sparks shooting from the graceful, swan-shaped wooden neck.
Wood catches quickly, even in water.
Soon flames leaped and danced, and the long neck of the bow
twisted through the grey-blue river, inviting other ships.
They were waiting to race, a river ritual, spaced out along
the river – ready. We watched from high above the snaking
water, safe on stone and rock.
Once the touch of the swan ship came, small flames grew into
a fiery, white inferno in the blink of a human eye.
No race, no ritual, no ceremony of the water and the fishes.
Only fire and destruction, alarm – then sadness and despair.
We stood together, stock still.
Now the trees on the bank joined in, embracing the offering.
We are left alone here, unharmed, a stone goddess and her concubine.
You remind me of El Salvador
by Orlando Murcia
You remind me of El Salvador.... How the trees would sing cantos in the language
of parots... They were the heart of our rain forest.. the ancestors of madre
nuestra.... Like the nances.. you were the fruit of my land... You are the
precious dirt that no one ever speaks of but me.... You are the clock of
lightning striking the appearence in the skies... the city of Santa Ana.. the
emblem of my pride.... You are a symbol like my people of Pipil... You are a
precious diamond and a jewel.... Tu eres el Volcan Izalco.. The light house of
the Pacific... You are the Coatepeque Caldera of lakes... tropical and
beautiful.. breath taking in view.... The Ocelot of softness.. endangered.. The
Torogaz.. bright and royal.... Like El Salvador, your fingers are the smallest
in all of Central America... but you are still a country... and there is nothing
small about that....
I love staring at Luna....
by Orlando Murcia
The way she lays her head against the navel of the Northern bright sceneary....
The way she... Curls.. Below the dark in season....
This reminded me of you...
how you would lay your head upon my sand to rest... as you would.. hear the
oceanic sound of sea shell breath.. upon your ear
Whispering soothing sails to get you home... into the shore of morning
La Santisima Muerte
by Marie Lecrivain
On the night of Dia De Los Muertos
Santa Muerte appears on Olvera Street.
The crowds part in Her presence,
solicitous and reverent, and
a court of white-faced devotees
follow in Her wake, hands
extended for benediction
of bone against flesh.
Her delicate feet brush
against trails of marigolds
strewn in loving tribute
to that long ago time
when She could walk
among the living
without the presence
of the Cross and the Fire.
As Santa Muerte walks Olvera Street,
husbands cleve to wives,
with nine levels of devotion,
and these women smile
as their wombs warm
to the promise of new life
kindled by fear of annihilation.
Her bald grin shocks crying babies
as they stare
– wide-eyed and unbelieving -
in karmic recognition of First Mother
who sang paper-dry lullabies
and cradled each of them
in Her dusty arms
as She guided their souls
from old engines into new;
and a host of silver strings
within tiny hearts thrum with longing.
Santa Muerte lingers among ofrendas
that decorate the plaza,
her white cerements glowing blue
from the neon splendor
of downtown lights
that deepen the depth
of Her sightless orbs
as She dances with the calacas
in time to snapping fingers
and pan pipes that weave
rhythms and ribbons of time
to bind the past to the present
to the future to this moment,
and with one last silent laugh,
She disappears into the night.
Featured Poet: William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – February 20th, 2014 - Anonymous
my little pony...? - w4m (westmount)
i love you i love you i loe you i love you i love you i love you im in love with
you i love you i love you i love to love you i love you my beloved i love you i
love you i love you i am doing the love to you
(N.B.: “so soon after February 14th and drinking songs” – note from the editor)
Harlequins and Angels, a study in New Age Poetry.
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: Harlequins and Angels
Author: Rebecca Anne Banks
Publisher: Tea at Tympani Lane Records
Date of Publication: 2014
Page Count: (176)
Harlequins and Angels is a new and evolving event in New Age Poetry
written by Rebecca Anne Banks. Poet Banks has published 23 books of poetry, has
been published numerous times online and has had poetry from this book featured
in The Inspired Heart, Edition #3 by MCI Writer’s House and in the online poetry
journal Subterranean Blue Poetry.
The New Age poetry, a mix of symbolist and imagist form, the grand image
metaphors, sometimes illogical and truncated with a pared in style, often with a
respect and worship of nature/Romance illuminates the violence of the
post-modern world in juxtaposition with creationist mythologies.
“bootleg Ronnie, my bones are strife
the aftermath of swinging gods
the red waterfalls
fade to black
all paying customers
have left the theater
I look for ballet slippers
one in every colour
hang them from telephone wires
dragon monkies eat blueberries
the sun swallows the darkness
my last Empress.”
The poetry is an exciting exploration of the morphing language and plays with
new word synergies, as if the Poet is attempting to reclaim lost spaces and
creating new language, new mythologies. Often there are new words in the work,
some based in French or other languages, some simply pulled from the sky in a
freedom of creationist thought. Each word is carefully considered, pared in and
juxtaposed as if in the discovery of a new and old wisdom way inspired by the
Spirit. Words like a lost or expectant lover fill the empty page, recreate the
dream of romance inside an ancient storm rhetoric as if breaking stones.
“o’ Lakshmee – cord of Dymphna
the howl of the wolf
arrows of fish
some beautiful gillette
anyone truly free, is guilty of suspicion
spinning sun wheels, in conch shells
I am a lighthouse
I am a lighthouse
blindfolded standing on a table
bleating, f, f, f . . . “
“the ghosts of Leoni
some beautiful ballerina
the Spirit Catcher on the bed is wrong
and apricot soup
the beautiful one
eyes of kohl
of ameabone and catoncs
A study in violence, hidden/overt, the violence of conflict in intimate
relationships, the violence of hidden agendas, the violence of silence. With the
wars in Afghanistan, the Middle East, the disjointed reflected adjunct of the
death of innocents in collective dark karma, reflects back and out, the meshed
images bordering on Dada, as if an effort in self-annihilation, the violence in
the crucible is presented in poetry. The inane war economy, the wars, the
violence reflected back in a collective guilt that rages through the Artist.
(Driving people out into the streets crying for forgiveness in the rediscovery
of love and the Holy Spirit. The cursehold America/geopolitics is out of control,
people’s love lives may be lost or misconstrued, there is carnage by the roadside, rape,
addictions, suicide, murder. In the time when the word love included the word
sex this was an understanding of peace, when the word love became separated from
the word sex, sex became disembodied and this became war. In the last hours we
are praying for the violence to end, we, the Women’s Collective have declared
Montreal a curse free zone. The disembodied soul, some members of the patriarchy
refuse to acknowledge we the people as rights and freedoms, as faces and bodies
and souls sancrosanct under God. A society that does not understand or follow
Signs from God is doomed.)
“the Alex P. Rathbone showhorse
the sinking eye of pandemonium
it’s odd how people become forgotten
how memories age
grow round with time
but there are no marks on her body
some are in the hallway
one or two behind the coach
some videotaped their own arrival
(a trend encouraged by Hollywood)
and who is laughing
at the funeral
someone is taking notes.”
This poetry is reminiscent of the truncated thought-speak of T.S. Eliot’s The
Wasteland, the out of place, out of time violence of ended beginnings and war.
Although not a long poem, these poems exist as if photos of heat, violence and
memory, a song of peace playing in the background of the shattered night. And in
the New World, the jagged edges of sunlight, something like love plays into a
black and blue chorus …
“and winter sits in
settles with a vengeance
cold, the last look of love
except in the colour blue
and his dance is the dance
sweet that calico moon
sings into sweet
treasure heart one,
in the flower of the night.”
Harlequins and Angels, is an evolution from Poet Banks usual poetic climes
and presents the blue and the still in the tradition of the great Symbolist
and Imagist Poets, giving birth to The New Age.
Lucile Barker is a Toronto poet, writer and activist. Since 1994, she has
been the co-ordinator of the Joy of Writing, a weekly poetry and fiction
workshop at the Ralph Thornton Centre. Recent poetry and prose publications
include poems in The Big Scarborough Art Book, Linden Avenue, Decades Review,
and Killer Whale. Her poetry has appeared on posters and in the 2013 Digging to
the Roots Calendar. Her recent fiction has been published in The Quotable,
Memewar, Mixitini Matrix and Green Briar Review. Upcoming work will be appearing
in Paper Plates, Mixitini Matrix, Subterranean Blue Review, Commonline Review,
The Art of Being Human, and Black Cat Lit. It Matters blog radio recently
broadcast her story “My Stinky Valentine.”
Marie Lecrivain is the editor of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los
Angeles, a photographer, and a writer-in-residence at her apartment. She's been
published in various journals, and her avocations include alchemy, fibre art,
collecting various versions of Bronte novels, and long walks through the streets
of Los Angeles.
Orlando Murcia is an Author, writer and Poet from Los Angeles California.
His main focus is to write about Love and Beauty. Though his words may at times
be sensual and mesmeric through romantic lines as in his book of poems, The
Beauty Of All Around. He is known more for his Romantic flow more than anything,
but packs even a heavier blow with his "Truth" about his life and past as a
youth. He was Born in Santa Ana El Salvador during the time where the Guerrilla
warfare was still going on.
William Shakespeare is a British poet and playwright born in
Stratford-upon-Avon, believed to be one of the greatest writers of all time. He
is the third child born to John Shakespeare, a merchant and Mary Arden who is
local gentry. He married Anne Hathaway (26 years) when he was 18 years old and
had 3 children. There is no record of his education nor of the 7 years after he
left his wife. He eventually arrived in London, joined the Lord Chamberlain’s
Men Company, theatrical players where he is believed to have penned numerous
plays and poems. Most noteworthy are the Sonnets, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliette,
The Merchant of Venice, MacBeth, Othello, King Lear, A Midsummer’s Night Dream,
As You Like It, amongst others.
Ginna Wilkerson completed a Ph.D. in Creative Writing at University of
Aberdeen in 2013, also the year of publication of her first poetry collection,
Odd Remains. Her photographs have been displayed in both Scotland and the US.
This summer, Ginna has been in residency at Can Serrat Artist’s Residence in El
Bruc, Spain. Currently, she teaches at Ringling College of Art and Design.