ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume X Issue I
CoverforIssue97


The Masthead:
“The Garden”
from The English Flower Garden and Home Grounds
by William Robinson
1906
Courtesy of The British Library





The Garden, sleeping through the dark months, the seasons of the moon, seed catalogues, the garden dreams,
Eden, Eden in the sky, time, time that stops, herbs and flowers, roses that bud
that bloom into Spring, into Summer . . .










“spanglers
                    cascade down poplars
                                                                light
                                                                                 and light

                    . . . and dance . . .”

to catch Summer when you can catch it a course in goodbyes we’re sleeping through Armegeddon food runs and work if war were on the doorstep blue, blue mouse in a trap blue nautilus dreams very careful about the rain and winter haberdashery maidengirl tv movie odd perpendicular crimes nude flowers pinks the disembodied Lord someone on a sidewalk bench pulls me closer I smile whisper “goodbye” les roses blanche dans la verre sont seches dans le sombre night flowers should always be fresh cut from the garden le sombre antique bottle above the sink dans la cuisine des fleurs coloré au sauvage . . .










Subterranean Blue Poetry
 
Volume X Issue I
 
(January 2022)










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Subterranean Blue Poetry

www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com
 
© 2022










MY FATHER’S PETUNIAS

Amlanjyoti Goswami


I am told
Time has no horizon
It is a straight line
It keeps repeating itself

Like seasons,
Marriages, deaths and births.

But these flowers are trying to tell me
something.

They belong to today
And I cannot bring time into that.

These petunias.
Violet, blue, fading pink, even yellow.
A shock of red.

They ask me for nothing.

And when I spend time with them
They allow themselves to
Spread a little,
Out of themselves
Their veins lifting into the
Void from where
Time comes.

I ask no questions
There are none to ask.
I am content to listen
To the loom unwrap itself
Line space

Sun and cloud, the old hide and seek.
When I return,
The clock’s hands have turned a little.









THE MAN ON THE TREE

Amlanjyoti Goswami


The man on the tree
Watches the moon
He is looking for a way

To go back.
He is not certain
He will reach

Where he came from.
Now he is stuck in limbo
Cannot go higher, cannot come down.

Lend me a hand,
The rest mock him.
Let me be, he pleads

The birds are coming for me.
They are feathered and mean.
They believe in nothing

And when they flutter
A thousand illnesses
Creep upon you.

Why are you up then?
Someone asked,
To jeers and cheers.

Because I cannot see a thing
From below, he said.
Down there there is only strife

And neighbours and prying aunts.
Look at those serene clouds,
He mused. And that stirring sunset.

As the rest hushed into silence.
When will the birds come?
Was all they asked.









ASTERS, JASMINE & WILDFLOWERS

by Ojo Taiye


nothing is beautiful about leaving. There are a pica of
things I want
to tell my unborn child — I guess that’s the crux of
fatherhood. It is
easier for people to think I wanted a girl child. Yes,
they are half
right. My father had no daughters. Every longing is a
mirror. In all
of this, my desires are small berries. Grant me this
obsession — now at
twenty-seven I have learned that mutiny won’t save
me — chalk it up to the sound of a loud hope gone missing.
It’s been three
years since my last date & I don’t know how to
talk to my son about
girls. What other reason do I have to be in love? What
is the point if
not the heat? That’s the
most December thing in the world: pleasure —
sorry, i’m losing the thread — I mean, there is a word
for the fear of
vacancy but not of drowning. I’m tired of my mother
crying — afraid of
what a songless bird tearing through the earth -
deposits of a language
with endless words for
faith in self & loneliness. For one thing, it’s
late — the effect of time — even with cold creeping in.
I find myself
growing regrets like asters. How else to stitch a body
onto a new
horizon — I forgive myself. What becomes a distant
edge is a form of
rescue that opens the heart walls to the history of my
stupidity. Who
wants simple things on a December morning? I
undress myself &
underneath I am leaping into the short sleeves of joy
unbound as the
snow that falls & goes away. Let me start again,
sometimes I forget
the difference between the pillowcases under my
eyes & a trapdoor when
I erase my feelings. Again — mistake — I didn’t tell you
the truth about
my scar. I long for a woman to have me by the teeth.
What else is out
there — still yearning for the exact inexactness of my
black design — I
remember making plans for the hope of love to come
tomorrow with its
small blue hands turned to pink by air or prayer.









THE LOVESICK FLOWERS

Original: Assamese: Guna Moran
Translation: Bibekananda Choudhury


I love flowers as destined
But cannot love flowers in the measure of flowers

I love
You
Would keep on loving so
Cannot but express love every moment
Flower is my heart
Do understand my importance

A word from the heart
And a little nurture
Flowers don’t need anything more
That too I can’t always manage

Love becomes full of words overflowing the heart
I caress holding the stem of the flower
Flowers glitter with laughter
From the joy of soul

In the incessant battle with the thorn
The love of heart remains in heart
It does not mean that o flower
I am ignoring you out of laziness or anger

Flower is my heart
Do understand my importance









GARDEN

Original: Assamese: Guna Moran
Translation: Bibekananda Choudhury


Had been mine till it bloomed
Lost ownership after it bloomed

Timely manure
Timely upkeep
Now this much is my job

The blooms
Dances swaying to and fro
In front of me
They sing oblivious of the surrounding
I gaze transfixed
Though feel like touching
I pull back my extended hand
Afraid the petals would fall

Throughout the day
Throughout the night
I remain engrossed in the thought of the garden
Still totally ignoring my existence
The bumble bees and honey bees
Enter into the garden
And suck the honey
I remain mute like a helpless spectator

Joy of the flower Is my joy too









daylily

by Antony Di Nardo


daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily                daylily                 daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily daylily                   daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily               daylily









LA VALSE DES HÉMÉROCALLES

by Antony Di Nardo


This also is a story from long ago when the rivers carried the goods of a nation from one
century to the next and my windows faced la Butte-aux-Cailles where the light would go to
experiment with the notion of sepia, a nostalgia that I thought of as la valse des hémérocalles

That summer a long line of lilies not far from my rooms were banked on the square spoken of
as remembrance and memory, a cloister of them, tall in their uniforms, elegant in that French
sort of way, a swagger in the small of the breeze
        as they re-arranged their collars,
                        adjusted their sleeves









—CODA

by Antony Di Nardo


Three lilies with their face in the sun,
                                                  their mouths wide open—
Not a word have they to say to me, yet               can’t stop talking when I’m not listening









DRIP PAINTINGS

by Antony Di Nardo


*
Lily’s
getting older,
obsessive, messy,
dripping with confessions, wet
with the fresh paint of sunsets

*
in the poetry of living long
or dying young
what’s a day when your life’s
cut short
but still can fit into a poem?

*
Lily’s cane supports a dying wish —
face it (her words not mine)
no one needs a second set of knees

we fall on one, leave on the other

*
we’re all painted,
children alike,
to stand on our own two feet

in her use of shadows
Lily records an end to summer

Lily buys herself some time

*
it’s true we all begin
to look like dead leaves
(lilies, sunsets, Labour Day)
when the paint goes dry









DAILY

by Antony Di Nardo


a lily is
                    a lily is
                                        a lily is                                                   a lily is

how I keep track of time


I ask nothing of my work but that it returns to me


daylily
                daylily
                                daylily
                                                daylily
                                                                daylily
                                                                                daylily









DO NOT BRING ME FLOWERS
for Carmen

by Ryan Gibbs


do not cut the roses
they lure me atop a stone balcony
where I still savour the passion of first love

do not cut the hydrangeas
they shelter me inside my childhood garden
where I still hear the laughter of fairies

do not cut the wisteria
they guide me towards grandfather’s country home
where I still witness the miracle of seaside sunrise

do not cut the forsythia
they root me here across a deep ocean
where I still smell the sweetness of honey

do not cut the cherry blossoms
they carry me back to each passing spring
where I still embrace the tenderness of winter’s thaw










FEATURED POET: ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

BELOVED, THOU HAS BROUGHT ME MANY FLOWERS

by

Elizabeth Barrett Browning



Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers,
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart’s ground. Indeed, those beds and
          bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine,
Here’s ivy! – take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.










MISSED CONNECTIONS

Vancouver Craigslist – Missed Connections – July 29th, 2021 – Anonymous



enby florist with cool tattoos (Vancouver)


i asked you for a flower rec and you punched me in the face. i really felt like we had a moment and would love to have many more with you. message me with the colour of shirt i was wearing (before the blood loss) and i’ll give you a detailed description of your toe ring.

(N.B.: “with an email” - a note from the Editor

“or a phone number” - a note from the other Editor

“the possibilities for abuse are endless . . .” - says Machiavelli

“and i was cryin’” - says Machiavelli Jr.

“ice cream” - says the cat

“ice cream” - says the other cat

“ice cream” - says the Editor and the other Editor

“the flowers were good” - says mum)










BOOK REVIEWS



POLYPHONIC LYRE: THE CELEBRATION, THE DANCE



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Polyphonic Lyre

Author: Neil Beethoven Flowers

Publisher: Little Wing Press

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 60


“I felt so symphonic yesterday
If I knew Picasso, I would buy myself a gray guitar and play”
- from Mr. Jones by Counting Crows


The best in New Age extravaganza, the mixed voices of Imagist, minimalist, Beat, Haikuesque, experential poetics that dance, Polyphonic Lyre by Neil Beethoven Flowers and Little Wing Press. This large art house book features eclectic art/photos of graffiti, the street, Art Nouveau within a setting of warm brown titles and crisp black print. At the end of the poem you may find in small print the place where the poem was written, a travelogue through stories, through villages near and far, through time. A storybook for those that wander, through the cities of Ontario, California, British Columbia, Quebec, Saskatchewan, France, China.

This page of words is awake, speaks, dances into excitement as craft, becomes an art installation. It is the written word that moves. The original use of language manifests in different Art Nouveau progressions, from spare minimalist Beats to new form Haiku and more, startles with new meanings for words and original word formations.

From, How Bill Sang

“little

               white

                              daisies

                                              star”

The broken thought train weaves between the first and the third person, based in the every day, tells of a time and place, of someone. Highly intuitive, the work exists in a certain descriptive reality that suggests other plains creating mystery and shadow. Each poem is a snapshot of time and place, of a person, like liquid gold that flows through your hands.

The images within the poetics are celebrations of the lover, an appreciation of beauty/the Spirit, of antique cars, fishing haunts, of coffee shops, and backroads. The stories of people, of the Indigenous peoples, the Chinois, the Blacks, the poets, “An Autobiography of Arthur Rimbaud,” “Questions for Jerzy Grotowski,” “American Me,” “For Tao Quan Ming,” “Two After Du Fu,” “North Korea Pastorale,” “First Nations” highlight circumstances of poverty and suffering, are iconic weaves of images of nature, of lovers, of experiences with themes of war and anti-war, universal truths, the Artist’s way as dance, a truthtelling, a celebration of life, stories of disparity, poverty within grace.

One of This Writer’s favourite poems is FIRST NATIONS – IV YAH-HAH-HAH for its description of life:

“Bluecoats neither
So anyways we stay this side

you go over that side
then you run

hard as you can toward us
whatever you got in your hand

box of cheerios
shirt from nieman-marcus

don’t matter, we try to grab it
you try to hold on, oh yeah, gets rough

like life, you know, point being
no matter what, hold on and
be sure to laugh”

The poetry dances in truth, in the sunlight of the joy of the artist’s craft well celebrated, an event in New Age poetics, Polyphonic Lyre by Neil Beethoven Flowers.

Available @ Little Wing Press. Email: littlewingpress@gmail.com.











INTERVIEW

Neil Beethoven Flowers
(poet, actor, director, teacher, writer for radio, film and theater)



Subterranean Blue Poetry: How did you discover the craft of writing? What led you to pick up the pen and write poetry?

Neil Beethoven Flowers: We had The Golden Treasury of Children’s Verse in our home (I think that was the title). I was nine or ten when I first read it. I loved poems like “The Owl and The Pussycat”, “The Jabberwocky,” and the lyrics for “John Henry.” Later, an English teacher introduced our class to the Petrarchan sonnet. We read Keats’s “On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer” and Shelley’s “Ozymandias.” They knocked me out. Big ideas in tiny bundles. I can still recite them from memory. Then we read Browning’s “My Last Duchess.” That taught me how you could write a poem with a scary murderer talking. So I read Browning’s “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came,” another great poem of his, very strange, which begins “My first thought was, he lied in every word”. That’s an opening line!

But it was really Bob Hogg’s seminar in Modern and Contemporary Poetry at Carleton University in Ottawa, and George Bowering’s seminar in Contemporary Canadian Poetry at Simon Fraser, that really got me going. I will forever owe Bob and George a debt of thanks for introducing me in depth to the great Modernist and Post-Modernist poets/writers in English and to, crucially, Canadian writers in general. You have to know what your own people are doing. “Wow!,” I thought. Our poetry speaks to me. I can do that, too.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: Where have you studied?

Neil Beethoven Flowers: I earned my undergraduate Honours degree in English from Carleton University in Ottawa. That’s when I took Bob Hogg’s seminar. I have a graduate acting certificate from the University of Santa Cruz in California, an MA in Theatre and Dance from the University of New Mexico, and an MFA in Dramatic Writing from the University of Southern California. I entered a PhD programme in English but by that time I was writing poems and screenplays. Reading nearly all literary criticism bored me. Still does mostly. Except, I should add, DH Lawrence’s Studies in Classic American Literature, Olson’s Call Me Ishmael and the essay “Projective Verse,” Hugh Kenner’s The Pound Era, and Frank Davey’s essays on Canadian writing. Fabulous work, all. Anyway, I dropped out. Thank goodness.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: Who are your major writing influences?

Neil Beethoven Flowers: William Carlos Williams. Ezra Pound. Bob Hogg. George Bowering. John Keats. Robert Browning. Denise Levertov. Jane Austen. Erin Moiré. Leonard Cohen. The Four Horsemen. Kurt Schwitters. Lao Tzu. Henry Miller. David Webb Peoples. Ron Hansen. The Marx Brothers. Chinua Achebe. Basil Bunting. Albert Camus. Voltaire. Violette Leduc. Ben Hecht. Thomas King. Rimbaud. Blake. W.W.E. Ross. Hubert Aquin. Rod Bradley. Marie-Claire Blais. Lorca. Shakespeare. Du Fu. Mary Shelley. Kazuo Ishiguro. Powwow singers. Charles Olson. ee cummings. Daphne Marlatt.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What is the most interesting work of literature you have read? Is there a work of literature you come back to regularly?

Neil Beethoven Flowers: I have read Leonard Cohen’s Beautiful Losers and Melville’s Moby Dick six times each. Leonard may have trickled into artistic irrelevance later in life but I admire The Favourite Game, which I think is a great bildungsroman, right up there with Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I love all four novels by Albert Camus, each different, each a masterpiece. I’ve read most of Pound’s Cantos several times, except for the Adams and Chinese cantos, which I avoid. I admire Maryanne Robinson’s Iowa quartet, especially Lila. I like George Bowering’s Burning Water. I have probably read Bob Hogg’s L’Anse aux Meadows fifteen or twenty times and the same with Frank Davey’s The Clallam. I can’t recommend Erin Moiré’s A Sheep’s Vigil strongly enough. Thomas Berger’s Little Big Man is to the American West as Moby Dick is to the Pacific Ocean; it’s a great novel, far superior to the film and the film was okay.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: How do you think your travels and different landscapes reflect in your poetry?

Neil Beethoven Flowers: Anyone who has read my poetry will know that my peregrinations and the landscapes of those travels figure strongly in my work, from Paris to Beijing to North Korea to the North Saskatchewan River to Muskoka, Ontario.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What are the titles of the books you have published?

Neil Beethoven Flowers: Taxicab Voice. Suite for the Animals. Some Kinds of Earthly Love. A Signal through the Flames. Polyphonic Lyre.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: Can you describe the poetry projects you are currently working on or planning?

Neil Beethoven Flowers: Polyphonic Lyre, my recent book, was a huge effort. Two years, at least. More. I hope it shows. I need to have a motorcycle accident now and disappear from view for a while. Kidding. I am not planning any poetry projects. I write poems as they occur, then they seem to morph into a book. I’ll have to see. I just listen and go on from there. I may never write another book of poems.

What I am working on are a novel, Acts of Treason, somewhat tangentially about Lew Wallace and Billy The Kid and the Lincoln County War, though much of the novel takes place in the present on a road trip; also a screenplay about the famed American geologist Clarence King. It’s called The Great Diamond Hoax. I’m collaborating on this screenplay with an old friend, Zeke Richardson. I’m really enjoying collaborating. Spending hours talking through an entire movie plot with another screenwriter before you have ever set a word on paper is wonderful. I recommend it. Another screenplay of mine, Wasichu!, a First Nations comedy, is currently being shopped around Los Angeles by a producer friend. Poetry is my first love but a successful screenplay can earn you a cottage on a lake.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What do you like to do when you are not writing?

Neil Beethoven Flowers: Hike in the mountains. Play blues and jazz piano. Do yoga. Dance. Sing. Talk with my son and grandsons. Listen to string quartet music. Tie my hair in a pony tail. Perform Amy Winehouse’s “Valerie” at open mikes. Count my blessings. Read about space, time, and the universe. Thank The Great Spirit. Have zoom meetings with those I love. Read my brother Bruce Whiteman’s essays on Classical literature. Watch what is going on with young people in their twenties. Pay attention to children. Look at internet car porn (especially Delahayes and ‘40s American coupés). Cook. Eat well. Snuggle under the covers. Sleep. Dream about flying.












LETTERS IN A BRUISED COSMOS

“suffer the bones
the night
and starlight . . .”



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Letters in a Bruised Cosmos

Author: Liz Howard

Publisher: McClelland & Stewart

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 66


“ . . . “refiler la comète”, “to retrace the path of the comet” –
that is, to keep walking all night.”
- from The Other Paris by Luc Sante


An exciting New Age polyphonic poetic kraftwerk that expertly presents the politic of the Indigenous woman poet within the post-modern diaspora, a celebration in poetics, Letters in a Bruised Cosmos by Liz Howard. Liz Howard is widely published and won the Griffin Poetry Prize (2016) for her debut collection, Infinite Citizen of the Shaking Tent. She has studied science and creative writing, earning degrees at the University of Toronto and the University of Guelph. Her heritage is of mixed race Anishinaabe.

Through the dark presentation of place, this poet speaks in lightning. Heavy as if with depression, someone on a difficult journey, a dislocated family, lost lovers, travels through life in the streets. New technology images mix with Anishinaabe heritage images, nature, an idea of broken and whole that lingers on the tongue like a precious offering. An idea of the Indigenous women’s role and gender politics, perhaps the suffering of a broken bed. Themes include the death of her father, participating in a brain experiment, saying confession at a church, being in bed with a lover, a day in the life, nature haunts in an innovation of technical execution and alacrity. A truthtelling that occasionally breaks into the surrealist, sharp with observation.

“A rape in every
generation of my line within the time of photography. A heritable
loom of methylated DNA. How to speak this quiet violence that has
separated me from history? Have I made myself accessible
enough?”

Within the work of poetry is the reference to “True North”, almost deified, an incarnated exit, perhaps a reference to northern Ontario where she was raised and also like cultural folklore, the mythic “go north” everything will be better there happenstance that on a bad day titillates on the edges of reality.

A progression from the post-modern Beat influenced poetry of Leonard Cohen, this poetry shines. Also notable in Letters in a Bruised Cosmos are the innovations in poetic form. The first poem has the words,

                  “THE
                  HOLE
                 IN THE
                   SKY”

inserted into the centre of the lines of the block poem, so that the capitalized words can be read different ways, just the capitalized words, or the capitalized word within that line of the poem, and then spinning into reading the capitalized words in part, in unison. A creative dance with darkness, with loss. One of the poems, “Superposition” dances in a wave. There are poems in columns, that can be read down and across, in “Life Cycle of the Animal Called She” there are concept words pulled to the lefthand side of the body of the work,

“Wife
Mother
Mistress”

It is a genius of new poetic form.

The entire write ends with an exquisite love poem, drawn through darkness, a lament in beautiful execution. Truly an original offering in brilliant, shining light through darkness, a new day, Letters in a Bruised Cosmos by Liz Howard.

Available @ Amazon.ca.











OF POETIC INTEREST . . .

 




SUNSHINE ON OUR LITTLE TOWNE

by

Rebecca Anne Banks



(Abridged)





“When the flowers bloom, memories and poetry . . .”
God planted a rose . . .

someone said, “I think it’s blue . . .”
someone said, “I think it’s pink . . .”
someone said, “I think it’s black . . .”

silence

someone said, “It reminds me of my mother . . .”
someone else said, “I couldn’t be that . . .”
someone said, “I think I hate it . . .”

(open a book
pour dark falls on it
hang a tree ornament
“next”)

(I cried)

silence

someone yelled at it
someone yelled and threw sand
the rose wilted

silence

(someone cried)

silence

someone whispered,

“I think I love you . . .”


. . . unsuffer your silence

friends of the midnight cloth

one man’s heart of darkness

is another man’s Sunshine

the black stone marker

silence of the angels

silence of the lambs

rest in peace . . .










“. . . why tigers eat their young . . .”
- Al Capone (gangster)

“grey and still
and grey winter evening
the sky falls darkly . . .”

5 degrees colder in blue, friends of the cloth the dark she weeps into with no feeling was it Friday night is it Thursday or any day of the week? . . . a house of rain a house of secrets the dark he, the dark she, psycho psychonaughts, the cold rain, if you don’t think it, it doesn’t exist . . . some painted jo, sing everyone to sleep . . . o’ Sunshine early morning tv “The Wizard of Oz is a very funny place The Wizard of Oz has a very funny face” was it difficult to be alone, thoughts rolling out, not coming in too much, peruse the furniture, living out of a Sears catalog, mess and mess only cleaned at Christmas and maybe Spring the dark she “some days I’d just like to burn the kitchen off the end of the house” . . .

how things come full circle how things come ‘round, how time rides, time, time is a quilt knitting people into storylines, timelines into poetry, dropping stitches, the disappeared, how people disappear . . . afternoon car drive and drive the Chinese green walls, floor, ceiling, booths green restaurant the odd older fat man in a white shirt black pants sweats they feed Sunshine French fries the dark he is writing on a piece of paper . . . swallow, swallow that phone number . . . the man in the open cadillac rocks back forth back in sunlight pictures black and white tv his wife his wife she climbs down the back of the car pictures of the President’s assassination auto play again and again . . . the sun eclipses the moon through the piece of darkened window glass watching . . .

Tupelo gardens girl child falling down the red bicycle at the same spot at the same stop sign in front of the school every morning falling, falling down, heading home bleedie knee . . . dark pictures darkly, silent thought train, silent to the point of being entirely bored, i . . . at 3 years root around the new bathroom sink cabinet on the floor find the dark he’s straight razor play play with the rings around the top . . . screaming red fire, the blade adjustment nearly slits his throat . . . no, no, no Sunshine . . .

(To be continued . . .)











“. . . all the poplar leaves
                                        turn
                                                 in the wind

                                                                                                      . . . in tristes . . .”


UNTITLED

by

Rebecca Anne Banks


the trouble with paradise is someone is always falling back to sleep a tall blonde man at a crosswalk dried oranges and spice in a small muslin bag small blue seashells knotted at the end of strings quiet the day in my skirt pocket worship like the sun an invitation to lunch . . . time is long time is short the harpees are in season a bad day for orphans sad spring roby the Lost Property Office strangers the property house strangers if you were for her she looked like love if you were for her o.k. candy belle gartner things that are cast off a land of a 1,000 stories flights from Eden girl, girl from Zon girl on a half note what happened to all the beautiful flowers an entire ceremony in heaven after you have died dashborn clefs blue green silk ribbon in a drawer hang the night is my natural time of day 3 times home memories of you the rain falling rain . . . the night . . . what is missing . . .












“and candy-coloured days . . .”
Art/Photo by Rebecca Anne Banks










BIOGRAPHY


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 40 years and is the author of over 30 books of poetry, guides to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a family cookbook, a book of children’s stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CDs of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CDs of music awaiting production. She won an IARA Award for Top 55 Internet Airplays for Angel Song (2010). She is an Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets. She is also the Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com), CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records (www.tympanilanerecords.com), the Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca)and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts (www.kintsugiartquilts.com).

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, a Victorian poet of the Romantic school, born in Durham, England. She was the eldest of 12 children, the family had a fortune in Jamaican sugar plantations. She had a lung condition that required the longtime use of morphine. After an intense letter writing campaign, she famously married fellow poet Robert Browning. They moved to Florence, Italy and she gave him a son. She is best remembered for the works, Aurora Leigh and Sonnets from the Portuguese, amongst others.

Bibekananda Choudhury, (Translator of Guna Moran) an electrical engineer by profession, working with the State Government of Assam, has completed his Masters from BITS-Pilani. He has also earned a diploma in French language from Gauhati University. His work has been published (both original and translated) in Assamese, Bengali & English in popular periodicals and newspapers. His translated poems have been published in Indian Literature, the bi-monthly journal of Sahitya Akademy. ‘Suryakatha’, the Bengali adaptation done by him is being taught in the undergraduate Courses of Bangalore University and post graduate courses of Gauhati University. A collection of 101 folktales from the foothills of Patkai translated by him has also been published by Gauhati University. He is presently the editor-in-chief of Dimorian Review a multidisciplinary web journal.

Neil Beethoven Flowers (poet, actor, director, teacher, writer for radio, film and theater) was born in Montreal. He is a fantastical icon of New Age poetics. He has studied literature at Carleton University under poet Robert Hogg. He live and works in Los Angeles. His art house poetry collections include, Taxicab Voice, Suite for the Animals, Some Kinds of Earthly Love, A Signal Through the Flames, and Polyphonic Lyre.

Ryan Gibbs is an English professor who lives in London, Canada. His poems have appeared in Illumen, Blueline, Tower Poetry, The Windsor Review, and Tamaracks: Canadian Poetry for the 21st Century. His children’s poetry has been included in the State of Texas Assessment of Academic Readiness.

Amlanjyoti Goswami. His poetry has been published around the world, in India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Hong Kong, the U.K., U.S.A., South Africa, Kenya and Germany, and in the anthologies, 40 under 40: An Anthology of Post Globalisation Poetry (Poetrywala), A Change of Climate (Manchester Metropolitan University, Environmental Justice Foundation and the University of Endinburgh) and the Sahitya Akademi Anthology of Modern English Poetry. His recent collection of poems, River Wedding, has just been published by Poetrywala and has been widely reviewed. His poems have also appeared on street walls of Christchurch, exhibitions in Johannesburg and buses in Philadelphia. He has read in various places, including in New York, Delhi and Boston. He grew up in Guwahati, Assam and lives in Delhi.

Liz Howard (poet) lives and works in Toronto. She has earned an Honours Bachelor of Science from the University of Toronto and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Guelph. She is widely published. Her debut collection Infinite Citizen of the Shaking Tent won the Griffin Poetry Prize (2016). She is of mixed Anishinaabe heritage.

Guna Moran is an Assamese poet and critic. His poems and literary pieces are published in national and international magazines, journals, webzines, newspapers and anthologies such as - Tuck magazine, Merak, Spillword, Setu, Story Mirror, Glomag, Poem Hunter, The Sentinel, The Hills Times, Litinfinte, Best Poetry, Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Creation times, Infinite sky, Phantasmagoria Magazine, International Anthology of Poems on Autism, International Anthology on Water (Waco Fest Anthology 2019), International anthology on TIME, THE VASE : 12th Guntur International Poetry Fest Anthology 2019, POETICA : The Inner Circle Writer’s Group Poetry Anthology 2019, Nocturne (Poetry of the Night, An Anthology). His poems have also been translated into Italian and French, Bangla language.

Antony Di Nardo. In the poet’s words, “My poetry appears widely in journals and anthologies across Canada and internationally, and has been translated into several languages. I have been awarded Exile’s Gwendolyn MacEwen Poetry Prize for Best Suite of Poems, a collection which was also nominated for a National Magazine Award. My poem, “Another Sunday in Aleppo,” was a finalist for last year’s CBC Poetry Prize. A sixth book of poems, Forget-Sadness-Grass, is forthcoming from Ronsdale Press in 2022. I was born in Montreal and live among the daylilies, when in bloom, in Sutton, Quebec.”

Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool to tell his frustration with the society.