ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VI Issue VI

The Cover Art/Photo:

“Letters from Ixtapa”

Photo by Edie Steiner
Photo Concept by Rebecca Anne Banks

"The history of ancient civilizations

class 1D

you could see it in the architecture

the designs

of alien nations

the harrier

birds that pick

at the flesh of fish

the ancient ritual of no

and the silence"

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VI Issue VI
(June 2018)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2018


by Jan Chronister

In Chichen Itza
chocolate was wealth.
Those who had it drank with disdain
enraging the peasants.
Cocoa beans grew on trees
dark black pods
worn shiny like coins
providing sweet pleasure
stocks and bonds of jade-laden kings.


by Philip Brown

Her father, a well-known South American writer. Not Borges. Not Marquez.
But in that company of men with magic in their ink and hummingbirds you might
imagine mated with butterflies.

Maybe it was when her father went to prison. The generals deciding he was precisely
what was wrong with the country. Or maybe when he was released after petitions
poured into the capital. Neither time a happy time. Her mother’s fingers lost in
heavy, brown rosary beads.

But her mind may have let go long before. When as a young girl she shied away with
her silent mother. Men with tobacco and tequila, sometimes whiskey, sat in their
own room engaged in blood deep arguments and laughter. The two mixed together in a way
that frightened her.

At eighteen she fled north on a complicated visa. El Paso. Chula Vista. Finally, Napa,
where she tended grapes at a smaller vineyard. A garage converted to the two
rooms she called home. Her second year there, she married another exile. He, from
the capital. She, an outer province. A province where her father once felt safe.

She felt safe here, the hills golden brown in the summer, green in the rainy months
that followed. The reliable seasons. But she grew bored. An anxious flutter deep inside
her. Like a hunger. She thought of her father, his complications, his compulsions,
and prayed he hadn’t passed them on. Blood like a river, its familiar course.
Eight months after her marriage she lay in another man’s bed. A softer version
of her father. He and she both.

She sensed her father floating above. Looking down with eyes like pools
that pulled you under. Women loved those eyes. His last days in Buenos Aires,
she sat outside the hospital room, and watched as the beautiful women came to say
their goodbyes. Declare their love. Each believing it was she. Each one
wearing black.

Her mother spent her final days in a home with other ruined women. Their chairs
pulled close to the windows. Like birds on a wire stretched down the long hallway.
Staring out, not at their past. Not their future either.

Back home, where her husband has not yet returned from work, she fills a glass
with water and sits in the kitchen. The quiet, empty rooms behind her. The too
small window that never allows for all the light.


by Philip Brown

In the spring when the smelt run, men
with flashlights and hand-held dip nets line
Chicago’s harbors to catch their fill. Small fires
wait where they de-head and gut. Scales and
bones left intact so when they bite down
there’s a welcome crunch.

Up and down the great lake men walk the shore. In
Kenosha, Wisconsin, where once cars were made that bore the
country’s name. And north up the lake's crooked shore to Port Washington
and American Legion Post #82 where these good Wisconsin people
get ready the Smelt Fry they have kept alive for fifty-plus years.

One hundred clicks north a lone Vietnamese fisherman works
his net with only the light of the stars and a half-full moon to guide
him. This far north the night air more winter than spring, but he
does not light a fire. Smoke brings attention. A signal the nearby
Oneida can easily decipher.

His wife will braise these smaller fish and serve them with the
rice that fills the cooker every day. It has kept them alive in this
colder place where in the fall white men drive home from their
loud weekends of drinking and hunting. Gutted deer strapped
down in the beds of their F1s. A gamey meat that sickened him
the one time he ate it. Instead, he dreams of the fish sauce
his wife makes and of his other country where his
people are sustained by life they gather from the


by Philip Brown

It’s always the wrong mountain. The one I can not
climb. It sits crooked, or crooked to me. And when
I try, I get stuck, lost in
a crevice. The mountain is not
the problem.

In Bernalillo, the neighbors are not close, but
their alive voices and music carry in the desert air
where in the morning the Sandias rise in the
east. Watermelon. Blood of Christ. Lesser

Legs weak in the Jemez. Ahead,
a too-young girl and the distant view. One
slow step after another. Muscles out
of sync.

Higher up there is water. Cold, clear, running over
speckled rocks. I spread fingers in the stream,
run fingers over lips, press lips together
and taste.

Today, we make it three quarters up.
Maybe a little less. The trail rises,
then falls and up again until this
last descent where flat
rocks arrange themselves like fine
furniture. A parlor where
matters of life and death and the
incremental are open for debate.

She describes it as beautiful as her grandmother’s
blanket. Orange and green, dark where the sun
shadows away the color. There is a breeze. Cool,
mountain air scented like incense. I would be
happy to have my ashes spread in this same
air. Happy may be the wrong word. Content,
then. Call it content.

The sun starts its slow descent. The girl
puts on her blouse. We should leave,
make our way down. Reverse direction. Except
I’m not ready. Not yet. There’s no hurry, the girl
says. Behind her the very top of the mountain
still has snow. It too will melt, filling the
river and return to life all it

Featured Poet: Percy Bysshe Shelley



Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Missed Connections

Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – February 21st, 2016 – Anonymous

meeting people for a reason - w4m (montreal)

We meet people, then they fuck us up. The end.
then we meet the nice people, were too tired. We get into fights with them, we fuck em up, The end.
Then we have energy again, because they gave us hope. We meet new people we are cocky, think that were better and deserve the cake and eat it too, and we bump heads, meanwhile the last person who we fucked up, reminds us that were fucked up. The end. then we think about the person who fucked us up, and rethink the people who we fucked with, and we really think that were fucked up. The end. Then, that PERSON comes towards you, she tells you shes fucked up, you laugh, you tell her how you fucked up. you laugh. the end.

I just want the last line to happen. but this is one reality that happens way too much. I'm slightly bitter about this lol

(N.B.: "realms of the perpetual Saviour . . ." – a note from the editor

"realms of the perpetually stupid . . ." – a note from the other editor

"The End" – says the cat

"The End" – says the other cat

"The End" – says Machiavelli)

Book Reviews

Words of My Heart, soulspeak poetry from Generation Y

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Words of My Heart

Author: Blaque Diamond

Publisher: Diamond in the Rough Publications

Date of Publication: 2018

Pages: 187

"Sing us a song and we'll sing it back to you
We could sing our own but what would it be without you?"
- from My Heart by Paramore

Words of My Heart reads like confessional poetry in American girl rap poetry style, she paints pictures in emotions around the Black experience and celebrates her pure spirit in affirmations and romance. Blaque Diamond, her original name is Bianca Johnson, is a Generation Y writer who has been writing off and on for 15 years. She lives in North Carolina and has a day job working in logistics for a military shipping company. She has written six novels.

In the violence of the post-industrial Megalith transition society, this poetry reads like a flower in a hard roc world rising up through the pavement. Revealing hard spaces of love lost, unsuited love, the resilience of single mothers, dealing with a disability, rape, family violence, being Black, racism and conflicted family relationships, through everything her love light shines. She explores emotions through storytelling in poetry, celebrating God, nature, forgiveness, romance and positive affirmations for survival and dance.

The poetry is written in the style of rap poetry, with constant rhyme at the end of lines and also harkens to the confessional poetry tradition. The images are tried and true, they do not press against the edges of experience but rather dwell inside it. I believe this is her first book of poetry, if she continues to write poetry her gift will ripen. This poetry is cathartic an arts calling in the New World, inspirational, songs of resilience, giving Readers themes in the real world, something they can relate to in their own experience.

In the hard spaces of revolving lovers the poetry sits with you, aches, and This Writer knows that although a majority of people face these issues, they shouldn’t have to. The wisdom of the Holy Spirit Way has been lost in an overconstructed world. Each one of us has a Starcrossed Lover, at least one and there is a positive Sign from God to discern a happy longterm marriage. A checklist is at www.tympanilanerecords.com in the World Peace Newsletters, a Newsletter on discernment in marriage.


Is his love for me true?
Does he mean it when he says, “I love you”?
Is he playing games with my heart?
Just playing a role, doing his part.
Should I believe his eyes?
Do they tell me lies?
His words so sweet.
Dripping with desire, or is it deceit?
I want to believe in romance.
I want to give love another chance,
But at what cost?
Isn’t there so much I’ve already lost?
I don’t want to play the fool.
This game of love can be so cruel.
Can I trust that he won’t hurt me?
Will he love and cherish me the way I should be?
My heart wants to give love another try,
But will he break my heart and make me cry?
Everything that glitters isn’t gold.
If I should love him or not, I haven’t been sold.
Should I give him my loyalty and trust?
Will he just take it and bury it in the dust?
Or will he take it and hold it close to his chest?
His desire is to show me nothing but the best.
Is he strong enough to mend my broken heart?
Am I willing to experience a new start?
I’m so confused, I don’t know what to do.
Which way I should go, I don’t have a clue.
Will he do all that he swears?
Is he able to wipe away all of my tears?
How do you take a chance when you’ve been hurt before?
I don’t want my heart to hurt anymore.
He promises to be the man I need him to be,
But will he be able to do that successfully?
I’m questioning, questioning, and second-guessing.
Will his love be a curse or a magnificent blessing?

Experiential, confessional rap poetry, a girl’s troubles in a hard world; tissues, a package of chips and an orange soda on the weekend as you read, Words of My Heart by Blaque Diamond.

Available @ Amazon.com.

marginal prints: a love story

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: marginal prints

Author: Philip Miletic

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2017

Pages: 22

"Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present."
- from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

marginal prints is an Art Nouveau free verse offering that is a magical celebration of a love affair with the written word by Philip Miletic. Philip Miletic (Poet, writer, phd student in English) lives in Kitchener. He has been published in poetry is dead, otoliths, the danforth review, ribbon pig, dead (g)end(er), outlandish zine, indefinite space. He has written world 1-1 with Craig Dodman, the visual poetry Silver and the chapbooks mother2earth and And The Birds Sing.

In exaltation this poetry sings. The words are carefully woven with a creation of cadence through repetition and the occasional rhyme. A profound in original offering with the theme of the magic of reading books, a celebration of books and the magic dreamscape place the Reader goes to when reading a book. A world like none other, of imagination and peace, a safe place, a celebration of creating mythologies. Perhaps, an escape from a violent, overconstructed world fraught with hidden agendas and a consequent reality of spending time alone with books in a happy place.

As the series of poems continues it works into a celebration of the union of the Reader with the Writer by the Reader marking up the book, underlining, putting comments in the margins, in essence creating a new entity of thought and emotion, an imprint of the Reader on the word.

"or underline an entire page

because the first sentence is great,

then the next sentence is great

and the one after that sentence is great

and line after line gets

better and better, greater

and greater"

Then one day our lonely Reader about ¾ of the way into the Chapbook finds an interesting twist to his exultation in the discovery of a note with an email address in the book the poet is reading.

"446 pages into The Making of Americans,

I find your note:

I read this in the summer of 2011.

please email me, next person to read this."

and the poetry rockets into a crescendo of notes written on pages of a book of poetry until the pages scattered from their spines, perhaps mirroring also a love affair born from a note written in the margins of a book. The poems become like duelling harps, a type of Ranga, a love song. A connection in a disconnected world celebrated.

A wild, romantic magic imagining in poetry, surrealistic and fantastical, a New Age Renaissance Republique offering, marginal prints by Philip Miletic and above/ground press.

Available @ above/ground press.

Of Poetic Interest . . .

Philippe Soupault (Poet, writer, novelist, literary critic, political activist) born in Chaville, Hauts-de-Seine, France in 1897. He was arrested by the Nazi's during W.W. II. A practising Dadaist, he with writers André Breton and Louis Aragon founded the French Surrealist movement in 1919.
- a note from the Editor



Kirby Olson

George Orwell’s notion that “all art is propaganda,” is profoundly foreign to Soupault. Against a poetry used on a football field of political yardage, Soupault’s poetry is revolutionary only in the sense that it praises oddballs and children, balloon sellers and madmen. Against the notion that a governmental overthrow would usher in utopia, Soupault writes against planning, especially against any logical political planning and instead argues for emotional engagement, not with a program, but with people, especially outsiders and those who have been abandoned.

At Soupault’s trial for lack of political engagement, the surrealists questioned him as to whether he was willing to join the communist party. Soupault said that he was, but almost seemed to be mocking the group as he did so. The idea of joining a strict political faction seemed to have been against his basic belief in poetry. Breton spoke against him at the trial, “Je pense que Soupault adhérera au Parti à la première occasion pour donner le change. Mais cette adhesion n’aura pour moi aucune valeur. Son activité qui est contrerévolutionnaire continuera à l’être” (Adhérer au Parti Communiste? 60). [I think that Soupault will adhere to the party at the first opportunity to do so. But this adherence will have no value. His activity, which is counterrevolutionary, will continue to be so.] Soupault’s work in the press (especially his positive reviews of books by non-surrealists) had disgusted the revolutionaries of the group because it was so open to outsiders and so eclectic. Soupault insisted with Lautréamont, however, that poetry should be made by all, especially by outsiders, and that there was no special in-group, or inner party, that had exclusive access to poetry. Soupault’s solidarity was with poetry, and especially with those who were outsiders.

Soupault's father was an important doctor, and in his family milieu there were a great number of important figures among the bourgeoisie, such as Louis Renault, the founder of the Renault automobile dynasty, who was married to his mother's sister. While curious about the tenets of violence that led to accumulation on a vast scale whether within capitalism or communist systems, Soupault looked inward. His tender and introverted definition of surrealism was not one well-received by Breton or the more orthodox members of surrealism. For Soupault, writing was an act of personal lyricism that could not be translated into the political dimension, in which adherence to parties was taken as political engagement. Soupault’s writing is sympathetic to the poor of the earth, the homeless and the insane.

Soupault had a tremendous number of friends from many walks of life. His clear simple poetry with no trace of either preciosity or condescension has resulted in the steady rise of his reputation as a poet. In his late sixties, Soupault published a book of maxims on friendship, L'Amitié, and later published a volume of poetry for the children who were his friends (and for whom he saved stamps from his international correspondence). Poésie pour mes amis les enfants (Poetry for my friends the children), was published at the age of eighty-six.

Breton's penchant for violent Marxist and anarchist revolution was not part of Soupault's door to surrealism. For Soupault, writing was an act of lyricism that did not have an explicit political dimension. Without, however, any kind of political engagement, without any form of telos, writing will tend towards the absurd. This is where Soupault’s writing tends, just as it tends away from nationalism, imperialism, and the propaganda that Soupault found detestable, but his is not a violent or cynical absurdism. It is rather one aligned with Edward Lear, and the sweetness of children’s verse, and the poor of the earth. It is not, however, nonsense. To quote a brief lyric from Poésies pour mes amis les enfants:

Au Ciel

Il y a toujours une étoile
pour les aveugles et pour les fous
pour les ingrates et pour nous

Il y a toujours un nuage
pour les sourds et pour les muets
pour tous les fous et pour nous

Il y a toujours un souvenir
pour les sans Coeur et les fous
les raisonneurs et pour nous


There is always a star
for the blind and the mad
for the ingrates and us

There is always a cloud
for the deaf and the mute
for the mad and us

There is always a memory
for those who’ve lost hope and the mad
the cunning and us]

Soupault’s engagement with poetry as made by all, just as dreams are made by all, remains closer to the original inspiration of the surrealist movement. As Breton tried to translate surrealism into the political dimension via first Marxist and then anarchist politics, he may in fact have translated the poetry of surrealism out of existence, killing it in the process. Manifestoes and political tracts came to dominate the movement’s publishing efforts. Soupault’s surrealism deals instead with the poem as inhabiting a non-affiliated dimension that is impossible to translate into the political realm. It is being revived, with many critics such as Myriam Boucharenc, Jacqueline Chénieux-Gendron, Adélaide Russo, Dominique Carlat, Amy Smiley, Marie-Louise Lentengre, Jacqueline Gojard, Valentine Oncins, Debra Kelly, Anne Clancier, Nathalie Nabert, and Sylvie Cassayré (to name only a few) working to recreate it. The wish to revalorize this quieter and more intimate surrealism, is to see in its inward and personal quality a poetry uninvolved with politics, and which seeks to clarify poetry as a separate realm. This nevertheless does not mean that the poet is not free to engage in politics by other means such as journalism, radio broadcasts, and work within global institutions such as UNESCO, all of which he did.

Poetry is not something foreseen by a political blueprint, and one cannot judge it in the same way one judges traditional politics with its gridiron approach to reality. Poetry is the absurd. Soupault uses the analogy of dreams to explain it:

“A un rêveur, aucune explication n’est demandée. On n’exige pas qu’il comprenne ce qu’il ‘vit’ et nous savons depuis longtemps que toutes les interpretations des rêves sont arbitraries et fortement sujettes à caution. De même ne doit-on pas demander à la poésie de justification selon la logique. Il n’y a rien a comprendre, doit-on toujours répéter. La poésie est au-dessus de la réalité” (Essai 114).

[To a dreamer, no explanation is required. We do not demand that we understand what we ‘live’ and we have for a long time known that all dream interpretations are arbitrary and should be subject to caution. In the same way we should not ask poetry to justify itself according to logic. There is nothing to understand, we should always repeat. Poetry is beyond reality.]

Poetry is perhaps a star similar to that which attracted the three magi to Christ’s Nativity. Jesus answered Pilate that if He was king, He was not a King in this world, but of another one altogether. This was the initial surrealism. In the rankings that the surrealists made of various cultural figures, Soupault was the only one to give Christ a 20 out of a possible 20. Soupault’s memoirs are based on his friendship with an eclectic array of non-surrealist artists such as William Carlos Williams, S.J. Perelman, and the Catholic Georges Bernanos. As preparations for the Second World War mounted, Soupault, as Myriam Boucharenc writes "...defend l'ésprit de paix... contre l'éxaltation de la guerre et le fascism" (117),

[defended the spirit of peace... against the exaltation of war and fascism].

Like Jesus in the Garden at Gethsemane, Soupault did not see violence as the answer. When Jesus is asked why He does not bring down an army of angels against the Romans, He replies that He could do so, but argues instead that we should turn the other cheek.

Like Kierkegaard’s Knight of Faith, Soupaultien surrealism asks us to accept the absurd, and to join with other outsiders in a circle that is always closing itself to logic, and turning toward the heavens within. Soupault’s existentialism would have more to do with Kierkegaard’s than with that of J.-P. Sartre’s more political variety. Take the name Kierkegaard out of the following passage and change it to Soupault and you have an almost identical framework for reading their parallel character.

“Kierkegaard’s poetic is a rhetoric designed to coerce its reader to freedom. By the impassioned detachment with which it marshals the resources of spirit, it lays on him the necessity to act and deprives him of any warrant for action except his own freedom. The Kierkegaardian corpus can neither be ‘believed’ nor ‘followed’: it is and was meant to be – poetically, the impetus, the occasion, and the demand for the reader’s own advance to selfhood…”
(MacKay 99)

Works Read or Cited

Beauvoir, Simone de. The Second Sex trans. H.M. Parshley (New York: Vintage, 1989).

Berranger, Marie Paule. "Philippe Soupault le Poète" review in Europe May 1993 (769): 219-220.

Borch-Jacobsen. Le Lien Affectif (Paris: Flammarion, 1993).

Boucharenc, Myriam. L’échec et son double (Paris: Honoré Champion, 1996). "Au Miroir d'Europe." Europe, May 1993 (769): 116-124.

Breton, André. L'Amour Fou (Paris: Gallimard, 1937).
---. Manifestes du Surréalisme (Paris: Pauvert, 1962).
---. Nadja (1927; Paris: Gallimard, 1964).
---. Vases Communicants (Paris: Gallimard, 1955).

Chénieux-Gendron, Jacqueline. “Ouverture,” Patiences et Silences de Philippe Soupault (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2000): 9-20.
---. Philippe Soupault, le Poète (Paris: Klincksieck, 1992).
---. Surrealism trans. Vivien Folkenflik (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990).

Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. Flow: Steps Toward Enhancing the Quality of Life (New York: HarperCollins, 1991).

Duchemin, Veronique. "La révolte d'un fils des guerres." Europe, May 1993 (769): 89-96.

Frink, Michèle. “Esquisse d’un Poètique du Son,” Patiences et Silences de Philippe Soupault (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2000): 265-286.

Jabès, Edmond. “Philippe Soupault.” Philippe Soupault, le Poète ed. Jacqueline Chénieux-Gendron (Paris: Klincksieck, 1992) 3-5.

Jouffroy, Alain. Arthur Rimbaud: "Je suis ici dans les Gallas" (Monaco: Editions de Rocher, 1991).

Lachenal, Lydie. Philippe Soupault Chronologie (Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1997).

Levillain, Henriette. “Philippe Soupault et La Revue Europeene,” Europe, Mai 1993 (769): 104-115.

Levitt, Annette Shandler. The Genres and Genders of Surrealism (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999).

Mackay, Louis. “The Poetry of Inwardness,” in Kierkegaard: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Josiah Thompson (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1972).

Morlino, Bernard. Philippe Soupault. (Lyon: La Manufacture, 1987).

Mousli, Béatrice. Philippe Soupault. (Paris: Flammarion, 2010).

Nancy, Jean-Luc. La Liberté (Paris: Gallimard, 1989).

Orwell, George. All Art is Propaganda (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2008).

Prédal, René. “Philippe Soupault, critique de cinema: dimension poétique contre theater filmé,” in Patiences et Silences de Philippe Soupault (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2000): 161-202.

Smiley, Amy. “Mémoir et Exil,” in Patiences et Silences de Philippe Soupault ed. Jacqueline Chénieux-Gendron (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2000): 37:50.

Soupault, Philippe. L'Amitié (Paris: Hachette, 1965).
---. Les Dernières Nuits de Paris (1928; Paris: Gallimard, 1997).
---. Le Grand Homme (1929; Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1981).
---. Journal d'un Fantôme (Paris: Point du Jour, 1946).
---. Mémoires de l'Oubli 1914-23 (Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1981).
---. Mémoires de l'Oubli 1923-26 (Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1986).
---. Mémoires de l'Oubli 1897-1927 (1927; Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1986).
---. Mémoires de l'Oubli 1927-1933 (Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1997).
---. Poèmes Retrouvées 1918-1981 (Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1982).
---. Poésies pour mes amis les enfants (Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1983).
---. Voyage d'Horace Pirouelle (1925; Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1983).

Letters from Ixtapa


Rebecca Anne Banks

(Inspired by the Muse, MesoAmerican History and the painting “Guernica” by Pablo Picasso)


I still

remember Summer

the trees

that shadow dark

the walls

and the light

tangled in silence, shadows

caught against the day.

And the heart

of the sun

the rain

that tears the earth

into stone Gods

soldiers cut against glass

and the red sky.


Like glimpsing

the white heat

the sun

through the green

I could smell

the heat

the desert

and the eagle

upon this place,

the stone.

So the dark will not fall,

So the dark will not fall.


Summer on my mind

and sunlight

soft with evening

by the water, washing

our hair dries in the warmth

the earth warm

inside the day.

There are no words

for this silence

that holds

the day

and the blue, the water

windwept against light,


the quiet of the women, weaving

talking of the names of angels

casting lots for angels

for the breath of angels

and fire

upon the night rain.


Inside the dark,

we gather

beside the stone tower


the wind quiet,


They come up

as if from the center of the earth

the cold,

the dark wind.

So the dark will not fall,

So the dark will not fall.

Morning light

the bright inside green . . .

So the dark will not fall,

So the dark will not fall . . .

the sun ripped

into the belly

of the stone jade

and the broken waves

inside bone

the rain

bleeding against the ground,

seeding against the ground.

So the dark will not fall,

So the dark will not fall.


The half-light

wafted through the dry air,

the smoke

and the smell

of chocolate, warm

with the firewater


the silence

the silence breaking

falling into fire.

The stone sky, falling

to the ground.

Into the night

the dark, the night.



caught in stone boxes

the day,

the silent whispers

quiet whispers

white prayer angels

and summer rain

warm upon his face

and the green

warm under his barefeet

the gift


of the wings of angels

upon stone.

Into the night

the dark, the night

to sleep forevermore.


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She is the author of over 30 books of poetry, a guide 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 www.amazon.ca and other Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CD`s of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD’s of music awaiting production. She won an IAIRA award for top 55 Internet airplays for Angel Song, 2010. She is also the 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).

Philip Brown. I have had my short fiction published in Voices West, Farmer’s Market, and Strong Coffee. My story Helpless won a PEN Syndicated Fiction award. The story was selected by Mona Simpson. I attended the Sewanee Writers’ Conference where I worked with Tim O’Brien. I also won a scholarship to the Wesleyan Writers’ Conference. Recently I completed a collection of linked stories.

Jan Chronister lives and writes in the woods near Maple, Wisconsin. Her chapbook Target Practice was published in 2009 by Parallel Press at the University of Wisconsin. She currently serves as president of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, www.wfop.org.

Blaque Diamond, born Bianca Johnson in the fall of 1989, has always had a unique way of crafting words. Through her poetic verses, she takes readers on the many journeys life can take them through. She began writing at the tender age of eleven, and her poetry spans many different genres and styles. Blaque Diamond’s creative way of expressing herself, allows readers to delve into her inner-most thoughts and feelings. She has written 6 novels; A Ray of Sunshine, It's Our Anniversary, Love, Lies and Heartbreak, Growing Into Words, What You Won't Do and His or Her Betrayal?. www.writerblaquediamond.com.

Philip Miletic (Poet, writer, English phd student) lives in Kitchener. He has been widely published in journals including poetry is dead, otoliths, the danforth review, outlandish zine, indefinite space, ribbon pig, dead (g)end(er). He has written world 1-1 with Craig Dodman, the visual poetry Chapbook Silver and the chapbooks mother2earth, And The Birds Sing and marginal prints.

Kirby Olson. "I am a poet and scholar living in the Catskill Mountains of New York State where I am a professor at State University of New York at Delhi. I have published five books. This includes a book about the Beat poet Gregory Corso, and another about Romanian American poet Andrei Codrescu."

Percy Bysshe Shelley, born in rural England was a noted lyrical and epic verse Romantic Poet of the 19th century. He married Harriet Westbrook and they had 2 children, the marriage was conflicted. His second marriage to Mary Godwin (the daughter of his mentor William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft) produced 2 children who died in childhood. They travelled to Paris and later Switzerland where they met and traveled with Lord Byron. Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein. He died in a boating accident in Italy. He is best known for Ode to the West Wind, The Masque of Anarchy and Queen Mab amongst others.

Edie Steiner (filmmaker/photographer/music composer/music performer/educator) lives and works in Toronto. Her films have been shown internationally, won awards, and have been featured on CBC, Vision TV and WTN. Her film work has also been screened at many festivals including Cinemathique Quebecois, Cinemathique Ontario, Museum of Modern Art, Banff Centre for the Arts. Her original music can be heard on her film soundtracks. She is best known for the films Felicity’s View, Places to Stay and Roses are Blue amongst others.