ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume V Issue III


The Cover Photo/Art:


by Rebecca Anne Banks

"beautiful slip of blue sky in clouds

looking through trees . . . "


"falling, falling my heart


you make me shine inside

shine inside

shine inside

“happy i had, happy i had been”

until the day i was born

in the dark

paste up marquee,

Jane Doe,

Jane Doe

John Doe and Jane Doe

in the dark

in the ditch, red eye blind

something in doily


no one likes to go to bed alone

and madness on “L” street

lithnow gow

(in that kiss, that kiss

you can almost taste the sky in it,


how he makes me pay for our love

by promising the night

smacks, lightening in the sky

and endings,

something you never wanted

makes you small

quadrant, quadrant alert

the “unknown” times of call girl #3,000,067

and jungle marron

that lingering silver shadow

that says beauty where are you

the chalk boulevard

closed lane’s door

ever the storm

ever the storm

ever the storm

is coming, the winds up . . . “

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume V Issue III
(March 2017)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2017

blues for joni

by John Sweet

always returning to these

february back yards, these empty

beer cans and worn tires, faded

toys half-buried in the frozen mud,

the smell of smoke, of garbage

burning and that i can no longer

write a love poem, can no longer

remember the feel of the sun,

but you were beautiful when you

were stoned and the children

were loved until they were born

the other women meant nothing

once they were gone

the songs on the radio were

just the sound of Christ

dying in vain

Who am I to Bless or Praise

by David Fraser

Last night young cougars took the lambs.

I stand beside the empty pen before no god,

and find it difficult to bless the predators.

I think of fathers who demand kisses when they die.

Hard to bless a world of tooth and claw,

sharp knives, our cruelty in acquiring food.

Hard to bend beneath the towering over living things,

the plums in our garden that are not shared.

One child’s withered hand, a severed leg,

shadows growing in a brain.

Hard to bless these things.

Tell that to the parents who have lost a child,

or to the lambs the cougars come for in the night.

Featured Poet: T.S. Eliot

The Wasteland


T.S. Eliot

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

“This music crept by me upon the waters”
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

                The river sweats
                Oil and tar
                The barges drift
                With the turning tide
                Red sails
                To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
                The barges wash
                Drifting logs
                Down Greenwich reach
                Past the Isle of Dogs.
                                  Weialala leia
                                  Wallala leialala

                Elizabeth and Leicester
                Beating oars
                The stern was formed
                A gilded shell
                Red and gold
                The brisk swell
                Rippled both shores
                Southwest wind
                Carried down stream
                The peal of bells
                White towers
                                  Weialala leia
                                  Wallala leialala

“Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”

“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’
I made no comment. What should I resent?”

“On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
                       la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest


Missed Connections

Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – March 2nd, 2016 – “C”

untalkative bunny - m4w

sam and dave - soothe me

(N.B.: “and Simone . . . soothe me” – a note from the editor

“b-u-n-n-y talk . . .” – a note from the other editor

“the cat needs milk” – says the cat)

Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – March 3rd, 2016 - "C"

untalkative bunny - m4w

gary wright - love is alive

(N.B.: “love is . . . ” - a note from the editor

“the paws are over the cats eyes” - a note from the other editor

“see no evil” - says the cat)

Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – March 3rd, 2016 - Anonymous

re: untalkative bunny

I dont understand why youre posting..especially here.
(Lullaby by Lit).
I cant go backwards neither should you.

(N.B.: “love is . . . “ - a note from the editor

“the paws are over the cats ears” - a note from the other editor

“hear no evil” - says the cat)

Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – March 2nd, 2016 – "C"

untalkative bunny - m4w

Preston Smith - Oh, I Love You So

have a good day

(N.B.: “love is . . . “ - a note from the editor

“the paws are over the cats mouth” - a note from the other editor

“speak no evil” - says the cat)

Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – March 4th, 2016 - "C"

untalkative bunny - m4w

gibson brothers - cuba

for Monique

quincy jones - ai no corrida

from C

(N.B.: “on the beach . . . “ - a note from the editor

“ants in your briefs . . . “ - a note from the editor

“not this one . . . “ - says the cat)

Book Reviews

random lines = random.choice a neoclassical song.

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: random lines = random.choice

Author: Jason Christie

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2017

Pages: 14

“And the sky is a hazy shade of winter”
- from A Hazy Shade of Winter by Simon and Garfunkel

random lines = random.choice, a cry freedom notebook in New Age Renaissance poetry from above/ground press. Jason Christie lives and works in Ottawa with his wife and young family. He is a Poet, Poetry Editor, Visual Artist and has organized poetry reading series. He has been published in poetry journals/magazines, published Chapbooks and 3 books of poetry. He was shortlisted for the bpNichol Chapbook Award twice and for the Robert Kroetsch Award for innovative poetry (2011). This writer has previously reviewed the Chapbooks, Cursed Objects (2014) and The Charm (2015).

A series of days in winter in celebratory cadence, poetry in fantastical spaces. Like a song, the rhythm becomes in repeated words and creative use of language, like a flower blooming in awkward spaces, the light shines through.

# day - what does a child

this morning: Sentences, into

unknowingly assembled music,

i want to become, we want to

become – world is becoming

things to touch, chew, Revealing

itself to the mind without -

your second year, the child

inside considers itself whole –

family he recognizes into

bells and song bells-

his music to be a joy to.

Grand images of nature and music resound in the work, themes of language and allusions to modern technology (the hashtag # in the titles of poems from Twitter) are written into the winter journal of days. In the background some happy domesticity, a husband and father with his young family, a timepiece of 2016/2017. The poetry is enigmatic with inobvious rhymes, broken spaces that sing with love. A new creation of Beat and Imagist influences within the New Age Republic, a neoclassical dance. As if resurrected from the ash, the broken thought train, broken violence mended and dancing in new spaces, new language and new life. Brilliant poetry of a winter night, random-lines = random.choice by Jason Christie.

Available @ above/ground press.


Series out of Sequence: poetics in American girlspeak.

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Series out of Sequence

Author: Carrie Hunter

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2017

Pages: 24

“Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.”
- from The Dangling Conversation by Simon and Garfunkel

Series out of Sequence is an experimental art nouveau Chapbook by Carrie Hunter and above/ground press. Carrie Hunter lives and works in San Francisco, California. She has an MA in Poetics, is the Poetry Editor at ypolita press, and is on the editorial board of Black Radish Books. She has published 10 Chapbooks and two full collections, The Incompossible (Black Radish Books, 2011) and Orphan Machines (Black Radish Books, 2015).

This Writer experiences this Chapbook as a new form in poetics, the style is full sentences in random order, like cross talk or "broken telephone", there seems to be a hidden interloculator, a broken dialogue not unlike Escher black ink drawings. The result is a manifestation of disconnected, it is as if the Reader is experiencing a series of one sentence conversations, as the disconnected parts of a whole create allusions in violence. Sometimes an incredible dark humour appears in incongruities.


The best liars always tell the truth.

Massages make me tense.

Sorry I can’t stay with you while you go through all of this.

I just want a man who will wear dresses and not argue with me.

Don’t send strange men to my apartment with power tools.

He is your first love, and I intend to be your last.

He’s trying to believe the world.

Multilingual poetics of unkown languages.

Violence is not my métier.

I imagine an amateur is no asset.

I look out the window and all I see are other roofs.

I’m trying to see the stoplight, but there is a building in the way.

Call me when it’s over.

If you cannot be honest with yourself, how can you get the truth out of anyone else?”

The work is enigmatic and brave, American girlspeak, hoping for new mythologies. The poetry seems to live inside protest, a new perspective on old themes from someone born in Generation X. I have read other poetry by this emerging writer and been struck by the brilliance of a New Age poetic talent. The poetics of Series out of Sequence remind me of the work of Canadian Poet Lary Timewell, for the splashes of humor in unexpected places.

Perhaps this is a rare Mercredi offering, a more flush construction, a new form, awaiting public accord, to become in time. Looking for more work from this exciting new Poet, Series out of Sequence by Carrie Hunter.

Available @ above/ground press.

"winter birds rouse

in incandescent sky

the bare tree,

now quiet . . . "

and flowers


Rebecca Anne Banks

(inspired by the Belgium massacre, March 23rd, 2016)

play your rubes to the rubicon

play your rubes

me lord and castle

parkade and parkadia

le roi,

in the watch tower, watching

my heart weeps with sorrow

as if nothing really suffers,

as if nothing really loves

as if nothing

green montee

the world is only more or less

histrionic in places

“watch for the helpers”

the man in the suit

drones unintelligible,


through the smoke

bombs in luggage

the ceiling has fallen

30 dead

she holds her daughter





everyone has left the building

we the people, draw peace

with chalk

on pavement

draw peace

with words

and flowers.

(my heart weeps with sorrow

as if nothing)

(i watch the sky

madame pompadour

you’re good at waiting . . . Christmas,



                                                                                                      and treason

i could have wandered the Plateau

to look for you


sky and blues

he is the poetry,

the poetry candy)


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 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).

Jason Christie is a Poet/Poetry Editor/Visual Artist and lives and works in Ottawa. He was shortlisted for the Robert Kroetsch Award (2011) and the bpNichol Chapbook Award twice. He has organized poetry reading series and been published in poetry journals/magazines, published Chapbooks and 3 books of poetry, Canada Post, i ROBOT, Unknown Actor and is co-editor of Shift & Switch: New Canadian Poetry. Currently, he is writing poetry inspired by exaltation and objects.

T.S. Eliot is a Poet/Writer/Playwright/Literary Critic born in St. Louis, Missouri in 1888. He studied at Harvard University and for a year at the Sorbonne in France, the oral exam for his Phd was interrupted by W.W.I. His first marriage to Vivienne Haigh-Wood was unhappy and he divorced and married Valerie Fletcher (1956). He was a lifelong friend of Ezra Pound. In London he worked as a school teacher and a bank clerk, pursuing his writing career, writing Book Reviews and literary criticism on the side. His immensely influential long poem The Waste Land established him as a denizen of his time. He won The Nobel Prize in Literature in 1948. He is best known for The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, The Waste Land, The Hollow Men, Gerontion, Ash Wednesday, Four Quartets and After Strange Gods amongst others.

David Fraser lives in Nanoose Bay, BC, on Vancouver Island. His poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Rocksalt, An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry, and in Tesseracts 18. He has published five collections of poetry and is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. His most recent collection is After All the Scissor Work is Done, March 2016, published by Leaf Press.

Carrie Hunter (Poet, Poetry Editor) lives in San Francisco, California. She has an MA in literature, she is on the editorial board of Black Radish Books, and is the Poetry Editor at ypolita press. She has published Chapbooks and two poetry books, The Incompossible (Black Radish Books, 2011) and Orphan Machines (Black Radish Books, 2015).

John Sweet b 1968. published collections include Human Cathedrals (Ravenna Press) and The Century of Dreaming Monsters (Lummox Press). winner of the 2014 Lummox Poetry Prize. writing since early 80s, publishing since ’88 or so. opposed to all organized religion and the idea of millionaire politicians representing him in any way whatsoever. started his life migrating south, but has now begun to almost imperceptibly shift eastward. http://bleedinghorse.blogspot.com/.