Art/Photo by Rebecca Anne Banks
“full moon quarant
at blue early morning
gentle the nightsky . . .”
painting and painting how thin the walls have become in the night red harlot casings a history of war the louder they yell
the faster you run the epidemic of “see, so, my” lost in predatory games the rat of Hastings dog wars over no one drunk eye,
now talk talk no talk long time long . . . time solitary games write into the blue nocturne prayers out of chaos the wasteland
the heartland the inside of nothing wash and go rain to raise a breath of feather a freehold in blue and rampant star horse
“you look beautiful in the moonlight” in the mirror diamond stars earrings lace the blue and dark we are alone in the
nightsky . . .
The pages of a book shudder, flutter, then turn, all at once
a pen rolls to the floor
it is not the dream, nor the wind
that wakes her
but the low call in the air, in the sky
of her name, perhaps, or a sound, that falls over itself as it comes, like her name,
whispered too quickly between the creak of the floorboards
and the opening of the door
she seeks it
outside the night is high and black
clear and drawn all over with everyone else’s stars
she, a silhouette framed in an open door, half in, half out listening to the far, far away rumble
of German bombers, of London burning, of the sky falling
but still, she hears it, a murmur, a snake in the grass, a feather falling, a moment passing from
one page, to the next
1960, Lansquenet-Sous-Tannes, France
The North Wind brings autumn sooner than expected
brown and sweet and slow as treacle
today, it is melancholic, today it is tired
nothing more than the scutter of dry, dead oak leaves across her path
and the gentle flirt and tease of her skirt - a scarlet flag in the gloom
now, home, she stands looking out of the window above the kitchen sink
she sees how it plays, how it turns about and chases the cat that bristles and hisses and
searches the space where nothing is and nothing was
it is here that she hears it most of all, here in the house of skeletons, where the chill slips, soft
as fingers over the nape of her neck
she closes her eyes, feels it closer
as faint as a passing breeze, then closer, watches her, echoes in the call of a pigeon, the
scraping of a mouse in the walls, it is full and faint and hollow, it rattles the
branches of the trees against the glass and hisses the names of those before her, rising like steam, smothering
1990, Washington Square Park, New York, USA
Even she, they say, hears it, even she, even she, at six years old with lollipop shoes and
duckling yellow coat
she who stands in the rain, face upturned toward the sky, looking, looking
stands in the park by the river with the bronze monkeys
and the gazebo where last year she had a birthday party
six, she can hear the ticking and knows before it turns that the song of time waits for no man
it comes from the past, from the river, through the trees, through the leaves, a beat, a rhythm
a chattering, faster, faster, loud and louder
takes her breath
leaves her bitter, but still, she finds its charm
and walks like she’s sleeping to the spot behind the fence where you can buy ice cream from
a man with a cart in summer
2000, Marrakech, Morocco
In Marrakech, it is a song under the blood moon
heard in the dreams before dusk where the night is the colour of magic - blue and pink and
feathered rose gold
higher, and higher it rings from the mountains to the sea, almost too high to hear
then, suddenly low, suddenly hot and light as air
between pattern and weave, fabric and pottery, it takes the voice of the stranger, the laugh of
a lover, juggles them with a cry and skulks, greedy and wild
high up in a kitchen she hears it coming, knows its rhythm, knows its voice
here from the kitchen, she sees the smoke rise from the souk, cinnamon, spices, tempting and
try me, it teases, then, like Alice, Eat me, Drink me…
the giver of sweet things, it seeps, creeps, finds her, tastes her
by Nnadi Samuel
the shadow kneeling nearby, shades the typeface to congeal.
it never sits well;
how gecko walls the title of a first draft of the year with their hinds.
the backside, tailing the verbs to a bare spot,
where auxiliaries are key.
their use of eyeballs — weighing my second thought.
the almond wet of it,
shelled in a case: all leprous & stria.
they love all their stains tasteless,
till we changed this: some ginger brown, bright coffee of cinnamon stripes & cedar.
like bits of unhealthy weed, choked in places scale shed;
an attempt to grope unfits your limb.
slimes, known to catfish, merging to a glyph:
a sloped vowel, in need of fins to make glides.
slipperier beasts have crossed my quiet times,
& snaked off.
yet bronze shadow creeps near,
taking the inks to heart.
& getting all remorseful,
& wrenching the case,
when its vent fits the Arial font.
IRALOGY: A STUDY OF AIR
by Lawdenmarc Decamora
She doesn’t really speak.
She sees the rainfall
so domestic as that sight
of home revivified on crayons.
My trusted typewriter
wants to celebrate her,
one Thursday night in June.
She drives past the flaming
fields when I can’t figure
the nonchalance of smoke
as that of life’s arithmetic.
She looks homeward
and sees no regrets
guised in purple clouds.
This carnival of hope
she’s stabilized, memory
sitting still on Ottomans.
She’s leading a simple life
outside of Miras
watching the world walk by
in its curious shoes.
I think what she does
each day is beautiful.
She’s already in my heart
long before Bosphorus parted
the world’s ancient fears.
by August Smith
A beast in the middle of nowhere opens
from within, spits out
an amethyst tongue and diamond-turquoise entrails.
A boy comes along, first to encounter
the beast—Eleusinian are the mysteries
which beckon, more than jeweled biology is proffered.
The archaeologist within
him awakens: he extemporizes,
and a Rosetta Stone blooms
like a flower in his hand.
how to begin a new poem
by Ojo Taiye
nothing is so beautiful
nothing is truer than its
hymns & cross
i am writing again with
both hands full of
everyone has an
wants to stay
a while & kneel to joy.
there are bright
the power lines calling
forth the sun. the wind
so is the coco plums
too; it swings & shakes
that nest in its outer
bark. no one should
before grief. i’ve been
wrong about many
not hope — with it i
have dug happiness
from the serifs
of my own pain. & still
as the day heaves
reminded of the scar i
came from & the future
wanted. my mother
passed a year before
though i drank her
absence like liquor — i
to replace the shape of
loss with music & it
tasted just fine.
i think of gypsy
somewhere in the
distance. another home
drawn to my body’s
a lace-like appetite that
seeks to wear winter’s
FEATURED POET: SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
ASTROPHIL AND STELLA:
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show
Sir Philip Sidney
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,—
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."
Vancouver Craigslist - Missed Connections - February 20th, 2021 - Anonymous
we used to hook up dt van (downtown van)
we used to hook up on craigslist you hot female me couvered in ink
(N.B.: “love, love me do . . .” - a note from the Editor
“you know I love you . . .” - a note from the other Editor
“we’re getting out our blue pens . . .” - says the cat
“and notebooks . . .” - says the other cat
“I would love to be written on” - says Madame X
“If everybody went walking around covered in words of poetry. How outrageous” - says Mister X
“Meow” - says the cat)
LOVE/AIR: THE NEW ROMANTICS
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: Love/Air
Author: Lawdenmarc Decamora
Publisher: Atmosphere Press
Date of Publication: 2021
“As in a melancholy garden,
A white fountain faithfully sighs towards the Azure!”
- from Sigh by Stéphane Mallarmé
Some Imprints of poetry are like treasures. A young adult at their grandmother's looking through the bookcase discovers a book of poetry
something special, something magical, squirrels the book away in their tote bag and heads down to the beach. Summer holiday . . .
Love/Air by Lawdenmarc Decamora and Atmosphere Press, is one such book. An exciting New Age poet heralds from the Philippines,
a Romantic Surrealism inside imagist blue and green archipelago imagine. From the ancient rice fields in the mountains
to the islands of seacoast, inside the rich history of Filipino literature, a fantastique write. The Philippines has a particularly
full historical tradition in culture, a place of island stories. In prehistory epics were passed from generation to generation
in oral tradition. The archipelago was taken over by the Spanish in 1521, bringing classical literature that featured
newspapers, prose, religious and secular dramas, and many forms of poetry. Forms of poetry included Tanga, Ladino, Corridos,
Awit with variances of metre, language and setting. Post-colonial literature included writings in English and in later works the
reconciliation of the English/Spanish/Asian identity. Modern literature of the 20th century is called “Modernismo” influenced by
the French Parnassien and Symbolist schools. Lawdenmarc Decamora has earned a post-graduate degree in creative writing and is
currently studying literature and culture while teaching at a prestigious Philippine university. He is published in national and
This poetry travels in long swirling thoughts woven with original images, occasionally broken, walking through days of . . . tea,
the market, covid, the act of writing at the typewriter, nature . . . underscored with the contemplation of a love affair, a marriage.
This poetry dances, mixed with images of the everyday, a souvenir shop, drawers of old licenses, time, aloneness and of constellations
and agriculture, the images of the natural world. A dance of colours, the imagine, a landscape of island exists in the clouds inside
the secret garden place where the poet writes. A truthtelling, the wisdom of the sage, the essence of honest, au sauvage with sky.
From "Lines depicting lovelight from your eyes":
"About you many good things come into
relation, I think of the constellation, vessels
& viaducts, the process like the lovelight
your eyes emit, true music
against the words."
The language is original, occasionally using short bursts of French, Japanese and other world languages. The poetry does not rhyme,
except for the very rare accidental occurrence. A lyrical offering, every word considered creating cadence, a song in poetry, with
the occasional influence of the Beat tradition. It is the poet in the dance with the Muse, a contemplation of heaven/hell, a certain
enchantment watching the fire light of the candle, the poet weaves his magic. Perhaps influenced by the French Symbolist Poets, the
poetry lives inside the brilliance of the greats, not unlike the love poetry of Pablo Neruda.
Of the exotic, this poetry imprint is a photograph of a certain year, a certain place, a certain time in the life of the poet, the
magic of the crucible. Decamora spins reality into symbolist and surrealist spaces of colours, original images, a struggle, a love
story bursting into sunlight. How the people of the world love their Poets, Love/Air, by Lawdenmarc Decamora.
Subterranean Blue Poetry: Who do you consider your major writing influences? In the rich tradition of literature in the Philippines,
which are your favourites?
Lawdenmarc Decamora: Even before participating in regional and national writing workshops, poetry readings organized by avant-garde
magazines to the more formal cultural platforms like universities and sponsored organizations, I invariably look back to music as
a pretext for my poetic undertaking. Like a sheep in delirium, I go crazy over the compositions—even how words and melody were
sutured to be aurally melismatic—of Bob Dylan for his flawless Beat aesthetic, Martin Gore of Depeche Mode for his music that’s
inimitably confessional, and Stephin Merritt of The Magnetic Fields and the icon John Lennon for their artistic sarcasm as a conduit
for playfulness. Wrestling entertainment and music via indie rock stations, ostensibly, gifted me the enormous interest in language.
While kids my age in postcolonial Philippines watched MTV and relished in imported video games, I sneaked out of the usual mainstream
habitus which led me to the luring open gates of poetry.
Growing up in a small town, I found solace in the beautiful art of reading. Being drunk with words and images is the ultimate drive;
like Surrealism, it’s “a way of being or desiring to be.” And I quote Cabo Verdean President Jorge Carlos Fonseca for that (laughs),
who is a Surrealist poet of note. Speaking of Surrealism in literature, I found this categorical assumption towards my work as somewhat
reductive. My poetic voice, style or technique don’t articulate this speech of the imagination alone. Maybe its cohabitation with
Beat philosophy, non-sequitur stylistics, satire and deconstruction. Only then would I be satisfied.
So, to answer your question, this take of an author towards his or her inspiration or influence seems, again, for me, reductive. But
I’ll try not to subscribe to that idea — as I’ve mentioned already a few of my favourite lyricists. Of course, there’s the classic
admiration for Eluard, Lorca, Neruda, Celan, the Beats, the Nuyorican poets, Dean Young, Anatoly Kudryavitsky of SurVision Magazine,
and this emerging poet from Bulgaria whose short poems really gripped me… I think her name’s Margarita Serafimova. Right. And the list
In my native clearing, I guess I would have to give credence to writers of my generation. Contemporary Philippine Anglophone literature,
historically speaking, can hardly take part on an equal footing to nationalist literature. The former being insulated in American
literary tradition, the latter in proletarian discourses. To be honest, I owe my formative training to writing workshops and to
MFA creative writing programs. In these institutionalized spaces I met wonderful poets like Dinah Roma, Merlie Alunan, Marjorie Evasco,
Marne Kilates, Mark Anthony Cayanan, Lourd de Veyra, Vincenz Serrano. I wouldn’t say that these people inspired me to become a writer,
but they drew me close to what I considered to be poetry.
Subterranean Blue Poetry: Is there a favourite work of literature you come back to time after time?
Lawdenmarc Decamora: Glad you asked that question. I like the lyrical finesse, structural fragmentations, as well as the metaphors and
unpredictable associations of Paul Celan. Threadsuns, Poppy and Memory, and Glottal Stop: 101 Poems are my
favourite collections of his. My personal favourite is “Death of Fugue” which is a poem that exhibits dexterity and disguise
(sorry for the alliteration). I love how these two elements engage themselves in a play. This is how my poetry works, and this how I
fell in love with Celan’s poetry. Such lines as “Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall” and “Your hands full of hours” are
immortal. I also think that Michael Hamburger did an impeccable job in translating Celan’s poetic text from the original Romanian.
Well, that’s Paul Celan for you. He certainly has a spot in my Mt. Rushmore of World Poets.
Subterranean Blue Poetry: I notice you use words from other languages (Japanese . . .) Are you well read in other languages?
Lawdenmarc Decamora: Right, that pattern was obvious in “Ten Forty” and “Maligayang Kaarawan / Happy Birthday” from my new poetry book,
Love, Air (Atmosphere Press, 2021). I only write my poems in English, but the conscious play of ‘code-switching’ can be an
effective poetic device. This is how transnational poets or writers of diaspora—Asian American, Lusophone, BIPOC—articulate their own
form of rhetorical protest. As a Filipino poet writing in English, the art of poetic code-switching allows me to play with language
and embrace the Filipino identity in my writing. Well, my inspiration for this kind of poetic practice was the Korean American poet,
Cathy Park Hong. Her “All the Aphrodisiacs”, for example, retains the cultural intimacy within the Asian American poetry community.
Subterranean Blue Poetry: Where have you studied?
Lawdenmarc Decamora: After obtaining my MFA in Creative Writing in 2014, I applied for an MA in Literary and Cultural Studies at a
prestigious Philippine university. Hopefully, I will get to defend my thesis next year.
Subterranean Blue Poetry: What influenced you to become a Poet?
Lawdenmarc Decamora: Music. Philosophy. The culture of everyday life. Everything in between.
Subterranean Blue Poetry: What is your experience of the call to be a Poet? (what is the best?)(what is the worst, if there is any
Lawdenmarc Decamora: When you’re a poet you’re a “culture bearer,” a translator, a visionary. It’s the respect and passion that you
uphold. You are bequeathed with the poetic license to interpret and articulate, you know, ‘things’— so you are what Percy Bysshe
Shelley calls “the unacknowledged legislator of the world.” Now the worst part? I think people see you as an elitist. Period.
Subterranean Blue Poetry: What are the Chapbooks/Collections of Poetry you have written and/or published?
Lawdenmarc Decamora: Hmm. I have two full-lengths published this year. One got published in India, that’s TUNNELS; the other from the
U.S. and it’s called Love, Air. Right now, I have two unpublished book-length manuscripts and a chapbook which are under
consideration by some U.S. and U.K. - based publishers. These are Handsome Hope (poetry), permutations: essays on Philippine
culture (criticism) and Dream Minerals: 27 Love Songs (chapbook). Another poetry collection is in the works, and this is
the product of my Tupelo Press 30/30 Project labour for the whole month of August 2021. After doing Tupelo, I plan to publish this
Subterranean Blue Poetry: What are the current Poetry/Writing projects you are working on?
Lawdenmarc Decamora: Current project? It’s the manuscript coming out of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project in the U.S. This is a poetry
marathon where volunteer poets write 30 poems in 30 days to raise funds for the press. The result of this project will help me
prepare my manuscript for future publication.
Subterranean Blue Poetry: What do you like to do in your spare time?
Lawdenmarc Decamora: Well, I collect vinyls, given the quality of technology that we have today. Crate digging is the lost art of
shopping for music at a cool record store. For me, this kind of joy is priceless.
that i want
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: that i want
Author: Ava Hoffman
Publisher: above/ground press
Date of Publication: 2021
“Wind, bring me spring . . .”
- from Flowering by Lucy
A series of pictograph poems in brilliant Art Nouveau, highlighting the experience of being transsexual in America, that i want
by Ava Hoffman and above/ground press. Ava Hoffman (Poet, poetry editor, writer) lives and works in Louisiana. She edits SPORAZINE,
a journal of experimental writing by trans people. She is published in journals, Poetry Daily, Fence, Black Warrior Review, Anomaly,
The Fanzine, Datableed, amongst others and has Chapbooks available. A full length collection [. . .] is forthcoming.
The poems are a number of words around a short line, some of them crossed out with syntax, that invite the reader in, as you skip
around the different words, a different read, a different way, a different impression of lines/emotions changing and being rewritten.
A fantastical metaphor for a changing sexual identity. As if the writer is constantly assessing themselves, their self-concept,
themselves in relation to society, their morphing experience, a dance by looking in the mirror and seeing themselves, someone whose
basic parameters are not the norm, that are changing and creating a dialogue. The suffering and change becomes a celebration in art
When single words, lines are read, words added and removed in a stacatto presentation the poetry becomes an original
interactive pictoral Beat progression. Incroyable.
A fantastical original write, pushing the bounds of New Age poetry into new realms of creativity, experience and healing, that
i want by Ava Hoffman.
(This original Chapbook with photos, an art illustration by the Author, and end note photos of "The Eye" statue (sculpture by
David Altmejd) by Victor Tangermann is in French and English in the form of a Cento-like poem, a tradition of
protest using lines from previously published works, from Ancient Rome. A Psalm of Blue also utilizes the style of an erasure
poem that blacks out part of the work. Originally, inspired by declassified American military and intelligence documents that have
been censored when they became public. In the hardcopy presentation the font is midnight blue and all the words can be seen through
the blackening. Here, the blackened words have been altered between lines. A Psalm of Blue weaves original New Age poetry
with the Psalms of David: Psalm 23, Psalm 24, Psalm 25. A lament for an unknown love affair in an Imagist/Symbolist treatise).
To the Muse
“of the Summer
by the door
the little white butterfly
into the grey day . . .”
(A Psalm of David:
Psalm 23, Psalm 24, and Psalm 25)
a sullen day grey and vellum covered houses skies over Eden
The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want
the day is wet with blue candy boxes of heaven
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures He leadeth me
mouths of wanting rabbits under glass green the day of green cut grass
beside the still waters He restoreth my soul
written into blues street
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake
"for what shall we do?" "for what shall we ever do?"
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
a place of grace the shepherd
I will fear no evil for thou art with me thy rod and thy staff they comfort me
to see the rose to not see the rose
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies
the rose doesn’t exist candy coloured doors
thou anointest my head with oil my cup runneth over
tourniquets in the window a game of hearts pink porcelain teacups
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
by the pink of pomegranate flowers on a white de bord
all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
service for one
movies in the dark caught inside a cage of birds ceci that are angels
The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof
the little accountants blow on their sleeves
the world and those who dwell therein for He has founded it upon the seas
and established it upon the rivers
and porcelain tables in death’s delivery room
Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord?
(with silver metal and metal) gold the perfumed fugue in my mouth
And who shall stand gold in His holy place?
and flowers for funerals flowers for tea
He who has clean hands and a pure heart who does not lift up his soul
ham hamblyn court tomes of grace
to what is false and does not swear deceitfully He will receive blessing from the Lord
barefeet, knee deep in blue water I watch the day inside a blue balloon
and vindication from the God of his salvation
the Lord of the herald’s grace
Such is the generation of those who seek Him who seek the face of the God of Jacob
and movies in the dark the mad whispers of movies in the dark
Lift up your heads O’ gates! and be lifted up
paper balloons any shade of blue is blue a Victorian day hospital
O’ ancient doors! that the King of glory
we wear our hospital gowns complete (the cat quietly)
may come in Who is the King of glory? The Lord
remembering spoons sailing ships, dogs and sealing wax all in a row
strong and mighty The Lord, mighty in battle!
all in a row the horses have wings to paint the sky
Lift up your heads O’ gates! and be lifted up O’ ancient doors!
blue with suns and stars how beautiful she was when young on moonbright days
that the King of glory may come in
a child of the snow an ice rose
Who is the King of glory? The Lord of hosts He is the King of glory!
shearlings, the cloth of night on blue velvet pillows
To thee, O’ Lord, I lift up my soul O’ my God, in thee I trust
talk, talk sweet sleep and honey all the girl knows
let me not be put to shame let not my enemies exult over me
the longing for love the longing
Yea, let none that wait for thee be put to shame let them be ashamed who are wantonly treacherous
the flowers of rain islands blue in the sun
Make me to know thy ways, O’ Lord teach me thy paths
songs and singing in the trees sing, singing songs of love
Lead me in thy truth, and teach me for thou art the God of my salvation
all those beautiful songs how he saves us from the rain
for thee I wait all the day long Be mindful of thy Mercy
from the darkness of the night how he saves us . . .
the bare boughs . . .”
Rebecca Anne Banks
grey darkening sky, winter evening and Charlotte Bronte in the trees a bootleg purse bright yellows, the peel of lemons
float in the water, the sink dans la cuisine haunts, the scent of lemon, everywhere . . . and the girl who lives upstairs
makes love to her boyfriend, late on a Saturday afternoon . . . writing down the sky water over heaven and we are of silk
and we are of bone a bad day for loiterers that rhymes that rhymes the kettle blows rain tea in a china teacup away like
Heathcliff a dance and dance with God somewhere on a good ride warm rain the darkness is bright dance of star bright
not of the day dark and dark and light watching night windows . . .
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
CD's of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD's 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.
Lawdenmarc Decamora (Poet, teacher, researcher) lives and works in the Philippines. He has earned an MFA in creative writing
and is currently studing for an MA in culture and literature at Ateneo de Manila University. He is widely published, nationally and
internationally, including features in Sábanas Bilingual Literary Magazine, Meridian: The APWT Drunken Boat Anthology of New Writing,
Asian Studies: Journal of Critical Perspectives on Asia, North Dakota Quarterly, OF ZOOS, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore,
PAPERCUTS Magazine amongst others. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and earned an honorable mention
in the Love issue (2018) of Columbia Journal. He has written 2 collections of poetry, TUNNELS (Ukiyoto Publishing) and Love/Air
Natascha Graham. Raised simultaneously by David Bowie and Virginia Woolf, Natascha Graham writes fiction, non-fiction and
poetry, as well as writing for stage and screen. Her plays How She Kills and Confessions: The Hours have been
performed in London and are included in the First Time Filmmakers Festival (2020) by Pinewood Studios. Her poetry, fiction and
non-fiction essays have been previously published by Acumen, Litro, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Gay and Lesbian Review,
Yahoo News and The Mighty. She lives with her wife in a house full of sunshine on the east coast of England.
Ava Hoffman Ava Hoffman lives and works in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She is a Poet, poetry editor, writer) and edits SPORAZINE,
a journal featuring experimental writing by trans people. She is published internationally in journals, Poetry Daily,
Fence, Black Warrior Review, Anomaly, The Fanzine, Datableed, amongst others and has had Chapbooks published.
A full length collection of poetry [. . .] is forthecoming.
Nnadi Samuel is a graduate of English & literature from the University of Benin. His works have been previously published
in Suburban Review, Seventh Wave Magazine, North Dakota Quarterly, PORT Magazine, Gordon Square Review, Rough Cut press, Rigorous
Magazine, Blue Nib journal, Stonecrop Review, The Elephant Magazine, Journal Nine, Liquid Imagination, Eunoia Review & elsewhere.
Winner of the Canadian Open Drawer contest 2020. He is the author of Reopening of Wounds. He reads for U-Right Magazine.
He tweets @Samuelsamba10.
August Smith received his BA from Loyola University/New Orleans and MFA in Creative Writing from Cornell University. His poems
have appeared in Wide Open, The Great American Poetry Anthology, and Down in the Dirt, and are forthcoming in
Bending Genres and the Writer’s Egg. He resides in Alpine, TX.
Philip Sidney (Poet, scholar, courtier, soldier) born at Penshurst Place, Kent, England to Sir Henry Sidney and Lady Mary
Dudley. He was educated at Shrewsbury School and Christ Church, Oxford. He is considered one of the most prominent personalities
of the Elizabethan Age. He is best remembered for the poetics of “Astrophel and Stella”, “The Defence of Poesy” and “The Countess
of Pembroke’s Arcadia” amongst others.
Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool to tell his frustration with the society.