ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume IX Issue V

The Masthead:
“Our Towne”
Photo by Rebecca Anne Banks

“golden leaves fluttering birds bright in the wind . . .
blue, blue sky . . .”

any falling daybright any rabbit can wear a bracelet i can wear a ring quiet sky golden door chimes daylight heaven this is a Christian towne space renos fresh croissants café quiet remodecks of the caterwaul so many words for roses and feather kisses sweet I tried to tell them “love is sweet” street places look different in the dark magical haunting Wilde waiting on the moon . . . how the world falls into place sedoku how the world falls out of place sedoku how the world falls into place how the world is blue some girl on a hard b line the freedom of love she was never here down in Sunnyvale the magic painted lips in noh theatre lip velvet pomegranate rosebud ice . . . cream . . . you walk in i nearly fell down with dancing you walk in wake the place from the blues vaguely sounds of Christmas songs whispers “Adrian,” he took off her glasses . . . held her quiet . . .

“wild figs in a blue flower bowl . . . golden leaves fall . . .”

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume IX Issue V
(May 2021)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2021


by Jeff Santori

chicago screams at me
you don’t belong here any more.
get lost. take a hike. go jump in the lake. fuck
remember there are stars out there
you can’t see.
birds with different colors
you can’t hear.
strange words in the winds.

- Art/Photo par Justin Bua


by Zo-Alonzo Gross

I wake up 2 the sound of gunshotZ/
6 to be exact,
he got hit in the same spot/
(Anotha pawn)
it was 6 when his frame dropped/
(Damn) itZ like the same gangsta flick,
Wit the same plot/.
We doin wrong,
Tell Me, when will the pain stop?/
We too far gone,
Wantin' nameZ till the fame pops/
Losin' our minds,
Is giving us Blood Brain ClotZ/
We BEEN went ta war,
And I ain't talkin' bout GameStop/.
Momma on the street,
cryin tearZ like rain dropZ/
He never had a chance,
Red gang wit his thang cocked/
Face tatted up,
dreadlocks in his Tank Top/
Ego trippin' on a ride,
But he fell off when the chain popped/.
(O' Ma Lord)
This be the world out my window-
A Chorus of Bullets,
singin' in endless crescendo-
(Hey Mr. Farmer)
SeedZ planted and SinZ grow-
Death ta dust,
then them windZ blow-.
Cuz they say,
this Life ain't fair~
So When I get 2 Chicago,
Somebody save me a Prayer ~
Yeah they say,
this Life ain't fair ~
So When I get 2 Chicago,
Somebody save me a Prayer ~.

© Alonzo-zO-Gross


by Patrick T. Reardon

In the way the
fat Chicago
cop – vast
stretch of sky
blue uniform,
balding – and
the gnashed
centurion with
clink of sword,
old thick sweat
dirt, balding,
tuck fright
under thick
blankets of
swagger, she
filled my view
right to left,
up and down,
in and out, the
source of all, a
dry spring,
mother river.


by Patrick T. Reardon

The 1904 book is chemistry formulas
For mixing drinks, and, paging through,
I wonder, if the bartender blueprint
for Whiskey Daisy No. 3 calls for one
wine glass of whiskey, does No. 2 use
half a wine glass or two wine glasses?

In No. 8, is blueberry syrup substituted
for pineapple syrup?

By No. 37, are we talking now of cocoa
and salt?

          In the moment before explosion,
          when he has raised the gun
          and I have seen the metal,
          we will be twins
          again together
          in the womb.

Is this a blueprint for ice cream cake
by No. 184?

For German goulash by No. 586? For the
atom bomb by No. 1,949?

By No. 4,533, is this “Pilgrim’s

By No. 65,973, “Summa Theologica”?

          The banks tonight are high.
          A lone man walks the dark.
          He too feels
          the pull of the falls.

Is this a map to the treasure, shiver me
Timbers, by No. 165,341?

A route to the Garden of Eden by No.
432,008? A chart to Heaven by No.

          The valley is a waiting place,
          a place to wait forever.

Does God consult Whiskey Daisy No.
1,856,396 to learn the meaning of life?

Blank line
Or simply for a stiff drink at the end of
day? Or the world?


by John Grey

Straw hat's busted
and the blue and red flag's dragging on its pole.
The road's as narrow as a plumb line
and the sides are baked brick hard.
Rusty gas pump only offers regular.
In the window, brown and speckled eggs,
soda bottles, a can of oil.
Unshaven Ed flops in his chair out front.
Straw hat can't keep back July,
cakes his brow a stinky yellow.
A car creeps by but doesn't stop.
Maybe can't read the price of gas.
Ed's handwriting's shaky
as his mortgage payments.
May's quilting, the only thing
her fingers know to do.
Despite the heat, her handiwork
rolls up to her wrinkled chin, almost smothers her.
And here comes Vernon,
just who Ed don't want to hear.
So Dewey's got a new computer.
Tell that to the chamber of commerce.
Another car rolls by. And another.
Someone even waves.
Straw hat's raised in answer, in anger,
then flopped down sideways on Ed's head.
Go help your grandmother, Ed says.
Steam rises from the swamps,
raccoon pans the trash for food,
wood-stork chatters from a cypress branch.
Vernon creeps reluctantly indoors.
May stops her quilting for a kiss,
struggles to remember who exactly is this boy.
Along comes Temple to complain
about the weather and business and his wife.
Ed listens but his ear is cocked for cars the more.
He straightens his straw hat.
Brim holds by a thread.
How long you had that thing? asks Temple.
Forty years, says Ed. It brings me luck.




Lee Won Su and Oh Yeon Jun

My hometown that I lived in
Is a flower blooming mountainous place
With peach blossom flowers, apricot flowers and baby azaleas
Various palace of flowers in the neighborhood
I long for the time I played in that place
My old neighbourhood was a flower neighborhood and bird neighborhood
When the harsh blue wind blows from the south
The weeping willow of the creek dancing in the neighborhood
I long for the time I played in that place


Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – October 10th, 2017 – Anonymous

easy easy - w4m

following you 
night after night, all over this city
so affectionately that
at a long red light the cars stop,
I am stuck in time. 

but alone now I'm 
desperate to bathe in the city lights,
bittersweet espresso, the chatter of an 
old man.

I sit listening to the familiar noises
of fallout, an ancient city alive 
in the distance.

enamoured by 
what comes yet again 
with the cold October air.




Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Rêveuses Rivières

Author: Margaret Saine

Publisher: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 73

“Et que dire de l’Océan, sinon qu’il attend?”
“And what says of the Ocean, if not that it waits?”
- Edouard Glissant

An elegant oeuvre of The New Age French poetry, a song of the river and bluestreet, a lover lost a lover found somewhere on a highway, The Oracle sings in Rêveuses Rivières (Dreamers Rivers) by Margaret Saine and Subterranean Blue Poetry. Margaret Saine (Poet, poetry editor, teacher, translator) born in Germany, lives and works in California. She has published 5 books of poetry in English and has works in German, Italian, French and Spanish.

This poetry lives entirely in French, a distinctly European lilt, a river runs through it. The French, the French itself flows in blue, in a certain elegance of water. When translated into English, the poetry highlights the distinct nuances of the French language, the nuances of meaning not lost in translation, a recreation of a semblance of order and beauty, a new order of the heart. In French and the English translation which highlights the subtle use of articles that refreshes the English as a place of the heart as an original presentation.

Also, highlighted is the state of the feminine in relation to the patriarchy, the fine balance of love and misunderstanding, and perhaps fallout in the state of bed rites. As if a modern day Oracle of Delphi, the wise and the beautiful weep into poetry. It is a story of travel in love, the silence, the discourse in dilettante claims, the film noire, how love flames, the silence, how love falls asleep.

A study in the experiential, the details of life, the depression, smoothed by caress illustrated in Imagist form. A poetry in pictures with nature images, poetry in a breath. An Art Nouveau style, distinctly rooted in French cinema, drawing from the social revolution of the 1960’s in consideration, Saine is a poet of her own distinct genre class. Rêveuses Rivières, heavily peppered with quotations from other writers and artists, is an enigmatic and full offering, a read in goddess studies.


Le poème ... est toujours à venir.
- Edouard Glissant

Un cercle cerné
armé de feuilles à pic
la carapace bleuâtre

Le cercle s’ouvre
un oeil bleu éclot

Bout de ciel enfoui
dans une fleur


The poem ... is always to come.
- Edouard Glissant

A circle surrounded
armed with sheer leaves
the bluish shell

The circle opens
a blue eye blooms

Buried piece of sky
in a flower

This poem is also in Rêveuses Rivières, in brilliant Italian. The beauty of the short sentences, as if Haikuesque, in profound with the images of la legume, a beautiful celebration inside some dark shadowed edge. Also, a celebration of the colour blue, a witness to love and the Spirit.

The spirit of the river, the spirit of love and l’étranger, an offering of nocturne in beautiful French language poetics, Rêveuses Rivières by Margaret Saine.

Available @ www.amazon.ca.


Margaret Saine (poet, poetry editor, teacher, translator)

Subterranean Blue Poetry: I notice in your work that you are very well read. Who are your major writing influences?

Margaret Saine: As a child, I was shy and therefore not satisfied with what I could not say to others. My “way out” was to write, where I could be slow, and also have the last word. So like Eric Carle’s “Very hungry caterpillar,” I read my way through literatures, German, French, English, Spanish and Latin American, Portuguese, Italian, Czech, as I was learning these languages. Those I read in the original, while Russian, Turkish or Danish, for example, I read in English. Ever since I was a child, I never wanted to be bored.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What was the most interesting work of literature you have read? Is it a work that you come back to, or once came back to repeatedly?

Margaret Saine: Of all genres, travel literature became very important. I adore Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver, and fiction by Denis Diderot. The French author Michel Tournier, one of my favorites, wrote a version of Robinson focusing on the character Friday, the indigenous. I adore all books by Michel Tournier. Another writer I much admire is Bruce Chatwin, especially his book about Australian aborigenees and their “Songlines.” I do enjoy rereading my favorite books. There is such a difference between reading “Lady Chatterley” at 17 or at 70, because, as Cesare Pavese has said, we discover ourselves in the books we read, and at 17 I was a different person than at 70. I read lots of poetry, but fiction has also been very important, for example Carson McCullers, Virginia Woolf, D. H. Lawrence, Ingeborg Bachmann, and many others.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: Where have you studied?

Margaret Saine: I got my matura [equiv. of the bacalauréat] in Nuremberg, then for 4 semesters, I studied Germanics and later, Romance literatures, at the university of Tübingen. Then I got my Ph.D. in French and Spanish at Yale University.

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

Margaret Saine: Before and after I started primary school, I was often left unsupervised, so I went to the fields, meadows and forests, and down to the river, for my parents’ house was built directly at the river. I listened to nature, especially water, and maybe I had a vague idea of the poetic. I wrote my first poem for my brother, on his sixth birthday, when I was almost 8. My brother did not say if he liked it; my father criticized it, so I resolved not to show him any future poems.

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

Margaret Saine: I think people pay little attention to writers, now less than ever. There are many sides to being a writer: a little bit prophet and warner, and above all peacemaker. A lot of personal expression, on the edges of the unsaid. I find banal the current fashion of larmoyant Covid poems and of writing poems in a “realist” language, as if they were laundry lists. What’s the point? I use poetry when I cannot say it any other way.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: You have such a propensity for languages. What is your experience of your work in the different essences of different languages?

Margaret Saine: I consider the multiplication of languages and literatures the greatest gift to humanity [along with music and the visual arts]. And because I never wanted to be bored, I indulged. I adore cultures and anthropologies. I often wish that when people enjoyed Mexican food, they would automatically be filled with respect for Mexican persons and their culture.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: What are the titles of the books you have published?

Margaret Saine:

In English:

Words of Art, 100 poems on art works.
Lit Angels.
Gardens of the World.
A Book of Travel. [Published by subterranean blue press]

In German:

Ungeschicktes Kind [Awkward Child]. A memoir.
Das Flüchtige bleibt [The Ephemeral Remains].
Das Weite suchen [Searching Far and Wide].
Atem der Stille [The Breath of Quiet].

Ein Lied davon [That Old Song].

In Arabic and English:

Searching for Bridges. An anthology.

Forthcoming in Spanish and English:

Respirando bajo el agua [Breathing Under Water]

Forthcoming in Italian:

Paesaggi che respirano [Breathing Landscapes] 2 vols.

Subterranean Blue Poetry: Can you describe the current writing projects you are working on?

Margaret Saine: I am writing short essays on cultural topics, which I put on my profile in Facebook. I also like to write about etymologies. I keep writing poetry. I occasionally flirt with the idea of writing fiction. I am thinking of how to convert my lifelong love of nature into ecological thinking to convey to my contemporaries.


a journal of the plague year: on the edge of . . .

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: a journal of the plague year

Author: Edward Smallfield

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 32

“Drowned amongst a sea of faintly falling ashes”
- from Monuments by This or The Apocalypse

Somewhere in paradise, there is a crisis, the entropy slow and slow, a man lays on a white linen bed, his wife at the desk, the window is open, the hot summer, the sea in the distance. He is contemplating the white walls . . . they birth, a journal of the plague year by Edward Smallfield, with his Muse, Valerie Coulton, a Chapbook published by above/ground press. Edward Smallfield and Valerie Coulton are poets, originally from California, living in Spain. He is internationally published, with numerous Chapbooks and four collections of poetry available.

An exciting Art Nouveau offering, enigmatic, at times Haikuesque, exquisite and profound, a play on beauty. The broken thought train connects an overall picture, an essence, perhaps noblesse oblige in the setting sun. The poetry spins into surrealist imagine, an oeuvre of light, now in disallure, the perfect love affair exists lost in time inside some beautiful European seacoast town. On the edge of paradise, as if experiencing travel to some unnamed calamity, the Apocalypse Café, traveling towards the café, going past the café but never actually arriving, to arrive is to invite calamity.*

This poetry features lists, 5 lists with 13 lines, a few words, no periods accent the numbering perhaps a certain attempt at creating push, for a slow universe. The words themselves move across the page, creating space and flow, breath. An exquisite read of an afternoon, to wish for Summer.

swirl the petals

stained doves

in the branches

a collection of notes whose exact purpose remains obscure

The images are interwoven with the landscape, the seaside country, the state of thoughts, their love affair, the actual experiences of the day, a beautiful montage on the edge of. The poetry talks of a meal at a café, discovering the work of a poet (a friend known to his mother), a magnolia tree (a view from the window), stories of masks, driving along the coast, serving wine at a café, a subtle protest, the experience of lockdown, a life in poetics.

Incroyable. An eloquent poetic event in the Zen of love affair in the time of coronavirus, a brilliant write, a journal of the plague year by Edward Smallfield and the Muse.

*An image borrowed from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams.

Available @ above/ground press.




Rebecca Anne Banks

(A serialized long poem in cycles)

“winter jewelry the birthplace in quiet . . .”

stars before midnight for an hour for a day a sculptor carves la rien in white marble she the Venus in the sky the water and blood swirls down have you seen the falling rain? she walks in beauty the forest dark the fallen tree she falling falling the wasps nest burberry sting her softly again and again into the half-light . . . the giant moon unnatural the sea creatures big and small washed upon the shore the winter in summerlands o’ rage the storms the peu de noire on a chess board the players are gone the uncarved block the experiment the ecrivain the time the sleep the lost and forbidden the cross the forsaken the lost empress the lost song the subtle goodbye the actual goodbye the lost and inconsistent lovers the ended conversation the broken thought train the betrayal the disappeared the silent tears of the dispossessed the blood cloak in the mouth the eyes no time for you no time in harvest no time . . . the winter, the spring . . . junk bag warriors constructed in crosses without thinking run and jump shite breather scrub the closeness of beauty the capital whore bin begging to borrow riches royal sundown award and blunt like cut green glass lake ! Tijuana ! someone’s playing them for a yard commodity shop she who is the love of angels lukchak trainjack the middle of the road is a place people get run over forces of gravity pull on the light and a thousand worlds away in the name of God true love stops the world . . . Daedalus juice stock Westinghouse dayliner Cheektowaga Lonestar a dancer downtown crack bow place a sleeping dark night storm rack them up struck by lightening a cruel hail victim crosses should never be repeated the poetry is swingtowne the bone hassan a drain vent a subfuse in place out of place junkhouse bare bones royale lily borne crack meat gin barren scene a lack of semblance of mercy . . . o’ my soul . . . calling back to Summerkand the land of summer the ancient walled city by the ocean by the garden of the orange groves of the unicorns and blue-green magical birds magical beasts deep amongst the forest greens dark by the healer the river Scamander the stone carvings the carved spigots spout water at the fountain wells still . . . waitrose peace turn back the clocks the flowers are the flowers breathe rigged balloons I’d pray to God for rain rain poems for sunlight holidays I haven’t been alive in years the harbour watch to snatch a pearl from the mouth of a dragon and run just run someone to disappear with i hope they never find you today we have an orange so we two by the skies and water blue . . . calling down the alpha and omega calling Summerkand the place down from infinity the arrival and the journey slips through your hands a place by Aphrodite the place of the gods before angels by the angels that fly . . . love as Starcrossed creation’s song . . .

(To be continued . . .)

“at the end of the street
over winter sun
burnt orange sky . . .”



Rebecca Anne Banks

the nouns were out this morning the street was harder than nouns ragtag and mercy street it’s a wild little towne fish and tail she takes his arm they walk arm and arm they walk i remember you can Hallowe’en dragons and Mahone Bay Machiavellian imprints a gangsay against deliverance the cat sleeps on the bed nods big green blinking eyes a Michelangelo jewel fob you’re better than the blues diamond Dior down in Easterhouse canyon mother’s got Sunday the white race is a zoo of bones under the cover of blue night blue brother of the moon something in beautiful beautiful dreamer and the language into Ishabog a handful of oasis she said, “and 50 drugs at Christmas” shadows move in the night window what makes you live I am not the night yet I am the night, the Oracle . . .


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 38 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.

John Grey is an Australian poet, U.S. resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

Zo-Alonzo Gross, Alonzo "zO" Gross or zO-AlonzO is a songwriter, Dancer, recording artist and writer. His first book of poems, entitled Inspiration, Harmony and the World Within, was published in 2012. Also in that same year he was awarded "Best Spoken Word Poet" at the Lehigh Valley music awards. In 2016 zO was selected as a featured poet in the film "VOICES" directed by Gina Nemo, filmed in Los Angeles, California and released in 2017 in select theatres as well as Amazon Prime. In January of 2018 he released his second book of poetry entitled sOuL eLiXiR: The writingZ of zO which was greeted with rave reviews and a 5 out of 5 star rating. In November 2020 zO was named as one of the best poets of 2020 by Inner Child Press where his work was featured in their Anthology. zO is a graduate in the field of English Literature from Temple University, and looks forward to releasing music cds as well as new books of poetry and art.

Patrick T. Reardon, who has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize, is the author of eight books, including the poetry collection Requiem for David. His poetry has appeared in Silver Birch Press, San Antonio Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Eclectica, Esthetic Apostle, Poetry Quarterly, Ground Fresh Thursday, Literary Orphans, Rhino, Spank the Carp, Main Street Rag, Down in the Dirt, Time for Singing, The Write Launch, Hey I’m Alive, Meat for Tea, Tipton Poetry Journal, Ulalume Lighthouse, UCity Review, Under a Warm Green Linden and The Write City. Reardon, who worked as a Chicago Tribune reporter for 32 years, has published essays and book reviews widely in such publications as the Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, Crain’s Chicago Business, National Catholic Reporter and U.S. Catholic. His novella Babe was short-listed by Stewart O’Nan for the annual Faulkner-Wisdom Contest. His "Pump Don’t Work" blog can be found at www.patrickreardon.com/blog/.

Margaret Saine was born in Germany and lives in California. She has taught French and Hispanic literatures and translates poets between six languages. Her books of poetry are Bodyscapes, Words of Art, Lit Angels, Gardens of the Earth, and A Book of Travel, the latter published by Subterranean Blue Poetry. Saine published four poetry books and a childhood memoir in Germany. She has written over 5,000 haiku and has several manuscripts in Italian, French and Spanish pending.

Jeff Santori born, raised, and living in Chicagoland – never been published except for a couple of poems in DePaul University’s literary magazine Threshold.

Edward Smallfield (Poet) originally from California, lives and works in Spain with his wife Valerie Coulton. He is internationally published in journals, including New American Writing, Five Fingers Review, e-poema.eu, Denver Quarterly, Paginas Rojas, Parthenon West Review, talking about strawberries all the time, 26, where is the river: a poetry experiment, Wicked Alice amongst others. Smallfield has also published Chapbooks and four poetry collections, The Pleasures of C, One Hundred Famous Views of Edo (with Doug MacPherson), equinox and to whom it may concern.