ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume I Issue I

The Cover Art/Photo:

" Dame de Bourgogne "

by Lucie Chicoine


“Watch the water run

the colour of rain

through the hair

of the dancing one



on a cloud”

Subterranean Blue Poetry

Volume I Issue I

(February 2013)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2013

There Was No Reflection

by Pd Lietz

heat in veins laying low beneath thin skin

organ pumps because it has to

chambers empty pluck tightly strung bow

souls hollow vibration

I looked back there was no reflection

time erased whatever was if whatever could be

devil dines on drawn out affairs

the cutlery gleamed and swallowed pride

I looked back there was no reflection

Thespis the founder sitting proud

theatrical award for unfolding tragedy

dramaturge dumbstruck before the applause

I looked back there was no reflection

if you are the only one on a narrow

dusty freeway is there a crossroad

and that tree in the woods pisses me off

do I hear it or not when it falls in silence

prove it

fuck you

that messes me up every time

thats why I don't like forests

looking back in the rear view mirror

there was no highway

there was no reflection

I screamed out loud in silence

there is no g/d damn reflection


by Linda Woolven

Shoes stacked

in their mud,

waiting to be forgiven.

Hallways littered

with rememberance,

with the dirt of outside lives,

lingering in puddles

leaving stains

when they dry up and fade

into forgiveness.

All the scents of suffering

lingering in doorways,

waiting to enter

into intimacy

into familiarity.

Such a strong


promises from the past,

familiar in its poison.

The Past

by Linda Woolven

The past is a possessive



the dirt of hidden lies.

The whine of the razor blade,

stroking so deeply,

so early in the morning,

when the

amber bubbles have

loosened their grip.

And you remember,

you remember

things you shouldn’t know,

and have to hole

them up inside


like a rat without legs.

Like nails driven

I bleed,

from all the

“I love you’s,”

that really meant,

I will hurt you.

Doppler Shifts

by Gregory Gunn

Trains on rails rattle

distantly into the city's edge,

whistles announce their invasive

outgoing. Sodium light

enlivens the gloom's shadows.

Picture passengers

with an acoustic mind:

prospective captains of industry

exploit scotch, dutiful mothers

with goose-necked children,

all looking for enrichment,

insinuate each other's

new world visions.

Undetected goes

the cast of optimism,

the way the north wind

swirls heavenward;

the narrative interrupts

their lives, destinations

at one time unattainable

fade without a sound, blaze,

then become fleeting.

Featured Poet: Anna Akhmatova


by Anna Akhmatova

Something of heavens ever burns in it

I like to watch the wondrous facets’ growth

It speaks with me in fate’s non-seldom fits,

When others fear to approach close.

When the last of friends had looked away

From me in grave it lay to me in silence,

And song as sing a thunderstorm in May,

As if all flowers began to talk in gardens.

Missed Connections


I love missed connection ads, I like to peruse them while I eat lunch at my desk at work. They are often so sweet and hopeful, dispatches from an inner world of longings, where people share their desire openly. I mean, fake ones like mine exist in a world of anonymity, but if you say " I was the guy with red hair who bought a goldfish at the pet store you work at on Saturday. I think you have pretty eyes ", you're taking a certain risk (even though the person the ad is for will probably not see it). I find the optimism in this inspiring. I love optimism. I wanted to be part of this world of publicly-expressed yearnings, so I wrote these. They came forth, both as deeply-felt, synaesthetic love letters to the unseen, and light-hearted forays into some kind of wading pool.

- John Doull

Parsnip Woman- (m4w)

by John Doull from Manitoba Kijiji – Winnipeg – Community – Missed Connections – March 7, 2012

On the sidewalk, Thursday evening. You were wearing a shirt made from bark, and carrying a heavy load of parsnips. Our eyes met as we passed, and I longed to know your name.

Endives and Bark

by John Doull from Manitoba Kijiji – Winnipeg – Community – Missed Connections – September 9, 2012

I saw you in the street and in the park. You were sitting in a lake of felt, eating xanthan gum from a beige bag. You wore a shirt made of endives and bark, with burgundy fabric bulging from the seams. I approached you and introduced myself. You glared at me and told me of your work as a lifeguard, and the many swimming badges you had earned in your youth. You fidgeted as you spoke, mashing your fingers together in strange configurations, your digits thin and spindly like withered parsnips. I was transfixed by your beauty and captivated by the Baltic urges that leaked from your pores. You exuded a powerful calmness, Xzibit's Aura Scarf. Soon you were off on your way to swimming lessons. I wish I knew your name

tarragon belt (dc mint vein gradient)- m4w

by John Doull from Manitoba Kijiji – Winnipeg – Community – Missed Connections – October 27, 2012

It was somewhere . You were wearing a green paisley frock, with a hefty belt made from tarragon and mint leaves. You were sitting in the crotch of a pear tree near the husky on Isabel, hyoddtchrai holt . Peach colored suave shampoo was trickling down your shoulders like the epaulettes of a hygiene soldier. Bgieuhavvce oni o bhallves leaf^^, baltic ovum, onio mmbhv grey maesk and black obadiah tubing. A red and yellow weaved popcorn scoubbgheim fringe of Urdu circuits. The musk of a thousand mildewed trunks clung to you like the red and yellow of a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. You spat, and uttered minced oaths as you came to terms with the dissaray of your bark collection. You were wearing an apricot colored polyester sack and a tasteful green paisley belt with withered green onions tucked under it . Part of the belt was tarragon. holt Chrome bronze, and peach coloured Suave.

front crawl hydrogen calypso gears

Scrapbook in hand, I approached and offered to chronicle your bark for a nominal fee. Jumping down from the tree you met my gaze and said I might have passed Maroon, but Blue wouldn't be so easy.

Bark-Eating Woman

by John Doull from Manitoba Kijiji – Winnipeg – Community – Missed Connections – January 21, 2013

The football field at Andrew Mynarski. You sat eating bark on a bench amidst a cluster of oaks. Gnawing the bark. Sorting the bark. "Some bark is for saving", you said. You wore a battered tuxedo vest of dusky pink, hanging loosely off your shoulders atop a shredded grey Exco jersey. Shavings of parsnips stapled to the soiled grey mesh to bring out the burgundy of the tasseled stole draped accross your right collarbone.

Marcos 6 Dvoggpthaim

You read aloud from a book of Urdu poetry as red & yellow hairpins chattered in your hanging curls. Deep red prisms, the gables of a bucking Obadiah floss. Your hair brushing against the Box of Frogs sleeve taped to your back. Stones blacker than night. You performed a stationary backstroke in the snow, binoculars in a drawer somewhere. Your bark piles grew... Atop your black flapper hat sat an ornate tangle of audio-visual cables, cauliflower, and spray cheese, flashing it's fierce synthetic orange in the winter sun. Silt-encrusted. Red and yellow Micronesia bog, the Tony Amonte jersey tied around your waist, sand banks of your grapy bulkheads curled across the xantham gradient of flesh... snowpants were your only concession to the cold. Pictures of Sinbad stapled to those pants ( aka Curtiss King ). Sorting bark into bowls. A light dusting of turmeric adorning your thick pleather shoulder pad. All this time, stealing glances as I wandered through the endzone with my disposable cameras. I came nearer and you threw a dictionary at me. I hoped to speak. It lay open at my feet, to yield forth it's words of incomprehensible Slovene.
Bowls of bark
You told me I was unethical. You told me you were Roland Barthes' mother. You threw and ashtray in the sky, You warned me of a nearby Shriner....

* * *

Please, teach me to swim


Confessions of a soldier:

when love is war and other insouciancies

by Rebecca Anne Banks

To the Muse

(inspired by St. Joseph, the unknown soldier and videos of war zones in Afghanistan)

“ those that dance, dance

those that sing, sing

and those that sleep forevermore, may “

“ Blackness, blackness dragging me down

They’re singin – “Goodbye baby,

Baby bye bye,

Ooh! love is blind “

- from This Flight Tonight by Nazareth

On the steps of Maya

the dark winds blow across

the desert,

the decaying white stone steps,

masks of dance

and here not here . . .

Cascading night sky

a burnt out terrace

I can still remember

coming to this place

the silence

punching a hole in the sky,

holes in the architecture

the choir,

the choir,

that sings into night.

Caught inside this darkness

the winde of fate and happenstance

(do they hear us cry in the night?)

the bones of lovers

the heart of the rose

blown upon the night, bare

and the rage against

the mind, the heart, the Spirit call

the fire

upon the rain

the night

is it so difficult to hate?

At the scene of a crime

close, close to the ground

the soldier

at the center, the stage

and always a flashing smile,

the cameras spinning

en pointe

and demi-john.

As the tears pour down

“ my confession

my sins
for truly I know them ”

he is the grandmaster flash

the silence

the desert

and night missions

the streich haus

and after . . .

into the lights of the city.

The world has evolved

but not past go

the nondescript landscape

of whispers of death

the desert,

the sky cradle

bare against blue

and the deliverance of the soul.

Somewhere between heaven and earth

war wasn’t what it was meant to be

some clearing house

of Abelard and Heloise

2 people lying on their backs,

on the ground

by a rock

staring up at the nightsky.

Burnt bone icing

the skeletons dance

why plan for disaster?

cold itinerant still

the art of my desiring.

The innocent against the wall
“I saw a young seven year old girl murdered in front of me"

she had wandered into schrapenel fire

as he placed a rose at her throat

the machine, the machine

bidden, unbidden

someone naked and dancing

a munitions corps

watching, I live inside a fur coat

naked, naked to the skin.

For it is only love

that paints the night

so far

from darkness

to rest under sky

the light . . .

outside, outside his heart

outside his love

the blind monkeys river

the Oracle maker

the Maya

rips out the heart

of any living love

mouthing the bones

we become soft by night,

hard by morninglight

after the beauty of gold

the empty darkness

the abandoned soul


Odd the places we find ourselves

the places not expected

and everything breaks us,

the silence at the table

the silence

of nothing,

the heartache

the silence

is it so difficult to hate?

War, war by night

the mix of wine and the Fates

a misguided universe

the blind

and the uncomprehending

pawns and chess

the firesticks of war

that draw across my mouth,

the lost King

the lost chair

the sisters gone

the death of innocents

we call out “marta”, “marta”

in the night

orphans of the goddess

prisoners of silence,

the night.

“I’m getting married in the morning”

the children running down the stairs

of the glass house

little toy soldiers, playing

on the back porch.

So she danced away . . .

“and me and my true love will never meet again”


“On the bonny, bonny banks”

“of Loch Loman”



In the mountains, an accident

a war sold by the cinema

a crash in the woods

like tapping into her wound

the sore spot

the blood flows

he promised he would be back

seamless conde naste

the roads were awash in chaos

packed lorries, distant gunfire

no one knew anything
“the horror, the horror”

lost in a St. Remy’s shot glass

they cursed him under the night

she kissed the sky.

The artist paints the nightsky,

the leopard draped over the globe,

the broach pin

through a glass casement.

Seeing antique earrings

in a shop window

anything that calls of home.
“let me call you sweetheart”

they spin her ‘round, ‘round

the blue heart gemstone

from the eyes of the Saviour

plucked from her mouth.

As she watches herself

in the mirror

“watching, the detectives”

the stone cross he wears around his neck

he reaches up

breaks the chain

the cross falls to the floor

he’s lost himself in the trees

the silhouette of daybreak

the artist paints the nightsky.

1. The Holy Bible - Psalm 51: Miserere.

2. Quote from Harry, Prince of England.

3. “Get Me to the Church on Time” song from Pygmalion/My Fair Lady by George Bernard Shaw.

4. “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Loman”, traditional Scots Ballad by Anonymous.

5. The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.

6. “Let Me Call You Sweetheart”, popular song from 1910 music by Leo Friedman, lyrics by Beth Slater Whitson.

7. "Watching the Detectives", song by Elvis Costello.


Anna Akhmatova. A Russian award-winning Poet she was born in Bolshoi Fontan, a suburb of Odessa, Ukraine, her mother of the Russian nobility. A dissident Poet, she remained in Russia under Stalin writing about human rights abuses. When on honeymoon in Paris with her first husband Poet Nikolai Gumilev she met Artist Amedeo Modigliani who subsequently painted her 15 times. Her third husband Nikolai Punin and son Lev Gumilev were interred in the Gulag. Her books of poetry include “Evening”, “Rosary”, “The White Flock”, “Plantain”, “Anno Domini MCMXXI” and “Requiem”.

Rebecca Anne Banks. CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records. At home in Montreal. www.tympanilanerecords.com.

Lucie Chicoine. My painting feeds images and stories encountered in everyday life that are woven around a frame blown emotions my soul. www.luciechicoine.com.

John Doull was born in the Northern Hemisphere. He has 3 squirt guns. He enjoys cooking turnips and looking at burlap. He lives in Winnipeg in a year called 2013. He likes fabric and patterns. He likes olives and feta cheese. His favorite book is Oracle Night. His favorite musics include Talking Heads, Meat Puppets, Think About Life, Blank Dogs and Chrome. He writes books about a pear, but, more importantly, he is the founder of a band called Aloominum Frends. His forklift license has expired. He is an only child. His favorite nutrient is riboflavin.

Gregory Gunn. Born in Windsor, Ontario in 1960, Gregory Wm. Gunn was raised in a few small towns throughout the province before finally settling in London. A graduate of Fanshawe College as an Electronics Technician in 1982, Mr. Gunn began writing earnestly during this academic tenure and has continued honing his craft ever since. His main passion is that of poetry. He has compiled seven full poetry collections and has had poems published in several literary journals.

Pd Lietz is a widely published writer, photographer and artist who lives in rural Manitoba Canada. As a child nurture and environment both shaped her artistic abilities, her Grandfather and both Parents were Professional Photographers and Artists, the Studio then her home. Coming full cycle it is with delight she again picks up pen, crayon or camera and simply enjoys what may occur.

Linda Woolven. I have published over 75 poems in journals across Canada, the United States and the U.K.. The poems have appeared in Journals like, Descant, Dana Literary Society, Amethyst Review, Write On, Sepia Poetry Magazine . . . One of my poems received an award from Dana Literary Society. I also published a chapbook, called "Life's Little Lessons" a few summers ago that featured 26 poems.