A New Ulster

I’m pleased to say we have reached twenty issues and the standard of work continues to impress. When I left university in 2012 the number of online or hardcopy literary outlets in Northern Ireland were quite small when compared to the Republic of Ireland or even the rest of the UK.
Since our ezine/hardcopy hybrid came into being we’ve seen some exciting developments. Two new online journals The Incubator based out of Newtownards and the resurrection of The Honest Ulsterman now based out of Derry Londonderry. It looks like this is a good time for the arts here.

SO I rise from the ashes rebuilt :)

Here are five poems for your pleasure all are by myself

Restraints

 

I am symbiotic, a cognate part of the machine we are,

Rust specks, swarf and filings returned to the melting point of origin.

Tomorrow my flesh will be a scrap-heap for others

To weigh, to pour, to mould, to Bessamerise.

Worry not about this brittle casting of a man today,

Tomorrow I may be drawn through dies and gauges,

A string on the Zither of rebirth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Consume

 

Rain sat upon the city, smothering sound cast its shadow over the landscape An oppressive thing bloated and eldritch It passed judgement, attempted to wash Away the marks of man.

 

At times it sat quiescent on the hills Its gaze observed – the constant hum of Tangible being  clashed with a distant  Barking while city beat Its feeble carrion heart

 

Consumed greenery like some obnoxious  Cancer, red brick, coal stacks and etched granite; Topped by verdigris competed with nature’s natural greenery My vision faded as the fog beast settled, Encompassed me in its wet embrace. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turdidae

 

Do not mourn for me, while I have passed through this portal ,

My feathers are still bright, stark against the cold white lintels.

Remember my life not my passing.

I am Turdidae or Thrush to you, not a pest but an explorer

Bringer of life, ornithochory, the planter of seeds.

Your fruits, flowers, I delivered them across oceans.

Watched such inchoate wonders, soared, free from gravities.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ghost of Brae

 

Today I reached the choking Tree, the Periapsis of my walk.

Here as ever I stopped to catch my breath, the world burnt

My senses, lungs feebly grasped respite.

 

Here I knelt, my head between my knees, sought supplication

From the green ???. Two ravens nestled in the black branches above,  

Overlooked the city below and I remembered.

 

I remembered your tales Edie, hands crippled by arthritis,

Made Sunday lunches, shared family secrets; the banshee,

The raven and the shipyard-rigger etched into my subconscious.

 

You told me tales of the family ghost, one who would

Manifest when a powerful matriarch was soon to pass:

She howled for your mother, grandmother, your aunt.

 

I wonder, Did she howl for you? Only women heard her cry.

I missed your last breath, tied up in literature and learning,

Visited between classes, so proud of accomplishments.

 

The Raven you said, came for our family as well, only the

Men were touched by its call if he visited three times,

Locked eyes and looked inwards, then a man would die.

 

Conversely if the Raven sat on the fence and stared outwards,

Change would come take away her touch on silken wings.

 

The rigger, a link to the Titanic, a great granda who worked

On that tragic vessel fell from the mast and spent his days

Slowly bleeding out, his sheets, the bed and the floor soaked.

 

That mark never faded no matter how much they scrubbed,

The room that remained locked. I can breathe now,

So I turn to head home, the ravens take wing and fly with me.

 

 

 

 

 

The New Eden

 

Today an angry God erased my world.

Each step my foot-fell, sounded hollow

through which I created in small matters the world anew.

 

A shape sprang into form before my eyes

I christened it tree, soon joined by hedge,

bush and magpies.

 

A narrowed viewpoint, cotton-wool thoughts,

the world hid from my senses.

 

I started from scratch, somewhere I heard feral kittens

Call from the banked-up earth,

sound has no direction here.

 

Dew-like a second skin coated my frame,

my teeth chattered in the gloom

squirrels threw chestnuts from their dray.

 

Soon creation was complete,

I stood on the precipice, admired my work

Remade, I basked in morning sun.

 

Apologies for the silence

I’d like to take this moment to apologize for the silence around here. I was hurt quite badly after slipping on some wet leaves I landed badly head first banging my jaw, giving myself a concussion, ringing in one ear, difficulty eating and talking and needed stitches. I also broke my arm which required manipulating the break back into place and several injections into the bone itself. This is why I have been so quiet my arm is in a full cast from thumb up to shoulder blade. This means typing is being done one handed, actually most things are proving challenging, getting dressed, eating heck tieing shoe laces is impossible. So it may well be very quiet around here for a few months sadly.

John Hewitt birthday poem

Here’s the birthday poem I was working on for John Hewitt when I broke my arm.

One island so many diversities,
Divided pasts and shared futures
Our hopes, dreams and fears
Are the same, silence our greatest enemy.

You saw the truth, who sculpted words,
Fought for workers liberties a social poet,
Attended Agnes street National School
The voice of the left unity your vision.

Preceded Heaney, Longley and Mahon,
Quiet when it called for it outspoken
When driven to defend social rights
Acknowledged your ancestral past.

Remembered by summer school,
Celebrated by arts and voice,
Weary workers rest in the pub
Which carries your name.

The Ghost of Brae

My latest piece

The Ghost of Brae
Today I reached the choking Tree the Periapsis of my walk,
Here as ever I stopped to catch my breath the world burning
My senses as lungs feebly grasped respite.

Here I knelt my head between my knees seeking supplication
From the green two ravens nestled in the branches above 
Overlooking the city below and I remembered.

I remembered your tales Edie hands crippled by arthritis,
Made Sunday lunches shared family secrets; the banshee,
The raven and the docker etched into my subconscious.

You told me tales of the family ghost, one who would 
Manifest when a powerful matriarch was soon to pass,
She howled for your mother, grandmother, your aunt.

I wonder did she howl for you? Only women could hear her
Cry I missed your last breath tied up in literature and learning
Visited between classes, so proud of accomplishments.

The Raven you said came for our family as well only the
Men were touched by its call if he visited three times,
Locked eyes and looked inwards a man would die.

Conversely if raven sat on the fence and stared outwards 
Changes would come take away to distant shores, her
Bird, her touch on silken wings.

The docker a link to the Titanic a great uncle who worked
On that tragic vessel fell from the rafters and spent his days
Slowly bleeding out, his sheets, the bed and the floor soaked.

That mark which never left no matter how much they scrubbed,
The room that remained locked. I can breathe now so I turn to head
Home while the ravens take wing and sail with me.

Amos Greig

Damian Smyth, Head of Literature and Drama, Arts Council of Northern Ireland

Poets who inspire me: Sappho

My last poet for today is Sappho from the island of Lesbos born sometime in 612BCE she was forced to flee for a time after a tyrant called Pittacus came to power, Sappho wrote many political poems as well as the traditional love poetry indeed there are similarities between her work and those of contemporary male Greek poets. Below are two poems and a link to a collection on Project Gutenberg.

He seems to me just like the Gods,

That man wh sits opposite you

And, while close to you, listens to

You sweetly speaking

And laughing with love-things which cause

The heart in my breast to tremble.

For whenever I look at you,

I can speak no more.

My tongue freezes silent and stiff,

Light flame trickles under my skin,

I no longer see with my eyes,

My ears hear whirring,

Cold sweat covers me, shivering takes

Me complete captive, I become

More green than the grass, near to death

To myself I seem.

Sappho once wrote a poem for her husband and their daughter;

I have a lovely child, whose form is like

Gold flowers, my heart’s one pleasure, Cleis,

For whom I’d not give all Lydia, nor fair..

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42166

Poets who inspire: Roger McGough

The next poet who has inspired me over the years is Roger McGough I was actually exposed to his poetry through the Honest Ulsterman originally as well as my fathers very battered first edition of on of Roger’s collections. He speaks to his roots and of course has a close connection to the Beatles. Roger’s work can be found here; http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_8?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=roger%20mcgough&sprefix=roger+mc%2Caps%2C326

Poets who inspire: Gillian Prew

The first of today’s poets is Gillian Prew I’ve read several of her poems and had the pleasure of publishing some in A New Ulster I recently finished her most recent collection Throat Full of Glass available here; https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/gillian-prew Gillian has had several chap books published and runs a blog http://gillianprew.com/books/ at which you can find links to her previous collections. Her work establishes a link with forgotten memories, the gradual inevitable passage of time and coming to terms with loss there is a sudden depth to her work which reflects part philosophy and part Sylvia Plath. 

Poets who inspire me: Alfred Lord Tennyson

The final poet for me is Alfred Lord Tennyson, probably one of my personal favourites I find myself drawn to his work on a regular basis to such an extent I had to buy a digital copy of most of his books so as not to damage my hard copies. In Memoriam and The Charge of the Light Brigade are timeless works and the sense of loss and atrophy within those two poems is subtle but there. http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_9?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=alfred+lord+tennyson&sprefix=Alfred+Lo%2Cstripbooks%2C224&rh=i%3Astripbooks%2Ck%3Aalfred+lord+tennyson

 I’d post an excerpt from In Memoriam but its not fair to break it down.