Subterranean Blue Poetry: Current Issue

FOR MONIKA COOPER

by Amos J. Hunt

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.

PLAINT

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.

ORCADIAN

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.

UNCERTAINTY

by Alyssa Cooper

Drawing out lines in sidewalk chalk, south Ontario
mandalas,
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
pieces,
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,
it changes,
different coloured dust in my teeth,
different shapes to the cracks in my molars,
I had to learn to speak with
my hands.
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,
spinning,
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
the next?
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,
fossilization,
calcification,
precocious child, gap-toothed smile,
what has become of my potential?

Remember the feeling of summer sun between
shoulder blades.
Remember the weight of wings fermenting inside
your spine.
Remember those paths still glittering before you,
pulled out thin like strands of spider silk, endless and
inescapable,
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.

age: 53

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)

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.

Available @ Amazon.com.

Or send an email to littlewingpress@gmail.com.

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.

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

and cries
           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

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. www.briarcreekphotos.com.

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. Email: littlewingpress@gmail.com.

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 Irving, TX. 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."