ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume III Issue XI

The Cover Art/Photo:

from A practical handbook of trees, shrubs, vines and herbaceous perennials

by John Kirkegaard

“sweet, o’ sweet miel

the night, the last of Summer gathers . . . “

“columbine hearts

o’ the honey that clots

at the bottom of sepals

haunted by hummingbirds

and children

you are

the lost language of the sky


my orange cat

curls up beside me

St. Brigid’s dragon,

savoie in love

you are

the best saviour, close

close my eyes,

i fall asleep

with my pen in my hand”

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume III Issue XI
(November 2015)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2015


Trends in Poetry – Flash Poetry

Experiential, flash poetry. When a poem writes in public and you write it down. I love the fresh cut of guerrilla poetry . . . you are out in public and the lightening strikes, the inspiration and the poetry just spills over the edges of a very full cup . . .

"and she is beautiful and Jewish

and she is beautiful in blue and Muslim

and she is large and beautiful in French

and she is beautiful in blue-green tatoos

and she is beautiful in black as she sleeps."

this wrote while i was in the Metro today (Saturday, August 29th, 2015) watching the women in the Metro - like flash poetry, a snapshot of a few moments in a Summer afternoon on a Montreal train. This day there was a street fete with sellers and bargains in Verdun, it was a warm Summer day with overcast sky. The deep caverns of the Metro with the brightly lit stations in stone and coloured brick, some with advertisements rolled by and in the train, on the way home it was carnival.

Street performance art – writing/creating/reciting poetry in open thoughts as you are walking down the street, catching the mood of the day. Creates synchronicity with people in the street, rocs the street and creates celebration and partay. When the poetry strikes a chord it creates understanding amongst people, group think and a type of peace, where the artist has been heard and has a mirror in the day and the people around him/her. Artist’s for peace. An element of the arts economy when a majority of people follow an arts calling.

As if divinely inspired, written by the saints and angels and sometimes the crowd will put in a comment, an observation, as if the Community is writing in concert. A concert of poetry, a Community in concert. Flash poetry.


by Jeevan Bhagwat

Gracefully, beautifully

you open unto me,

till my eyes burn

with the purity of your love.

Naked, I tremble

as a new born child,

you receive me

and wrap me

in brand new skin,

My heart ignites

and I breathe again,

oh Love,

I breathe again.


by Jeevan Bhagwat

You my love

are a walking poem

whose beauty entices

my heart to sing.

Lost in the light

of your seashell eyes,

I drown my senses

in oceans of desire,

And dream of metaphors

for which to strew

in reverence

before your feet.



A. P.

crystal clear mirror...
only you remain unchanged
pond by the tree house

equally cryptic...
spell of trees and chill good-byes
tears on a night bus

rainbow of feelings
fleeting summer kisses and
cicada flutter

Featured Poet: Lorna Dee Cervantes



Lorna Dee Cervantes

Cherry plums suck a week’s soak,
overnight they explode into the scenery of before
your touch.The curtains open on the end of our past.
Pink trumpets on the vines bare to the hummingbirds.
Butterflies unclasp from the purse of their couplings, they
light and open on the doubled hands of eucalyptus fronds.
They sip from the pistils for seven generations that bear
them through another tongue as the first year of our
punishing mathematic begins clicking the calendar
forward. They land like seasoned rocks on the
decks of the cliffs. They take another turn
on the spiral of life where the blossoms
blush & pale in a day of dirty dawn
where the ghost of you webs
your limbs through branches
of cherry plum. Rare bird,
extinct color, you stay in
my dreams in x-ray. In
rerun, the bone of you
stripping sweethearts
folds and layers the
shedding petals of
my grief into a
decayed holo-
for ever

Missed Connections

Twitter - @iGeha @_jazmynee – August 26th, 2015


now that’s she gone, the nights are only darker.
the most vibrant picture you could paint
doesn’t compare to her eyes.

now that she’s gone, every colour looks the same.
I was convinced god made her just for me by
the way her body fit so perfectly with mine
while we slept.

now that she’s gone I don’t even sleep.
just hearing her name use to make my heart race.
now that’s she’s gone her name only
shatters the little bit of heart I have

but . . . .
if my nights being darker means your days
are brighter, I’ll be ok

if my world being chill means yours is vivid,
I’ll be ok
if my nights being restless means you slept
like a baby, I’ll be ok.

and if my heart being shattered means yours
is in one piece, I’ll be ok.

Book Reviews

Culls, New Age Goth Poetry lives in the shadowland.

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Culls

Author: Roland Prevost

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2015

Page Count: 12

“Oh strange beautiful grass of green
with your majestic silver seas . . . “
- from Third Stone from the Sun by Jimi Hendrix

Culls by Roland Prevost is an artifact of poetry of the New Age culture, swathes of mystery and darkness, this Goth poetry is an exploration of the artist’s way. He is a Poet and a Poetry Editor, formerly of Poetics.ca and of seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics. Poet Prevost has been widely published in poetry journals (Arc Poetry Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly, Descant, The Peter F. Yacht Club amongst others) and anthologies. He has published 4 Chapbooks and his first poetry collection, Singular Plurals was launched in 2014. He lives and works in Ottawa.

Moody and dwelling in the shadow places, the places that question balance and sanity possibly within the violence of serial love relationships and despite the darkness, a celebration. The poetry is New Age and borrows from the Imagist school. As if fighting the depression of highs and lows, the poetry spins around nature imagery.

From Grounded to Airbourne

“The sepia colour of memory, too long
from the darkroom bath. A dragonfly close-up,
my solitary index offered as a perch. Its seeming
friendliness, ad hoc, filled-in. As with all fictions.
Willing fools, we cram every blank space with connection.

Simple projected desire. The insect’s just exhausted.
Or intoxicated by something unrelated.
Perhaps ill, or dying. But the appeal of a zen
companion proves too much to resist. I lend it
my blind hopes. Play a one-sided game of intimates.

This photo was sometimes later used as proof
of something else. Those were the stoner months.
The hashish months, at the lake. Anomie.
Sick with loss and isolation that nothing could fill.
Stuck as in the picture. Grounded. Unable to take off.

Long solo vigils by the fire pit past midnight. Questions
float up to the sky. Hard answers parachute down.
Unwelcome. Insistent. Find something or someone to spark.
Follow this leitmotif: Court passion, even disaster, if you must.
Whatever means, airbourne.”

And speaking particularly of darkness, possibly a gift from a lover, a preserved butterfly in a frame shatters. As if a metaphor for something beautiful, perhaps a love, that has been lost.

Butterfly Box of Pins

“At the edge of stillness
was there a last tired flex of wings?

What spray preserves as specimen
the slant-tipped pins hold down

What you meant by this gift

Where it fell off the bookcase
a broom gathers glass shards

Pins still in place
its empty box
finds the trashcan

I hear the complaining garbage truck

The insect presumed missing”

In the contemplation of the great silence and the mystery of the artist’s calling, all is revealed. Using the themes of sex and death, the deep sorrow drives the compelling images, telling a story of found, yet lost love.

Needful Guests

. . .

"Pour a fresh drink
For the unwelcome visitor

His sculpted cup of indestructible metal
engraves your name

When he finally arrives
you’re surprised by his surprise

You’re his unwanted guest, as well

So share one of the best drinks
you’ll ever have

Together laugh and laugh
away the night"

Existing in the shadowland, places of love lost and the underground war zone North America. The dark shadows of Goth poetry, a masterful weave of language and images that celebrate sorrow, this poetry lives in the dark of the night. Culls by Roland Prevost.

Available @ above/ground press.

Isotropes an excellent example of Haibun, fantastical poetry in Japanese form.

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Isotropes: A Collection of Speculative Haibun

Author: “T.J. McIntyre”

Publisher: Philistine Press

Date of Publication: 2010

Page Count: 15

“Things are changing
But nothing changes
And still there are changes”
- from “Le Roi Est Mort, Vive Le Roi” by Enigma

Isotropes: A Collection of Speculative Haibun book of poetry is an excellent poetic dirge, the author is purportedly T.J. McIntyre, another important work of anarchy offered for free from Philistine Press. The series of 15 poems moves through the violence of the apocalypse and the mirror of love lost into the post-apocalypse and the perfect union. The title “Isotropes” is defined as “uniformity in all orientations” and is a term used in physics, mathematics and biology, in biology particularly is “uniformity in cell walls” as if the poetry, struck by lightening riffs on time and the search for the perfect Zen.

Haibun is a traditional 17th century Japanese form of poetry crafted by the famously popular Matsuo Basho, an innovator of Haiku. Known for his travels, This Writer suspects he kept journals or letters with descriptive prose (perhaps influenced by prose genres from China) and everyday language, interspersed with Haiku. The Haibun at its root, is prose paragraph writing highlighted by one or more Haiku. The prose paragraph traditionally is a description of a person, place, object or a diary or a travel journal entry. This description may be a tribute to a special moment or an event or may exist as fiction or a dreamscape. The prose paragraph should be in the Spirit of Haiku existing in concise and imagistic realms. Stylistically, this book of poetry is sublime, the paragraph writing flows as if an unfolding story highlighted by exquisite Haiku, the work is the craft. Each poem offers a different theme, Olympus and the fall from grace, abandoned children, biology lab, mother, traveling and being pregnant, a violent takedown, violence in the schoolyard, living underground during a nuclear war, a doctor’s office, California falling into the sea, a love affair in the schoolyard, a girl who believes in God, on a ship during a storm and being haunted by a lover culminating with the perfect union love affair. Singly the poems create a dirge of violence and time, together the poems travel through the apocalypse with a happy ending, as if bringing the reader into the post-apocalypse unscathed.

The poetry begins with a fall from grace,


When the winds first blew down from the outer tip of Olympus, it carried with it the dust of time, of loss, of empty years that went on for far too long without any meaning. There was an ache spanning the entirety of the crater itself. We did not notice at first, but that was all before things went bad.

the hanging bodies
swaying from cords in closets
blood lost in red dust . . . ”

and explores the idea of violence and the apocalypse, perhaps part homage to the changing violence of weather systems and war, the underground war zone North America and perhaps part personal reflection. The poetry, expertly written draws the reader in and dances in places of the past, casting them into realms of mythologies that haunt us, like the reading of a good horror story, it is raining.

“When We Moved Underground

When the bombs finally rained down from above, it was almost a relief. Months had rolled by in a constant state of waiting, of not knowing if today would be the day. The anxiety was almost too much to bear.

sleepless nights
looking up at empty skies
waiting for the end

We spent our time preparing, trying to keep our minds off the inevitable. We knew what would happen; it was only a matter of time. We reinforced our storehouses and prepared for our new lives underground . . .”

Reading this poetry is like having just stumbled on “War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells being read on radio in 1938, the invasion by aliens, the apocalypse, the end of the world. Perhaps prophetic, it moves through the collective psyche of the places that haunt us, the shadow places the mind goes unbidden and celebrates them. Weaving into the story of apocalypse is the background story of love lost with the redemption story of perfect love.

“The Sea Wife Retrieves Her Man

It was a quiet night, like any other. Just Hans, Obediah, and I above deck. A flash of lightning lit up a mountain range of distant clouds high up in the western sky.

winds ruffling sails
under a moonless sky
cutting through the sea

Waves rose. Winds blew. Tiny drops of salty ocean spray pelted through my wool coat, making it even heavier than usual. Obadiah screamed something my way, but I didn’t hear him. I wasn’t really paying attention. My coat was too heavy. Despite the chill, I slipped out of my coat, only wanting to have that weight off my shoulders.

thunder rumbling
ocean and sky merging
a brewing tempest . . . “

A celebration of the dark of night and the post-apocalypse in traditional Japanese poetic form, Isotropes: A Collection of Speculative Haibun by T.J. McIntyre.

Available @ Philistine Press.

“for blue rolls into bluegreen

trees dance, dance in the Summer night . . . “

looking for Ben Ragi


Rebecca Anne Banks

walking, walking

the sirens

i come upon a man on a stretcher

(o’ a real call . . . half relieved they were not looking for me)

down in the Metro, i say a prayer

looking for Ben Ragi

zin ziggy

the bang girl with purple braided hair,

some bella blonde in jail

flowers on the edge of

the train rolls

blue smokes and room.

looking for Ben Ragi

language blows into blue

brushes with feathers and pearls

diamonds lurking in shadows

and the night

sweet picture forms

the curtain blows out of the window on the wind

a view of heaven

fireflies and stars.


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in Montreal. She is the author of 26 books of poetry, a family cookbook, a book of children’s stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters and a primer on marriage discernment all available on (www.amazon.ca). She is also the CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records ( www.tympanilanerecords.com) and The Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca).

Jeevan Bhagwat. I live and work in Scarborough, Ontario. My poems have been widely published and in 2003 and 2005, I won the Monica Ladell Award for Poetry (Scarborough Arts Council). In 2012, my book of poems, The Weight of Dreams was published by IN Publications.

Lorna Dee Cervantes was born in San Francisco, California in the early 1950’s. She is a Chicana/Native American Poet, feminist and activist writer. She has lectured at the University of Colorado, the University of California and teaches creative writing across the United States. Cervantes runs MANGO Press publishing Chicana/o writers and has won the Pushcart Prize twice, amongst other awards. She is best known for Ciento: 100 100-Word Love Poems, DRIVE: The First Quartet, Emplumada, From the Cables of Genocide: Poems on Love and Hunger and more.

Roland Prevost lives and works in Ottawa, Canada. He is a Poet and Poetry Editor formerly of Poetics.ca, currently of seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics. His poetry has been featured in many journals, including ottawater, The Peter F. Yacht Club, Arc Poetry Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly, Descant amongst others and is published in 3 anthologies by Angel House Press. He has published 4 Chapbooks and launched a book of poetry, Singular Plurals. Poet Prevost won the 2006 John Newlove Poetry Award.