She leapt on the table, spun three times, and flew
up and around the ceiling fan. I thought about
holding her hand, us married in the suburbs
somewhere with a garden out back, her black
hair tied with a blue ribbon, and her eyes
wet, drowning in mist wafting through
our open door. Waitress stopped mid pour
and we watched her do loop-de-loops
above our heads, boot heels narrowly missing
fixtures as she swam, kicking at high windows
where pale light drifted in, faded shadow of a sigh.
I Remember Your Smile
by Steve Klepetar
hanging from a crab apple tree, heavy
with red and green tinged fruit, sour in the huge,
grassy yard of the green house with peeling
paint where we lived almost thirty years ago.
When I tilted my head to the exactly
right angle, I could just about see where
your shining teeth pressed against your fleshy
lips, but then it wasn’t clear whether you
meant to smile or scowl and I had to locate
your melting brown eyes, those puddles of
pheromones and soul. All night you painted
the sky with the palms of your moist, warm hands,
spreading that beautiful mixture of darkness
and stars, or drumming our roof with rain.
Sometimes when I dreamed in our tiny bed,
I could feel the motion of your art across
that small sea between us, my boat struggling
with the current your sweet, sweeping breath brewed,
oars leaping alive in my blistered hands,
salt spray blasting my face. Was I a lost
traveler yearning for home? Would I have come
ashore with prayers dripping from my lips
like honey stolen from smoky hives
or with another cunning plan? Down toward
the isthmus of your thigh, I rowed through storm.
Bear Lore, Bear Love
by Penn Kemp
It is the time of caves, of deep
dreaming. Great Bear lights Bearman, come fish from my stream.
a way home to clarity, Bearman, come fish from my stream.
Polar Star in night sky. Fish is silver, fish is lithe.
Slippery scales between the claws.
BearSpirit presses his power, Bearman, come fish from my stream.
chews the succulent flesh Bearman, come fish from my stream.
caught and tossed onto shore. Fish is silver, fish is lithe.
Slippery scales between the claws.
The pink sweet salmon, wise to
the wise he knows and that
salmon knowing something
about a Bear, his large dark
form stalking the dream.
Fish is silver, fish is lithe.
Slippery scales between the claws.
Our eyes met while we were looting JD sports on Wood Green high road.
Your face was partly covered by your purple scarf and the Adidas cap you picked up as you crawled under the mangled shutters and through the smashed up door, treading hastily over the tiny shards of glass that lay strewn across the floor like tiny diamonds.
We both reached over for the same tennis racquets. Pulling them off the shelf together we briefly glanced at each other. I'll never forget your face. In a word it was 'angry' but I could tell that beneath the anger lay an ocean of tranquility and beauty. I gazed dumb struck at your lips as you whispered expletives in to my ear at the top of your voice, all the while pulling the racquets from my hands. We both knew it was love at first sight.
Your course voice as you screamed at me......it will forever play through my mind like a chorus of angels.
I dropped the 6 boxes of Nike Air Max trainers that I was holding and just watched you as you grabbed at anything you could see.....It was as if everything was happening in slow motion, as if we had entered a matrix all of our own. I've never seen anyone loot so frantically and yet look so graceful.
Your graze next focused on the mens XXXL swimming trunks (12 pack) and before before I could draw a breath, you stuffed them into your now bulging jumper. There was no way you would ever need those but it didn't matter to you. Right then and there I thought to myself: 'here is a woman who knows what she wants and will do anything to get it'!
I handed you a large JD Sports plastic bag for you to put all of your loot into but you just screamed in anger (very cute), barged past me in your effortlessly graceful way and headed to the large container of items for sale.
To this day I have no idea why you would head for the sale items. I guess you just have an eye for a bargain even when looting.
We were rudely interrupted by the sound of a helicopter overhead and approaching police sirens.
I carefully made my way to the exit but I could tell that you had somewhere that you urgently needed to get to.
You ran into me, knocking me to the floor. I still have the scars where you stepped on my face, pushing it into the tiny pieces of glass, all the while screaming at me in your cute way.
You dropped a Speedo Breeze Rider Frisbee as you crawled out under the shutters. In a daze I grabbed it and
jumped to my feet to hand it back to you....but it was too late.....you were gone.
I have the Frisbee hanging on my bedroom wall as a constant reminder of you....my London riots love.
(N.B.: “rioters make the best lovers . . . “ – a note from the editor
“scream for me Ellen Bitchocovsky . . . u stole my . . . ”
– a note from the other editor
“gi’e me dat” – says the cat)
The Weight of Dreams: the rebirth of romance in the New Age Renaissance.
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: The Weight of Dreams
Author: Jeevan Bhagwat
Publisher: In Publications
Date of Publication: 2012
“Then said Almitra, Speak to us of Love.”
- from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
The Weight of Dreams is romance, romance in the third degree by Trinidadian-Canadian Poet
Jeevan Bhagwat. Poet Bhagwat lives in a suburb of Toronto, Canada. He is a celebrated Poet,
published in many literary journals, on the Internet and in anthologies. He was awarded the
Monica Ladell Prize for Poetry twice (2003 and 2005) and the Conscience Canada Art/New Media contest
(2011). He has previously published a chapbook, Night Shadows by Plowman Press (1998).
This beautiful book of romantic poetry captures the cours d’esprit of the New Age Renaissance.
The poetry lives in the worship of beauty and romance within nature images. A sorrowful backdrop
of unrequited love, the poetry spills in a series of short sentences with occasional rhyme. There
is a certain violence to the presentation, in the push and pull of longing, the violence of a
broken love affair. He writes of the crickets on a summer night “Their hearts explode / Into choirs
of longing” and “Pieces of you / Are scattered everywhere”. The use of language is unique, can be
truncated creating a tension of violence, without. This tension in suffering is also expressed in
the pull of opposites, expressing loss, the pain of broken covenants, a violation of the Holy Spirit.
The new word juxtapositions, a shock of lightening, the image becomes disturbing and beautiful.
“Somewhere on the edge of
Between light and shadow,
Sorrow and joy,
You led me through
A vale of flowers
Towards an empty field
Here is the heart
I have stolen from you,
And these were your dreams
That now are flowers
Will ever disturb.”
It is a very personal presentation, written in first person narrative, experiential yet existing in the
place of dreams, pulling you in. As This Writer read, it was like falling into enchantment, the poems
like a song, creating cadence in lyrical form. Leonard Cohen once said, “There is a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.” The broken sorrow of an ended love affair drives the poetry that weaves
the memory of the lover with a profound wisdom, and a respect for the sacred. As if the Poet is writing
love letters in the rain.
The Rain Knows Your Name
It is raining again.
The rain knows your name.
It sings it to me
All through the night,
Filling me with a longing
I cannot escape
A longing that burns me inside.
The rain calls
From my window,
Its whispery tongue
Licking my ear,
Seducing my senses
With the memory of you
And drowning me in despair.
In these last low hours,
When I miss you most,
When love is a ghost
With your name,
There is no refuge
In the arms of night,
In the music of rain.
Perhaps the Poet writes about an impossible love, perhaps a love affair not properly discerned,
perhaps a love affair caught in the cultural/political undertoad of war N.A. This poetry speaks
of the Pink Lion Hotel, of hot Summer nights, gin and cold lemonade twists under the starry sky.
The poetry unfolds like a prayer, reminiscent of a more immediate Kahlil Gibran. As well as the theme of the
Muse as lover, he writes about his father, a disaster (Poem for the Children of Beslan, Russia),
foreign places, nature, people. The universal themes dwell in the heart and mind of a Poet, reflecting
the magic of the romantic soul in spiritus. The poetry is stark and yet clothed in the elements of
nature, the essence of love with a profound oeuvre using only few words.
I am getting too old to
Write of love,
Each time you come to me,
Your mouth, a violet
In full bloom
Your eyes, a sanctuary
To fallen stars,
My heart arises
From the ashes of youth,
With the flame of desire.
A beautiful suite of love poems, expressing longing and sorrow, a worship of the sacrament of love.
The Poet presents a study in the violence of an ended love affair contrasted with the sacred,
celebrating the Muse, the season of the goddess in the New Age Renaissance. The night is warm Summer,
and the poetry is The Weight of Dreams by Jeevan Bhagwat. A brilliant read.
Off the Leash, Generation X writes in the New Age.
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: Off the Leash
Author: Ryan Vallee
Publisher: Creative Talents Unleashed
Date of Publication: 2015
“My daydream screams bitter 'til the end
The love i share -true- selfish to the heart
My heart, my sacred heart . . . “
- from Daydream by Smashing Pumpkins
Off the Leash, the grand, the sweet, the conflicted and violent love poetry truthtelling of the
New Age, a new offering from Generation X. Ryan Vallee was born and lives in Michigan. He has been
writing poetry since public school and intermittently since high school. I suspect, now a calling,
his regular poetry offerings can be found on Facebook, GooglePlus and the Internet channel. This is his
first book of poetry.
This book of poetry has a dog on the front cover and the title Off the Leash, alludes to the
man/Poet as dog theme. Revealing the conflicted power constructs of life N.A., perhaps the pain of
rotating love relationships and the effects of sexual violation on the human soul.
Didn’t Stop Me
Is a wonderland.
Is a haunted house.
Is a serial killer’s
A new art nouveau style, perhaps a fledgling Leonard Cohen, an evolution from the post-modernist school,
30 years later, a man’s narrative on love and the violence of serial sexual relationships, N.A. The
poetry is more pared in, often visceral, some of the short poems present as a type of non-traditional
Haiku with profound wisdom.
Note to Self 2
As long as
The imagery brushes with themes from nature and the grey of the crumbling urban cityscape architecture.
As if love letters, the poetry is sweetheart and engenue, giving insight and perhaps a secret "behind the
curtain" glimpse into the mysterious landscape of the Poet’s personal life. The universal theme of
love, man’s natural inclination for love/sex and how it can all go terribly right and terribly wrong.
As if the tenets of the Holy Spirit and the cultural/political milieu need to be revealed so that
people in their natural state are married to their Starcrossed or more suited lover on a Sign from God
for longterm, hopefully when they are young adults.
I believed everything
Your ruby rush
Illusions in the night
That asked to be warm
Into silk carnations
With the morning sun
The poetry, in a breath, is the push and pull of romantic tension, an exciting and new breath. As you
fall into the round aura of the poetry, it is an exciting escape from the everyday, a new personality,
a new reality, a new love affair. A promising first book of poetry, I look forward to more work from
this poet, Off the Leash by Ryan Vallee.
hey, Smiley, don’t look happy, if u don’t got nuthin’ to be happy about
even if you do got somethin’ to be happy about,
. . . it’s a dead giveaway
like sittin’ down to cards
an’ winnin’ an’ losin’ too
an’ in the background is some girl servin’ drinks
she serves them jus’ right
until she see u smilin’
an’ she spill one in your lap
o’ an’ that’s why u don’t forget to say sorry,
say sorry a lot
even if u don’t got nuthin’ to be sorry about
an’ don’t forget, no smilin’.
Rebecca Anne Banks lives in Montreal. She is the author of more than 27 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 at 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).
Samuel Beckett was born in Dublin, Ireland. He is a Poet/Novelist/Playwright/Theatre Director/
Writer and has a Bachelor’s degree from Trinity College. As a youth he had severe bouts of depression.
He moved to Paris and traveled through Europe. He won the Croix de Guerre for his participation in the French
Resistance during World War II. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature and was secretly married to a
pianist, Suzanne Dechevaux-Dumesnuil. He is best remembered for Eleutheria, Endgame,
Waiting for Godot, Malone meurt, Malloy, Mercier et Camier,
The Unnamable amongst others.
Jeevan Bhagwat born in Trinidad, lives and works in a suburb of Toronto, Canada. He is published
in many literary journals, on the Internet and in anthologies including Blue Skies, The Amethyst Review,
Quills, Archaeology, The Ontario Poetry Society and The Canadian Authors Association. He was awarded
the Monica Ladell Prize for Poetry (2003 and 2005) and won the Conscience Canada Art/New Media Award (2011).
He has written a Poetry Chapbook: Night Shadows (1998) as well as the book of poetry
The Weight of Dreams (2012).
Penn Kemp London ON performance poet, activist and playwright Penn Kemp is the League of Canadian Poets
and their 2015 Spoken Word Artist of the Year. As Writer-in-Residence for Western University, her project was
the DVD, Luminous Entrance: a Sound Opera for Climate Change Action. Her latest works are two anthologies:
Performing Women and Women and Multimedia. Forthcoming is a new collection of poetry,
Barbaric Cultural Practice as well as a play, The Triumph of Teresa Harris.
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared in nine countries, in such journals as Boston Literary Magazine,
Deep Water, Antiphon, Red River Review, Snakeskin, Ygdrasil, and many others. Several of his poems have
been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include Speaking to the
Field Mice(Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013), My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto
(Flutter Press, 2013) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).
Ryan Vallee was born and lives in Michigan. Noted for creative writing ability in school, he has
been writing intermittently since highschool. His poetry can be found on Facebook, GooglePlus and the
Internet channel. His first book of poetry is Off the Leash, available at Amazon Station.
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. In both text and visual art, Ginna concentrates
on a surrealist view of the internal world. Her photographs have been displayed in both Scotland, Spain,
and the US. In summer 2014, Ginna was in residency at Can Serrat Artist’s Residence in El Bruc, Spain,
and plans a residency at Small Pond Arts in Canada in 2015. Currently, she teaches at Ringling College of
Art and Design.