ANU Poetry Anthology -April

8/17/2019 ANU Poetry Anthology -April

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ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of . Fran Mulhern, Strider MarcusJones, ,Margaret O'Driscoll, ,Kate Ennals, JackGrady, ,Maurice Devitt, Bob Shakeshaft, Helen Harrison,Glen Wilson, Owen Gallagher, Val McLoughlin, Omole

Ibukun, Al Millar, Silva Merjanian, Chris O'Toole, SeanSmith, Adeniyi Johnson, John W. Sexton, MaryBonina, Edward Power, ,Macdara Woods, LieutenantColonel Shyam Sunder Sharma, Shaurya Chakra (Retired), Iseult Healy, Michael Sands, Mark Pawlak, NoelKing, Maeve Heneghan, Mike Gallagher, JeneanGilstrap, Amy Barry, Irsa Ruci, Arthur Broomfield, PeterO’Neill and Eileen Sheehan.


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A New Ulster Editor: Amos Greig

On the Wall Editor: Arizahn

Website Editor: Adam Rudden

ContentsContentsContentsContentsEditorial page 6

Fran Mulhern:

1. The Men of My Family2. Straining to Hear3. A Body Was Discovered on the Border This Morning

Strider Marcus Jones:

1. Forage in Me2. When the Day Breaks Down

3. Become Transhuman4. Fading Sphinx5. Doing Nothing

Margaret O'Driscolll:

1. One Speck of Blue2. Shevchenko’s Spirit3. Gearagh Roots

Kate Ennals:

1.Travesty

2. Lower Derries3. In the hands of White Men4. Catfish

Jack Grady:

1. Ejaculo Ergo Sum2. Lust of the Bones3. Lazarus and Loretta4. Resurrection5. Our Self-Hypnosis of Happiness

6. Mata Hari Meets Shiva’s Revenge

Maurice Devitt:

1. And What, Miss Kennan, are you planning to do with your hair?2. January Morning, Eagle Rock3. Little Mysteries4. A Speckled Life5. Derby Day6. The Man in No.41


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Bob Shakeshaft:

1. Blind Shame2. gobo3. Poet’s Cell

4. Stairway5. Chimerica1

Helen Harrison:

1. Compost

Glen Wilson:

1. A God Sketch on Silver Plated Copper2. The Planter3. La Girona in a Bottle4. The Lighter Men5. Amber Flush6. Surface Water

Owen Gallagher:

1. The Work Ethic2. Tic3. The Dark Stuff4. The Cure for Homosexuality5. Straight Up

Val McLoughlin:1. Day Trippers2. Belleek3. Dispossessed4. Early September5. Stolid River

Omole Ibukun:

1. Strait out of Gibraltar

Al Millar:

1. Manchester Bar Belfast Agreement

Silva Merjanian:

1. Saints in my Rain2. Tonight3. Doves of Beirut4. September5. The Irishman6. Home

Chris O'Toole:1. Dandelion


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2. A Little Late3. Feet4. Half Full5. Shooting Star6. Sponge

Sean Smith:

1. Lamp

2. Orange Grove

3. Memorial

4. Regrowth

5. Outlaws

6. Race

Adeniyi Johnson:

1. Elegy of Old Age

2. Nature Turned Sour3. Jephthah’s Daughter

4. Gloomy Soul

5. A Lost Freedom

6. Warchild

John W. Sexton:

1. Famous Mice 2. My Secret Witch 3. My Granda as Lama Tensing 4. Pulls

Mary Bonina:1. Sheep Shack

2. Small Town, A Death

3. Shrine in Cambridge

4. Name, Address, Phone Number Drawer

5. Soap Opera

6. Guide to Soufriere

Edward Power:

1. Patsy Power

2. Nocturne3. The Well

4. The Form

5. Aunt Haiku

6. Ardkeen Haiku

7. Grandad’s Egg

Macdara Woods:

1. In May 2013: The Most Beautiful Woman in Dublin

Lieutenant Colonel Shyam Sunder Sharma, Shaurya Chakra ( Retired):

1. The Poet2. Temporal Beings


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3. Meeting Point

4. A Deposit or Withdrawal

5. A Bird cannot birth an Elephant

Iseult Healy:

1. The Porous Whorus2. The Kiss Museum3. Not I4. No Cuckoo5. My World Began6. Costa Thoughts about Mary

Michael Sands:

1. Checkpoint

2. Prince’s Street

Mark Pawlak:1. “Bold Coast” Idyll2. With apologies to C.D. Wright3. Adieu4. Faith, Hope, Charity

Noel King:

1. Kylemore Girls

2. Grounded

3. Black and Tan

Maeve Heneghan Huang:1. Sacrifice

2. Feet First

3. You Told Me

4. A Boy

Mike Gallagher:

1. Mistle Thrush

2. Unblocked

3. The Utmost Truth

4. Flights of Fancy

Amy Barry:

1. The Gardener

2. The Meditation Chinese Chime

Irsa Ruci:

1. A place within the hearts

2. How I could have known

3. Being’s willpower

Arthur Broomfield:

1. A Room of One’s Own2. After ‘The Denial of Saint Peter’


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3 In commemoration of the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Joseph and Mary

Plunkett’s Victory in the Algerian roller skating championships, 1911

4. We too have our Martyrs

O' Neill Peter:

1. Ted Hughes Tales from Ovid2. La Luna

3. Voicing

4. Nosey

5. Counter Discourse

Eileen Sheehan:

What of the Heart?

Holding the Note

What She Sings Of

A is for Alzheimer, C is for Carer


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Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to:Submissions Editor

A New Ulster23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL

Alternatively e-mail: [email protected] page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is

available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQDigital distribution is via links on our website:

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

Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman

Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland.All rights reserved

The artists have reserved their right under Section 77

Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

To be identified as the authors of their work.

ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Cover Image “April” by Amos Greig


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“The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day ”Robert Frost 1926.

Editorial

Welcome explorer to the April Anthology edition of A New Ulster this issue iscrammed with poetry and haiku hard to believe but we have condensed the equivalent

of three months submissions into one massive issue it is intended to tie into the

National Poetry Day in Ireland. April is the cruellest of months as stated in the “The

Wasteland”. On the one hand we have the tantalizing promise of warm weather and

yet the delivery of wet, snow and gales

April is International Write A Poem Month and the 28th is a date to keep a

watch for as well. This April is a centenary of events and has the air of expectation

about it. For the thousands who lost their lives on the Titanic to those who died in

needless conflicts in the mud, blood and gas of the trenches and to the rebellion in

Ireland. Finally we think about those who forced from their homes risk life to reach a

tantalizing promise of freedom.

I’ll keep this editorial short and sweet so as not to distract from the poetry and

prose presented within this months edition.I hope you enjoy reading this issue it presents a taste of the poetry available

from around the world..

Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!

Amos Greig


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Biographical Note: Fran MulhernBiographical Note: Fran MulhernBiographical Note: Fran MulhernBiographical Note: Fran Mulhern

Fran has recently graduated from Lancaster Universitywith an MA in Creative Writing, and is currently working onhis second novel. His first is currently at the query stagewith a number of agents. Fran’s prose has previously beenpublished in The Honest Ulsterman, and his non-fiction inThe Belfast Telegraph and The Irish Times. Originally fromBelfast, he moved to England in 1995 and has, sadly, beenhere ever since. It's bittersweet.


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The Men of My Family(Fran Mulhern)

One of my great grandfathers diedOn the last day of the battle of the Somme,Probably a bit annoyed that he'd almost seen it throughBut fallen at the last hurdle -Killed by a Hun sniper who should have known better.

My grandfather fought in the Second(The Nips in Burma after the Jerrys at Dunkirk),Cursing as the bombs dropped all around him -

The wet sand dampening their impactAs the distant ships screamed and steamed to the rescue.

My other grandfather stayed in Belfast, worked hardAnd thought the Germans no consequence -Though that would have changed had they won:He in a labour camp, his wife grudgingly fuckingAs some German soldier grunted and breathed on her.

My father fought no wars, save for the wars at home.

Outmuscled and outgunned, my motherBravely fought on -Much like the men before her - until death,My father’s victories left hollow and rotting.

And I. I do not know yet where I stand, orWhat my legacy will be. Smart,Kind, generous, perhaps.Or perhaps simply pointless.

Very pointless.


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Straining to hear

(Fran Mulhern)

And so we depart from each other,Flying nests not yet featheredAnd paths not yet worn.In time, the wind will clear the trees,The grass will coverThe few marks we made

And all about us will be gone.Each passing season will bringUs closer to pained forgetfulness,And if you strain hard andListen intently to the wind and cup your earsYou might still hear

The echo of us callingAs we grope and fumble,

Searching for meaning in theTidal feelings that onceLapped our shoresUntil erosion took hold.


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Biographical Note: Strider Marcus Jones

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FORAGE IN ME(Strider Marcus Jones)

forage in meamongst the dunes

still damp in sun and windas the tide retreats-for driftwoodand strange shaped pebbles.where have they been,these abandoned voices,with coloursand textures,wildand domestic,moving

and rooted,sooting and scenting the air-being engravedby beauties and conflicts,uncovering how love is only rented

jumping shipwhen it sights new land.inner changes,have not changed anythingout there;and when what moved inis all moved out,we can sometimes sitin this displaced time,with drifting belongingsand pebbled thoughts,aware of strangersmoving slower than the cloudsdeliberatelydoing the same.


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WHEN THE DAY BREAKS DOWN(Strider Marcus Jones)

when the day breaks down,i look rain drowned

like that hole in the groundtrapped road where i waitfloating in the pool of fate.

which way is sound.backis gone,and forwardthe unfoundwild trackmoves on.

sidewaysyours and my waysshoutthen separate out

in pieces of broken pre-Raphaelite plateand coffee stained passages of forgotten Blake,now ornamentsof visionary discontents-i removed whento begin again.


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BECOME TRANSHUMAN(Strider Marcus Jones)

mop my stainof thoughts

from their existence,before they grow too oldand follow me,into disrepairand rigid ways-but leave one dropof luminous ribosometo feed its reasonif i choose to let mortalitybecome transhuman,then i, so acting shaped

to mime and mummerlike a paradise peacockin a rainy coat of chaos-would delete myselfborn blind, gone wise.


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FADING SPHINX(Strider Marcus Jones)

another beautiful eyereflects lifes lie,

when you look into its faceand see a better placeclose by.

without that circle round its dream,everything is seento separate unequally in twoand drift apart blown throughold sky.

the why, where and when

does not matter then,as it dissipatesinto other fatesmaking old orders die.

in all the residueof what we knew,a fading sphinx, casting contemporaryshadows, rises, temporarybut still drops by

elsewhere, in the flawed foundationsof younger civilizations,building their ownmountains of shaped stonewhere polished lenses spy.


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DOING NOTHING(Strider Marcus Jones)

doing nothing

is a wayof doing somethingwith the dayif you leave it open.

just think,what was, has beena long drinkfrom the same streamand you are not broken.

love flown and fledshared who you are,happened, was saidbut only so farsound spoken.


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Biographical Note: Margaret O’DriscollBiographical Note: Margaret O’DriscollBiographical Note: Margaret O’DriscollBiographical Note: Margaret O’Driscoll

Margaret O'Driscoll is a very busy mother of seven andgrandmother of eleven.

Her poems have been published in various anthologies and

magazines and one is reproduced for a current GCSE English

Literature Exam Revision publication.


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ONE SPECK OF BLUE(Margaret O’Driscoll)

One speck of bluebetween dark drifting cloudsa signal of hope appears.One word of reassurancewhen all seems so bleakhelps to banish our fears.

It's hard to see brightnesswhen darkness prevailshard to see light in the sky.

Keep your trust, keep believingthat the sun will break throughas all the clouds drift on by.


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SHEVCHENKO'S SPIRIT

(Margaret O’Driscoll)

High rise blocks, high rise birches

Obscuring, softening the scale,

Yellow tulip buds in elastic bands

Babushkas hoping for a sale.

Trolley bus cable wires high above

A row of flowering chestnut trees,

The sweet scent of cherry blossoms

Drifting in the breeze.

A statue of Shevchenko

I feel his spirit in the air,

The plinth that held Lenin's statue

Toppled in Soborna Square.

A memorial to Korolev

Rockets by the museum,

Blue and yellow flags flutter

For the nationalists dream.

Lime trees invite honey bees

Beneath St. Michael's dome

The hospitality of Ukrainians

Makes me feel at home.


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GEARAGH ROOTS

(Margaret O’Driscoll)

I went with him in later years

To walk the quarry road

He pointed out the heaps of stones

Where once stood happy homes.

He showed me the bowling road

Where crowds went after mass,

Willows and alders grew

All around the quarry cross.

Wild roses grew around the ruins

He left with wistful thoughts,

By the old bog road as we passed by

There grew forget-me-nots.


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Biographical Note: Kate EnnalsBiographical Note: Kate EnnalsBiographical Note: Kate EnnalsBiographical Note: Kate Ennals

Kate Ennals is a poet and short story writer. Her first poetrycollection, AT The Edge, came out in September 2015,

published by Lapwing. She has been published in various

literary publications such as Crannog, Skylight 47, Burning

Bush 2, The Galway Review, Ropes, Boyne Berries, NorthWest Words, and featured in The Spark. Her work was

shortlisted (and performed) in the Claremorris Fringe

festival, the Swift Festival, in the Doolin Short Story

competition in 2014 and the Stephen King short story

competition, 2015.

A Londoner by origin, Kate has lived in Ireland for 22

years. In 2012, after working in community development at

national and local level for 30 years (London and Ireland),

Kate did the MA in Writing at NUI Galway (1:1). She nowruns poetry and writing workshops in and around Cavan.

Kate also facilitates a regular literary reading evening and

open mic (AT The Edge), funded by Cavan Arts Office. Her

blog can be found at kateennals.com.


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Travesty(Kate Ennals)

What you have heard is true. London imploded. In the British Museum, Egyptianmummies unravelled. Trails of white bandage streamed, like white eels, through theChinese Ming Dynasty, down the steps Into Russell Square, breathless. The children,on a school visit taking rubbings of starry sycamore leaves and the Dorian Columnsoutside, were thrilled.The 46 route master travelling past, melted; its red paint dripping, its blue chequeredvelvet seats sticking to the skin of its screaming passengers.The dome of St Pauls, lifted, like Dorothy’s house in the Wizard of Oz, to settleprecariously on the shine of the Shard. The Trafalgar Square Lions leapt to the clouds,fell back down, in Hyde Park to be reassembled and glued.Alarmed at this travesty of reality, I hailed a black cab for Scotland. We travelleddown Pall Mall into Horse Guards Parade, saw Buck House in dancing flames, and a‘Please no Politics’ demonstration taking place. Every protester and placard self-combusted on the spot, the lot: SWP, Militant, Trots, People Before Profit.With his Knowledge, the taxi driver was full of spiel. He said it had rained rawshrimps on him in Frith St. At ten, he’d seen Big Ben floating in the Thames (it wastrying to chime while drowning) and politicians had been scrambling like eggs, tryingto reach Broadcasting House to mansplain the phenomenon. Apparently it wassomething to do with phase of the moon.“Mind you, Leicester Square,” he said…”well, it’s an improvement. Looks like the

Jewish Memorial in Berlin. Ever been to Germany? Well, I suppose we’re all Krautsthese days what with Merkel and all that but I don’t suppose we’ll bother with areferendum now, though I’d have voted out. I’m only going as far as Watford Gap.”


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Lower Derries

for Martin and Breda

(Kate Ennals)

The lake swarms, whispering warm

Teeters the edge of an evening shore

Sky seethes yellow before a downpour

White croquet irons pattern the lawn

We sit outside, nibble blue and white cheese

Lips become pickled with nasturtium seeds

Red tomatoes hand-picked from the vine

Yellow cucumber dressed with mustard and wine

A toast with liquor

Beetroot and raspberry mixed with apple and pear

I settle on orange and elder flower

Outside, wild pike smokes in black rising swirls

Cooked in a freshly fallen branch of a birch

Inside, by the fire, I am plated wild duck

Home-grown potatoes served with spices and garlic

We talk of poetry and pre-destination

The lake swarms, whispering and warm.


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In The Hands of White Men (Kate Ennals)

Their power…

You can feel it in processembedded in tractsin the bricks and mortarIn the stacks of paperIn the suits and shoesThat tap out the tuneof the big white men whoprowlBehind soft slow smiles

moulding and shapingmanipulatingworking the facts the way that they arehave always beenGripping and strangulatingIdeas and dreamsTall, or fat, skinny, long nosedThe keepers of custommaintain status quowith bureaucratic toolsThat inveigle and anointDivide and rulepick and pointAccording to scalesaccording to whimAccording to himThe regulations they impose

To frame the worldTo give them controlMeansThe hands of white menEmbrace us all.


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Catfish (Kate Ennals)

The cat fish reignsDeigns to wallow fresh and fallowSlunken, drunken barbels mouthing brailleSluicing slurry through scales(detritivores with chemoreceptors)A troglobitic tendency to hideA beady golden circle eyeStares from hallowed caveRedeeming extant sovereignty

His grace defies gravityHe condescendsThe gas filled bladder sinksFeeds on black stringsOf fish faecesRay finned, delicate angel wingsUndulate in slow motionBelly up, barbels twitchA skim of his arrowed tail, he flipsA tart’s toss of the arse


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B : G Jack Grady is a founder member of the Ox Mountain Poets, based in Ballina,County Mayo. He is a past winner of the Worcester County (USA) PoetryContest, and his poems have been published in literary journals in Ireland, theUnited States, France, and the United Kingdom, including Crannóg,TheGalway Review, Poet Lore, A New Ulster , The Worcester Review, North WestWords, Mauvaise Graine, Outburst Magazine, and The Runt , as well as in theanthologies And Agamemnon Dead: An Anthology of Early Twenty FirstCentury Irish Poetry, Voices for Peace, published by A New Ulster , and 21Poems, 21 Reasons for Choosing Jeremy Corbyn.

The poems Ejaculo Ergo Sum and Lust of the Bones were previously publishedin And Agamemnon Dead .

Lazarus and Loretta was previously published by The Runt .

Resurrection was previously published in And Agamemnon Dead, Voices forPeace, and in 21 Poems, 21 Reasons for Choosing Jeremy Corbyn.

Our Self-Hypnosis of Happiness was previously published in The Galway

Review. Mata Hari Meets Shiva’s Revenge was previously published in A New Ulster .


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Ejaculo Ergo Sum

—‘Je pense donc je suis’ – René Descartes, Discourse on Method , 1637

ené Descartes,

(Jack Grady)

That old shaggy ram therestill does his job well and lives.His master on the tractorfeels as free as a lambon a ramp to halal slaughter,as docile and neuteredas his castrated bullocks,

as penned inas piglets at their mothers’ milk.

But, at night, the ram’s mastercounts no sheepto ease his way into dream.His bedtime narcosisis a bold, secret wishto possess the balls of a billionaire,where his bag of jewels

could purchase Monte Carloand a Princess Grace too;where he adorns his mistress of the momentwith the Florentine diamondand treats it like a trinket;where he dispenses titanium,no-limit credit cardsto his chorus-girls-in-waitinglike boxes of chocolatesand commands fleets of yachts,

the smallest of whichwould humiliate the Titanicor any SovereignQueen of the Seas.

As for me, I am not so greedy,nor am I ostentatious.Give me a night in Zanzibar,the last light in Gouves,an ouzo in Heraklion,

a saxophone’s lamentin a caveau in the Latin Quarter


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or even in the Seizièmea block from the Étoile;pizza marinara in Sorrentoor a bus ride playing chickenwith cliffs on the way to Amalfi,the driver tapping rhythmon the steering with one handwhile the other holds a lit fag out the windowand waves it in time to hornsof oncoming buses like a baton.How close to the edge can we chance it?I hear a peal of trumpets,a triple ratamacue of drums,or is that my wife’s screamand the baroque fugue of my heartbeat?Yes, give me some joie de vivre,maybe an erection in Juneau, Alaska,if I ever wanted to go there,which I would not …this year. Rather,I would prefer to plunge like a Vikinginto a harem in sacked Byzantiumor a seraglio in Seville or Silves,when they were still Moorish,succulent and salacious;or give me a hot tub on the other side of Hades,or even on this side,or a thermal bath and massagea hundred kilometres from Reykjavík.

I would rise to the tasklike that old ram,and tell myselfI still am!


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Lust of the Bones(Jack Grady)

We bones who had flesh,who wish we had earth to warm us,empty and cold in our coffins,to fill us where once we had organs,to comfort us with memories of skinsoft as the pulp of sweet melonsand of jointsfluid with motion.We bones floated with easeon flowing rivers of life,carried by buoyant boatsof tendons, muscle, and meat.

We too loved the lust and thrustof flowers in the spring,the joyous ejaculation of petals and leaves,bales of hay in summer’s heatbuxom girls beckoningbehind whispers of wheat.How we glided in moonlit water,naked and sleek as fish,with the phosphorescent glisterof eager, jetting eels!How we ran manic with the joy of foalsand the frolicking leap of lambs!

Our silence now is the inaudible drum,our hollow in the earth that resounds beyond soundto the panic of flesh and its sex-driven thrum,its horror of bones and the gravestones of stillness,of Zimmer frames and canes guiding ageing skin,

tightened like tanned leather,no longer an object of lust,no longer warmth that would clothebones shivering to dust.


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Lazarus and Loretta(Jack Grady)

Loretta was the wife of Lazaruslong before Martha and Marycalled Jesus to revive him.Loretta had no need of Jesus,for she could raise the dead herself.

Loretta ate fire ants for breakfastand spat out their rinds like rockets.God help anyone within rangeof this daily mania of missiles,

especially Lazarus, her constant target,even ensconced in his coffin –

not loud, no rumble of earthor screeching whistle of winda neighbour would hear;but they nailed him just the samelike a wriggling wormpierced in half by a plunging spade;

quiet words, though they stung like startled beesand bedevilled like midges in swarmsitching Lazarus to madness –until he ripped through the boards of his casketand kicked down the door of his caveto bellow with rage through the bowels of his house.

The local men always grinned when they heard it,for their wives would know how lucky they weretheir husbands were not

the same sort of deadas Lazarus.


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Resurrection(Jack Grady)

I have a dream that one dayarmies will shoot with songs instead of bulletsgenerals will shed uniforms for the saffron hues of Hare KrishnasBuddha will hold conference calls between New York and GenevaSt Francis will cradle again the birds of Assisieven insects will have no reason to fear usLao Tsu will return to expound on mountainsthat freedom never crowns conquestnever plants flags beyond borders

The dead will rise to exposethose who killed innocence and blamed the innocentthose whose lies hatched our hatred and turned us into murderersthose who will hear their sneering laughtersilenced by their cries of spontaneous confession

Machiavelli will erase The Prince as a fraudWolfowitz will tell us all Neoconsare trapped in the chaos of the cluelessthe Kennedys will unmask their assassins

and spend a week granting absolutionto plotters who never imagined it possible

Isaiah will weep with joy as Israel abandons Dimonaand its shell is claimed by sands of the NegevWahhabis, spellbound, will intonethe poems of Rumi; Shia and Sunniwill greet each other with kisses of kindnesswhile sabres of rage remain sheathedand the sacred book’s lionslie down and purr to the licks of lambsin a Kabbalistic Bride’s Receptionof jungles, forests, and fields redeemed

Nuclear arsenals will explode with a popharmless and hilarious as clouds of balloons burstingwe will at last hear the trees speaktell us why they are rootedand how their quiet peaceresurrects flowers and leaves


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Gandhi will walk with Jesus on waterthey will hail the resurrected dreamer –Martin Luther King –while he hauls into his boatconstellations of fishwith silken nets of starlight


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Our Self-Hypnosis of Happiness(Jack Grady)

Let us delight to be alive despitesuicidal states and warring states,

impoverished states and nanny states,and every intrusion of misery and madness.

Let us indulge instead the hypnotic statein a self-hypnosis of happiness.

Let us romp in a reel with the straw boysto bodhrán, squeeze-box, and fiddles.

Let us dance at the crossroadsand wear leprechaun hats

for the amusement of Europe’s masterswhile they deny us fiscal relief

and applaud us foolsfor ‘we’re not Greece’.*

Let us nod at our wettest bog and reveal the secretof a golden reef that lies beneath.

We will stop laughing when they find itand we mine it for the leftover grams they grant us;

but, for now, let us declare to the worldwe can still lay claim to what remains

of our sovereign domain:our whingeing wind and rain.

*Quoting Irish Finance Minister Michael Noonan, 2011.


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Mata Hari Meets Shiva’s Revenge(Jack Grady)

“The dance is a poem of which each movement is a word.”― Mata Hari

He was, night after night, with his sluthis slut who danced in the templehis slut whose grace could gyrate his lustand make him more drunkthan his true loves –his gin and scotch

And I watched her, my husband’s slutdance the gandrung in the villageand the beksan putri for the Dutchthough I never danced either myselfI saw enough to invent my own danceto vamp

something brazenly bettersomething to put sweaton a man’s brow in winter

something to put steamon his monoclemelt ice on his boots

Where I once had an unfaithful and brutal husbandwho battered me at his whimI traded him for a hundred menturned a hundred men into philanderers and slavesa hundred wives into cuckqueansa hundred rival dancers into a silent gamelan gong

If the men weren’t mine when I beganmy dance with the fansthey were as yoked and helplessly mineas the statue of Shivawhen my body, nearly naked and dancing in Parisclimaxed in its impotent arms

Men of means lavished me with jewelsGenerals and marquises offered me mansionsif I would dance for them privatelyif I would let them stroke me from legs to lips


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if I would deign to fulfil their wildest wishwhile I lived in their homes or the homes they gave me

Russians, Germans, Italians, Frenchthey were all mine, my humble retainerssave the Frenchman I most trustedwho framed me as a spyand I heard in the wind the forgottenlaughter of my husband

when I could no longer dancewhen I was still as an ovumand awaitingthe firing squad’s aimthe stiff bullets’ penetrationthe god Shiva’s revenge


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Biographical Note: Maurice Devitt Biographical Note: Maurice Devitt Biographical Note: Maurice Devitt Biographical Note: Maurice Devitt

In 2016 he was selected for the Poetry Ireland IntroductionsSeries and shortlisted for the Listowel Poetry CollectionCompetition. Winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland Competitionin 2015, he has been placed or shortlisted in many competitionsincluding the Over the Edge New Writer Competition, Cuirt

New Writing Award, the Listowel Writers’ Week CollectionCompetition and the Doire Press International ChapbookCompetition. A guest poet at the ‘Poets in Transylvania’ festivalin 2015, he has had poems published in various journals inIreland, England, Scotland, the US, Mexico, Romania, India andAustralia, is curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies siteand a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group.


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And what, Miss Kennan, are you planning

to do with your hair?

(Maurice Devitt)

i.m. Pauline Devitt (née Kennan) 1927-2014

Arnott’s Department Store, September 1945,

you, in your first job after school,

a sales assistant selling gowns

to debutantes who will grace the ballroom

of the Metropole Hotel, their blissful path

already set fair, while you still second guess

the future: whether you will marry

and, if so, could it be to the handsome cashier

you met last night at the National.

Allowed him to walk you home

but, playing hard to get,

never invited him in, sent him back

to his digs on the North Circular,

spinning on the possibility

of meeting you again.

You slept fitfully, forgot to tie up

your hair, and in the morning,

as you rushed out the door,

disguised your dizziness under a hat.


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January Morning, Eagle Rock

(Maurice Devitt)

Walking out, a noisy hush before the silence,

mist clears and gasps of colour shorten our breath.

We stutter on familiar steps, are surprised

by the confidence of snowdrops, calmed

by the monotony of sky. Shaken from the torpor

of sleep, we chase the track as it rises, pulls us

into the incline, where feet, not long out

of slippers, stretch for the certainty of rock

and soft bodies, warming to the task, gird

themselves for capricious paths and stark

choices, met with the blank expression

of snow – then, after staggered seconds

of unknowing, I am opening your door

for the first time to an empty room.


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Little Mysteries

(Maurice Devitt)

Prompted by the gurgle of voices on the other line,

burglars always know which wire to cut

and trees, reduced to marking time on passing bark,

never fail to shed their leaves. Yet we close doors

that were never open, shred sense

in the alchemy of sound, and lick our lips

expecting pride, but tasting only shame.


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A Speckled Life

(Maurice Devitt)

i.m. Br. Terence Hilary Devitt 1918-99

In black soutane and slippers

you slice the hazy emptiness

of a Sunday schoolyard,

hate the rattling silence

of the big house,

slip time with the clack

of a sliotar cut shoulder-high

and fizzed across

the torpid evening sun.

It is Doneraile 1968,

far from the pogroms

of Marsden Gardens,

the enclave on Chief Street,

high-step cycle

to St Mary’s on the Falls,

for smoggy evenings spent

on the dark art of hurling.

Standing on the fourteenth,

Tramore Open Championship,

it all comes back. Clutch


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more than grip, fingers

wrapped like twigs, you pull.

Eyes rise as the ball climbs,

eclipsed for seconds

by the dark cushions

of the Comeraghs, drops

and rolls bashfully into the hole.

Sequestered in Marino

you learned how your ear

could steal the soul of a song

and how, perched

on a piano-stool, stud-collar open,

you could read the keys

like braille, listen as the notes

purred into space.

This was your gift

generously smuggled

into the hands of others:

Feis Maitiu in Francis Street,

The Gondoliers in Monkstown Park

and, year after year,

the Silver Band in Mount Sion.

You coaxed music from squabby hands

and doubting minds, plucked talent

from a thicket of voices, always

without envy, without regret.


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Caught in small rooms of cant

and pessimism you would escape,

Honda 50 grazing out the back,

life stuffed into a brown

duffel bag, skirt the capillaries

of The Deise and break

onto open road, neither knowing

nor caring where you would land.

How your golf and driving improved

when you lost an eye. A tenuous link

for twenty years, the nerve

finally snapped, a first sign

of your loosening mortality. Blind-sided,

cancer crept in, never to leave

until that day in Ballygunner,

the piano a blushing memory of you.


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45

Derby Day

(Maurice Devitt)

If nothing happens in the first race

just reset your watch and try again

because luck has a habit of turning up

late or not at all, and the horse you backed

in the 2.15 could still be running

when you pack up the champagne flutes,

the wicker basket and button up

your gingham shirt. Don’t be surprised

if, on the nine o’clock news, the same horse

gives an interview riddled with cliché,

his head turned from the camera

as he explains, when the going gets tough

the tough get going, but fails to answer

when asked where he was the night before,

who he was with and whether

it was true that he twisted an ankle

in a late-night dash from The Jockey Club.


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The Man in No. 41

(Maurice Devitt)

Lives in the fear of self-service shops,

checks his pockets as he leaves

for contraband and unwanted gifts

planted in the crush at the salad counter.

Is suspicious of umbrellas

since he read of the Bulgarian spy

stabbed in the knee on Westminster Bridgeor the cathedral of the same name?

No matter, he knows it could happen

to anyone at anytime, loves the oily innocence

of fairgrounds, the beards of candy-floss,

the sawn-off option at the rifle range,

but afraid he might find himself

rocking at the top of a ferris-wheel,

waiting for others to board,

only to remember he had left the iron

plugged in, candles burning

and, knowing that the neighbour

two doors down, the only one with a key,

would be caught up in the vortex

of her daughter’s ballet, phone

snapped silent, he would call his home number,

be reassured to hear it ring,

surprised when it answered,

his own voice coughing down the line.


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47

Biographical Note: Bob Shakeshaft Biographical Note: Bob Shakeshaft Biographical Note: Bob Shakeshaft Biographical Note: Bob Shakeshaft

Bob Shakeshaft has been a long time participant on the Dublin open micscene. Bob has read at the Inchicore village festival in 2005, at SevenTowers open mic sessions, at the Glor sessions where he recorded hispoem Why. ?Bob has also appeared in Seven Towers anthology 2012/2013.Bob is alsopublished in the Curlew collection by writers from Dublin, and theArdgillan writer’s anthology, where he has been a long time member of

this group.Bob has poems published in the broadsheet Riposte, edited by Michael OFlanagan, sadly this broadsheet came to its demise in 2015.

And 2014 had his poem” Butterfly” published in the Brown critiquemagazine, UK.

Bob also appeared in an anthology,” And Agamemnon Dead “,published in conjunction with the Skerries poetry festival Donkey shots.Poems appearing in this Anthology, include, “A plague of uncertainty”,Auld Rope “, and “Gur Cake”.

Bob has just recently appeared in the latest issue of the New Ulster Anu,the 40th. Issue. In this Anthology the following Poems appear.” Auldtripe”, “Ashen Sun “, Toddles”, A thin white line”, and “AfterPhilomena.”

Bob has recorded his poems on KFM radio, as well as Liffey sounds withhost poet Eamon Lynskey, also on Dublin south radio. Recently I haveread at the over the edge Galway, from the Anthology, “AndAgamemnon Dead”.

Bob is currently striving to complete a first collection, in the distant hopeof been published.


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Blind shame

(Bob Shakeshaft)

A hot violent breath stung my neck.My tender body violated.

You entered Christian Brother,

Till a spasm set free a trickle of dead seeds,

Never suffer…little children come unto me.

For heaven asks a heavy price,

In the name of Jesus, you abused my humanity.

In childish trust you tore the seat of my soul,

Screamed nightly upon deaf ears…blind eyes,

Your shame…am I to blame?

I vomit the notion of calling you brother,

No one rescued me…not even doctors

Who tended my wounded rectum?

My bruised body no hospital reported…

The horror and degradation scarring my life.

Worst of all no one believed…

Lies… shouted altar bended knees,

Till a scream voiced evidence,

That cut a deal, denying a trial,

Gave way to a paltry recompense,

Torments… bright dark days.


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49

Gobo

(Bob Shakeshaft)

The shell must be broken

Before the bird can wing

Just as a chrysalis cracks

The larva’s hard coffin

Shows its wings

To the sun

Does it remember?

Does it mourn?

For what

It once was


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50

Poet’s cell

(Bob Shakeshaft)

In Kilmainham Gaol by invitation,Lord Mayor speechifying.

Silent guests silently sip white, red,Ribbon-scissors Inchicore festival.

In meandering timeThe cold dank caged my senses.

Now I am free

To imbibe, talk, laugh.

An audience captiveIn the Governors quarters.

Waiting in nervous thoughts,Michael calls my name.

Sweaty palms, a pauseWords set free…

My mind wandersFrom rows of tiny cells, voices past emerge.

My God would you look at this lot

Celebrating indeed has our sacrifice been forgotten?

Here we liberated our last breath.

A fatal shot snapped us to eternity.

Listen

Our names are revered – respected even.

The proud oration of these poets is testament

Our deeds are rewarded by this freedom.


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51

Stairway

(Bob Shakeshaft)

Mother!

I sensed your presenceOn my way from my morning shave, andCold water wake-up splashCausing a shiver.

Long-time gone to your rest,I ponder what it is all about.Why now Mother Kate? Your attentionIn the past was so little,

Perhaps you regretted my conception,Almost out of wedlock; I know nowThe cynical time you endured, church guiltTormented family, threw you out.

A hushed behind altar wedding, hidingThe sin, to blame a natural act of joyGiven by god; these priests in long robesDid not knowI never felt your love.

My guess…In blaming my innocenceYou could not love me.

Now it’s long past forgiving,No longer berefts my heartBecause, you know you raised me up,When I fellYou patched my knees,

Taught me right from wrong, andHow to accept lifeAs it tumbles along, soIt’s not love cuddlesome,But still.


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Chimerical

(Bob Shakeshaft)

It is beguilingthis place is no place

not reallythough then againit is

I have some memoriesof that smellof blackberriespicking them held mein the momenteverything forgotten

just nowI noticed the bamboo stickI am one of threehunkering down on the bankof the silver-spoon rivercatching tadpoles

for our jam-jar aquariumephemeral of courselike allit is destinedto fizzle outwhen I dream out


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

H H , , I ,

C ,

.H A , B .

H F 2015 .


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COMPOST(Helen Harrison)

I like all the worn things;The decay; old boats

Rotting by the side of a lake

Metamorphosis at seaThings becoming smallerSwallowed by larger things

Wood rotting in the gardenI saw a hedgehog climb out of some,Only, to be run over by a metal car;

His decaying body; food for the crows

His life of chewing insects; shelteredIn a winter woodpile, gone

A home; those materialsThat metabolize; the ruins of shipsWhere fish: roam among bones.

The worn-out tales at Cobh, Cork HarbourWhere the mighty Titanic sailed; sadlyTurning; cheering crowds to tears.

The aging leather skin of gypsy’s;Weather-worn, wild and free; the linesThe tales: scars; and fights.

I enjoy trodden paths, stone wallsWhere weeds have grown betweenThe cracks; old railway tracks.....

Apples rotting on the groundMy love for old things, know

No bounds. I loveThe things that once were free, thatMaybe now; docked or anchored. It’sWorn things I hanker after.


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55

BiographicalBiographicalBiographicalBiographical Note: Glen WilsonNote: Glen WilsonNote: Glen WilsonNote: Glen Wilson

Glen Wilson lives in Portadown, Co Armagh with his wife Rhonda andchildren Sian and Cain.

He has been widely published having work in The Honest Ulsterman,Foliate Oak, Iota, Southword and The Incubator Journal amongstothers. In 2014 he won the Poetry Space competition and wasshortlisted for the Wasafiri New Writing Prize. He was shortlisted for

the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing 2016.

He is currently working on his first collection of poetry.


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A God sketch on Silver Plated Copper

Boulevard Du Temple 1838 by Daguerre

(Glen Wilson)

The Boulevard bends out of view,

theatres staged to left, quiet in composition,

trees like painters smudges,

saplings held like rifles to the posts,

bollards to give diminishing perspective.

The cobbles a stone river,

the sky freckled by the process,

fingerprints, permanent dark lines,

a man stopping with a bootblack,

the only sign of people.

All the others too fast for the exposure,

this is the first capture of people on film,an act of serving, a silhouette of Christ

washing the disciples feet.


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The Planter (Glen Wilson)After John Hewitt

It was someone with my name who sowed

these seeds long ago, as their body

entered earth, leaving the heir everything;

marked fields, ploughs in mid furrow.

We came to dig deep in the green,

this rain sodden Canaan of the west,

We bore our young, the stake increased,

we settled enough to call this; home.

Accusing voices call us weeds, wish to

uproot these tendrils, twisted like lovers.

I break new ground, my hands familiar

with the dirt I hoist and hold;

How much deeper must I go

for my spade to disturb the founds?


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58

La Girona in a Bottle (Glen Wilson)

The ocean is all around, the sky a glass ceiling,

these sails billow out without movement or feeling.

I watch the waves hoping that they will wash me

through the bottleneck out into the open sea.

I have no crew to call mutiny, no cargo to manifest.

No one to check the mainsail is pointing us to the west.

A cross of a knight of Santiago reaches for the shore

A ring clutching a heart Inscribed ‘I can give you no more’

The coast detached watches our mottled grandness

struggle in the rolling waves, frozen never to progress.

The unalterable course to the rocks at Lacada point,

ready to smash matchstick intricacies of joist and joint.

White horses rise to always wait to fall in muted moan,a purgatory with no backstar big enough to guide us home.


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The Lighter Men (Glen Wilson)

The water sluices black marked

only by the moonlight weaving

through the trees. We light the lamps

of the gas candle.

The oar digs deep in the current,

the grained wood etching itself

in my palms, my fingerprints are left

on the handle.

We heave and haul the casks and boxes,

empty the barge of cargo.

The horse whinnies as she bears the load,

I stroke her ear and grip the bridle.

We shift the locks to let the barge

move on downriver, everything passes

through or is washed away

paraffin burns, the moon waxes idle.

In the distance Lake Ontario swells,

taking in our dark, transfiguring it to light.


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60

Amber Flush (Glen Wilson)

You know these paths better than I do

around Lady Dixon park.

The petals have begun to brown and curl,

save the ones already on the asphalt path.

This here is a Himalayan Musk Rose,

I know it says so on the sign, You laugh.

Yes But I did know it without the sign.

Father David’s Rose, What made Him so special?

Maybe it they found it in Churchyards?

All the world is based on maybe Isn’t it,

everyone just waiting for a yes

I see a rat near a bin, trailing off a half finished

packet of cheese and onion crisps,

you don't notice how close the creature is

to your sandalled feet.

I begin to wonder if you are a good guide for love,

lost as you are among what you know,


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I've never been here before, I've assumed

you are the experienced one.

Here these are the damask roses , no one

ever comes this way. I catch a line of the description

'...intensely fragrant and come in white, pink

or red colours. Some repeat-flower, some don't.'

You take my hand and pull me into the undergrowth,

this I know, the mystery is always after the bloom.


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Surface Water (Glen Wilson)

The dawn after the rain leaves

more reflections in the puddles

on Belfast streets in February.

The refuse collectors are an hour

into their work, the baristas warm up

the machines, wipe the counter tops.

His body doesn’t react to the sound

or bristles of the automotive sweepers

and their mechanical cleansing.

A sleeping bag is curled in a ball,

The outturned label says Ultra Lightweight,

Skin Friendly Lining, Synthetically filled.

Natural causes the paper says,

nothing suspicious, bouquetsare strapped to the railings again

quenching thirst with sheared roots.


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63

Biographical Note: Owen Ga Biographical Note: Owen Ga Biographical Note: Owen Ga Biographical Note: Owen Gallagherllagherllagherllagher

Owen Gallagher’s poems have been published widely in the UK, Ireland

and abroad. He has awards from The London Arts Board and TheSociety of Authors. His previous publications are: Sat Guru Snowman ,Peterloo Poets, Tea with the Taliban , Smokestack Books, and A GoodEnough Love , Salmon Poetry.


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The Work Ethic

(Owen Gallagher)

Democracy is vulnerable to viruses,

health problems, cancers; to having

its legs blown away, its tongue severed.

It can be seen on crutches at demonstrations,

on Zimmer frames in workplaces.

It never applies for a sick-note

or a chance to doss on a beach. When depressed

it thinks of its childhood in Greek states,

teenage years in communes.

You’d think it would seek a pension

but it wakes daily to a bowl of porridge,

goes off to work whistling.


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Tic

(Owen Gallagher)

Whilst he covets the attention of the TV interviewer,

and being considered as a Government front-bench runner,

his mother, Lady Paris Smith

notices a facial tic not inherited from his father

but of a prominent Cabinet Minister

she once cross-partied with.


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The Dark Stuff

(Owen Gallagher)

It’s in a crossroads village like this

Kavanagh said poetry is made,

and just as I was about to fade

into the darkness of Biddy Jack’s

for a pint of black and open a fresh

pack of cards with the boys in the back,

a tractor spilled its load of turf

onto the road, revealing

a gun hoard and,

this being where it was, three onlookers

made the sign of the cross, loaded the trailer

and, with a nod, the old fella drove off,

forcing me to sit at the bar, absorb the shock,

and ponder whether poetry is made or not.


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67

The Cure for Homosexuality

(Owen Gallagher)

I confessed to the priest about a boy

who made me light-headed,

and prepared for a stint on my knees

but had to attend hospital as my penance.

Mother knelt while electrodes

were placed on my thighs

and I was shown pictures of naked men.

From Fourth Form, I was ‘ the poofter’.

Someone who, at playtimes and during PE,

would report to the medical room.

I’d piss myself rather than go to the BOYS.

At home-time I was released first.

My name was chalked on walls.

Masses were offered to save my soul.

It was always winter in our home.

Two single beds replaced the double

I shared with my brother.

Since then we’ve never spoken.

I slept with my hands above the blankets.


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The sheets were checked daily.

For fear it might aggravate his heart

father was kept in the dark.

I reported to the priest in his room after school.

He’d insist on exorcising the devils.

Had a crown of thorns tattooed on his back,

made me swear a vow of silence.

I was sent to a House of Correction.

It was a House of Wrongs.

I made it out to the streets.


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Straight Up

(Owen Gallagher)

When she grasped what I considered big,

stuttered Is that it?

I fumbled with the zip.

For a decade I thought myself unfit,

destined to drift

with lads unable to get onto the pitch.

Until I was referred to a page-turner

for the inadequate,

What men can do with or without it.

If things for us go amiss, let us persist

with this artificial aid –

which I believe is strapped on like this.


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Biographical Note: Val McLoughlinBiographical Note: Val McLoughlinBiographical Note: Val McLoughlinBiographical Note: Val McLoughlin

, , ,

, B, C . H F A C

C G D G

.


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71

Day Trippers

(Val McLoughlin)

On Enniscrone beach, walking to the estuarythrough a chilly corridor of fog,stepping on brittle crab claws in the grey sand,I reach the black water of the Moyas it glides between sun-brightened shoresand slides into the green sea.

Across the river,Osip Mandelstam sits on Barthra Island,fresh-shaven, dark-glassed, pinking in the sunhis toes buried in the warm sand,a carafe of Orvieto, lightly chilled,with a wedge of Pecorino Romano to hand.Nadezhda, his wife, young again,reads Tacitus aloud.Osip smiles knowingly.

Behind me in the fog,Stalin, dragging his chains,blunders deeper into the cold surf of Killala Bay,heading north.


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72

Belleek (Val McLoughlin)

The last of the night raindrips through leaves –

wet dreams of the forestslide into daylight.


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73

Dispossessed(Val McLoughlin)

Spring snow falls like ashfrom nicotine-stained cloudswinter’s grass is dusted mint greenThe river path, a black strokeon bright canvas,sparkles with ice.

The gelid river, battleship grey,has flooded the reed bedsand covered the riverbank

where I went to paint in last summer’s heatand two girls lay sunbathing.I slunk from the spot, an intruder.


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Early September(Val McLoughlin)

Evening,cool enough for a jacket,the swallows gone,the air emptyof their swoops and scuddings,the river low and brindled. –

Trout have it, almost, to themselves,their gentle rise leaves fluid ringsof sips and kisses.

An angler flicks his fishing lineonto the quiet Moyas it flows towards winter.


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Stolid River(Val McLoughlin)

Under grey skythe river is polished stone,crushing memory,from source to endof the taken,unwillingor willing.


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76

Biography: Omole Ibukun

Omole Ibukun is a Melancholic poet. An activist. A civil

engineering student.


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STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR --18+--(Omole Ibukun)(A RIDDLE TO BE SOLVED BY FEMALES ONLY)An oasis of peaceAn ocean of passionA stream of steamA lake of fire.A candle lightmelting my candlestickA burning bushthat lost me in the thick.Melts for the meek,Wets with the milk.Health for the sick,Strength for the weak..A taste to savourlike sauce and sausages,I pledge my serviceto the saviour of savages.How well you devour my fruits!Carrots to banana,Plantain to cucumber;For bringing forth fleshy fruits..As red as EuropeAs black as AfricaI can't go straight to the matterabout the Strait of Gibraltar.As hot as the SaharaYet, not barren like a desert.

As wet as the Mariana,Yet it's deeper than a trench.As tight as the Nuptial,Yes, Is it not the Nuptial Knot?.I can't live without you,I can't speak about youwithout encrypting my mouth.Does anybody knowwhat I'm talking about?

??????????????????????O.I gueVara


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Biography: Al Millar

, , ' ' , , , , ,


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79

Manchester bar Belfast Agreement(Al Millar)

Written in April 2005, about a small occurrence that took place in April 1998,

unearthed for A New Ulster’s anthology marking Irish National Poetry Day, April

2016.

In a day of killing an hourwe enter a musty old pubbehind the campuslate afternoon and almost empty.A middle-aged woman sits on a high stoolat one end of the bar.She rises and goes behind as we approachasking our pleasure.Southern Irish she is.

“Where are you from?” I ask curiously.She pulls our pints.

“Meath…the Royal County,” she replies in a proud friendly tone.

Her answer surprises.I have never heard Meath referred to as ‘Royal’ before.There are no ‘Royal’ counties in Ireland, come on!King’s County and Queen’s County are now Offaly and Laois surely?But I say nothing.

Drink served and money receivedshe resumes her seat.The bar falls briefly silent.

The man seated opposite her

also southern Irishand of similar ageasks for my thoughts on the newly signedGood Friday Agreement.

I say that it is a good thing.I mean it.He nods sceptically,“Ah shur Clinton got on to Trimble…” he starts...The rapid fire verbal outburst is instant.

The barmaid’s voice is shrill and commanding -“ Mylie O’Donnell*, there’ll be no talk about religion or politics in this bar!”


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Mylie falls silent, eyeing his glass, cowed.I smile inwardlyprobably he’s well used to her.

And there is to be no wags eye view of the historic agreement.No sniping across the invisible interface.Perhaps it would have been an interesting exchange of viewsor banal.

Adrian and I find seats and sip our alesreturning to the language of aspirant writersdoing the Novel Writing MAat Manchester University.

Roughly a week later the penny drops –she meant Irish RoyaltyGaelic Kings and Queens on the hill of Taragoing back a thousand yearsand longer!How preposterous is that!

*Not his real name


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Biography: Silva Merjanian

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian is a widely published poetresiding in California. Her work is featured inanthologies and international poetry journals and readby Irish actress/narrator Eabha Rose. She has twovolumes of poetry, Uncoil a Night (2013) and Rumor(Cold River Press 2015.) Proceeds from both books areentirely donated to refugees. Merjanian recently wasthe guest speaker at Ohio State University on thecentennial of the Armenian Genocide. She’s also beeninvited to read in poetry festivals and poetry societiessuch as the Austin Poetry Society and the ARPAInstitute.Three of her poems have been nominated for

Pushcart award this year, and her 2015 collections of

poems Rumor was given Pinnacle Book AchievementAward for best poetry book for fall 2015 by NABE.


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SAINTS IN MY RAIN (Silva Merjanian)

I learned the rain in cursive slants

I learned lying on doubts

spread on the sacred and not

spread on my bed, my pillow, my exhale

the crust of every lie I loved

tainted with silver sliver of your tongue

I turned that night on its back

after you went to bed

your streets indebted

to shadows of restless dreams

bruising on its replaced ribs

where trash collectors compress

disposed remnants

in the ruble

life’s severed limbs

an envy here

a longing there

a nothingness holier than my prayers

and I add

that face without the lips

under the face with muffled shame

under the face I used to have


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TONIGHT

(Silva Merjanian)

Tonight a thousand eyelids will close on beautiful lies

and quivering lips will sleep unkissed

untouched by sultry blue jazz in the dark

tonight lust will blister on menopausal gritty tongues

and blind vultures will circle parameters of a man’s heart

tonight middle aged men will look for love in midtown bars

and women selling artificial flavors to the tune of hallelujahs

will sharpen their knives

tonight poets will find the words to color their hell

and dip their pens in wounds that aren’t even theirs

tonight somewhere it will rain on wingless birds

their love songs mending broken pillows in high notes

tonight she will step out with her hair down, in new stilettos

she’ll blow a kiss with naked lips through the door left ajar

tonight, tonight’s no different than any other night

the walls are thin, the moon is skinned, blindfolds handed free


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DOVES OF BEIRUT

(Silva Merjanian)

Doves were arrogant in those days

feral, territorial of ledges

I hadn’t snapped their necks yet

through grind of metal

on bone, stone

through air sharpened on greed hones

no scream left in punctured lungs

fate duct -taped to fetal nights

barricaded behind shadowed ribs

that hardly rose for a fight

underneath rubble of lord’s prayer and adhan

they pecked at concrete

heads bobbing, waiting

waiting

they knew I’d come

they knew I’d tire of walking

your curved dead -end streets

I knew those ledges well

gravel and loose feathers

wet with rain


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stuck with white droppings

to my young toes curled on grit

but I knew your streets below better

lick of diesel on asphalt

grief's iron reek in gutters rising

damp alleys breathing

breathing

the way the old do

those who’d seen the blade

cut through flesh

a sigh every third inhale

a pause before funneling

jasmine and mold laced gasps

into patched veins

tied to the stone

tied to throbbing ground

with historical claims

to the sea breeze

that couldn’t cool their burns

still rummaging for life

as they used to remember it


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I walked on sweat of fig trees

on your sidewalks bleeding at cracks

when you had the pigeon for dinner

and I starving, gnawed on bones

where I’d tied my message

pleading for your unclutched claws

on my debt

I hear you like your whores younger these days

and you rather have your sons as killers

blind and foaming revenge at mouth

darbouka between their knees dropped for guns

streets mapped in bite marks

on time I served now dyed ash blond

I look away

the way the old do

eyes on the distance to your bleeding ledge


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September breathes in your gaping mouth

but don't hold it to its promises

they’re idle rain on rooftops


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THE IRISHMAN

(Silva Merjanian)

There's a sadness in Irish eyes harboring comfort in anguish

thousands years in the making

a secret code in their laughter

‘round incessant toasts

macerating in Celtic rain

chagrin in steel blue eyes

dusted with late night dry sighs

burden of fathers hauled

from calloused hands of their fathers

and theirs

drool of life bartenders wipe

off their counters in local pubs

and courage in Irish veins flows

as Liffey gurgles its Viking source

on grey damp mornings

as death daunts and scandalsemerge from humid stones

love of country and family

rouse the lymphatic Dublin night


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91

and an Irishman in moonlit melancholy

grief squeezing his pen’s throat

rattles cage of fate and more


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92

HOME

(Silva Merjanian)

Words on an epicure's tongue

that subtle bitter

lost on an audience

handpicked from chorus lines

while I savored buoyant questions

to the edge of your mind

knowing there will be no answers

in suburbs graveled white

but on this night

the universe is crawling

on skin soft with expectation

and I have untied silk rhymes

lifting the bluebird’s cleavage

you might as well have caged it

between your colored doubts

are you listening at this moment

or are you asleep spooning spines

bent where you have dotted

all I ask is for hail in December


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charting my hiding

sanding raised eyebrows

I will lie in your embrace

and deal with the aftertaste

at first crack of dawn

in absence of verse hygiene

graffiti clinging to your sunken chest

because the universe is crawling

on skin soft with expectation

and I am lost in a blizzard

that resembles your voice

you see there is no one at home

and home is everywhere

in the vast distance

in memories' dead weight

in winter’s renewal act

in promise of my eyes

and in your empty palms

where I pressed my face

fearing my many names

but one I left on rooftops


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94

Biography: Chris O’Toole

Chris O'Toole is a Head Chef in County Wicklow.

Poems have been running around his mind for many yearsand so he has finally taken up the pen! He says his job is ahighly creative one for self expression but that in poetry, hecan express deeper feelings - in poetry he finds a way toexplain life and things that happen to people.

Chris enjoys exploring language, punditry, absurdity andthe human condition


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Dandelion

(Chris O’Toole)

Seed grows

Along with its fellow world

Bends and flows in the wind

A flower blooms

Pushed aside

Pulled apart

New season, new bloom

Expected disappointment

Still a weed

Still a dandelion


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96

A Little Late(Chris O’Toole)

Emotion shown is rarely trueTruth in reality is greatly receivedGladly embraced

What price on timeA cost of repair

Waiting on you for my piece

Left open a second is too longWhen it fits

Its presence is outlined


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97

Feet

(Chris O’Toole)

Finding my feet

Tracing my steps

Repetition breaths safe

An unfamiliar knock

The night all around

Deeper into the grey darkness

A voice reaches in, touching

Scraping me back

To haunt my dreams


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Sponge

(Chris O’Toole)

Travelling in orbit

At great speed

Seeing all, feeling all

Soaking up everything

Soon in company

Spinning in happiness

Or crushing disappointment

Maybe a different cause

A brief eclipse

Heavy gravity releasedSpinning free now

To be and just be


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101

Biography: Sean Smith

Sean Smith tries not to let his work as a civil servantinterfere with his writing time and is supported by hisbeautiful wife Carmel, his soon-to-be-a-teenage-boyNoah and a pair of 53 year old legs. He has beenpublished in The Poetry Bus, Skylight47 and BoyneBerries and recently came second in the BallyroanLibrary World Poetry Day competition.


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Lamp

(Sean Smith)

The old oil lamp, pumped into lightby fingers gnarled and rooted in wood,

that he planed, shapedand turned. From pharmacistsbench to mahogany table.Here children sat, planted like saplingsand listened to tales as old as the earth,of fish slipping the hookand grouse flushed from gorse.The wick dimmed and the lightwas breathed into darkness.And knotted, wood-stained fingersloosened their grip on the lathe


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103

Orange Grove

(Sean Smith)

Line on line,a Republican guard forthis Valenciano grove.A green regimentwith leaves untouching.Where sun-beaten earth graspsthick stemmed trees,sucking thirsty roots deepinto parched soil.She waits, listless,a roadside negotiator.Bottles of water poolround her chair,a bead drips at every passingtruck and car.Each pressed clientmet with the promise ofpulped, dimpled flesh.But this flesh is sun-tainted,leathery, old before its time andleft unplucked on the bough.

All future promise dried upleaving a bitter husk to facethe day long heat.The fake smile; a red slashmatching over-tilled soil.And as the sun callsthe fruit to harvestit peels away innocence,segment by segment.


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104

Memorial

(Seans Smith)

They chiselled my name upon a walland within an arching granite surround,there echoed a single bugles call.Later the stagnant groundtriggered a blasted seed’s recall;a red petal and the soundof my name chiselled upon a wall.

Were you there to see me falland are you one that was not found?

Not stirring on that final trawlbut left in mud and blood to drownand lying still beneath it all.As others marched all aroundto chisel my name upon a wall.

If only you had caused a hand to stallbefore it wrote a great renownand covered the world with a palllike some suffocating eiderdown.That left us lifeless within a shawlor buried, unknown, deep underground:Then no need to chisel my name upon a wall.


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105

Regrowth

(Sean Smith)

The winter sun slinks low,its light shaded by grey garden wallsThe trees turn, green bleeds into red andthe cherry tree, blossom long since wind-kissed,covers its leaves in grave dust;a memorial shroud to those pink pollen days.The world turns.Lemon yellow leaves, jaundiced with age,flicker bright and drop in a carpet of burnt orangewhose flames sterilise the mountain side.And in the blackened embers, two green shoots,arms aloft,lift themselves from a blanketcapturing a lost youth in their embrace.


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Outlaws

(Sean Smith)

Those desperadoes,whooping and a-hollering,riding bareback downthe mean streets of Crumlin.Tying up their horses outsidethe Village Inn saloonas they mosey on over to Borza’s corral.And after running the Drimnagh posseback over the badlands

they rest their horseson the communal greenand let them graze as they dreamof being the last gunslinger in town,facing down the bandit pistolerosfrom Dolphins Barn:this is their patch,their Law to lay down.These boys becoming men;

start out on the outlaw trail,end up as drug mules, dead,or banged up in jail.


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107

Race

(Sean Smith)

The cheering had stopped,all sound sucked out of the bowlthat seemed to slowly turnas if on a potter’s wheel.The tension insidematched by the suspenseof the momentas the world watched, motionless.The shaping of a symbolfrom a base medalbegan with the crackof the starter’s gunthat echoed down the trackto a cotton field where crossesburned surrounded by white sheetsand slaves were bred for sport.

A mere nineteen seconds,but the victory wasn’t completeuntil a gloved hand pierced Aztec airand, with its power,

took away the breath of the world.


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108

Biography: Adeniyi Johnson

Adeniyi Johnson Is a poet fromNigeria


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109

ELEGY OF OLD AGE(:Adeniyi Johnson)

The pains of time is all I feelthe joy of aging,in toddling days lostThe keen guard of ticking clockto remind always:You’ve got little time left

The pains of time is all I feelnostalgia of youthful daysin fading mind resides.rigors of ages past,left me on feeble limbs.reiterated echo of reality:You’ve got little time left.

The pains of time is all I feel,constant glowing of the sun,unrelenting in its glory,yet older than my failing sight,

more radiant than my toothless smilesin starry skies of every night.chirping birds of daily dawns,whistling same familiar song:You’ve got little time left.

The pains of time is all I feel,blots on history’s linen,rises of empires andfalls of kingdoms.

The Tears of war andbetrayals of love.Life had shown me the heart of men,

You’ve been here too long,You’ve got little time left.


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110

NATURE TURNED SOUR(:Adeniyi Johnson)

In the beginning,the flowers blossomin summers and dance alwaysin playful gesture at buzzing noisesof bees that never get waryof playing the happy musicto cheer the hospitable host.

The flowers never worriedof winter their natural spell,

for there will always beother summers to welcome the bees.For all was perfect at inception,an Eden we had and we gladlytoil the pastures and latergather the plenty harvest.

Man later grew wiserthen nature got poorer,trees were cut downto make man a shelterto make the birds unsheltered,and make the earth uncovered.

Man’s greedy wants of conquests,tussling in the quest for power.we’ve made shells and cannonsto fall all that stands our way.our bombs are nuclear and deadly

to guide the home we live.The helpless earth keeps weepingof ruins we’ve brought on her.her unending raining tears,flooding our fields and barns.


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JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER(:Adeniyi Johnson)

Bless thee victory,you’ve brought her father fame,he led Israel in battleand fought his foes fiercely,pierced through their heathen heartswith his blood-savoury sword.street of merrying menrejoicing the birth of freedomconceived in belly of war.

Cursed thee war! Cursed thee!!you’ve brought her father fameand left her in painsto weep for her unborn childrenfor the will die yet unborn.Jephthah’s grand childrenforever lost in her virgin wombfor she is the price he paid,the bargain for bitter victorydestined to die the day Israel was free.


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GLOOMY SOUL(:Adeniyi Johnson)

Oh! Weary soul wake up from despairand fight that mortal foe within,He strangled you while you slumberedon the bed of your own artistry.He plundered your mindwith illusions of hopeful endingthat miraged as you tread closerinto abyss of non-existent future.Wow! a lethal blackmail.Arise and fight back

Oh pathetic soul in gloom.The damage is done alreadyAnd the pitcher broken beyond repairsLike ashes of a cremated heroBlown away in scattered dustFrom his memorial vase into oblivion,depriving him a befitting burial.Oh! Gloomy soul in despair,It’s time to submerge the loadThat’s pulling back your feet.It’s time to wipe-off the sour tearsAnd agonize never again.


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A LOST FREEDOM(:Adeniyi Johnson)

The taste of freedom should be like honey;we thought at first as the aroma we perceivedfrom distant lands where every man’s king,void of shackles and thrive their soulswith the dews of heaven like that mount of blissthat will outlive their spirits and their sons’.

We summoned courage before our slave mastersto plead our share of the paradisewe believed was hidden in their closets

so as to grieve our spirit that once knew joywhen we wore masks each man in his cottageuntil they fell barricades and everyman wasthereafter made his neighbour’s brother.

Though our skies adjust so quickly,our birds mingled their nests from oak to oakand our beasts interbreed in unholy matrimonies,yet our hearts can hardly stand side by side.Though we shared same stream for drinkbut in opposite ends many footprints depart.

Our forced union deprived us onenesslike a river of many children that agitate at confluenceaftermath each leaving with scars and bruisesin the same number after the violent fight.For once we’d agreed to a common goal,a synchrony of our heartbeats that spoke freedomwas unprecedented-we were unfriendly folks

about to turn friends when foes afflict.

One vision- to at last be happy together…A dream of freedom a viable resolve,echoes of freedom filled the air.

To the camp of our colonial mastershoisted were banners of independence;we really meant business this time.


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Alas! Stamp and paper declared-‘Henceforth this is a free country…’ (Gbam!)But the freedom flag lamented in the airwaving reluctantly to an unseen music

like a dance to a sad operaThat sings only gloom and elegy-A people that hate and starve in freedomwill only prey itself back to slavery.


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WAR CHILD(:Adeniyi Johnson)

I wasn’t born to know war;echoes of bomb blast or deafening gunshotsaren’t supposed to mimic thunder.I was born to nurture flowerslike the birds build their nests in trees;I was born to sleep in peace and snoreto lullaby of the night’s crickets;I was born to fear and panic-Fears of spiders like gory vampiresnot barrels of pistols or riffles;

Fears of ghosts in moonlight folkloresnot witches with stuttering gun machines.I wasn’t born to age so fastto knowledge of the dreaded tempestthat ravages lives- both old and young,to decipher so fast witty ironies-how to fight to buy a peaceand kill a man for me to live.This budding tree that still thrive in nurseryis fruiting already hate and evillike a mirror that sleeps in darknessI have no clue how to reflect an imageeven in a flood of sunshine.For all I’ve known my whole life-to kill or be killed.


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B: .

John W. Sexton lives on the south-west coast of Kerry and is theauthor of five poetry collections, the most recent being (Revival Press, 2009) and (Salmon

Poetry 2013). His sixth collection, Futures Pass, is alsoforthcoming from Salmon. Under the ironic pseudonym of Sex W.Johnston he has recorded an album with legendary Stranglersfrontman, Hugh Cornwell, entitled Sons Of Shiva, which has beenreleased on Track Records. He is a past nominee for The HennessyLiterary Award and his poem The Green Owl won the ListowelPoetry Prize 2007. In 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and KatherineKavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.


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Famous Mice

(John W. Sexton)

the one my father trapped in the stainless steel kitchen sink

and drowned under the hot tap / the three-quarter moona cut coin through the net curtain / the one whose biteI nibbled from a half biscuit breathing in its rank whiff /a coconut macaroon a sweet moon / the one who stoppedthe washing machine for a week and then the man camein a blue bib-and-brace and the mouse was a pulped splodgein the works / the one I cornered in the skirting boardand set free believing it was me / the one I imaginedcurled in the grey right eye of the moon / the one ourneighbour’s cat brought live from the railway embankment /

the day-moon’s face inscrutable in the afternoon sky / theone I never saw but heard the pattering of / the one yetto be born / the one yet to be caught / the one in the brokenmoon of my skull when I die / the grey one / the brown one /the dor one / the grass one / the field one / the hazel one / the one

First published in The Big Bridge #15, Edited by Jason Braun


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My Secret Witch (John W. Sexton)

Her grey hair glitters under the moonlight

as she flies above the sea. Whales’ fisted headspart the waves below her. Storms festeron the tip of her tongue. She seeds the airwith her presence and men turn in their sleep.She is the nightmare of every child.Women fear her for they fear they’re her.They’re right to think that way. The womanwho falls asleep beside you is part of her dream.She dreams that she flies above the earth, madefrom the dreams of every woman who sleeps.

Sometimes she awakens in a strange place.A frying pan is in her hand, eggand sausages sizzling in fat. A childis screaming in its cot and her husbandis shouting for no reason. Then she’sasleep again, storms festering on her tongue,the nightmare of every child, every man’ssuspicion of who his wife might be.

I know she is there, see her in the shotof grey of my lover’s hair. Awaitthe day when she stands before me in allher magnificence, withers me with a single word,and catching me by the earcarries me high above the earth.

From the collection Vortex (Doghouse 2005)


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My Granda as Lama Tensing

(John W. Sexton)

Lama Tensing stops at the river and grasps his chesthis disciples panic, fuss around him,but already his chest has opened

sparrows are exiting from the woundtwenty-five sparrows in allthe disciples count each single oneand every one of them made of smokeas they swoop down into the grassare absorbed by the earth

Lama Tensing Twenty-Five Sparrows journeys through the bursting heart of the worldcomes out through a wound in the yardwhere my grandfather stands by the spigotOh Granda, you grasped your chest

and twenty-five sparrows flew outbut no one saw them for they were made of smokeI’m only twelve, Granda, and too far awayI cannot hold you as you fall

I know only that the sparrows fly over the yardover the galvanized roof of the shedthe feochadáns are ripening in the fieldtheir spoked seeds floating upeach becomes the heart of a sparrowand all is healed

First published in The Hiberno-English Archive , Edited by Terence Patrick Dolan From the collection Petit Mal (Revival Press, 2009)


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ANU Poetry Anthology -April

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Transcript of ANU Poetry Anthology -April