This Issue of Subterranean Blue Poetry is dedicated to Melissa Cooper
who died by violence and to any woman who has died at the hands
of violence in the War Economy Society.
"so, the trees . . . green swirl in the glass blue orb, where the water lilies go rains water rain, of the sky . . ."
"where my heart goes in a glance the ground shifted awake, asleep can you let me talk to the man who repairs clocks champagne on the
Wilde quiet so quiet I contemplate bored write into a new movie somewhere far far away looking for love the world raised into magic
a mermaid with a pearl in her throat an uninvited party a blue accord cerulean blue and now? . . . and now? . . . and now? . . . the
light disappears slow . . . and now? . . . cerulean green the lamplight into evening I am the good night the myth of the female eunuch
a myth not a myth he will change our hearts to dancing the lion flower lost reliquaries of the soul wolf guard the disembodied such an
imagining the tracings snow on the eaves sleep to sleep the dance . . . stop . . . who is it? . . . God is playing Autumn leaves when
autumn leaves do fall . . ."
Though nothing I might say could speak
to your composed and masterful
unbindings of the mad wild bull
that roars our discontent, that meek
beneath your guiding voice defers
and passes harmless through our bones,
and hallows our attention, hones
the will in us till it concurs,
yet all my marrow urges me
to answer, somehow to confess
how tenderly the wilderness
of rushing veins and vanity
is shamed by every civil sound
that love releases from your lips
and magic turns to amber ships,
sails full of music, eastward bound.
THE BURNING OF NOTRE DAME
by Laurence Thompson
You never learned to love Our Lady
'Til skies heaved with wood-fat smog
As glowing sabre fell the mind-hot spire
And in that chambered fulsome nave
'Neath rain-bit masonry and wood
The feathers of a phoenix blazed:
The deep thick hue of wine-rich blood
Where kept we Christ and Grecian light
Through broken years when blade and breaking might
Sang out the bark and wail of God.
by Alec Solomita
How come everybody's pretty? I don't understand it. Back in the day when nobody said back in the day, pretty women, when most
people said girls, were not, despite the claims of men who are mostly dead now, a dime a dozen. But now, in the unthinkable
present, they are, as far as I can tell, about a dime a dozen. Which is to say everywhere. Or maybe since I'm not that far away
from joining the mostly dead, I'm beginning to agree that pretty women have always thronged the unspeakable world, but I was too
young to see them. But what sense does that make? To young men, a pretty girl is like a melody. A pretty girl used to be like a
melody, anyway. Now, I don't know what a pretty girl is to a young man. Not a melody. A friend. That's the anthem of the young man
today: a pretty girl is like a friend. Back in the day, she was like a song.
by Winston Plowes
The tide went out without saying goodbye
as you searched for yourself
under every petal in the night garden.
Looking for order in the random placement
of shells on an apron of grey pebbles
Limpets, Pink Tellins, False Angel Wings
A stowaway from the seaweed fields,
your dark hair anchored to a head of riches.
Teaching the fish to sing harmonies
fifty fathoms below
In the filtered light of a jetsam moon.
by Alyssa Cooper
Drawing out lines in sidewalk chalk, south Ontario
blowing dust into the wind with hands like rainbows,
and I'm waiting for the rain -
draw out my timeline like spiderwebs, delicate,
because we never touch the same water twice.
Head goes left, heart goes right,
body follows both, and I am torn in half, torn to
distributed like stars across the wide night sky,
all burning and bright,
and I will never be wiped clean the same way again.
It's different every time I self-destruct,
different coloured dust in my teeth,
different shapes to the cracks in my molars,
I had to learn to speak with
Tongue turns to stone when things get absurd,
when I step outside the chalk box,
mouth turns to marble,
my spine is a pole with no direction -
compass rose in my solar plexus, spinning,
and I can't find the earth beneath my feet.
I am a ship becalmed in the harbor,
anchor resting useless on a salted deck,
I am the hanged man, limp sails, strangled foot,
correcting my motion down to stillness,
I am frozen.
This indecision tastes like winter, smells like ice,
I don't know who I am when the chalk dust settles.
Call me artist,
call me poet,
call me beating heart in a cage of bone,
but what is the distance between one rib and
How many stories are tattooed on my skull,
the told and the untold,
what misstep taught my mouth to swallow feeling,
taught my gut to melt emotion,
when did my softness start turning to stone,
precocious child, gap-toothed smile,
what has become of my potential?
Remember the feeling of summer sun between
Remember the weight of wings fermenting inside
Remember those paths still glittering before you,
pulled out thin like strands of spider silk, endless and
this is a prayer to all the versions of me
who once drew mandalas in chalk on sidewalks.
This is a prayer to spiderwebs.
This is a prayer for rain.
FEATURED POET: GREGORY SCOFIELD
She is spitting a mouthful of stars
She is holding the light more than those
who despised her
She is folding clouds in her movement
She is new to this sound
She is unbroken flesh
She is spitting a mouthful of stars
She is laughing more than those who
She is ten horses breaking open the day
She is new to these bones
She is holy in her dust
Maine Craigslist - Missed Connections - March 5th, 2018 - Anonymous
Coming from the nursery/greenhouse - m4w (Back home)
I was in a short bed with the MOFGA symbol on it. I was at the greenhouse loading up some organic tomatoes, goats' cheese, and
portabella mushrooms to bring to some of the restaurants. I was throwing in my last crate on to the back of the truck. You walked
by and as I leaned back to check you out, I spilled my coffee all over myself. I grumbled under my breathe and bit my tongue That's
hot. You let out a giggle as you got in your car. I was a little bit embarrassed but didn't get up the nerve to tap on your window
to ask who you were. Well you were my highlight of my Monday. If you see this tell me the name of the greenhouse or maybe, I'll see
you there again sometime.
(N.B.: "love at the greenhouse . . ." - a note from the editor
"the love boat . . ." - a note from the other editor
"luv is a many splendoured thing" - says the cat
"luv luv me do" - says the other cat
"it sounds like the beginning of a horror movie . . ." - says Madame X
"and it giggles" - says the cat
"luv is luv when you know what you are doing" - says the editor
"please read On Love and Marriage Free EBook @ Subterranean Blue Poetry" - says the other editor)
some kinds of earthly love: stories from the underground
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: some kinds of earthly love
Author: Neil Beethoven Flowers
Publisher: Little Wing Press
Date of Publication: 2020
"The falling leaves
Drift by the window
The autumn leaves . . .
I see your lips
The summer kisses . . ."
- From Autumn Leaves by Édith Piaf
A story of love and journey in a dynamic street slang meets literature progression, that spins stories into night, into daylight . . .
The New Age Renaissance Republique sings in with some kinds of earthly love by Neil Beethoven Flowers and Little Wing Press.
Flowers(Poet, screen writer, actor, director) was born in Montreal, his people from Quebec and has traveled and lived in many places,
Italy, Mexico, New Mexico, British Columbia, Ontario. He works in theater, film and radio, having studied literature under
Poet/professor Robert Hogg at Carleton University. He has released several collections of poetry including Taxi Cab Voice and
Suite for the Animals amongst others. He live and works in L.A.
The Oracle Poet spins, spins, spinning stories in the streets of the underground, this collection of poetry centred around the poem
Canto CXXII: Sirventes, a fascination. A recounting of the Occupation of 1943 Paris and the French Resistance in World War II with
The Francs-Tireurs et Partisans (FTP) in a broken Beat progression, an inside accounting of the disappearance of Saints, the story
of Geneviève Noufflard who signs up for a tour of duty and despite the odds survives.
This collection is a series of stories about loves and lovers, the wayfarers, those out of place, out of time, the Old War Horse
Economy that doesn't recognize itself. A story of what we remember, the love we remember, that exists in the stillness of the sky.
The broken marriages of friends, a street fight, portraits of lovers, girls in a playing field, a girl waiting at a street light in
the city, a woman being knifed by her husband for leaving, of 2 lovers traveling by car and hitting large an elk twice in one night,
an old man at a dance hall, of meeting Leonard Cohen.
The poetry at once experiential, immediate, considered and lyric, a broken travelogue of confederates and events. Within the beautiful
large tome the occasional picture of people and art, an art house offering. At the last page, the Afterward, a certain interlogue of
voyage from The Odyssey and an apologia for Ezra Pound, someone caught out in World War II supporting the Facists who "was arguably the
best translator of Troubador poems (sirventes) into English." Ezra Pound the consummate poet after the war was incarcerated in a mental
institution for 12 years in the U.S. and eventually freed through the efforts of Poet Robert Frost. Indeed the world is a triumph of
poetry as love.
An incredible write, a truthtelling, and culmination of the craft, the Artist as peacemaker, the Artist as Poet, "some kinds of
earthly love" by Neil Beethoven Flowers.
"Lover please, please come back . . ."
- from Lover Please by Billy Swan and The Rhythm Steppers/Clyde McPhatter
Such Sweet Sorrow by Merle Amodeo presents poetic flashes of the profound sometimes with humor creating an original take on
confessional poetic narrative in Beat poetry riffs; the poet a warm sunshine storybook on a dark storm night. Merle Amodeo (Poet,
teacher) lives in the Beaches neighbourhood of Toronto. A retired teacher, she is a member of the League of Canadian Poets, the
Writers' Community of Durham Region, and the University Women's Club, Toronto.
This collection of poetry begins with an interlocative poem, as she describes her relationship with her former lover alternating
between what each had given to the other and introducing the pervading theme of lover disparu. A promising entre nous, a piquant
and considered Beat poetry progression that presents as narrative.
From, "Tonight I Write The Saddest Lines":
"You gave me a warm kiss at a sidewalk café.
I gave you kites on a Sunday at the beach.
You gave me a casual shrug, a quick smile.
I gave you a June shooting star
flinging its flame in the night.
You gave me your naïve ties,
colours like Monet's sunsets,
and you gave me chocolates
and a long-stemmed rose.
I gave you passion,
And let you give it back to me.
I gave you yes.
You gave me no . . ."
A gifted rendition of broken love affair, lovers as space junk in the broken social scene. Amodeo's discourse at once a lament, an
inside description of the disposable, a protest and a celebration of what remains. The poetry spins into the conjecture of "when we meet
again" plays with the silence of lover ce n'est pas là spinning stories into the sky that hold us, sometimes with a subtle humour,
a certain wisdom, sunlight, the poet as engenue.
Peppered with a quiet humor and telling insights on the human condition Amodeo centers her poetry around people, a dialogue featuring
a lost lover, potential lovers, and in the 3rd chapter Donald Trump, Stephen Harper, her mother and friends amongst others.
Distinctive Canadian folklore poetics, a truthtelling, raising the broken with a New Age confessional beat. A truly unique poetic
offering steeped in city landscape and the history of change, Such Sweet Sorrow by Merle Amodeo.
Available through the Author.
OF POETIC INTEREST . . .
THE BEEKEEPER'S DAUGHTERS
Rebecca Anne Banks
(A serialized long poem in cycles)
the Fire King she is 16 years the men stand in a circle she is quiet, watches
fever flower supple sun edges long shadows caress
an innocent he has roaring red hair there is no Sign she chooses the Fire King
dew sticky sleep valley pink bud sucks crimson light cuts
he takes her as his second wife she sits on the stone dais
the drone in fervour field blood red petals dripping juice entice
the sea of wedding guests opens the summer le Roi offers good wishes
slow and deliberate breath of breeze pair gently rocks
they begin to talk they are Starcrossed the light the sea of wedding guests closes
into evening the darkness dark forms sky
the Fire King approaches they are married in the grove they dress her in a long white robe
thunderclap downpour drone stroking velvet
the 12 maidens dressed in white and the queen consort lead her to the chamber
encasing waves cupped wetness bathes exhausted filled apex
she is an innocent silent the Fire King falling, he is silent
fatal stinging thrust blood rain drains pink to virgin white falling
lifts her dress he takes her roughly she cries
upon mud-soft pillow rests ebbing corona stiff shroud entombing kiss kiss, lover in
rain rice beats . . .
light, morning light, she cries to her mother, "You could have told me" Leda laughs "What did you expect me to say?" Hélène is
chagrained they part company, silent, Hélène never talks to her again . . . at court on the dias in Cheops chairs the storm king
seats Hélène at his righthand, his first wife protests, he tells her she can sit behind Hélène, Lydia storms from the chamber . . .
he, the Fire King, bad religion, runs the monkey cage, the city of war, the soldiers of war, the slight of crime rewarded, the
brutish couplings, the grey day, the coming storm, the maid hangs out the washing, she is alone, he takes her down, the maids alone,
the storm comes, caught in the places that rain, La Reine, caught in the places that rain, disappears at night, sneaks in like tear
stains, sleeps with the maids, they laugh at her, she sleeps in the stone hallway, the Storm King routs her out . . .
God is a garden the girl is a garden a brutish lover "it's a hellish time to be alive"
the queen bee oils her body dark, darkening estrus
marbles in his mouth the silent and the ground is hard
the drone spins spins 'round the sun ripe sunstoke sun stroke
he rips her long white gown and the ground is king and the ground is stone the stars move
drone sunlight punches sun stroke the heat
around the sun the night splits the girl ripe she watches the cycle of the moon
the drone quiets his body grows cold the queen bee ripe
her courses stop she is free, free the beat of the waves
she rests the dark abdomen swells the bees masticate the wax, the comb
the moon beats the waves beat the waiting the nights
she lays the eggs the bees masticate the wax the eggs sealed the days
the heat clamps the night splits the cord
the drones sting the girl larvae their bodies grow cold the male larvae, grow unfurl heat stokes
push to the ground and the ground is hard borne, the girl child cries . . .
the queen bee reigns and the ground is soft
Rebecca Anne Banks
(inspired by Frida Kahlo and a girl at Chez Doris)
atomic blue strawberry
she has the most perfect hands
a tea and cigarette girl
someone with a history of painting
large enamel bugs
in cerulean blue
(and death is inconvenient
this world and the next)
the Mexican government
in the history of museums
a legacy of artists
one painting in lieu of income tax
the national collection
dressed in white
in the yellow pressboard hat
from the windows
Photo by Harold Ackerman
Harold Ackerman is a writer and photographer living in Berwick, P.A., with poetry most recently at Word Fountain and photo
art most recently at Broad River Review and forthcoming in Pithead Chapel.
Merle Amodeo (Poet, teacher) born and lives in Toronto. She has been a teacher in elementary schools for more than 30 years
and is since retired. She is a member of the Writers' Community of Durham Region, the League of Canadian Poets, and the University
Women's Club, Toronto. She is published, including the Chapbooks Let Me In and Because of You, the novel
Call Waiting (2009) and two collections of poetry After Love (2014) and Such Sweet Sorrow (2020).
Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content
for 38 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.
Alyssa Cooper is a Canadian author, poet, and performer currently living in Kingston with her partner, two cats, and a Boston
Terrier. She is the author of four novels, a short story collection, and two poetry collections, and has performed at festivals,
conferences, and special events from Gananoque to Toronto. She believes in feminism, veganism, and the power of the Oxford comma.
Neil Flowers was born in Montréal. He has lived and loved in Ottawa, Toronto, Vancouver, Saltspring Island, Albuquerque,
Guadalajara (Mexico), and Italy. He currently moves back and forth between Los Angeles, Ottawa, and Peterborough, Ontario. He is
at work on a new book of poems, POLYPHONIC LYRE and a non-fiction account of nearly dying called ALMOST DEAD.
Amos J. Hunt is editor of Grub Street Grackle, and the founder and executive director of Imagine Dallas Literary Arts, Inc.
His writing has appeared in The Shandean, Moreana, Quatrain Fish, and Ancient Paths Literary Magazine. He lives with his family in
Mailing list at Mailing List.
Winston Plowes. "In the summer Winston's a hare chasing bicycles and winning by miles, in the winter he talks to moths about
art, categorises lost jigsaw pieces and tunes the family silver. Each night his word art returns to roost guided by starlight from
the pages of journals published worldwide, back to his floating home in Calderdale U.K. where he lives with his seventeen-year-old
cat, Sausage. www.winstonplowes.co.uk.
Gregory Scofield (Poet, dramatist, beadwork artist, non-fiction writer) a Métis Indigenous Poet born in Maple Ridge British
Columbia. He has studied and graduated from the Gabriel Dumont Institute Native Human Justice Program. His work is influenced by
Cree historical story-telling traditions.
Alec Solomita has published fiction in the The Mississippi Review andThe Drum Literary Magazine (audio), among other
publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal, and named a finalist by the Noctua Review. His
poetry has appeared in Subterranean Blue Poetry, Algebra of Owls, Oddball Magazine, and elsewhere. His poetry chapbook,
Do Not Forsake Me, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2017. He lives in Massachusetts, USA.
Laurence Thompson. In the writer's words, "I am a screenwriter and poet from Merseyside, England. I have recently had verse
published in Burning House Press and sports journalism in New York Fights and The Fight City. I was also nominated for an award
for Best Screenplay at the 2019 London Film Awards for my script The Burying Party, a biopic of the poet Wilfred Owen."