And road rages to feed the birds in factory cages,
dirty diapers asses and thighs slipping thru ketchup
And praying to dead sages,
collapse on a cheap mattress
dirty finger nails scraping Kentucky fried pigeon
and wondering why
the military lies about bombs
& unidentified flying I don’t knows
but I still try
to keep the third eye alive
by Ava Bird
tough teenage years
moms mandatory prayer meetings
we bring friends and giggle
bible study night
almost over, thank god
fill out this slip of paper with your personal problem prayer request and put it
in this bowl.
we'll mix up the bowl & you don't have to put your name on it,
then we'll go around the room and share,
picking someone else's problem & praying for them!
i throw in a blank piece of paper
quickly into the bowl
we go around the room and pick some prayers
someone picks the blank piece of paper
"oh look, someone doesnt have any problems!"
no one knows
my best friend
and she laughed
by Ava Bird
i pledge allegience
to the lotus flower
from mother earth i stand
with good intention
for peace and justice for all,
just stay the fuck off my land sir,
out of my ovaries and sacred underwear,
time to wash thy temple,
sage the fuck out of here,
clearing the chakras like crazy
chemtrails and pricks sticking poisons
time to fly bitch
time to die into a new beginnings,
beginners mind again
with liberty and justice for all
Featured Poet: Allen Ginsberg
Kaddish, Part I
For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894-1956
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--
And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
swers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn--
Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apoca-
the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed--
like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion--
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-
ping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it
lasts, a Vision--anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-
dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and
the sky above--an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side
--where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the
first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice
cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards--
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light
on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
the street, firs escapes old as you
--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me--
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with
us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever
That's good! That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove,
torture even toothache in the end--
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul,
in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair
and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you're out, Death let you out,
Death had the Mercy, you're done with your century, done with
God, done with the path thru it--Done with yourself at last--Pure
--Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all--before the
There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you've gone, it's good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more
fear of Louis,
and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts,
loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands--
No more of sister Elanor,--she gone before you--we kept it secret you
killed her--or she killed herself to bear with you--an arthritic heart
--But Death's killed you both--No matter--
Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and
weeks--forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address human-
ity, Chaplin dance in youth,
or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin's at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar
--by standing room with Elanor & Max--watching also the Capital
ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,
with the YPSL's hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts
pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and
laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920
all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave--lucky to
have husbands later--
You made it--I came too--Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and
will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer--or kill
--later perhaps--soon he will think--)
And it's the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now
--tho not you
I didn't foresee what you felt--what more hideous gape of bad mouth came
first--to you--and were you prepared?
To go where? In that Dark--that--in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the
Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with
Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull
in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon--Deaths-
head with Halo? can you believe it?
Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence,
than none ever was?
Nothing beyond what we have--what you had--that so pitiful--yet Tri-
umph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower--fed to
ground--but made, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe,
shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth
wrapped, sore--freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless.
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the
Cut down by an idiot Snowman's icy--even in the Spring--strange ghost
thought some--Death--Sharp icicle in his hand--crowned with old
roses--a dog for his eyes--cock of a sweatshop--heart of electric
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out--clocks, bodies, consciousness,
shoes, breasts--begotten sons--your Communism--'Paranoia' into
You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of
stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is
Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over
midnight Accountings, not sure. His life passes--as he sees--and
what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might
have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Im-
I'll see him soon. Now I've got to cut through to talk to you as I didn't
when you had a mouth.
Forever. And we're bound for that, Forever like Emily Dickinson's horses
--headed to the End.
They know the way--These Steeds--run faster than we think--it's our own
life they cross--and take with them.
Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, mar-
ried dreamed, mortal changed--Ass and face done with murder.
In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under
pine, almed in Earth, blamed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.
Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless,
Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I'm
hymnless, I'm Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore
Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not
light or darkness, Dayless Eternity--
Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some
of my Time, now given to Nothing--to praise Thee--But Death
This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Won-
derer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping
--page beyond Psalm--Last change of mine and Naomi--to God's perfect
Darkness--Death, stay thy phantoms!
Over and over--refrain--of the Hospitals--still haven't written your
history--leave it abstract--a few images
run thru the mind--like the saxophone chorus of houses and years--
remembrance of electrical shocks.
By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your
nervousness--you were fat--your next move--
By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you--
once and for all--when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my
opinion of the cosmos, I was lost--
By my later burden--vow to illuminate mankind--this is release of
particulars--(mad as you)--(sanity a trick of agreement)--
But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and
spied a mystical assassin from Newark,
So phoned the Doctor--'OK go way for a rest'--so I put on my coat
and walked you downstreet--On the way a grammarschool boy screamed,
unaccountably--'Where you goin Lady to Death'? I shuddered--
and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask
against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma--
And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of
the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on--to New
York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound--
Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – August 3rd, 2014 – the girl
I was waiting for my nightbus on Atwater St near LG
A couple of guys in a cab, cutie next to the driver asked what I was reading.
After giving him the title, he was able to guess the author.
He also suggested me another author that was already a personal fav.
Help this guy out and send me his info.
We need to do drinks
- the girl reading The Last Coyote
Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – August 8th, 2014 – The Last Coyote
The Last Coyote - m4w (Montreal )
He's a great writer.I've read pretty much all of his work.
Reading him while waiting for the night bus is just the thing.
The night bus, Bosch and the humid nights of Montreal in the summer.
what a combination. It wasn't me you were talking about by the way.
I just happen to have read most of Michael Connelly's work....
And of course, there's the Lincoln Lawyer, and Bosch's step-brother, Micky.
(N.B.: “next!” – note from the editor)
Sound Off: a book of jazz, a dance with The Muse.
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: Sound Off: a book of jazz
Author: Stephen Bett
Publisher: Thistledown Press Ltd.
Date of Publication: 2013
Page Count: 117
" Painting, I think it's like jazz."
- Brian Eno (Musician, Composer, Singer, Visual Artist, Record Producer)
Sound Off: a book of jazz is the 12th book of poetry by
Vancouver poet Stephen Bett. His work has been published extensively in literary
journals in Canada and internationally. His personal papers are being archived
by Simon Fraser University Library in British Columbia.
The Muse of the book is modern jazz musicians and their music. Jazz music as a genre
evolved in the late 19th and early 20th centuries after the abolition of the
American slaves in 1865. Black musicians created an interpretation of classical
music with African and slave folk songs birthing “ragtime” played in vaudeville,
clubs, bars and brothels. Jazz music is lightening and takes a high degree of
skill to play. The genre has many different styles and each musician brings
their own personal interpretation and improvisation.
78 jazz musicians, the name of the musician as the title of the poem often with
a quote from a music review as an introduction to the stereographic riffs of the
Poet perhaps as his personal experience of the music. I picture the Poet, late
at night knocking back with a little something special, listening to jazz music
recordings and with the Wurlitzer above his head in the clouds birthing the
poem. The poetry forms like another layer to the music, half impressions, half
review mixed in with pieces of the daylight world, metaphors to sports, physics,
classic literature, humor, his personal life, a dance with the Muse. As if painting
a picture, the poetry responds and is in response to the music, the poetry chops a
mirror, you can almost hear the jazz music playing in the background, in quiet
cacophony. (perhaps suggesting an art installation of poetry and music as an
Another Mr. Popularity
(& for good reason)
Profoundly sad &
joyous & sweet
(ad infinitum . . . )
Nice & easy
Easy is nice, too
Warm summer evenings
windows rolled down
Meth (lite) cranked up
Ride us to the town
(it’s in the pink)
No tip, you know
better than that
The pleasure was always
both of ours
And don’t wait outside,
we’ll be up late
listening to it all
Highly produced, yes
(Mr. Popularity, &
for good reason)
Julia Hulsmann Trio
A little ponderous, yes
- but in a totally good
a Manfred Eicher way
an ECM way
a Zen less-is-more
Here / There
in confident measure
Wander into each corner
to hear how
Beauty will ponder
That’s what it
- & in good
Influenced by minimalist poetry and the San Francisco Renaissance Poets, the
style suggests a crucible for the loss of grace from the First and Second World
War and the violent places of the war economy North America as it morphs into a
new day. A poet from the postmodern school the poetry is an incantation of
broken thought, captures The Muse, the jazz music as if a snapshot in a moment of time.
Stefano Battaglia / Michele Rabbia
(& throwing in Rilke, too,
Sonnets too Orpheus)
We have been
But isn’t that
Alright, The Anxiety
(but never simply
Stark, eye-shutting beauty
. . . is in the music
Haunts us down
calls us to its brood,
to brotherhood under its
chill ground-swell sound
Like the sea itself
cresting our cross-over
voyagings & births
(& ambient jazz,
in the end
Does ECM ever take a miss?
Does cold water Nordic jazz?
A marriage made in oceans
we know so well
(on the other side
of the earth
Astonish us, deeply affecting
This poetry is jazzspeak, as if on a cloud drawing down fragments of light in
broken thought forms, a celebration of some of the greatest modern jazz musicians
of our time. Sound Off: a book of jazz by Stephen Bett.
“songs of innocence and songs of experience”
- William Blake (Poet/Artist)
Red Horses is a book of poetry written by Daniel Rajala, his 33rd
Chapbook, a West Coast Poet/Artist and local bon vivant. Poet/Artist Rajala was
born in Port Arthur, Ontario and is a trained artist, graduating from the
Vancouver School of Art, working as a radio programmer at Co-op Radio and taking
university courses in writing poetry. 1995 was a most noteworthy year as he had
a write-up in the Vancouver Magazine for streaking at the Vancouver Art Gallery
to celebrate the opening of the Andy Warhol exhibit.
The poetry is quiet and round, a story of paradise lost that is a cultural
artefact, a story of someone on a journey blown into a storm. A play on time, it
is a quiet celebration of the simple life, themes include his pet cat, his
garden, mending his cargo pants, food, dancing on a beach naked, getting the
maintenance man to fix things, hiking in the mountains, riding the bus lines and
his dreams. On the surface engenue except for the occasional invective that is
rather odd, yet interesting as metaphor.
“. . . Losing the fight and it seems
My life a lot like that of Matahari
Working as a spy for the enemy
Doing exotic dances, for audience
And I’m taking the elevator to hell
Right now I have my freedom as
I race my bike along the seashore
Past wild roses that grow along the trail
And all of this is such Ether”
from One of the Fallen
“Anyway these kids in the movie saw this;
they didn’t want this sailor to lose his calling
and not be same for the rest of his life.
They poisoned his tea and one day when they were up
on these bluffs overlooking the sea, the sailor died.”
The poetry meanders, half narrative, half introspection, for the most part a
type of journal writing and as if Poet Rajala has been gazing out into the
darkness for too long. After awhile the style becomes soft, familiar, an imagine
of a childlike wonder, it lives in the postmodernist school with occasional
edges of SteamPunk Poetry, a reflection of the Poets spirit, every word is
carefully considered and placed.
Occasional lucidity surfaces through the waters,
Dancing with Angels
. . . “I’m not the only one
living my life,
someone else has
made all of these plans.”
. . . “VOID,
the original agreement does not exist,
about as blank and empty
as my mind sometimes gets to be.
That feeling, when something is absent,
of some great loss; all the years behind
that we can never have again or find.”
My favourite poem is Red Horses, it is a simple description of the four horses
of the apocalypse, beginning with a vision of the red horse in the Book of
Zechariah. This is a fantastical Bible story about the destruction of the unholy
and a re-establishment of the house of Israel and the Holy Spirit way. The poem
itself is celebratory,
“In the book of Zechariah,
The prophet, has a vision
In which there are four chariots
Drawn by horses carrying the
Four spirits of God to the world
The black spirit is the one
That is strong and powerful,
Prepared to do battle
The chariot drawn by black horses
Is the one, heading north
The white spirit is the one
That is peaceful, pure, spreading
Love around and the chariot
Drawn by white horses
Is the one that is heading west
The mottled spirit is the one
Of variety and different ideas like
All the colours of paint on a palette
The chariot drawn by a mottled spirit
Is the one, heading south
The Red spirit is the one
Of festivity and much celebration
There is only one direction left
For the chariot drawn by red horses
It is to the east and the holy land”
In the presentation, the Poet lives alone, as if a monk with his pet cat. And it
is as if the Poet has decided to live despite the woes of life, in a way that
pulls happiness from the mouth of a lion. In the vein of apocalypse poetry,
activist and awake, yet quiet with the sleep of forest, ocean and mountains.
Songs of innocence, songs of experience someone dancing, a West Coast prophet
and poetry on the soft winds from British Columbia, Red Horses by Daniel
Available @ Email: firstname.lastname@example.org for a copy of Red Horses.
The most fascinating New Age Science Fiction/Romance read in post-modern literature.
Byline: Reprint from The Book Reviewer
Title of Book: Behind the Pen: A Love Story
Author: Melinda Cochrane
Publisher: Melinda Cochrane International
Date of Publication: 2013
Page Count: 287
Melinda Cochrane, Poet, writer, educator, radio host and publisher, astonishes with this ingenious work of New Age Science Fiction/Romance, Behind the Pen: A
Love Story. This is the second novel of Melinda Cochrane’s I have reviewed, and it is the craft at its finest.
The work is cast in the future, about 50 years from now, painting a horrific picture of economic collapse and war. However, the book begins essentially as high
romance, he is a high powered mogul and she his Muse, a writer, it is love in the time of war. But it is a modern love, one that carries past/present wars inside
them. Aleron says of her “Have you carried many through the wind, or does the wind only carry you,” he smiled.” He also describes her as “a horse with no bridle.”
He is a vey high powered businessman and sleeps with models, beautiful women but he is at the same time entranced by and always comes home to Mary. She is very hurt
by his indiscretions, and when she finds out he is planning an outrement, acts out by flirting with other men, he is incensed and beats up one of her “lovers.”
He told her he was going away for 2 weeks with a model and she took a knife and trashed the coaches and the floor. She disappeared and took to the streets,
after 3 weeks of looking for her, he finds her, “He approached her slowly, and like the hare he was afraid she’d disappear into an Asian folklore. “I didn’t go,
I stayed, it was no opportunity,” he said grabbing her arm before she bolted. She looked up, and he could tell she hadn’t eaten a thing in days.
Her eyes were swollen, and her neck red with the hints of emerging passion from within her. “I love you, I love you. You know I love just you,”
she said, with tears running line through the dirt on her face. “How did you make me love one man?” “I love you, I never loved anyone before” she reported over
and over. He saw on her hands, 4 cuts where he had once placed a ring of engagement. He was sickened, and loved her more deeply than she could ever fathom. “I
love you too dearest dove”. . . “Can I come home now?” she said, resting her head against his chest. “Yes, you never left, you never left. Even before I knew you,
I saw you in my vision, it will come to pass, it will come to pass,” he said and could not contain his tears any longer.”
““Write,” he told her, “get back to work.”
“I am waiting to be inspired again,” she said feeling the heat rise to her heart.
“I won’t write. Not with your orders.”
He walked over, grabbed a laptop and put it down in front of her.”
“I have nothing to say now,” she said laughing at his insistence on moving her.
“Don’t laugh, you are being a child. Take your hands and do something with them.”
She swung her chair around, still in her dress and put her coffee cup down.
She stood up, unbuttoned her dress, and walked into the bedroom.”“
““Going for a run,”she said, kissing his cheek.
“You think that will feed you,” he said.
“No dear, I feed me.””
Mary sometimes rags on him about his business practices,
“Tell me how much did you get from the deal where you outsourced to India. Do you know how little they get paid?”
“Those people got more money than they normally would have.”
“Those people, huh? And do you know any of their names?”
It is a very passionate, powerful dance of love/war in which they desire each other more than other peoples. Also with deep psychological insights, she reaches
out to hold his hand, “In her hands, she held her pain always. If they were numb she had chosen to not feel a thing, if they were firm she was hurting, and if
they were tender, she was afraid.” “As the love grew, the time lasted but the clock never moved. For years the history of them was the growth of eternal happiness.
But, within him he fornicated with the hate he had for himself. Love to him increased his need to punish himself for her love, and the receiving of it.”/”Aleron
had been too long a prisoner of his own damnation. He’d killed, and served years in concrete prisons but it was the prison of self loathing that held him tighter
in the grips of his own history.” Past lives, wars, politics and business all hover on the edges of this committed passion. In this montage of 2050, the
United States has spiraled into economic collapse and more violence, the prisoners have been set free and are the new police, a South American drug cartel is
giving out crack in the streets, there is white collar and cyber crime, the banking system has collapsed, as daily life erodes. There is war everywhere, and
between America and Asia. Aleron is the American businessman/diplomat who is selected to go to China to dialogue peace, and the story blows into a sophisticated
James Bond thriller.
The entire work is written as if a dream, almost entirely in eloquent poetic prose. The lines are well written, a series of thoughts, sharp, original
and cast in love, poetry in form and motion drawing the reader in. Juxtaposed with “reality” are surreal dreamscapes in italics, these pieces are memories,
flashbacks, internalized war scenes, parallel universes and perhaps Mary writing her books. Spinning lines like “Orchids on a bed of tinted platitudes”/”And
in the dove’s eyes “where there is war, there is love.””
She becomes pregnant and has these ruminations at the time of delivery, a stillbirth child:
“The battles day ends when its last chess piece falls from its narrow place on the board. I cannot embark on this journey alone, Epona. I need you next to me in
the night’s long forward march over Irish soils. The gallop of horses passed her window, . . . “ And “Ten years I served in a Chinese prison, ten years, and the
Soviets and the Chinese captured me when I fought hard with the Imperial Army. I spent 5 years in a Soviet prison as well. I longed to smell the land of my ancestors.
Aoyama you are free.”
Behind the Pen: A Love Story is in league with Margaret Atwood’s New Age Science Fiction works and is a new twist on the science fiction/romance genre. Perhaps
even as great a read as George Orwell’s, 1984. The images reminiscent of one of this Writers favourite movies, The Year of Living Dangerously,
as war erupts amidst a love affair in an Asian land.
As if she is a Celtic prophet/Sheherazade spinning passion and poetry through the long night, asking questions of the universe. The entire work is brilliantly
executed in moving image montages, poetry inside the passion of the lost world with a surprise ending. Behind the Pen: A Love Story, a brilliant read by
Rebecca Anne Banks lives in Montreal. She has written 22 books of poetry,
a book of old-time family recipes and a primer on marriage. She is the
Artist/CEO at Tea at Tympani Lane Records (www.tympanilanerecords.com) and the Book Reviewer at The
Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca).
Danielle Bedard. “A native of Québec, Canada, Danielle Bédard studied at
Champlain College in film and photography followed by an intense commercial
photography program at college Marsan. Her love of photography began after her
parents gave her a 35mm SLR on her 9th birthday. In 1998, Danielle began her
photography career, covering major events in the music industry in Montreal,
Toronto, Ottawa and Vancouver. Her work has been sold, exhibited and published
in several news papers and magazines.” from http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/danielle-bedard.html.
Stephen Bett has had fifteen books of poetry published. Seventeenth and
eighteenth books have been completed, making a trilogy with Penny- Ante Poems;
and nineteenth and twentieth books are also recently completed. His work has
also appeared in well over 100 literary journals in Canada, the U.S., England,
Australia, New Zealand, and Finland, as well as in three anthologies, and on
radio. His “personal papers” have been purchased by the Simon Fraser University
Library, and are, on an ongoing basis, being archived in their “Contemporary
Literature Collection” for current and future scholarly interest.
Ava Bird is an American based poet, writer, editor, reviewer, producer,
magical elixir maker and more! her poetic works are printed in historical
anthologies, academic journals, spiritual publications, online, recorded for
radio and exhibited in galleries. she has published two books of poetry and
prose "the new now" and "rage against the war machine" and is an organizer for
the worldwide poetry movement 100 thousand poets for change. connect @ facebook:
Melinda Cochrane was born in Newfoundland, teaches on the West Island of
Montreal and is a Poet, writer and educator giving writing workshops and is an
inspirational life coach. She has won awards for her poetry and gives poetry
readings both locally and in the States. She has written a memoir, The Fired
Heart, a novel, Desperate Freedom
and 2 books of poetry, The Man Who Stole Father's Boat and She's an
Island Poet. www.melindacochrane.com.
Allen Ginsberg was born in Newark, New Jersey, he is one of the founders
of the Beat Poetry Movement and one of the foremost American modernist writers.
He attended Columbia University where he met Jack Kerouac and William S.
Burroughs, studying under William Carlos Williams. An activist/poet he
championed Gay Rights, protested the war in Vietnam and coined “flower power” to
describe the counterculture movement of the 1960’s. His best works include
Reality Sandwiches, Planet News 1961-1967,
The Fall of America: Poems of these States (1965-1971), Cosmopolitan
Greetings: Poems 1982 – 1992, Howl and Other Poems amongst others.
Daniel Rajala. Born in Thunder Bay, Ontario and got a
four year diploma in painting from the Vancouver School of Art in 1977, now
Emily Carr University. Did a radio show at Vancouver's Co-op Radio from
1994-2000 and poem “Last Dance with Cocaine" published in the Minus Tides
magazine in 1996. The poem "Diamonds" was published in the anthology by Paul
Taylor called "The Heart of the Community" 2003. Wrote 33 chapbooks of poetry
and now lives in Powell River, B.C. Email: email@example.com for a copy
of Red Horses.