A lost child smokes clove cigarettes
In a sycamore grove with twisted fingers clawing upwards
To taste ash and earth fill her body
Made not of stardust, but of that which is exhaled by black holes
Sighing infinite nothings into the unyielding universe
She measures time by days as seconds
Sunken eyes float above pale skin like silver fish washed upon gritty shores
Plagued with eternal youth, she persists
Enchanting men by singing beatnik songs about vintage wedding gowns
Envious of the stories they tell between wisps of discolored tulle
Trying desperately to love a delicate, inconsequential mess of limbs
Never close enough to truly touch
A vagrant passing through towns like a spirit through walls
She falls asleep as waves of discordant blues and gypsy dancing
Echo between scattered buildings and unused highway
Comforted by the constancy of man's sorrow and resilience
Dreams and death, a welcome consistency
An obelisk in a sandstorm
DAUGHTERS AND THEM
by Devika Mathur
Sacrosanct white truths of life leave me jumbled often
My brown mahogany rusty table being shifted to another room,
my constant sheltered pillow being given to the newly born.
I am a ballistic allusion of a 'yes and a no',
the concoction of my mother's truth and father's pride,
I kiss morning each day with a Delphic sigh, oblivious smiles
for I am a petal of cyan mauvy shadow,
A limerick of fragility and frosty faded nights
My parched lips once again blossom into reds, pinks, nudes
and I shall be planted like a slick sheet of an unturned page of a pale book
Further into your valley of wilderness.
THE ART IS DISTURBED
by Devika Mathur
The stars hang from the above,
In the opulent sky's corona
Where my delicate fingers reach
To absorb the filth, like a sucker game,
Granites, clay well potioned to develop the frame of Elixir
Precise dots, starting from my epicentre expanding
To my toes, inner thighs and going through my mind,
All like sewing machine,
Butter on paper
In my cheekbones,
Like the flow of paper boats into the surreal water
So I ferment the delusion, then my reality.
SHE DREAMS OF LOVERS
by Norma Kerby
she dreams of glass
walls of glass
and buckets of stones
she dreams of silk
silk wrapped like skin
she stands unbending
swaying like grass
in front of the mirror
in front of the window
he will look
see her there
her hair her body
like soft silk swaying
she throws stones
stones of despair
so many stones
his body will break
lovers with hands like
blades of grass
lovers in hallways
empty hallways with
she dreams of stones
buckets of stones
she dreams of lovers
FEATURED POET: SYLVIA PLATH
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage -
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
Craigslist Maine - Missed Connections - June 15th, 2017 - Anonymous
You're Better Than The Best... - m4w
?? Even when you're gone
Somehow you come along
Just like a flower poking through the sidewalk crack and just like that
You steal away the rain and just like that
You make me smile like the sun
Fall out of bed, sing like a bird
Dizzy in my head, spin like a record
Crazy on a Sunday night
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold, buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
Oh, you make me smile ??
(N.B.: "don't it" - says the editor
"smiley" - says the other editor
"smiley face" - says the cat
"sing, sing" - says the other cat
"there will be no singing or dancing" - says Machiavelli
"F*#! You" - says the editor, the other editor, the cat and the other cat)
PROTEST POETRY, A TREATISE FOR LOVE
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: Protest Poetry
Author: Kimberlynne Darby Newton
Publisher: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Date of Publication: 2018
"To tell the truth is to become beautiful, to begin to love yourself, value yourself. And that's political,
in its most profound way."
- June Jordan (Poet, Human Rights Activist)
Protest Poetry by Kimberlynne Darby Newton and Subterranean Blue Poetry confronts the demons of life N.A.
and turns the darkness of injustice into a treatise for love.
From an embattled place, the Black culture in the dominant white culture and what this means, from beleaguered social
interactions, to broken love lives, to rape, to outright violence. Acknowledging the pain of violence, she is an
incredibly intelligent Poet creating an eloquent treatise against the injustice of an underground war. She calls on
the Spirit world, the ancient goddesses, Morrigu, Erzulie, Nzinga, and more, the goddesses of war for protection and
the goddesses of love for change. This poetry is a very powerful prayer to the ancients for their descendants, so
they can live and thrive in peace. The beauty of the sisterhood is a celebration, Black women, the Madonna, is the
beauty of love itself, a very powerful spiritus that can heal all wounds, pours water on fire, brings life and peace
to a troubled world.
Morrigu, black crow,
mistress of raven maid
Crone of a thousand old names
I beg favor,
I hear the susurration of wings, the crooning of doves
who are not doves at all
listen, hear me.
I seek the Mother,
her face dark and creased
with a horrible gentle mien.
She watches you, me, us all.
So unendurably quiet,
she knows much,
she has forgotten worlds of us,
but remembers terrifyingly . . ."
This poetry is largely 1st person narrative in short staccato lines, a progression in Beat poetry. Included in the
work are open letters to the Reader, the Poet, an activist as she illuminates in a personal way, to get people to
stand up and fight for their rights for protection, love and peace. As This Writer read, her Spirit soared with
inspiration for hope.
In the truthtelling, an illumination, as the craft and calling of the Poet as Oracle informs and calls attention to
violence and calls on us, the Reader, to join our voices for a new America, a new way, a new peace. A brilliant
write from Citizen Poet Kimberlynne Darby Newton, Protest Poetry from Subterranean Blue Poetry.
Title of Book: The Landscapes Were in My Arms (figure 2)
Author: Sara Renee Marshall
Publisher: above/ground press
Date of Publication: 2018
"The guise of leaves. The whole landscape
Loomed absolute as the antique world . . ."
- from Hardcastle Crags by Sylvia Plath
The Landscapes Were in My Arms (figure 2) by Sara Renee Marshall and above/ground press, is a fantastical
progression in Imagist poetry that paints pictures inside and outside Summer rain. Sara Renee Marshall, Poet and
student, is studying for her PhD at the University of Georgia, she holds degrees in political science and poetry
from the University of Colorado. She is widely published and this is her second Chapbook by above/ground press.
This poetry is a classical rendering of old world meets new, with nature imagery interwoven with imagery of the
machine age. A celebration of flowers, sky, stars, grass and trees with the idea of the modern in house/home,
microphones, static and means of conveyance. There is also the ideal of the artist in painting/photograph imagery
and allusions to painters, Delacroix and a quote from Matisse.
"I smear paint around on a page, thinking
if I pull marigold apart from a flower
sense will stand more obviously
like a figure and its shadow"
A first-person narrative that travels, painting pictures, particularly focused on the house/home that may be a symbol
for her love life. It is almost as if she expects the landscape to move, perhaps eventually a place of departure,
the poetry exists as a beautiful expression of the moment, inside sorrow and celebration. This poetry is a brilliant
play on work by Sylvia Plath, with a similar classical lilt of sorrow and nature imagery, a truthtelling, a tight
A brilliant Chapbook of the New Age Renaissance Republic of Poetry, The Landscapes Were in My Arms (figure 2)
by Sara Renee Marshall.
"quiet and dark
in blue . . ."
Rebecca Anne Banks
and going home
petite belle mere
and small breaths of flowers
sweet pink histamine
of the flowers
and all things go round
of dark sky
in the beautiful
of night . . .
those were the flowers
the beautiful blue
OF POETIC INTEREST . . .
MY WRITING DAY
Rebecca Anne Banks
. . . "blue, blue . . ." I gradually wake out of sleep, it is still dark, check my cell phone it is 4:12 a.m. I
trundle to the washroom and then out into the kitchen, pull a pear out of the fridge, wash it and cut it up into a
bowl, pour out the last of the raspberry juice into a mug, draw a cup of cold water from the tap, put the kettle on
for tea. I head back to the washroom with a couple of cups, and put Iodine drops into the cup of water, it is only
supposed to be one drop, but it always splashes a little more, I take some medz and a vitamin, which I crunch,
secretly wishing for those tasty liquid vitamins we used to have when we were kids. I head into the main room and
fire up the computer in front of the large double doors/windows that look out on the balcony and a very large tree,
this morning covered in snow in the darkness. I talk to Tango Blue and caress his ears, but just in my mind as he
still won't let me pet him, he is a Rescue Cat. I begin my morning computer ritual of reading my 2 main Hotmail
accounts, Facebook, Craigslist (for Missed Connections, Pets, Apartment Rentals - Coops and Lofts, Antiques), then
on to New Adventures of Queen Victoria (and I laugh a little) and then on to Pearls Before Swine (and I laugh a
little more). All the while munching and drinking and watching the windows as the sky changes colours with the
rising sun. Throughout the day I write wisps of poetry in my notebook . . .
. . . I look at my writing schedule and then go back to bed. Six hours later I wake up, go to the kitchen for another
glass of water. And back to the computer. First priority is Subterranean Blue Poetry, every month the magazine must
be htmled in English and French, Book Review ads must be added to Subterranea . . . and The Book Reviewer, and this
month's journal needs to be Indexed. Then 2 Book Reviews must be written. We choose our books for Book Reviews from
the latest, yet rare buys from Amazon or from The Word Bookstore (an indubitable social haunt, known as a great place
for a date or a Christmas soirée with a fantastical selection of writings) or from the Chapbooks sent from the
subscription to rob mclennan's publishing house. Occasionally some beautiful Poet launching a book of poetry gets
in touch and pays us (me and Tango) $25 for a Book Review (we dance). Then we look at clients, for poetry book
publishing, the Editing/Formatting/Uploading of poetry manuscripts, the creation of Book Covers, the writing of
Book Reviews, the launch of social media ads and sometimes the creation of WebSites. And occasionally looking out
and up at the sky . . .
. . . Then we look to the publishing of our own books, French translations, WebSite upgrades, updating and creating
the series of Subterranean Blue journal mockups for poetry, photos, Featured Poets, Missed Connections, Of Poetic
Interest . . . so that when that month comes up to publish, all that is left to do is the html and the Book Reviews.
I check emails for submissions throughout the day. Someone gets in touch on Facebook from the African archipelago,
I ask for a submission, and he sends me 6 beautiful black and white photos, I excitedly accept 2 for publication
and promise to send along payment soonest. Two days before I heard from someone in India who emailed wondering
when her submission is being published, I had said the winter 2018. I told her she was being published in January
2019 and it was technically the winter 2018, being from India I suspect she doesn't understand that winter is
from November to March, the flow of the season and hope she will accept my apologies. I love the Inbox, on special
days I find poetry (o', yes) and art (o' yes, yes), all submissions and enquiries are read . . .
"is he the geist man?
are for Poets
the traveling Muse
services the room"
. . . I check my list of Subterranean Blue mockups to find that we are partially planned into 2020. (O' yes!).
I do a backup of the January 2019 Subterranean Blue Poetry html Issue, making certain to add 2019 to the January
date in the attention line, just to remind myself that I am nearly 60 years old and not yet married with 2 children,
do not own a home with a garden, do not own a Jeremy Mann painting or a Montauk sofa, have not appeared on the cover
of The Rolling Stone . . . and attempting to accentuate the positive, remember I do have some antique chairs I picked
up last Summer. I look out at the sky . . .
"brings love and poetry and blue
a bottle of wine
cast upon the waters, blue"
. . . Somewhere in the miasma of work I head out to the kitchen and put on a pot of homemade spaghetti, frying up the
red peppers, onion and garlic, opening a can of stewed tomates and tomato paste. I open the can of cat food from the
cupboard and head into the main room, filling up Tango Blue's dish. Pick up the water bowl and go back to the kitchen
and clean the bowl refilling with water. I head back into the main room and put the water bowl back beside the plate
of food and talk to the cat, caressing his ears with my mind. I head back to the kitchen, stir the spaghetti sauce
and take out half a garlic clove from the fridge, cutting it up, 3 cloves of garlic into some butter in the wok, let
"a Westphalian strip house
the joy clips"
I head back to the computer. I head back to the kitchen, spread the garlic butter over a couple of pieces of grain
bread, cut up some cheese and place over the bread slices, wrapping in foil and put in the oven. I bring a bowl of
spaghetti sauce with the garlic bread back to the computer and sit and eat as I wander through the Internet. We have
run out of cat treats, so I hurriedly suit up and head out into the darkness of evening to the Dollar Store. I pick
up a few supplies, some sponges, some cans of coconut milk, some notebooks, some really cheap pens (that I later find
don't work), some cat litter, some cat food and of course the much-loved cat treats. We head back out into the night
and around the corner home.
lives, lives of the Redeemer
reliquaries, that rest"
I call out to Tango Blue, kiss his ears in my mind. I go look at his dish and he has spread the kibble on the floor
making a mote around the chunk of fish cat food. I tell the cat I have some treats for him tonight. Cat must have
treats. I head to the kitchen take a pear from the fridge, wash it and cut it up into a bowl. I take the dessert
back to the computer and proceed to contemplate work, wouldn't it be nice to do some Kintsugi Quilt Repair in the
evenings, if I could just schedule everything. Tango Blue curls up on the futon and later comes over to kiss my
hands, I give him treats. I take out my notebook and begin to write into the night . . .
"o' lonely girl
o' lonely girl
am I calling you?
Barbizon . . ."
Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing
artistic content for 37 years and 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 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 (
Mary Imgrund is a graduate student at American University pursing an MA in Political Communication; she also writes about
sustainability on her blog, Fennec Fawn, as well as for Eco Warrior Princess. She splits her time between Washington DC and
Pennsylvania, where she runs a market for sustainable and handmade goods. Her work has been published in From the Fallout Shelter,
The Rectangle, and The Burg among others. She's a skincare hoarder, Twitter lurker, and celebrated worrier.
Norma Kerby is a poet and writer based in northwestern British Columbia. She has written magazine articles
for NORTHWORD Magazine, BC Nature, and WordWorks (Federation of BC Writers). Her poetry has been published in
journals, anthologies, and e-zines, most recently Prairie Journal (on-line), Fresh Voices (League of Canadian Poets),
Big Pond Rumours, Somewhere My Love(Subterranean Blue Poetry), and the anthologies, Water Worn,
Snow Feathers, and Skunk Cabbage.
Sara Renee Marshall (Poet, student) holds degrees in political science and poetry and is studying for her PhD
at the University of Georgia. Her writings have appeared in many poetry journals (Colorado Review, Poor Claudia,
The Continental Review, OmniVerse, jubilat, Jupiter 88, The Feminist Wire amongst others) and she has published
Chapbooks. This is her second Chapbook published at above/ground press, the first being The Landscapes Were in
My Arms(figure 1).
Devika Mathur is a published poet and lives in a country of varied cultures and customs, India. Her work has
been previously published in Visual Verse, Thistle magazine, Indian Periodicals, Indian Ruminations, The Wagon
Magazine among various others. She has been an English teacher and wishes to work dominantly for the women of our
Kimberlynne Darby Newton is a retired professor of history, she is a native of Montgomery, Alabama. She hopes
that her writing will help someone; with a smile, a shared experience, and hopefully, an inspiration. She is happily
writing her next book, and lives with son, Issac and husband, Barney.
Sylvia Plath (Poet, novelist, short story writer) was born in Boston, Massachusetts to German immegres. She
studied at the University of Cambridge, Smith College and Newnham College. She is noted for progressions in
confessional poetry. She married Poet Ted Hughes, they lived first in the United States than in England, the marriage
produced 2 children. She separated from her husband after 6 years of marriage, she was severely depressed as an
adult and committed suicide in 1963. She won the Pulitzer Prize posthumously.She is best known for The Colossus
and Other Poems, Ariel and The Bell Jar amongst others.