ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume IX Issue IX

The Masthead:
“The Word/Kraftwerk”
Art/Photo by Rebecca Anne Banks

“full moon quarant
at blue early morning
trees bare
gentle the nightsky . . .”

painting and painting how thin the walls have become in the night red harlot casings a history of war the louder they yell the faster you run the epidemic of “see, so, my” lost in predatory games the rat of Hastings dog wars over no one drunk eye, now talk talk no talk long time long . . . time solitary games write into the blue nocturne prayers out of chaos the wasteland the heartland the inside of nothing wash and go rain to raise a breath of feather a freehold in blue and rampant star horse “you look beautiful in the moonlight” in the mirror diamond stars earrings lace the blue and dark we are alone in the nightsky . . .

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume IX Issue IX
(September 2021)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2021


by Natascha Graham

1940, Rodmell, Sussex, England

The pages of a book shudder, flutter, then turn, all at once

a pen rolls to the floor

it is not the dream, nor the wind

that wakes her

but the low call in the air, in the sky

of her name, perhaps, or a sound, that falls over itself as it comes, like her name,

whispered too quickly between the creak of the floorboards

and the opening of the door

she seeks it

outside the night is high and black

clear and drawn all over with everyone else’s stars

she, a silhouette framed in an open door, half in, half out listening to the far, far away rumble
of German bombers, of London burning, of the sky falling

but still, she hears it, a murmur, a snake in the grass, a feather falling, a moment passing from
one page, to the next

1960, Lansquenet-Sous-Tannes, France

The North Wind brings autumn sooner than expected

brown and sweet and slow as treacle

today, it is melancholic, today it is tired

nothing more than the scutter of dry, dead oak leaves across her path

and the gentle flirt and tease of her skirt - a scarlet flag in the gloom

now, home, she stands looking out of the window above the kitchen sink

she sees how it plays, how it turns about and chases the cat that bristles and hisses and
searches the space where nothing is and nothing was

it is here that she hears it most of all, here in the house of skeletons, where the chill slips, soft
as fingers over the nape of her neck

she closes her eyes, feels it closer

as faint as a passing breeze, then closer, watches her, echoes in the call of a pigeon, the
scraping of a mouse in the walls, it is full and faint and hollow, it rattles the
branches of the trees against the glass and hisses the names of those before her, rising like steam, smothering
and hot

1990, Washington Square Park, New York, USA

Even she, they say, hears it, even she, even she, at six years old with lollipop shoes and
duckling yellow coat

she who stands in the rain, face upturned toward the sky, looking, looking

stands in the park by the river with the bronze monkeys

and the gazebo where last year she had a birthday party

six, she can hear the ticking and knows before it turns that the song of time waits for no man

it comes from the past, from the river, through the trees, through the leaves, a beat, a rhythm
a chattering, faster, faster, loud and louder

takes her breath
leaves her bitter, but still, she finds its charm

and walks like she’s sleeping to the spot behind the fence where you can buy ice cream from
a man with a cart in summer

2000, Marrakech, Morocco

In Marrakech, it is a song under the blood moon

heard in the dreams before dusk where the night is the colour of magic - blue and pink and
feathered rose gold

higher, and higher it rings from the mountains to the sea, almost too high to hear

then, suddenly low, suddenly hot and light as air

between pattern and weave, fabric and pottery, it takes the voice of the stranger, the laugh of
a lover, juggles them with a cry and skulks, greedy and wild

high up in a kitchen she hears it coming, knows its rhythm, knows its voice

here from the kitchen, she sees the smoke rise from the souk, cinnamon, spices, tempting and

try me, it teases, then, like Alice, Eat me, Drink me…

the giver of sweet things, it seeps, creeps, finds her, tastes her


by Nnadi Samuel

the shadow kneeling nearby, shades the typeface to congeal.
it never sits well;
how gecko walls the title of a first draft of the year with their hinds.

the backside, tailing the verbs to a bare spot,
where auxiliaries are key.
their use of eyeballs — weighing my second thought.
the almond wet of it,
shelled in a case: all leprous & stria.

they love all their stains tasteless,
till we changed this: some ginger brown, bright coffee of cinnamon stripes & cedar.
like bits of unhealthy weed, choked in places scale shed;
an attempt to grope unfits your limb.

slimes, known to catfish, merging to a glyph:
a sloped vowel, in need of fins to make glides.

slipperier beasts have crossed my quiet times,
& snaked off.
yet bronze shadow creeps near,
taking the inks to heart.

& getting all remorseful,
& wrenching the case,
when its vent fits the Arial font.


by Lawdenmarc Decamora

She doesn’t really speak.

She sees the rainfall

so domestic as that sight

of home revivified on crayons.

My trusted typewriter

wants to celebrate her,

one Thursday night in June.

She drives past the flaming

fields when I can’t figure

the nonchalance of smoke

as that of life’s arithmetic.

She looks homeward

and sees no regrets

guised in purple clouds.

This carnival of hope

she’s stabilized, memory

sitting still on Ottomans.

She’s leading a simple life

outside of Miras

watching the world walk by

in its curious shoes.

I think what she does

each day is beautiful.

She’s already in my heart

long before Bosphorus parted

the world’s ancient fears.


by August Smith

A beast in the middle of nowhere opens
from within, spits out
an amethyst tongue and diamond-turquoise entrails.
A boy comes along, first to encounter
the beast—Eleusinian are the mysteries
which beckon, more than jeweled biology is proffered.
The archaeologist within
him awakens: he extemporizes,
and a Rosetta Stone blooms
like a flower in his hand.

how to begin a new poem

by Ojo Taiye

nothing is so beautiful
than living
nothing is truer than its
hymns & cross
i am writing again with
both hands full of

everyone has an
inheritance; everyone
wants to stay
a while & kneel to joy.
there are bright
cardinals on
the power lines calling
forth the sun. the wind
is alive,

so is the coco plums
too; it swings & shakes
with ants
that nest in its outer
bark. no one should
pause long
before grief. i’ve been
wrong about many
things but

not hope — with it i
have dug happiness
from the serifs
of my own pain. & still
as the day heaves
forward, i’m
reminded of the scar i
came from & the future
i once

wanted. my mother
passed a year before
my sophomore
though i drank her
absence like liquor — i
always endeavor
to replace the shape of
loss with music & it
tasted just fine.

i think of gypsy
children bubbling
somewhere in the
distance. another home
drawn to my body’s
desire —
a lace-like appetite that
seeks to wear winter’s
last coat.



Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show


Sir Philip Sidney

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,—
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."


Vancouver Craigslist - Missed Connections - February 20th, 2021 - Anonymous

we used to hook up dt van (downtown van)

we used to hook up on craigslist you hot female me couvered in ink

(N.B.: “love, love me do . . .” - a note from the Editor

“you know I love you . . .” - a note from the other Editor

“we’re getting out our blue pens . . .” - says the cat

“and notebooks . . .” - says the other cat

“I would love to be written on” - says Madame X

“If everybody went walking around covered in words of poetry. How outrageous” - says Mister X

“Meow” - says the cat)




Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Love/Air

Author: Lawdenmarc Decamora

Publisher: Atmosphere Press

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 83

“As in a melancholy garden,
A white fountain faithfully sighs towards the Azure!”
- from Sigh by Stéphane Mallarmé

Some Imprints of poetry are like treasures. A young adult at their grandmother's looking through the bookcase discovers a book of poetry something special, something magical, squirrels the book away in their tote bag and heads down to the beach. Summer holiday . . .

Love/Air by Lawdenmarc Decamora and Atmosphere Press, is one such book. An exciting New Age poet heralds from the Philippines, a Romantic Surrealism inside imagist blue and green archipelago imagine. From the ancient rice fields in the mountains to the islands of seacoast, inside the rich history of Filipino literature, a fantastique write. The Philippines has a particularly full historical tradition in culture, a place of island stories. In prehistory epics were passed from generation to generation in oral tradition. The archipelago was taken over by the Spanish in 1521, bringing classical literature that featured newspapers, prose, religious and secular dramas, and many forms of poetry. Forms of poetry included Tanga, Ladino, Corridos, Awit with variances of metre, language and setting. Post-colonial literature included writings in English and in later works the reconciliation of the English/Spanish/Asian identity. Modern literature of the 20th century is called “Modernismo” influenced by the French Parnassien and Symbolist schools. Lawdenmarc Decamora has earned a post-graduate degree in creative writing and is currently studying literature and culture while teaching at a prestigious Philippine university. He is published in national and international journals.

This poetry travels in long swirling thoughts woven with original images, occasionally broken, walking through days of . . . tea, the market, covid, the act of writing at the typewriter, nature . . . underscored with the contemplation of a love affair, a marriage. This poetry dances, mixed with images of the everyday, a souvenir shop, drawers of old licenses, time, aloneness and of constellations and agriculture, the images of the natural world. A dance of colours, the imagine, a landscape of island exists in the clouds inside the secret garden place where the poet writes. A truthtelling, the wisdom of the sage, the essence of honest, au sauvage with sky.

From "Lines depicting lovelight from your eyes":

"About you many good things come into
relation, I think of the constellation, vessels
& viaducts, the process like the lovelight
your eyes emit, true music

                                                  against the words."

The language is original, occasionally using short bursts of French, Japanese and other world languages. The poetry does not rhyme, except for the very rare accidental occurrence. A lyrical offering, every word considered creating cadence, a song in poetry, with the occasional influence of the Beat tradition. It is the poet in the dance with the Muse, a contemplation of heaven/hell, a certain enchantment watching the fire light of the candle, the poet weaves his magic. Perhaps influenced by the French Symbolist Poets, the poetry lives inside the brilliance of the greats, not unlike the love poetry of Pablo Neruda.

Of the exotic, this poetry imprint is a photograph of a certain year, a certain place, a certain time in the life of the poet, the magic of the crucible. Decamora spins reality into symbolist and surrealist spaces of colours, original images, a struggle, a love story bursting into sunlight. How the people of the world love their Poets, Love/Air, by Lawdenmarc Decamora.

Available @ Amazon.ca.


Lawdenmarc Decamora (poet, teacher, student, researcher)

Subterranean Blue Poetry: Who do you consider your major writing influences? In the rich tradition of literature in the Philippines, which are your favourites?

Lawdenmarc Decamora: Even before participating in regional and national writing workshops, poetry readings organized by avant-garde magazines to the more formal cultural platforms like universities and sponsored organizations, I invariably look back to music as a pretext for my poetic undertaking. Like a sheep in delirium, I go crazy over the compositions—even how words and melody were sutured to be aurally melismatic—of Bob Dylan for his flawless Beat aesthetic, Martin Gore of Depeche Mode for his music that’s inimitably confessional, and Stephin Merritt of The Magnetic Fields and the icon John Lennon for their artistic sarcasm as a conduit for playfulness. Wrestling entertainment and music via indie rock stations, ostensibly, gifted me the enormous interest in language. While kids my age in postcolonial Philippines watched MTV and relished in imported video games, I sneaked out of the usual mainstream habitus which led me to the luring open gates of poetry.

Growing up in a small town, I found solace in the beautiful art of reading. Being drunk with words and images is the ultimate drive; like Surrealism, it’s “a way of being or desiring to be.” And I quote Cabo Verdean President Jorge Carlos Fonseca for that (laughs), who is a Surrealist poet of note. Speaking of Surrealism in literature, I found this categorical assumption towards my work as somewhat reductive. My poetic voice, style or technique don’t articulate this speech of the imagination alone. Maybe its cohabitation with Beat philosophy, non-sequitur stylistics, satire and deconstruction. Only then would I be satisfied.

So, to answer your question, this take of an author towards his or her inspiration or influence seems, again, for me, reductive. But I’ll try not to subscribe to that idea — as I’ve mentioned already a few of my favourite lyricists. Of course, there’s the classic admiration for Eluard, Lorca, Neruda, Celan, the Beats, the Nuyorican poets, Dean Young, Anatoly Kudryavitsky of SurVision Magazine, and this emerging poet from Bulgaria whose short poems really gripped me… I think her name’s Margarita Serafimova. Right. And the list goes on.

In my native clearing, I guess I would have to give credence to writers of my generation. Contemporary Philippine Anglophone literature, historically speaking, can hardly take part on an equal footing to nationalist literature. The former being insulated in American literary tradition, the latter in proletarian discourses. To be honest, I owe my formative training to writing workshops and to MFA creative writing programs. In these institutionalized spaces I met wonderful poets like Dinah Roma, Merlie Alunan, Marjorie Evasco, Marne Kilates, Mark Anthony Cayanan, Lourd de Veyra, Vincenz Serrano. I wouldn’t say that these people inspired me to become a writer, but they drew me close to what I considered to be poetry.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: Is there a favourite work of literature you come back to time after time?

Lawdenmarc Decamora: Glad you asked that question. I like the lyrical finesse, structural fragmentations, as well as the metaphors and unpredictable associations of Paul Celan. Threadsuns, Poppy and Memory, and Glottal Stop: 101 Poems are my favourite collections of his. My personal favourite is “Death of Fugue” which is a poem that exhibits dexterity and disguise (sorry for the alliteration). I love how these two elements engage themselves in a play. This is how my poetry works, and this how I fell in love with Celan’s poetry. Such lines as “Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall” and “Your hands full of hours” are immortal. I also think that Michael Hamburger did an impeccable job in translating Celan’s poetic text from the original Romanian. Well, that’s Paul Celan for you. He certainly has a spot in my Mt. Rushmore of World Poets.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: I notice you use words from other languages (Japanese . . .) Are you well read in other languages?

Lawdenmarc Decamora: Right, that pattern was obvious in “Ten Forty” and “Maligayang Kaarawan / Happy Birthday” from my new poetry book, Love, Air (Atmosphere Press, 2021). I only write my poems in English, but the conscious play of ‘code-switching’ can be an effective poetic device. This is how transnational poets or writers of diaspora—Asian American, Lusophone, BIPOC—articulate their own form of rhetorical protest. As a Filipino poet writing in English, the art of poetic code-switching allows me to play with language and embrace the Filipino identity in my writing. Well, my inspiration for this kind of poetic practice was the Korean American poet, Cathy Park Hong. Her “All the Aphrodisiacs”, for example, retains the cultural intimacy within the Asian American poetry community.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: Where have you studied?

Lawdenmarc Decamora: After obtaining my MFA in Creative Writing in 2014, I applied for an MA in Literary and Cultural Studies at a prestigious Philippine university. Hopefully, I will get to defend my thesis next year.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What influenced you to become a Poet?

Lawdenmarc Decamora: Music. Philosophy. The culture of everyday life. Everything in between.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What is your experience of the call to be a Poet? (what is the best?)(what is the worst, if there is any worst?)

Lawdenmarc Decamora: When you’re a poet you’re a “culture bearer,” a translator, a visionary. It’s the respect and passion that you uphold. You are bequeathed with the poetic license to interpret and articulate, you know, ‘things’— so you are what Percy Bysshe Shelley calls “the unacknowledged legislator of the world.” Now the worst part? I think people see you as an elitist. Period.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What are the Chapbooks/Collections of Poetry you have written and/or published?

Lawdenmarc Decamora: Hmm. I have two full-lengths published this year. One got published in India, that’s TUNNELS; the other from the U.S. and it’s called Love, Air. Right now, I have two unpublished book-length manuscripts and a chapbook which are under consideration by some U.S. and U.K. - based publishers. These are Handsome Hope (poetry), permutations: essays on Philippine culture (criticism) and Dream Minerals: 27 Love Songs (chapbook). Another poetry collection is in the works, and this is the product of my Tupelo Press 30/30 Project labour for the whole month of August 2021. After doing Tupelo, I plan to publish this collection too.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What are the current Poetry/Writing projects you are working on?

Lawdenmarc Decamora: Current project? It’s the manuscript coming out of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project in the U.S. This is a poetry marathon where volunteer poets write 30 poems in 30 days to raise funds for the press. The result of this project will help me prepare my manuscript for future publication.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What do you like to do in your spare time? 

Lawdenmarc Decamora: Well, I collect vinyls, given the quality of technology that we have today. Crate digging is the lost art of shopping for music at a cool record store. For me, this kind of joy is priceless.


that i want

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: that i want

Author: Ava Hoffman

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 32

“Wind, bring me spring . . .”
- from Flowering by Lucy

A series of pictograph poems in brilliant Art Nouveau, highlighting the experience of being transsexual in America, that i want by Ava Hoffman and above/ground press. Ava Hoffman (Poet, poetry editor, writer) lives and works in Louisiana. She edits SPORAZINE, a journal of experimental writing by trans people. She is published in journals, Poetry Daily, Fence, Black Warrior Review, Anomaly, The Fanzine, Datableed, amongst others and has Chapbooks available. A full length collection [. . .] is forthcoming.

The poems are a number of words around a short line, some of them crossed out with syntax, that invite the reader in, as you skip around the different words, a different read, a different way, a different impression of lines/emotions changing and being rewritten. A fantastical metaphor for a changing sexual identity. As if the writer is constantly assessing themselves, their self-concept, themselves in relation to society, their morphing experience, a dance by looking in the mirror and seeing themselves, someone whose basic parameters are not the norm, that are changing and creating a dialogue. The suffering and change becomes a celebration in art installation.

When single words, lines are read, words added and removed in a stacatto presentation the poetry becomes an original interactive pictoral Beat progression. Incroyable.

A fantastical original write, pushing the bounds of New Age poetry into new realms of creativity, experience and healing, that i want by Ava Hoffman.

Available @ above/ground press.





Rebecca Anne Banks

(This original Chapbook with photos, an art illustration by the Author, and end note photos of "The Eye" statue (sculpture by David Altmejd) by Victor Tangermann is in French and English in the form of a Cento-like poem, a tradition of protest using lines from previously published works, from Ancient Rome. A Psalm of Blue also utilizes the style of an erasure poem that blacks out part of the work. Originally, inspired by declassified American military and intelligence documents that have been censored when they became public. In the hardcopy presentation the font is midnight blue and all the words can be seen through the blackening. Here, the blackened words have been altered between lines. A Psalm of Blue weaves original New Age poetry with the Psalms of David: Psalm 23, Psalm 24, Psalm 25. A lament for an unknown love affair in an Imagist/Symbolist treatise).

To the Muse


“of the Summer
by the door
the little white butterfly
into the grey day . . .”

(A Psalm of David:

Psalm 23, Psalm 24, and Psalm 25)

a sullen day grey                                            and vellum covered houses                                skies over Eden
                                The Lord is my shepherd                                                  I shall not want

                                                the day is wet with blue                                  candy boxes of heaven
He maketh me to lie down                                                in green pastures                                          He leadeth me

mouths of wanting                                              rabbits under glass                                        green the day of green cut grass
                                  beside the still waters                                      He restoreth my soul

                                                                                written into blues street
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness                                                  for his name’s sake

"for what shall we do?"                                                                                                                      "for what shall we ever do?"
                                              Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death

                                      a place of grace                                        the shepherd
I will fear no evil                                     for thou art with me                        thy rod and thy staff they comfort me

to see the rose                                                                to not see the rose
                              Thou preparest a table before me                                      in the presence of mine enemies

the rose doesn’t exist                                                              candy coloured doors
                                            thou anointest my head with oil                                        my cup runneth over

tourniquets in the window                                                  a game of hearts                                      pink porcelain teacups
                                              Surely goodness and mercy                                  shall follow me

                                              by the pink of pomegranate flowers                                    on a white de bord
all the days of my life                                                                      and I shall dwell                                    in the house of the Lord

service for one
                              for ever

movies in the dark                                              caught inside a cage of birds                                                ceci that are angels
                                    The earth is the Lord’s                                                          and the fullness thereof

                                                                          the little accountants blow on their sleeves
the world and those who dwell therein                                                                                        for He has founded it upon the seas

yard duty
                  and established it upon the rivers

and porcelain tables                                                                            in death’s delivery room
                                        Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord?

                                                (with silver metal and metal) gold                                    the perfumed fugue in my mouth
And who shall stand gold                                                                in His holy place?

                                                                          and flowers for funerals                                                          flowers for tea
He who has clean hands and a pure heart                                              who does not lift up his soul

                                ham hamblyn court                                                         tomes of grace
to what is false                                        and does not swear deceitfully                          He will receive blessing from the Lord

barefeet, knee deep in blue water                                                                                      I watch the day inside a blue balloon
                                                            and vindication from the God of his salvation

                                                                                  the Lord of the herald’s grace
Such is the generation of those who seek Him                                                          who seek the face of the God of Jacob

and movies in the dark                                  the mad whispers                   of movies in the dark
                                         Lift up your heads                              O’ gates!                                         and be lifted up

paper balloons                                  any shade of blue is blue                                            a Victorian day hospital
                          O’ ancient doors!                                                  that the King of glory

                      we wear our hospital gowns complete                                                  (the cat quietly)
may come in                                                                      Who is the King of glory?                                  The Lord

remembering spoons                                sailing ships, dogs and sealing wax                                                      all in a row
                                    strong and mighty                                                                  The Lord, mighty in battle!

                                    all in a row                  the horses have wings                                to paint the sky
Lift up your heads                        O’ gates!                                            and be lifted up                              O’ ancient doors!

blue with suns and stars                                            how beautiful she was when young                      on moonbright days
                                            that the King of glory                                                                may come in

                                                  a child of the snow                                  an ice rose
Who is the King of glory?                                      The Lord of hosts                          He is the King of glory!

shearlings, the cloth of night                                                                      on blue velvet pillows
                                                            To thee, O’ Lord, I lift up my soul                                            O’ my God, in thee I trust

talk, talk sweet sleep and honey                                                    all the girl knows
                                                           let me not be put to shame                                    let not my enemies exult over me

the longing for love                                                                                        the longing
                                        Yea, let none that wait for thee be put to shame                      let them be ashamed who are wantonly treacherous

the flowers of rain                                                                      islands blue in the sun
                                      Make me to know thy ways, O’ Lord                                              teach me thy paths

songs and singing in the trees                                                                    sing, singing songs of love
                                                        Lead me in thy truth, and teach me                                                      for thou art the God of my salvation

all those beautiful songs                                                                how he saves us from the rain
                                                for thee I wait all the day long                                                          Be mindful of thy Mercy

from the darkness of the night                   how he saves us . . .
                                                    O’ Lord


golden fire
dark nocturne
the bare boughs . . .”



Rebecca Anne Banks

grey darkening sky, winter evening and Charlotte Bronte in the trees a bootleg purse bright yellows, the peel of lemons float in the water, the sink dans la cuisine haunts, the scent of lemon, everywhere . . . and the girl who lives upstairs makes love to her boyfriend, late on a Saturday afternoon . . . writing down the sky water over heaven and we are of silk and we are of bone a bad day for loiterers that rhymes that rhymes the kettle blows rain tea in a china teacup away like Heathcliff a dance and dance with God somewhere on a good ride warm rain the darkness is bright dance of star bright not of the day dark and dark and light watching night windows . . .


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 40 years and is the author of over 30 books of poetry, guides to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a family cookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CD's of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD's of music awaiting production. She won an IARA Award for Top 55 Internet Airplays for Angel Song (2010). She is an Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets. She is also the Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com), CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records (www.tympanilanerecords.com), the Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca)and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts (www.kintsugiartquilts.com.

Lawdenmarc Decamora (Poet, teacher, researcher) lives and works in the Philippines. He has earned an MFA in creative writing and is currently studing for an MA in culture and literature at Ateneo de Manila University. He is widely published, nationally and internationally, including features in Sábanas Bilingual Literary Magazine, Meridian: The APWT Drunken Boat Anthology of New Writing, Asian Studies: Journal of Critical Perspectives on Asia, North Dakota Quarterly, OF ZOOS, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, PAPERCUTS Magazine amongst others. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and earned an honorable mention in the Love issue (2018) of Columbia Journal. He has written 2 collections of poetry, TUNNELS (Ukiyoto Publishing) and Love/Air (Atmosphere Press).

Natascha Graham. Raised simultaneously by David Bowie and Virginia Woolf, Natascha Graham writes fiction, non-fiction and poetry, as well as writing for stage and screen. Her plays How She Kills and Confessions: The Hours have been performed in London and are included in the First Time Filmmakers Festival (2020) by Pinewood Studios. Her poetry, fiction and non-fiction essays have been previously published by Acumen, Litro, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Gay and Lesbian Review, Yahoo News and The Mighty. She lives with her wife in a house full of sunshine on the east coast of England.

Ava Hoffman Ava Hoffman lives and works in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She is a Poet, poetry editor, writer) and edits SPORAZINE, a journal featuring experimental writing by trans people. She is published internationally in journals, Poetry Daily, Fence, Black Warrior Review, Anomaly, The Fanzine, Datableed, amongst others and has had Chapbooks published. A full length collection of poetry [. . .] is forthecoming.

Nnadi Samuel is a graduate of English & literature from the University of Benin. His works have been previously published in Suburban Review, Seventh Wave Magazine, North Dakota Quarterly, PORT Magazine, Gordon Square Review, Rough Cut press, Rigorous Magazine, Blue Nib journal, Stonecrop Review, The Elephant Magazine, Journal Nine, Liquid Imagination, Eunoia Review & elsewhere. Winner of the Canadian Open Drawer contest 2020. He is the author of Reopening of Wounds. He reads for U-Right Magazine. He tweets @Samuelsamba10.

August Smith received his BA from Loyola University/New Orleans and MFA in Creative Writing from Cornell University. His poems have appeared in Wide Open, The Great American Poetry Anthology, and Down in the Dirt, and are forthcoming in Bending Genres and the Writer’s Egg. He resides in Alpine, TX.

Philip Sidney (Poet, scholar, courtier, soldier) born at Penshurst Place, Kent, England to Sir Henry Sidney and Lady Mary Dudley. He was educated at Shrewsbury School and Christ Church, Oxford. He is considered one of the most prominent personalities of the Elizabethan Age. He is best remembered for the poetics of “Astrophel and Stella”, “The Defence of Poesy” and “The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia” amongst others.

Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool to tell his frustration with the society.