ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume IV Issue VII

The Cover Art/Photo:

"the blue rose of Montreal"

from Pictorial New Zealand (1895) by New Zealand and Sir Westby Brook Perceval

Courtesy of the British Library

"morning song

grey dove sings

sweet, lovesongs, sweet . . . "

“they walk

a bright spurs blue

little Mozambique

stars and icing


not there

for what falls

through your hands

blue rose

for what falls

my heart


not there

spare me the beautiful people

the jones to jones

blue to blues

pictures of beauty

pictures of sorrow,

letting the rain in”

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume IV Issue VII
(July 2016)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2016


by Melodic Rose

He said
“That we are not always broken”
I hear these words and I am moved to tears.
Brought down to a level
Of sophisticated mercy
That seems so much more
Than me

I hear it resound
Palpitate my chest
With the withered sigh
Of every hope
That has laid its
Body down

And I would greet the morning
Let it kiss my neck
Were it not for the way
Has nestled itself
Deep in my bosom
Affixed its home there
As if to say

You are the portrait
Of life in all its simplicity
You child of God
Do not surrender your confidence
For the brutality
Of cruel intentions

As if to say
You were made
For so much more than the sky.

I give myself up to it
While I am standing
Near the precipice
And I wonder
About your hands
And how they were always the right size
To hold mines
And how we were threadbare
Distinct placid consenting
Patrons of each others
Somehow this love
Could not cover the multitude of Sins
That we played
And you stole beauty
From fire.
Created a firestorm
Of eccentricity.
So voracious and so futile
I held tight
Putting all of my faith into your
Simply because when you made a promise
To love and to keep to me
To cherish every bit
Of the woman I was learning to be.
I believed you.

You who have held this imagination captive
How there are no words
For the immaculate soul
That you are.

You who are every sunset
And sunrise.
You who spill the ethereal
Deliverance of dreams
On the back porch.
I imagine you often.
See your cape
Spread out across the walls
Brandishing this emotion
Like the most decadent authority.

Still there is a river
And you are the only boat
That could ever steer the tide.
Turning emotion back to its horizon.

I believed that once
The world was considered flat.
This 'truth' declared
Simply because they did not know you.

For if they had,
They would have known
That there is nothing imperfect
About this planet
And no matter where we travel,
Regardless of light
Whether it's speed could ever amass
Or over power that of sound.

It could never
Break through
This retrospective barrier
Of indifference.

There could never be
A mathematical equation large
Enough nor complex enough
To conjure your love into the finite
Numerical expression
That simply says if two hearts are
Created at separate moments in time
At what point does the universe
And set them on a collision course
Their destinies plummeting together.

And if you could subtract his love
Divide into a thousand parts
Even one infinitesimal grain would contain
All of the solar energy to power her sky
For a life time.

And if the center of the black hole
Is so encumbered by its
Gravitational pull.
Would there ever be a measurement
Great enough to surmise the density
Of this brilliance.

And with this I'd like to believe
That even though scientific reasoning
Has never been my forte
I understand these mysteries
As one unassuming thought
That everything has an expiration date
But you, are endless.
Your heart as vast as
The milky way
And Somehow
I know though time may be our constraint
Though gravity may pull us towards
The earth
That perhaps
We can transcend this fragility
Build a moon for every
Heartbeat in your chest
And put it up against the sky.
Knowing that no matter where
We go,
We can rest assured that these two hearts
Will always find solace
In this pull
And if you peer into the future
You will see them orbiting one another
Dangling from emotion
Simply because in this galaxy
Love is the only gravitational force
That matters

Featured Poet: Ernest Dowson



Ernest Dowson

“Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam”
("The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long"
- Horace)

THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter,

Love and desire and hate:

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.

Missed Connections

Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – October 26, 2014 - Anonymous

le vin papillon waitress - m4w
(the butterfly wine waitress)

You're so lovely. I wish I knew you.

(N.B.: “love is a many splendoured thing” – note from the editor

“and she is giving out wine . . . “ – a note from the other editor

“me want some” – says the cat

"more wine, i wine" - says the other cat)

Book Reviews

In Between the Lines, romantic poetry for the lovelorn.

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book:  In Between the Lines

Author: James McInerney

Publisher: James McInerney

Date of Publication: 2012

Pages: 173

“I can feel your heartbeat”
- from I Can Feel Your Heartbeat by David Cassidy

In Between the Lines is romantic poetry, a reflection of conflicted love lives and the emotional violence of love lives, 21st century from James McInerney. James McInerney is a British Poet/Author/Photographer and husband with two children, born in Northampton, “Poet’s Corner”. He discovered writing in his 20’s, influenced by classical and instrumental film scores his writing turned into a passion. An internet phenomena, his work has been published in local and international magazines and he has appeared on BBC radio.

This Writer first began to take note of James McInerney on GooglePlus, the romantic theme plays catching attention and drawing me in. In Between the Lines is his first book of poetry, like reading dimestore romance novels, penny dreadfuls for the lovelorn, consuming soundbites of love. The love poetry reads as heartfelt and truthful, in first person narrative, sometimes confessional, usually in the voice of a man, sometimes in the voice of a woman. The poetry features the torments of serial love relationships woven with nature imagery. The poems rhyme frequently and obviously at the end of lines, harkening to the Romantic Poets of the early 18th century. Romantic Poetry was a reaction to Neoclassicism and the French Revolution. The latter poetry was based in reason and intellect, whilst Romantic poetry was based in love and emotion, emphasizing melancholy, subjectivity, nature and escapism, all features of In Between the Lines.


What is it in our mind,

That leads us to believe,

That people can love us,

As they use us and leave.

And what’s in our hearts,

That needs it so bad,

When we find something new,

We always seem to crave what we had.

And what of our bodies,

The physical touch,

When one night of passion,

Is often too much.

But who is it that helps,

When the relationship ends,

More important than love,

These people are our friends.

Almost like a highschool confessional, the poetry riffs on the emotional pain of broken relationships, perhaps supporting the status quo. As the poetry harkens to an old world style, and does not play with the parameters of language, it does not really shake the world into a true anarchy. However, in the truthtelling itself is groundbreaking revelation, telling of the violence of emotional pain when an intimate love relationship ends.

Scars For An Angel

In my fragile state,

There’s always a potential for harm,

Because the smile I show the world,

Hides all the cuts upon my arms.

The wounds will always heal,

But they leave behind their scars,

And I’m reminded as I cry,

Of all the pain left in my heart.

If there’s a beauty deep within me,

Tell me where does it sleep?

For I’m so tired of being something ugly,

That no one ever needs.

I keep praying that an angel,

Will wake me from this dream,

But it’s hard to believe in heaven,

When I have no self-esteem.

If I told you all my reasons,

I know you’d never understand,

I’m not asking for forgiveness,

Just a friend to hold my hand.

Some of the poetry is like a mumenchance, and somewhat trite, while some of the poetry you fall into like a good love affair that captures the heart. Like a stage play, the twists and turns of a love relationship, romance by candy. A poetry writing gift will ripen over time, it evolves and morphs in fantastical ways, it is important to keep writing and polish the language, the images. There is great healing in artistic endeavour and those that witness the gift can also be inspired and helped with healing. For a first book of poetry, the truthtelling is brave and inspiring showing promise.


For my wings I have no use,

To reach heaven

I need neither fly nor soar,

But instead fall,

Fall in love.

I read James McInerney regularly on GooglePlus, the poetry is often presented in calligraphy or pictured inside frames and his writing has become more profound and therefore more interesting, like falling into a love affair on a summer’s day. You can also find videos featuring his poetry on YouTube and he has his own WebSite @ www.jamesmcinerney.wix.com/poetry. He has just published his second book of poetry, Bloom, which I am looking forward to reading.

Available @ Amazon.ca.


A Precarious Life on the Sea: O’ Rave On: New Age poetry from above/ground press.

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: A Precarious Life on the Sea

Author: Sarah Burgoyne

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2016

Pages: 20

“Matty told Hatty about a thing she saw.
Had two big horns and a wooly jaw.
Wooly bully, wooly bully.”
- from Wooly Bully by Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs

A Precarious Life on the Sea is a fantastical Chapbook of New Age poetry from Sarah Burgoyne and above/ground press. Poet Burgoyne is from the West Coast and lives in Montreal. She is working on a Master’s Degree in English, has been published online, in N.A. poetry journals and has written Chapbooks. She is about to publish her first book of poetry, Saint Twin, with Mansfield Press. She can be found reading Spoken Word at the Resonance Cafe.

The quote that introduces the Chapbook draws you in, “the ocean you grew up watching has decided, finally, to take you in. “where else was I going to go?” you ask, setting off. it spews squid and minnows into your little boat for you to eat if you are hungry. you throw them back because you know the ocean is hungrier. at night, the moon casts a sidelong glance into your boat. you are less round. the ocean is delighted with your company. it carries you from place to place, each day a little easier, imagining your bright bones, sideways moons, it’ll use them as walking sticks. - Anonymous”

surreal and outside, it sets the stage for what is about to be revealed. This poetry is outrageous, sometimes humorous, contrasts with the serious and profound. The Poet plays with language and images of the everyday world and creates a world of the extraordinary. Often dark, the poetry speaks of funerals, weddings, a bad Christmas, lovelorn, sorrow and anger and spins it all into outrageous fortune. This Writer experiences the Poet as someone with raised eyebrows, questioning life, as if the Poet’s response to an illogical situation. As noted anti-psychiatrist R.D. Laing once said, “Insanity – a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world”. The poetry spins as if the Poet is in shock, as if a Dadaesque response to great sorrow and the violence of life N.A. The DaDa movement of post World War I created totally nonsensical artistic presentations in response to the great violence/sorrow/anger at the destruction and loss of life. Perhaps, some hidden power construct is creating a theater of the absurd, an Existential angst. The nonsensical presentation takes on it’s own magic, as the deconstructed phenomena becomes an imprint, becomes inspired with a new breath, a stone cast against oppression. O’ rave on. It’s a raver, as if late in the night the coyote howls up at the full moon.


“Looking up, I discovered that I’d always been a young bore. The
night sky made it always impossible to tell the difference
between a river and a plain path. I move along it anyways,
having dressed in fine denim, having been blest by the priest’s
son, then leered at by the bottom of the glass. I’m not used to
having no one come when I call and I blame it on the
outrageous effects of polka dots. The cupboard closes once
more over my eyes, leaving a dusting of every day of my life on
the carpet. Time to replace the rug. Beckon the new, but please
don’t . . . “


“Torn up in the surgery of night. The buttering under of it. Seven
halos away from becoming a sprig of something anointed.
Never too few in the brooding doorframes; the spoken-to
lighting the walls. The corner-drawing minds buttoning silver
horns of ancient wisdom. A voice: Dance with me, future loser,
I love you. Hide under the table, I will call down the Lord
without sulphur. To cast alms over our future mistakes.

It has driven you mad. The left towns. The river. The twisted
ankles of the chosen ones, stunting across your vision. Desirous
to be atop any building, moving moon-dumb into someone
else’s night. You are alone. But it has equated to the community
feeling. Take a harmonica when you go, handsome love. Bid
adieu to the feeling of it. The gold ring of living in it . . . “

The broken stream of consciousness is presented in narrative, sometimes first person, poetic prose. Paragraphs and lines with capitalized beginnings that end in periods. In free verse, with rare unobvious rhyme, the poetry has cadence. The poetry itself is innovative, an imprint of original, a new and exciting celebration of art in the New Age. A Precarious Life on the Sea by Sarah Burgoyne from above/ground press.

Available @ above/ground press.

in my dream


Rebecca Anne Banks

in my dream

walking and walking

i could find my way back to you

jump the turnstile in the underground

take the train . . .

walking and walking

i could find my way back to you

i could find my way back to you.

i go to bed,

the white candles surround, burn

into the night

and wake up in a foreign city . . . slow

uncurl in a backstreet,

check the pockets,

no monies, no I.D., no address book

purse missing

hear the traffic

walking and walking

towards sound

read street signs

look for a newspaper, look for the city name

walking the morning


i could find the name of the city

i could find my way back to you

no monies for phone calls, plane tickets, bus fare

no one around

a police,

a public call box

on the front lawn

some foreign city

even burnt sweet coffee,

something with butterscotch

or chocolate hazzar

look at a clock in the sky,

for the time

flames around the eyes

look for the underground

the name of the city

or guess . . .

a group of school girls

walking and talking

the language they are speaking . . .

in my dream

walking and walking

i could find my way back to you

jump the turnstile in the underground

take the train . . .

walking and walking

i could find my way back to you

i could find my way back to you.


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in Montreal. She is the author of over 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).

Sarah Burgoyne was born on the West Coast and now lives in Montreal. She is studying for her Master's in English and can be found performing Spoken Word at the Resonance Cafe. She has been published in N.A. poetry journals, online and has written Chapbooks, Love the Sacred Raisin Cakes published by Baseline Press (2014) and Happy Dog, Sad Dog published by Propery Tales Press (2013). Saint Twin, her first book of poetry is about to be published with Mansfield Press.

Ernest Dowson was born in Kent, England (1867). He is a Poet/Writer/Novelist/Lyric Writer/Reviewer/ Translator and was of the Decadents School of Poetry. He was a contemporary of William Butler Yeats and Arthur Symons. His Muse was the teenaged daughter of the owner of a local Polish restaurant, Adelaide “Missie” Foltinowicz. In 1894 his mother committed suicide when his father died, the family business closed, and the Poet Dowson developed tuberculosis. Three years later Adelaide married someone who worked in her father’s restaurant. He traveled to France writing English translations of French authors. He was destitute and ill when a friend, R.H. Sherard brought him back to London for the last time at the age of 32. Oscar Wilde was to say of his passing, “I hope bay leaves will be laid on his tomb and rue and myrtle too, for he knew what love was.” He published two novels with Arthur Moore and is best remembered for Dilemmas, Verses, The Pierrot of the Minute, and Decorations in Verse and Prose.

James McInerney was born in Northampton, "Poet's Corner". He is a British Poet/Author/Photographer/Husband with 2 children. He discovered poetry writing in his 20's, inspired by instrumental and classical film scores, his writing has become a calling. An Internet personality, his work appears regularly on GooglePlus and YouTube, he has been published internationally and has been interviewed on BBC radio.

Melodic Rose is a spoken word artist from Montreal. She has written poetry for 15 years. She believes that poetry should be a transcendent experience. That true poetry comes from artistic and emotional vulnerability and at the heart of it, should reflect the distinct voices and nuances of the human experience. Melodic Rose hopes to reflect this philosophy through her work, by producing art that is unbound by the confines of race, gender or political affiliation but will continue to challenge and inspire others to live with complete authenticity.