. I think she would
love The Horse And The Girl.”

A dog owner in her early fifties:

“I love them, I feel like I've been on an adventure with you. The Gift Horse brought tears to my eyes
and the ending with the boy is just perfect. Can't wait for them to be published.”

An accountant in her forties:

“I particularly like the use of a horse and the girl sharing their journey. You cleverly link the literal For Trade Enquiries, Digital ARC
sense of a hack, with the journey of life (and death). I can hear your voice in them, from your early review copies or to book a
first experience on a horse to how connected you feel to them and how grounded they keep you. I do speaking event for your creative
see your target market being women of a similar age to us. However, I also see a market within positive writing group, university faculty
mindfulness. The grounding nature of your work was very uplifting and very mindful; all particularly or book group, contact:
apt at the present time when our mental health needs more TLC.” madeleinefwhite@hotmail.com
+44 (0) 790 483 5188
An equestrian ‘influencer’ in her thirties. Once a competition ride, now an instructor:
“It's a great read Madeleine! Particularly appealing to me is the references to age and time and
mindfulness. It really strikes a chord with me personally and I can relate to the need to enjoy the You can also buy copies directly
moment and your surroundings. I felt like I was there with you and the horse. It made me consider my from the website:
work/ life balance.” www.lapwingpoeety.com

Corporate mediator in her fifties: Publisher: Lapwing Publications

“Fabulously relatable on a number of different levels, as well as transporting the reader with their Postal Address:
beauty. Really love how your humour comes through too!” Lapwing Publications
1 Ballysillan Drive
Madeleine White was born in Germany, with roots in Canada and the UK. Having produced a Belfast
number of national and international web and print magazines, over the last three years she has BT14 8HQ
focussed on being founder/editor of the Write On! suite of publications. As well as being published
in a number of magazines and journals, Madeleine also the authored the 2020 speculative debut
novel Mother Of Floods and, audio drama, The Ark, reached the top 50 in the Apple podcast charts.

Madeleine White is available for interviews in support of The Horse And The Girl.