ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VII Issue IV


The Cover Art/Photo:

"My Paris Apartment"

by Jackie Sizemore

"as summer

blows in . . .

the trees

on a dark day

the dark sky . . ."

(this is a horror movie)

and there is sunlight

the draw of Paris

Paris in Spring

for 40 years

but no way home

(we are home)

as February comes into Spring

the gods of warm


the pontificate of earl

receiving lines

on the Potomac

the arthouse


7 golden heart foils

the farthest point of shore

not the tiger lily pieces

(if you can remember

the night


you were sleeping)

yes, Bigelow

we're moving

keto ray

of the betwixt . . . and the between

"a round say all of us"


psychic autolay

(in stone

the lovers


spoon quiet

on the bench

the lovers

in stone)

("I am going to pick up

all that is left of Emile Nelligan"

they gave me

a book of his poetry

for $10)

spheres within spheres,


in the blue,

in the sky"

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VII Issue IV
(April, 2019)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2019


by Mike McNamara

In your ratatouille apartment
there's not the slightest trace of
your infamous 60's patchouli flat.
I miss this.
I miss that.
We wait,
ranting in sign language
on the fringes, in the wings,
our inheritance spent out on this
non-materialistic, wordy hoard of things.


by Michael McNamara

Could be the Bhagavad Gita,
could be Lovely Rita,
every mountain's sacred
to a someone.
Could be the Pentateuch,
could be the young Sir Duke
and every vale's a temple
to a someone.


by Michael McNamara

There are things you will leave behind when you go,
things you will not need.
One of them will be me.

There are old tricks that
I learnt over the years.
None of them work.

And here, where once was
an everything, a nothing,
a used to be, a come to be, a never will be.

And wherever it was
that I was,
rest assured -
it was me there.

You do the good and the bad
and the rumours persist.
No one loves anyone
above themselves.

Man overboard,
man afraid.
Man on the cusp of The Cape of Good Hope,
man delayed.




James Fenton

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.


Craigslist London - Missed Connections - May 2nd, 2016 - Sleepwatch

45 Days Of ...


~ Sleepwatch


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: A Book of Travel

Author: Margaret Saine

Publisher: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Date of Publication: 2019

Pages: 128

"He says the moon comes with us when we drive at night. He says in front of the trees
behind the trees in front of the trees behind the trees."
- from Case Study: With by Jennifer Kronovet

A Book of Travel is poetry in the cast of the moon inside the broken dance of love that flowers into the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry by Margaret Saine and Subterranean Blue Poetry. Margaret Saine (Poet, poetry editor, teacher) lives and works in California. She travels extensively, and is very well read speaking and writing in 5 languages including German, French, Italian. She is the Poetry Editor at California Quarterly and is an administrator at New Voices, Gina Nemo's Facebook site for publishing poetry.

The title of the book "A Book of Travel" was inspired by Evliya Celebi a 17th Century Turkish philosopher's work of the same name. In this work he writes on his travels through Europe and makes observations of the different languages, it is an ideation on the Ottoman Empire by a Muslim. She also writes that the poetry is inspired by landscape. Saine's work is infused with quotes from famous writers and contains translations in French, Italian, German and Macedonian.

A Book of Travel is a book of wanderlust and perhaps lost love searching for love, in the voice of the wise child. The poetry is experiential and brushes with Imagism and Romanticism, the classicism of nature imagery, flowering into the New Age. The poetry tells stories of travel, Rome, the ancients (Ophelia, Eurydice, Orpheus, St. Augustine, Bacchus, Ariadne) art and artists, gardens, childhood, women, love, sparrows and more. This poetry is enigmatic, sometimes a subtle humour, a subtle dislocation within the broken architecture of the old cityscape economy. As if traveling by train, watching out the windows, someone who lives in foreign lands, a place of mystery, a place of the past, the haunts of an old love.

One of my favourite poetry writes in A Book of Travel is "Night - and Light?" it is considered, has a beautiful cadence within sorrow:

"Night - and Light?

Night is coming and so
the light vanishes but
many lights are born
into the dusk
into the dark
Night is the backdrop of light
more intimate, more bright
light is the splendor of the night
night as backbone and foil for light
dark and shining: shining and dark . . . a night coat of gleaming sparks that shine on us in the dark light is flat without night so come, sister, not sinister night give height in depth and glow and a sisterly mystery to light"

A Poet for Peace, there is an activist theme to the writing, "The Story of Jorge Peña Hen" is about the famous musician who was executed by the Pinochet dictatorship.

Through the broken dance, the light shines in, it is as if she is writing Emily Dickinson out of the box. A great read for the long winter nights, A Book of Travel by Margaret Saine.

Available @ Amazon.ca.


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Letters We're Allowed

Author: Jennifer Stella

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2019

Pages: 40

"Navy near-black cut in with lemon, fruity bright lime green.
I roam around around around around acidic yellows, globe
oranges burning . . ."
- from Lure, 1963 by Denise Riley

Letters We're Allowed is a brilliant dark surrealist haunting in a series of "love" letters from the New Age Renaissance Republic of Poetry by Jennifer Stella and above/ground press. Jennifer Stella is a Poet, writer and doctor who lives in San Francisco and works with the Peace Corps and Doctors without Borders. She has served in Cameroon and the Democratic Republic of Congo. She also holds an MFA in poetry from studying at Brooklyn College. Her prose and poetry is published internationally and she has been featured in the poetry journals Pharos, Eleven Eleven, the Dusie Blog, Calyx, Tupelo Quarterly and Der Grief amongst others.

Letters We're Allowed is a series of short "love" letters in poetic narrative between Sivan and Jenny. The asides in sign on and sign off cues are creative and enigmatic and sometimes strike as funny in an absurdist presentation.

"Dear Jenny . . . Who Is Not a Bat, . . . Love, Sivan Who Rhymes with Reams"

"Dear Sivan . . . Who Has Arrived at Terminal 4, . . . Love, Jenny Who Moves Martians, not Mountains"

"Dear Jenny . . . Who Is Thingly . . . Love, Sivan Who Values Teleportation Over Time Travel"

They talk around each other at tangents in symbols and dark fantasia, it is a story of constraints of time and distance and emotion, as if they are warriors of love, perhaps too hurt and tired to connect on any serious note, perhaps a reflection of the overconstructed violence in love/war N.A.

The images include oranges and lemons in Cameroon that are green and lime-like, flowers on tables, cut-out pictures of giraffes/muskrats, being at church, the ocean, birds, vampires, sexual assault, medical conditions and patients, writing poetry . . . all inside a fantastical surrealist banter. The letters never seem to connect fully on any of the subjects that are presented or written about. She writes to him more than 3 or 4 times about being sexually assaulted which he never addresses. She seems to be looking for validation, some sort of connection which is never really received, in communication terms it is as if they might as well be sending letters to dead letter post at the post office, yet, that the letters were written at all is an exciting event. This lack of connection may also address how some male friends/lovers are uncomfortable with addressing the violation issues of their female friends/lovers. The "If I don't talk about it doesn't exist" and then "I don't have to be afraid for my girlfriend/lover" or "I don't have to recognize my behaviour as someone who sexually assaults as someone who cannot commit to a longterm intimate relationship". It is not really constructive and yet, an illumination in poetry. In fact he acknowledges his foibles in the first returned letter, writing

"I am a vampire.

I am a vampire.

I am a vampire.

This references a song. Blood magic requires blood sacrifice. Just remember that. As Spicer, to Lorca, "I would like to make poems out of real objects. The lemon to be a lemon that the reader can cut and squeeze . . ."

That the series of "love" letters continues on any level is mysterious and a tribute to the longing for the universal essential love. Letters We're Allowed is a creative masterpiece, a fantastical artefact of culture, a photograph of the emerging New Society in the New Age. A brilliant write by Jennifer Stella.

Available @ above/ground press.

PARIS BLUE (excerpts)


Rebecca Anne Banks

"there were the houses surrounding Les Halles, "the whole neighbourhood as bottomless as a vast perforated basket, each house concealing in its flanks a mysterious labyrinth leading who knows where, toward underground passages, sewers, catacombs, no storefront an ordinary cul-de-sac but everyone an antechamber . . ."
- for clochards looking for a place to sleep in winter.
from Paris insolite by Jean-Paul Clebért (author)

"wet fleshed green

against grey skies

the trees in rain . . ."

turning a corner

and finding beauty unexpected

in small

unexpected places

the perfect

of an upper window alcove

or a small

stand of trees

in stonelaid


encased in walls

there are many ways to be ruined

missing you

my lips swollen



the stone walkway

the tiny underground room

bone heart


we hold each other

under the blanket

the walls

hold us


and dark

against the cold

i mouth the blue

O' Tyree

he, of blue persuasion

slow blue and blue

the cat watches Stella

little orphelin girl

for what is not relevant

forcing her

through the eye of a needle





master Rupert`s colliseum

my stone china gown

sia madras

candy blue sky

penny rule

to dope

San Pellegrino

the muse of Summer sky sings

Aeschylus summers

the terra nova

heat degras

and January spliffs

in stone pictures


i wish

the secrets

on the lips of the dead

are not disappeared

O' Paris, tender is my heart, the night.

"He bore to the right to get to rue Lamarck and suddenly, under the vast sky, heavy with rain, the whole of Paris appeared. He took in its receding immensity. Smoke coming from different paints wove together and fluttered in sharp chorus. The wind blew through the acacias, their jumble of foliage blending with the fog. In the distance thousands of fires flickered."
- Francis Carco (poet, novelist, dramatist, art critic), looking south from the heights of Montmartre

"the last blue draw



into night . . ."

somewhere under the moon

walking, walking in the dark night

the dark woods

the ink and black

to the lake

she peels off her clothes

the hot night

(the hallway moniker

susceptible to candy

that`s what the sign says

night of skies)

she enters the cold water

but there is company

she can feel two bodies

move apart

she swims


down, down, down

from the dirt path

a car careens

the young men

hoot and holler

she tries to find her clothes

holds them against


the car lights

blind her . . .




they pile





and disappear.

some days are just enough

some days less than

schlock horror fiction and dating

the spider lures you in

and lets you go

a crime mausoleum

living at the end of the road

the cemetery

on elm street

beside the church

and the British prime

the white Viet Cong


their smiles never give up their dead

Avon's calling

and love's a crime

a take on provost

(please remember

the names of the dead)

on the inside of love

the outside of pain

and the sky looks like the sky today

everything is on loan

o' par now

ricktoad pinnies

dutch du bords

the ghost of Montmartre

day mulch, the dandelion hour

love is perfect

perfect in love


sometimes luck shines


O' Paris, tender is my heart, the night.

"What was it, then? It was an inhabited location where there was no body, it was a deserted place where there was somebody; it was a boulevard in the big city, a street in Paris, that was wilder at night than a forest, gloomier in daylight than a graveyard."
- Victor Hugo (poet, novelist) writing in the 1820's about the barrieres (the tollgates) on the Left Bank, south of the Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain

"bright lovelorn light

shrine clouds

blue translucent blues

evening . . ."

into a night of skies

with the lost moon

O' Lucien

they say, they say

looking for a saviour

O' little madness

somewhere the light



the light

my blue cabauchon

(last wail on an open setting)

and things that say yes

nothing is something

something is nothing

makes it easier to die

on a Summer day

so they say

made in Baden, Baden

almost storm weather

sing songs and storms

walking into the long night

bagged and tired

in pink high heels

a long impossible walk home

he approaches me

offers me a ride

for free

he is a taxi cab driver

I can't quite believe it

"O' thank you"

begin to cry

when he drops me off

I say

"I will pray for you"

it's a place where the world stops

and the night goes on


and without you

O' Paris, tender is my heart, the night.

"a clochard. This word, the first published use of which was apparently by Aristide Bruant in 1895, derives from cloche (bell) and signifies a bum or hobo. There were various theories as to its etymology . . . My favourite, though is Jean-Paul Clébert's (writer): that the cloche is the sky, and all who sleep under it are its children."
- from The Other Paris by Luc Sante

"so dark, the rain

my lover

inside night . . ."

and what of the Mariannes

how the world forgets itself

the butterfly

soul against the dark night

when I see you

I know my own loneliness

stone clouds, butterfly

and the Poet's that sing

i go to look for you

behind the mirror

and you are looking

at me, looking

for you

around the corner

the Tango Blue

the song of cats

somewhere the blue

meets the sky

and blue beyond

and if you find her

there are oranges, a cup of bitter coffee, sweet

and you can stay

forever summer

by the light

the blue

sad eyes blue

(St. Vivian is calling

to the lorn of God

under pursewigs

the spring receiver

bone heart

on flannery road

the ring vas morta

this old port town)

love is always meant to be in conversation

like finding a lover in unexpected places

beauty in unexpected places


finding you

in the street

a gift,

the expected,

unexpected blue.

O' Paris, tender is my heart, the night.


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).

James Fenton (Poet, journalist, professor) is born in England. He studied at Oxford University and won the Newdigate Prize for Poetry. He worked as a journalist in East Asia war zones reporting for the New Statesman journal and The Guardian. He was a theater and book critic for The Sunday Times. He is well decorated for his poetic accomplishments, a fellow off the Royal Society of Literature (1983), Oxford Professor of Poetry (1994 - 1999), Queen's Gold Medal winner for Poetry (2007), PEN Pinter Prize (2015). He is best known for his books of poetry Out of Danger (1994), Selected Poems (2006), Yellow Tulips: Poems 1968 - 2011 (2012) and the gardening book A Garden from a Hundred Packets of Seeds (2001) and the oratorio The Love Bomb (2003).

Mike McNamara. Born in Northern Ireland but living in S. Wales, Mike McNamara (B.A. Hons.) has his Selected Poems 'Overhearing The Incoherent' published by Grevatt and Grevatt in 1997. Mike is lead singer with Big Mac's Wholly Soul Band and a published songwriter. His poetry has been published in Envoi, Orbis, Tears in the Fence, New Welsh Review, Acumen, The Dawntreader etc. Mike also had a selection of poems published in The Pterodactyl's Wing (Parthian, 2003).

Margaret Saine was born in Germany and lives in California. She has taught French and Hispanic literatures and writes in five languages, also translating other poets between them. Her books of poetry are Bodyscapes, Words of Art, Lit Angels, and Gardens of the Earth. Saine has also published four poetry books and a childhood memoir in Germany. She has written over 4,000 haiku and has several manuscripts in Italian, French and Spanish ready for publication.

Jackie Sizemore. With no hometown to speak of, Jackie Sizemore comes from the Rustbelt, the South, and Tokyo. Her writing has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Eastern Iowa Review, Citron Review, Opossum, Mojo/Mikrokosmos, and Noble/Gas Qtrly. Jackie was a finalist for the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, longlisted for the Alpine Fellowship in Italy, and her lyric essay was listed as a Notable Essay in The Best American Essays (2018). She studied photography at Carnegie Mellon University. Follow her @sizemorepov.

Jennifer Stella (Poet, writer and doctor) lives and works in San Francisco. She works with the Peace Corps and Doctors without Borders and has served in Cameroon and the Democratic Republic of Congo. She has studied at Brooklyn College and earned an MFA in poetry. She is published internationally, her first Chapbook Your Lapidarium Feels Wrought was published by Ugly Duckling Presse (2016).