ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VII Issue III

The Cover Photo:

"The White Rose and the Red"

from The regimental records of the British Army (1901)

by John Stephen Farmer

Courtesy of the University of Toronto

"the young blue feather

in the bare tree

looking for food . . ."

The White Rose

in the streets

in the skies

we will . . .

I am a hospital

I am a hotel

undress in front of an open window

watch the blue light iconosphere

the cathedral

of love letters

(pig eye troustes

shite eye wonders

steambo cats

haunt the coliseum)

is that you?

the lady's maid, the Butler, the girl Friday

all crawl off

to hang themselves

in the attic

department store mania


at the stiff end of night

the lights over Vegas

(Black Chicago)

in the streets

in the skies

we will . . .

it's not Christian

porcine holiday number

(sour cream and raisin pie)

I can hear the war

on the radio

it's not Christian

I fall asleep in my party dress

wishing I had a husband

red flags in house casements

we, the innocent children

now are old

and alone

a game of war

hang 'em high

hang 'em lo

war games

on the radio

the Lowenbrau machine

and the 17 daughters of the European Godhead


that shakes the sky


brings the cold

a million crimes

of a million silent nights

it is the underground

that saves us

in the streets

in the skies

we will . . ."

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VII Issue III
(March, 2019)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2019


This Writer loves discovering and publishing new Poets, like walking down the street and finding a shiny new coin . . . so beautiful. And it is odd, the Greats sell but sometimes they have to pass first, they become iconographs over time. But there are a lot of Greats out there right now. This Writer is always amazed at the quality of poetry that comes my way and how even the Greats of Now are suffering financially. The New Greats of poetry all have an original progression on post-modernist climes, push the traditional bounds of poetry, shake the infrastructure, they all should be given war medals and a bottle of champagne. Writers of Poetry live, breathe, eat poetry but may not have enough monies to purchase other Poets work. For This Writer to have an extra $50 is a big thing. But there is nothing like having a fresh new poetry read, particularly in paperback. You settle in with some chocolate and a coffee flavoured with honey and milk and the day just wonders into that special escape, the New Age Renaissance Republic of Poetry. This Writer keeps a list of living Poets and their work, gleaned from Facebook and/or notes on the Internet, I bookmark them, anyone who receives accolades, a good review or who looks like an interesting read gets listed.

of a Saturday afternoon . . . if u have a few $$ on your credit card it is great to cruise Amazon and see which of your favourite Poets on your poetry list have poetry on sale . . . to pick up a few books of poetry. It is also great to get to the local secondhand bookstore in the wooden floors and old-fashioned escarpment, to foray through the poetry section looking for finds, often inexpensive and without shipping costs. I particularly look for Symbolist, Imagist, Beat Poetry progressions or anything in Victorian Hospital or Art Nouveau and if it is really good give it a Subterranean Blue Poetry Book Review. Wouldn't it be great if everyone did this every once in awhile and then we would have some sales and some Book Reviews? so great, of a Saturday afternoon . . .

- Subterranean Blue Poetry


by Kyle Wright

Come down from the mountain tops.
The subway platforms.
9 and ¾.
Come down from the river of tree-tops you swim in.
Come down from the stars and the moldy cheese of the moon.
Come down from the Highlands, the high rise balconies, the low-side of the road.
Come down from the seedy porno shop basements.
From the seeds of time, grains and sands.
Come down from the alleyways, from behind abandoned gas stations and Hot'N'Nows and all-night coney islands.
Come down from the festie scene.
Come down from the glitz and garland and bad ecstasy.
Come down from the late night, late afternoon, the late breaking day, the it's 5'o'clock somewheres. Come down from the high horse, the hobby horse.
Come down from the backs of buses and the L train.
The Lincoln Towncars and Schwinns.
Come down from the ether of Snapchat filters.
The heated exchanges of cold posts, cold-case threads and threats and trolling.
Come down from the seats of skewed reality, the houses of parliament, the Governor's Mansions, the echoing dome of the senate.
Come down from your past lives, your dream lives, your high lives.
Come down from broken walls and monuments, the ripped pages of history books.
Come down from your libraries, full of tears and pretty colors.
Come down to the river and pray. Or pay.


by Lawdenmarc Decamora

In every pattern of sand,
every sinister sign being patient
with the every missing meeting on the shore,
look at time, follow its track.
There, a little sooner than expected,
a Mycenaean ego, surviving another year . . .

Learning how to write, I embrace
the full gratitude of this refusal -
a bottomless blue with the radiant youth
of play in the church of days.

One chilly evening, you stand upright
holding your head most raised, like a dreamer
with the moon in her eyes. Welcome the night.
Welcome a centaur approaching the light,
entering a new home in your mind.


by Lawdenmarc Decamora

In life, we are playing with dangerous games: you, the witness
of the visiting vatnajökull now blushing pink in the atom sky
with the bright comedy of Lucifer fooling the stars,
razorbills, and I, making a cryogenic favour to the moonless
nights, to the mountain echoes following the murmur
of tourists caught in the arctic splash of water balloons
and whispering endless cold, happen to see the world
in your eyes-spinning, spinning with the silence of earth.
There I seek the image, the northern face, Europa-cheeked,
slowly melting away like shreds of memory filling
the landscapes, carousel hills, the dawn-all these accidents
we call remembrances of love. Speaking of which, the only
thing that matters is to spread the ashes of the colour
across the strange horizons charioting above us, realizing
the force of nature to be like hoppíppolla magic. We take
shelter in our celestial dome, where I see you shush
the spectacle and stand still as an image, a celestial sight
I've been waiting to see my whole life, static Jökulsárlón
somehow, teasing myself with salmon sparks sinking in
momentary wilderness, criminally shy as my aurora borealis.




Ernest Hemingway

"Then there was the smell of heather crushed and the roughness of the bent stalks under her head and the sun bright on her closed eyes and all his life he would remember the curve of her throat with her head pushed back into the heather roots and her lips that moved smally and by themselves and the fluttering of the lashes on the eyes tight closed against the sun and against everything, and for her everything was red, orange, gold-red from the sun on the closed eyes, and it was all that color, all of it, the filling, the possessing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color. For him it was a dark passage that led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them."


Craigslist Maine - Missed Connections - September 27th, 2017 - Anonymous

F*#! - m4w

U have no idea how much I miss u















(N.B.: "you have no idea how much I love you" - a note from the Editor

"you have no idea how much I care" - a note from the other Editor

"F*#!" - says the cat

"F*#!" - says the other cat

"F*#!" - says the Editor

"F*#!" - says the other Editor

"I don't give a F*#!" - says Machiavelli)



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: La Commedia Sotterranea della Macchina Scrivere

Author: Marc Zegans

Artist: Eric Edelman

Publisher: Pelekinesis

Date of Publication: 2019

Pages: 74

"Million ribbons and floating stars
The night sky fades"
- from Green Typewriters by The Olivia Tremor Control

La Commedia Sotterranea della Macchina Scrivere by Marc Zegans and Eric Edelman is an Art Nouveau extravaganza that plays with the post-apocalypse landscape in surrealist New Age Renaissance Republic imaginings, a retrofuturistic steampunk fantasy, the offering is an aesthetic inspired by 19th century technology that spirals into new poetical climes. Marc Zegans is an Arts Mentor, Teacher, Poet, Playwright, Consultant who mentors actors, artists, musicians, writers, directors and advises charitable and government agencies. He has written a play, two spoken word albums, a book of erotic senyru, and a poetry collection. He is the administrator of the Facebook site The Underground Typewriter. He has been published in poetry journals including Wick, Lyrical, Ibbetson Street amongs others.

La Commedia Sotterranea della Macchina Scrivere is a cheeky "Tell me a story" travelogue that seduces the reader with tales of the elite musicians, writers, artists in a haunted Victorianesque backdrop. As if reading a sophisticated column in the New York Times that reports on the whereabouts and events of the elite with faux personal names and faux names of places and events, restaurants and meeting spaces, the work entrances with a dark whimsy.

As if celebrating some mythical place, not unlike a mythologized New York city time beat in the 1950's a tragi-comedy, slapstick, centered around beautiful typewriters and people writing on beautiful typewriters. The visceral feel of thick paper with beautiful black type all in some underground universe, calling forth escarpment and crumbling grey architecture, the home of Super Heroes that "leap tall buildings in a single bound." The poetic narrative flows in the third person and is broken, as if a Carry On . . . movie moving through time, interesting because of it's landscape and the original resurrected Victorian language, not unlike the language of The Pearl, an 18th century serial of soft porn short stories, a certain civility inside rough country. La Commedia Sotterranea della Macchina Scrivere is a rob ronic spoof of the New Age Arts scene, where everyone is a writer and no one has a lot of monies, the broken escarpment of ended beginnings that mysteriously disappear, not unlike people's broken love lives. It is reminiscent of a M*A*S*H show in which someone receives in the mail a book called, "The Cock Crows at Midnight", a murder mystery. Reading material is scarce and much sought after so they rip the book physically into sections and then when they have read the section they have they pass it on and pick up a different section, (hilarious as people read at different paces and no one knew who had which section) so the reading process becomes hopelessly jumbled, as they read the last line, "and then . . . " causing them to look up and around on the edge of their seats looking for the next section. The broken spinning thought forms are an original take on style, the poetic images brush with Neo-Victorian Romanticism and images of nature inside a lost machine, a surrealistic absurdist theater. The graphics are worth noting, black and white extravaganzas in dislocated spaces that shock and roil with print and vestiges of the Neo-Victorian.

As if celebrating some anarchy of the heart birthed in the New Society, an arts underground becoming. However, the truth about typewriters is that it was nearly impossible to create a perfect first one off take, errors were difficult to correct and to get the perfect offering often involved going throughs reams of paper and time. As an artefact of culture the typewriter is alluring like art, the perfect typed page belongs worshipped behind framed glass. As Art Nouveau, La Commedia Sotterranea della Macchina Scrivere is an exciting read that challenges the bounds of traditional poetry genres, an exciting carnet de route.

Available @ Amazon.ca.


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Suite For The Animals

Author: Neil Beethoven Flowers

Artist: Chutiwan Tanasapphaisal

Publisher: Little Wing Press

Date of Publication: 2018

Pages: 26

"Butterfly . . .

Butterfly . . .

Orange and black, bright dusty wing

Flutter where the summer birds sing."
- from Butterfly by Bob McGrath, Song from Sesame Street

Suite For The Animals is an exciting celebration in Romantic and Beat poetry progressions from the Quebecois Poet Neil Beethoven Flowers. Poet, Script doctor and Screenplay writing teacher he frequently travels from L.A. to Ottawa and various locales in-between. He has lived in a number of places including Peterborough, British Columbia, Italy, Mexico and New Mexico. This is the second Chapbook This Writer has reviewed by Neil Beethoven Flowers, the first being TaxiCab Voice. The theme of wild animals pervades this series of poems, an on the beat travelogue that records the Poet's experiences in stories from Peterborough, Albuquerque, Mexico and California.

The Chapbook is dedicated to Camille St.-Saens, a French composer from the early 1900's perhaps influenced by his moody musical works and Chief Seattle an 18th Century American Indian leader who advocated for the land rights of his people and preservation of the environment. An engenue gift of poetical Art Nouveau the writings are from the perspective of the wise child, a celebration in a breath of beauty and also a truth telling. The poem "Herons" speaks of the beauty of the large bird and then segues into an historical recounting of how they were slaughtered for their feathers in 1902, ending with,

"That golden eye

                              Swivels on

your dark secret"

This poetry full of mystery and Romanticism is reminiscent of the work of William Blake, an important precursor of the Romantic movement, Blake wrote about the reverence of animals and nature, accentuating spirituality and questioning negative cultural practices. It differs from Blake in that its short staccato lines of the Beat Poetry tradition are a little more dislocated, a beautiful progression.

The poems present stories, stories of animals, there is the story of someone losing everything in a truck fire, a story of swimming with turtles, a story of seeing tigers, there is a flash of humor, a reference to Hopi myths, a conversation with ravens ("Raven Talk"), a night of drinking with friends, a eulogy and more.

A poet's life in existence within the harmony of nature inside spiritual climes, the poetry a vacances of it's a beautiful life, a brilliant write, Suite for the Animals by Neil Flowers.

Available @ Amazon.ca.



Rebecca Anne Banks

(Inspired by the Muse and the civil war of England, 1455 - 1489, of the same name.)

The Wars of the Roses was a series of battles for the English throne fought between two rival branches of the Plantagenets, The House of Lancaster (red rose) and the House of York (white rose). The conflict was sparked by the succession of Henry VI who was not of sound mind and was perceived as a weak ruler. The story of the major personalities and events (the Battle of Towton, the death of the young princes, Edward and Richard in the Tower and more) are painted in this Imagist mirror poem. The personalities of the key players were incepted by looking at stained glass and paintings of their portraits then translated into weather landscape poetry. The poetry in italics is the voice of a woman whose husband is a soldier in The War of the Roses, as she waits for his return.


Let me sleep through winter
through distant Summer
past the rainswater rose
and the cold
stonecast angel
quiet against evening's dark,
long into night . . .
As if the place still knows the rain because of it,
the Houses that stood there,
the cousins that stood there
against the day
the white rose and the red
by 30 years, the war.
I remember the rain
and the blue that sleeps . . .

breaking the day against the night
spilling into pomegranates, open
bleeding against the ground
the white stone
and the gentle remonstrations
of light upon bone
that arcs so well,
tears with the breath
of winter
and the cries of birds
and silent cats
in alleyways
(still soft with Summers green)
the quiet and the dead.


The silence of Summer
without winter
within the warm, the evening
and the gentle blue that rests
inside the quiet of ocean
the quiet of your hands
the silence
that waits for rain.
What we could barter for comfort,
orange flowers
light the Summer evening
against your skin.
Shadows the blue
sky fire
against silence
the night aches for rain.
Summer warm
the blue
and the dark holds the sky
hard against the air
against nothing
the scars
the earth breathes quiet.
Gentle water, still
the blue
quiet night
that rests
the sky flower
without bruises
the silence,
the night aches for rain.


Sow the Spring,
the wheat upon the ground,
the seed
against the day.
Weak the mind,
that breaks the seasons of the sun
too gentle the edge of cloth,
as if absent shadows
beat against remorse
casts against a wall,
beats against this day
and longs to fly,
free, above the windswept sky.


From across the seas,
a handful of pearls
upon the waters
the birth
that turns to stone, the fields
turns the rivers to red.
As if from a distance
the pieces of the night,
that bark for roses at her wrist,
dangle bones against velvet
the cold and the blue
barters candied whispers
drinks the death of winter,
for a pocketful of stones,
broken against
summer on the wind.


Butterfly against twilight's window
and blue sky quiet
If I could give you
of Summer warm
and blue sky night.
So long into quiet
and light . . .
Remember the wind in the roses
of Summer
after the rain and silence
enfolded by shadows, holding
of an evening
(your silence is war)
Crawling over shadows in the dark
the night rose
the heat
that winds the dark
the dance
and the painted wings,
flowers that breathe
against the night
and the breaking silence
(nothing grows here but winter.)


the beginning, the May's Day . . .
so long before
the first taste of wine
that fires the mind
breathes into the carved stone walls
the seed,
the chalice,
that runs full
drinks the dirge
and the dance
the bones
in the shadows of the well,
the winter wheat
upon the stone.


The morning,
and the warmth of parhelion
yellow harvest suns,
full upon,
the cold,
the crown.
La belle bete,
by the light of the candle
the butterflies pinned upon glass
dangle above the fire
and fall
into dark
the light, dark
against the night.
The quiet
that settles,
this night,
cold against the ground,
the winter and the wheat.


The flower of winter
burning into night rain
shadows that tear at the white stone
and the dark.
The day grows quiet with rain
and the last of Summer
blue sky twilight
drifts into night
open, like the mouths of cats
warm and dark
the silence pushes into night
lost the clock towers chime
amidst the spires,
for whom shall the angels dance?


The nights bleed Summer
I could see the rain
and the breaking ground
in the dark
by water
the blue
by night,
the stone.
I could see the rain,
the night
by fire
the night
by wind,
and the rain.


Too many days and nights of winter
the shadows that raged
into the frozen cold
and blinding storm,
the blind weights
that fell like stones
upon the ground.
And the cold
bled into white, into red
the river
the pounding storm
into the dead earth
the ground.
Language lost
of the land
the silence of nothing
into evening, into night.


On the edge of dark
the bones that hang from windows,
we wait from windows,
inside the night
the silence
the cold whispers
through the edges of the room . . .
as if reeling the still
and falling
shadows that sink into dark.
Sleep, the gentle rain
that plays within the shadows of the night
gentles the space between bone
and morning sunlight
that turns us into stone.


I still remember the blue green ocean
the sun bright against water
and the light
by the hanging trees
long inside shadowed rock
that raged, the light
the stone,
In our hands,
we could not hold
the falling rain
so we played upon the rocks
we sang upon the rocks
so their hearts
would turn to poems
the poems turn to doves
into the night rain.


Golden fireweed
under grey sky rain
and the quiet mists,
quiet cold
that rises against the day
the morning
by the stars on suns,
the suns on stars,
opening on Babylon
the raging dogs,
teeth swallowing the dark
braying into grey
and the dark rain.


The breath of Summer
night, darkening sky
calling winter
and cold.
Against the heat
remains of the day
feast, tendered flies
and velvet red that sweeps,
cracks the earth into unbidden storms,
eclipses of the sun, unnatural
twisted wood
that drifts
upon the sea
the sun,
the fire
that feeds
blistered shadows,
and the dark
that dances, plays
with the night
and soft oeuvre,
of cut flowers that weep
into the rain.


White lily
in the rain
past sorrows,
the wings of love
and silent doves
cloudskye light
that weeps into dark
and fire.
The hollow night
with the reds
and quiet.
With the light,
a butterfly,
upon the winds,
gentle, of a March day.


What angels dream
of silent blue sky morning . . .
The days through Summer,
until the rains came
and gentle warm
full ripe,
upon the gold
the wheat,
the land.
And the rose
ripened full upon the winter,
the white and the red,
beneath the sun.


I keep no memories
nothing that whispers
of the hard white edges
of spring
nothing that reminds me
of the silent voices of women
and dirty whispers of white
veils in the rain.
the nights are colder
blue sky
and winter rains
pound the desert ground
past stone angels.
Tears, the warm and still
howls the night
such an empty place
into winter's hollow
and the quiet that sleeps
dreams of a colour blue
I have since forgotten
until a bird sings to me of the sky's name . . .


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 an Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets. 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).

Lawdenmarc Decamora holds an MFA in creative writing and is presently completing his MA in literary and cultural studies while teaching literature and humanities in a prestigious Philippine university. His poetry has appeared in literary journals in the U.K., Australia, China, Israel, the Philippines, India, Canada, Mauritius, Pakistan, Vietnam, and many places in the U.S. and Singapore, including forthcoming poems in Kitaab and LONTAR, not to mention an honorable mention citation for his poetry at Columbia University's special love issue of Columbia Journal.

Neil Flowers. "Born in Montreal, Neil Flowers has lived in a number of places including Peterborough, Ontario; Saltspring Island, B.C.; Italy; Mexico; and Albuquerque. He now travels mostly between L.A., Ottawa and nearby locales. He works as a script doctor and teaches the writing of feature screenplays. His ancestors Robert and Alice Pennington Flowers helped found the town of New Carlisle in the Gaspésie." - from Suite For The Animals

Ernest Hemingway (novelist, short story writer, journalist) was born in Cicero, Illinois. He is considered the foremost American writer of the 20th Century. He became an ambulance driver in Italy during W.W.I, became injured and had an affair with Agnes von Kurowsky, a nurse, who later left him for someone else. He worked as a journalist and was the foreign correspondant for the Toronto Star in Paris. In Paris he met some of the most influential writers/artists of the day including Ezra Pound, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Picasso. He married Hadley Richardson and they had a son. They divorced and he married second wife Pauline Pfeiffer and they had a son. He married third wife, Martha Gellhorn and then fourth wife, Mary Welsh. He was awarded the Pulitzer Prize and the Nobel Peace Prize (1954). With his health deteriorating he committed suicide in 1961. He is best known for the novels The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, The Old Man and the Sea, For Whom the Bell Tolls amongst others.

Kyle Wright is an author and student hailing from mid-west Michigan, currently residing in Ann Arbor, with work published in a few small journals and in so many stacks of old notebooks. He writes and creates across many disciplines, living with his partner, cat, and their ever-growing hoard of books.

Marc Zegans is an arts mentor, teacher, Poet, playwright, consultant who works with writers, artists, musicians, actors, directors and advises government agencies and charitable organizations. He has been published in Ibbetson Street, Lyrical, Wick poetry journals amongst others. He was the Writer-in-Residence at Mesa Refuge, Point Reyes, California (2004), the Poet-in-Residence at Bascom Lodge (2010) and the Poet Laureate at Narragansett Beer's (2010-2013). He has written "Mum & Shah" (play), "Night Work" (spoken word album), "Pillow Talk" (erotic senyru), "The Underwater Typewriter" (poetry collection), "Marker & Parker" (spoken word album) and "La Commedia Sotterranea" (poetry collection).