ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VII Issue XII


The Masthead:

"Leonard Cohen for Christmas"

"Like a bird on the wire

Like a drunk in a midnight choir

I have tried in my way to be free"
- from Bird on the Wire by Leonard Cohen

"telling myself stories

into the long night,

letters from winter

he that holds the night

in the candle's flame . . ."

letters from winter

"awake the night

and the sun doesn't turn

in the silence of one

(open to the night

the edges of one)

at the vigil,

i whisper,


with the man on the radio

with they that hold the night

he that holds the night

and a song from the radio

"Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river

You can hear the boats go by

You can stay the night forever"*

riding round town in the front seat of my

step-father's car

too little, for the child to be able to see over the dash

and from the radio, he that whispers of moonbeams

downtown at the Bookstore

he sings with Anjan

I pass by, go in

in the café

there was nothing to say

the silence unbroken

the romance, the romance

that makes you live,

kills me

when you leave

"maybe for a poem"

"too old for the game"

And late into night

the tapping on the window

he is somewhere in the underground



bent stars

past paste up

pages of paradise

some place of happy returns

quiet, a small unfilled cup

in the bestiary

(open to the night

the edges of one)

the line-ups at the bar

as I run past, looking for the train

the golden one

and the buttercake tree

with they that hold the night

he that holds the night

"those from God,

unto God"

sleep into night,

sleep into winter

i hold the moon

from the night . . .

dream of underground fusions

from the night


in a dark morning rain"

* from Suzanne by Leonard Cohen

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VII Issue XII
(Christmas, 2019)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2019


by Josie Di Siascio-Andrews

We were walking into the auditorium
While the much awaited band from Rochester
Set up & tuned their instruments
To perform Jesus Christ Superstar.

In the dissonant din of brass
And electric amps, in John Lennon
Glasses, a Janis Joplin-like lead singer
Whisper-tapped 'testing, testing' on the mic.

Below the stage, we were a squirming sea
Of curls and denim, when "Suzanne"
Suddenly, started playing on the P.A.
Leonard Cohen's unmistakable voice

Cohering us to the light of the river,
Leading us down to baptismal waters
Where you could "hear the boats go by."
Something so pure about the words,

Something so lovely about his "lady of the harbour"
Guiding us like Mary, to the grand simplicity
Of, as godly a thing as, friendship and love.
Suzanne or Jesus taking me too,

Personally, by the hand to the Jordan
To heal my teenage angst, at being so new
To English and Canada.

There was something exotic
About those "tea and oranges
That came all the way from China."
Something sacramental,

In those years when the only things
That came to our school were the kids
Of poor immigrants seeking jobs
From Portugal, Italy, Greece, or Yugoslavia,

And all that was available at Dominion
Was Orange Pekoe tea from England
And Sunkist oranges from the Sunshine State.
A cup of tea. Oranges. Love holding us by the hand.

A summer day in a house by the water.
Leonard's notes and words called us out of ourselves
To follow him like a pied piper to the village.
We too wanted to "travel with her, travel blind"

To touch the divinity of body and light,
We the doubting Thomases - with our own wounds,
Uncharted depressions, already at fifteen
Until Cohen named them with his music,

The mess of us, our generation
A hornet nest of idealisms, long hair
And faded Levi's, in morning assembly
In a high school gym in 1970.

And then, the American rock band
That had hit town early that morning
In blue Greyhound buses from New York State,
Broke out in a thunderstorm of instrumentation.

The multitude of our cohort swaying,
As if God-led, after Cohen's antiphonal
To see Christ among us, in the guise
Of the new kid, the weird kid,
The fat kid, the one smoking pot

On the tree outside the library window,
The kid bullied by some rich, tall, roman-nosed
Jock and that jerk's snooty girlfriend Eve, Sue,
Karen or other, taunting, jeering and mocking

Them with, "Hey there superstar, do you think
You're really what they say you are?"


by R. Bremner

The woman in blue, the man in white
Both figure in my transfigured blight
She asked for less but wanted more
Instead of the answer she found a floor . . .

A third floor, two room walkup in
the shank of Passaic Park, flush up
to Main Ave, the headlights dancing
midnight ceiling dances nightly in my room
Spanish and English and Tagalog chatter
bubbling from streets of fire . . .

That was life forty years ago. A crumbling
edifice, with sometimes heat in winter, and
gnats, white wine, sweat, cops frisking me
on the street, and rock'n'roll
in summer . . .

A flunky job, no future, no girl, and drunks
sleeping in the vestibule with more hope
and respect than me.

No money for a TV, no money to eat out,
an occasional cheap matinee
movie, my job as a smalltown taxi driver, and
my proudest possession: a Pioneer turntable, with
Criterion speakers and a Technics receiver. I wore
out those LP's, listening to Last Year's Man, The
Stranger Song, Stories of the Street, Famous Blue
Raincoat, Story of Isaac, et al, et al. But with it
came the despair of knowing he was saying every-
thing I should be saying, was saying, only
remarkably more cogently and poignantly.

How many times I stood before the mirror, des-
perate, like the Santa Claus in Dress Rehearsal
Rag, putting on dark glasses, with a razor in my mitt.
And how many times did the Sisters of Mercy lead
me back from the bathroom to that beguiling music?

Forty years later, a loving longtime wife, a wonderful
son, and so many of my poems published, I can hardly
see back through the fog of time.

Yeah, all the rain fell down, Amen, on the works of
Last Year's Man. But this year's man can only say
Hallelujah. And thank you so much, Lenny, for all
your words. And for my own, too.


by R. Bremner

(An erasure poem, a brilliant original construct. The original poem has parts blacked with grey writing, which creates a variation in read, if you read just the white and black writing, just the black with grey writing and/or the entire poem white and black. I could not successfully create this effect in HTML. Instead I have underlined the parts that are supposed to be in black boxes.)

The woman in blue, she's asking for revenge
the man in white - that's you - says he has no friends
The river is swollen up with rusty cans
And the trees are burning, in your promised land
And there are no letters in the mailbox
And there are no grapes upon the vine
And there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore
And there are no diamonds in the mine.

Well, You tell me that your lover has a broken. limb
You say you're kind of restless now and it's on account of him
Well, I saw the man in question, it was just the other night,
He was eating up a lady where the lions and Christians. fight
And there are no letters in the mailbox
And there are no grapes upon the vine
And there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore
And there are no diamonds in the mine

Ah, There is no comfort in the covens of the witch.

Some very clever doctor went and Sterilized the bitch
And the only man of, energy, yes the revolution's pride
He trained a hundred women just to kill.

 An unborn child
And there are no letters in the mailbox,
Oh no, there are no, no grapes upon your vine
And there are, there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore
And there are no diamonds in your mine
And there are no letters in the mailbox
And there are no grapes upon the vine
And there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore

And there are no diamonds in your mine.


(From a 1969 photograph of Leonard Cohen by Dominique Issermann)

by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Clinging to a long white
sheet, her body flows
skin of three line stanzas
breaks exhaling the deepest
fragmented breaths, she
loves to stretch my syllables
unveiling unperfected
masterpieces . . . somehow
staring at her end, so
beautifully unpolished -
her tantalizing fingernails
like needles beckoning me
as turntables scratch
Songs from a Room
her body calls, glowing
at the climax, softly
held dangling above
the keys . . . she mumbles
in my ear, amusing inaudible
whispers, I am the distance
you put between . . . nakedly
teasing-almost gripping
then stunningly drifting
my unquenchable muse
she always rings
unfinished, leaving me
rippled traces on the page
before she beautifully
gleams to disappear.


by Eugene Goldin

A lonely heart
In a body of stone
Forgot to beat
When we atoned
For stealing love
Not sent our way
By He whose hands
Gives time away.

A lonely chair
 In a room -
Where there is no air
Our Blind Ghosts
Get sentenced there.
This justice serves
A thirsty judge
Whose children
Drink his cold, spilled blood.

What price is paid
In Time or Day?
Our lives apart?
Or strength of soul?
All of the mind?
Heard in our song?
Which cuts the bone?
Displayed in art?

All creatures know
Our spirits share
This ageless pain
A lonely heart.


by Carl Palmer

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah,
I'll do anything you ask me, I'm your man.
Dance with me to the end of love. Dance me
right here, dance me, in this tower of song.

I'll do anything you ask me, I'm your man.
Like a bird on the wire, if I've been untrue
in this tower of song, every day each day
at the break of day, I'll sing to let light in.

Like a bird on the wire if I've been untrue,
I'll ring the bells that still can ring and I'll
sing at the break of day to let the light in.
Everybody knows that's how it goes.

So let's ring the bells that still can ring and
dance with me, dance me to the end, my love.
Everybody knows that's how it goes
with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.

travelling light

(for l. cohen)

by Irina Breitenstein

how his voice got darker,
travelling lighter
to the heart


mengya dear,
i tried on the blue coat you wore.
i wore it like a guitar wears its strings
like letter wears its envelope
and when i tried to take it off
it had entered my veins and had become leather and had become water and had become ink.
now i see you standing in the rain your black hair wet your shoulders torn your razor eyes and i hand
you a rose,
color of women.

you are the string
you are the nod that ties the string to the thorn
cut it -

16. some dresses in my wardrobe

by Irina Breitenstein

it was time i did the housework, my wardrobe was exploding and since several months, i could no longer bear the disorder of the dust inside. first, i fixed the sliding door that had left the wardrobe gaping and whose mirror had split the room in two for years.

wardrobe mouth shut.

today, i took out all the sweaters, dresses, skirts, jackets and trousers. there is no more space here and spring is coming soon and i want trendy clothes. after all a woman needs to keep in shape like she needs to keep the household. it wasn't easy. the dresses especially. i was always wearing dresses, i was the young girl in dresses. the lavender blue one with the white and yellow flowers, lilies of the valley perhaps, that is torn on the hem but still has something japanese, and that i wore that summer when the crickets were singing in the olive trees.

the white and light one like a veil, with red and pink roses, which made me feel like i was passing through a botticelli painting, the one in florence, where it was too cold to wear it.

i unfold each dress like a letter. how soft their touch is. i have been waiting so long for someone to touch me like this.

tissues, textiles, texts.

the green and black dress which my sister had given me, which hugged my cleavage and my neck so perfectly that it seemed to mimic the embrace i desired. the petticoat stiched up with golden threads, the little diamond shaped pattern made of strass on my left breast. the stars have fallen off one by one. where are the sailors and the mermaids going, now that the night swallowed the constellations?

i continue to fold and unfold the clothes which my wardrobe has hosted for so long.

a song is playing on the radio in the kitchen. a woman is leaving and lost, he sings her name but it's no longer her, otherwise she wouldn't have gone away. she left her empty skin on the bed like a coat. you can hear the echo of the song from one of the windows in the courtyard, somebody must be listening to the same radio station.

the orange, white and black mini-dress with spirals and seventies patterns on it, which i wore to that concert where you didn't come, you whom i hardly ever address in second person now.

the one i bought in tel aviv, even shorter, with little white dots on black and little golden buttons, which left my shoulders bare and seemed to scream: love me, my time is shorter than my dress.

i thought i'd put them on again, i have almost not worn some of them, they're in good condition like stillborn babies in bowls of glass. i try them on one after another, some of them have become too small for the space my body now reclaims. i don't recognize the woman in the mirror whose place has changed.

slowly i part with the dresses like with an armour, with a song i loved too much and can no longer listen to now that everything is torn.

i part with them like with a compliment heard in the street, a glance, a substitute desire. i take off the fence that separates me from my own desire. who am i?

(and then there is you, you whom i address as you today, in your flower shirt that i want to dress my wardrobe in.)

a serpent eats its tail and strips off the condom of its skin.

there is a lot of space in my wardrobe, now that my dresses are wilting. the wardrobe is breathing.

a woman behind the window in front packs her bag, then leaves without it.

she crosses the street in her japanese dress. how much i want and don't want to be her.

somebody knocks on my door. it's the salvation army, they come to take used clothes. i give them two big green plastic bags with my rags, i hope my dresses will bloom on someone else's skin or in someone else's song.


by Steve Denehan

Maybe Leonard Cohen had it backward
maybe the cracks are where the light leaks out
there is a dog barking in the distance
if he barks on a sunny day
I imagine him bounding, basking, glowing
if the day is miserable
those same barks are lonesome
an oddly infectious sorrow

today the clouds are low and flat and grey
perfectly laid
no cracks at all
they do not move
they just hang there
bouncing back those barks
this was supposed to be a happy poem


by Patricia Carragon

is democracy
coming to America?

wake up
to another dosage
of breaking news

the clown-in-chief-
still your president

the Mueller report is out,
but who did the edits?

another white woman
calls the cops

more black churches
burn before Easter

swastikas desecrate
Jewish graves

a woman in a hijab -

ICE knocks
on your door,
tears your family apart

immigrant kids
only welcomed
in cages

abuse on the rise,
no end in sight

in the name of dogma,
keep punishing
the handmaiden

cisgender rules
make no exceptions

as benefits
your minimum wage
works harder

live on the street
if you can't afford
your rent

drug lords
and insurance firms
make more deals

rationing your meds -
the new norm

trophy killer selfies -
mass murder
for extinction

oceans rise,
fires burn,
cyclones twist and shout,
earthquakes move
under your feet -
God's punishment,
not science

recycle bad news -
just change the names
and places

is democracy
coming to America?

Leonard Cohen
is dead


by M. G. Stephens

I'm giving away
My silence for free -
Anyone want it?

The box it came in is gone,
But it is almost like new


by M. G. Stephens

My cup is half full
I put it in a half cup -
It's a full cup now


by M. G. Stephens

It is hard to stay
Within the lines of the page,
Writing in the dark




Leonard Cohen

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by, you can stay the night forever
And you know that she's half-crazy but that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her that you have no love to give her
Then he gets you on her wavelength

And she lets the river answer that you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her, and you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind

And Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching from his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain only drowning men could see him
He said all men will be sailors then until the sea shall free them
But he himself was broken, long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human, he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone

And you want to travel with him, and you want to travel blind
And you think you maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with her mind
Now, Suzanne takes your hand and she leads you to the river
She's wearing rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey on our lady of the harbor
And she shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed, there are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love and they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds her mirror

And you want to travel with her, and you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind


Craigslist Montreal - Missed Connections - March 21st, 2016 - "The Bible"

Live - m4w (Montreal)
body : average
height : 6'3" (190cm)
status : widowed
age: 56

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious
to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter, for always
there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Love, Respect and nurture the ones who loves you.
Dishonesty leads to destruction.
Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. Love your children because you and they are a child of the
universe no less than the trees and the stars;
They all have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, dark places drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Stranger Music

Author: Leonard Cohen

Publisher: Leonard Cohen Stranger Music Inc.

Date of Publication: 1993

Pages: 142

"the last drop of 30 below
the unwritten lives
is it easy
to fall in love?

your hair all soft and long
a sleeping morning storm . . ."
- from In Shop Windows by Rebecca Anne Banks

"I was far away from home,
haunted and tired with travel,
in a cheap hotel room . . ."
- from On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Stranger Music by Leonard Cohen is a retrospective of his life's work entire, song lyrics and poetry books until 1993, that shines in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. Leonard Cohen was a renowned and celebrated Poet/Singer/Songwriter/Novelist born in Montreal, the "Golden Buddha" of the French peoples of Canada and Poets everywhere. He studied at McGill University and was inducted into The Canadian Music Hall of Fame, The Canadian Songwriters Hall of Fame, the order of Canada, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the Glenn Gould Prize and the Prince of Asturia Award. He is known for his love songs, ballads, hauntingly beautiful music with stark, beautiful lyrics and poetry.

This Writer's first experience of Leonard Cohen was Summer 1967, riding around in the front seat of my step-father's car, not being big enough to see over the dash, a space catapult through the streets of Toronto with Leonard Cohen's Suzannne playing over the car radio. It was the 1960's, a revolution in culture, as the young people danced into life after W.W. II in a celebration of rock 'n roll music, free love, peace, "flower power", "ban the bomb", drug experimenttion, an experiment in the new freedom. Hippies and flower children, the poets and artists, musicians and songwriters, in an awakening. It was a time of hope and rebirth, of seeking new answers, the new deal of emancipation, finding our hearts and souls amongst the fallen rubble of the Old World Society. Out of the milieu of the Kennedy brothers, Marilyn, Martin Luther King, Truman Capote, Ernest Hemingway, Samuel Beckett, Andy Warhol, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Simon and Garfunkel, Ella Fitzgerald, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Joni Mitchell, Buffy St. Marie, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Robert DeNiro, Marlon Brando, Dustin Hoffman, Beat Poets, Confessional Poets, Pop Art and Rock n' Roll, Leonard Cohhen began to rise as one of the Bard's of the season. A life lived in poetry, a photo in time, the Old World Society blossoming into the New Age. This poetry at its root is a dissertation in love as war. N.A. as an overconstructed universe as Cohen explores all the nuances of absurdist power constructs in intimate relationships. A series of loves/wars in triumphant victory uuntil the space between. The poetry is an illustration of resilience, how people can survive and live through the most cruel and unusual circumstances, the violence of an ended love relationship, writing into the pain, writing the darkness into light, saving himself and us too. An economy of loss, the dispossessed, the world as a movie, in the audience, on the screen. A symphony plays in the background of orchestrated violence of the state of the Old World chaos, it is an exploration of "End Game".* Even with the birth of the new season perhaps not much had changed and the brilliance of the role of the Artist. The written word as celebration, the everyday in beauty, the everyday in darkness, a truthtelling.

This post-modernist poetry is in the Beat Poet drive, with an elegant drift into the new Confessional form. There is a lack of rhyming, except accidentally, the stream of consciousness narrative often travels in immediate experience and the song lyrics present as lyrical candy. The images contrast and celebrate nature with profound beauty and wisdom, as if sunlight lights across a bare open space, opening the darkness. Sometimes the images brush with symbolism.

A fantastical poetry offering, a truthtelling of the N.A. diaspora, a beautiful celebration of the light despite the darkness of ended love affairs, a lesson in survival. The life's work of one of the most gifted and celebrated Bards of the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. The words and music, the beautiful haunted lament, the beautiful love song. Stranger Music by Leonard Cohen.

Available @ Amazon.ca.

* A play by Samuel Beckett.



(a book in serials)


Rebecca Anne Banks


"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."
- Plato (Philosopher)

"Go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practising an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something."
- Kurt Vonnegut (Author, Teacher)

"My role in society, or any artist's or poet's role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all."
- John Lennon (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"Inspiration comes when I am doing other things."
- John Lennon (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"We all shine on, like the moon and the stars and the sun."
- John Lennon (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"But with writers, there's nothing wrong with melancholy. It's an important color in writing."
- Paul McCartney (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"I think of myself as a jungle musician because of my lack of formal training."
- George Harrison (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"Books were my pass to personal freedom. I learned to read at age three, and soon discovered there was a whole world to conquer that went beyond our farm in Mississippi."
- Oprah Winfrey (Angel, Palindrome)

"A lot of times songs are very much of a moment, that you just encapsulate. They come to you, you write them, you feel good that day, or bad that day."
- Mick Jagger (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"The duty of youth is to challenge corruption."
- Kurt Cobain (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"I think in art, but especially in films, people are trying to confirm their own existences."
- Jim Morrison (Singer, Songwriter)

"There are things known and things unknown and in between are the doors."
- Jim Morrison (Singer, Songwriter)

"Being a singer is a natural gift. It means I'm using to the highest degree possible the gift that God gave me to use. I'm happy with that."
- Aretha Franklin (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"My reputation for writing quickly and effortlessly notwithstanding, I am strongly in favor of intelligent, even fastidious revision, which is, or certainly should be, an art in itself."
- Joyce Carol Oates (Author)

"I consider tragedy the highest form of art."
- Joyce Carol Oates (Author)

"When you're writing, it's as if you're within a kind of closed world."
- Michael Ondaatje (Poet, Author)

"A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blow torch."
- Michael Ondaatje (Poet, Author)

"Earth is a flower and it's pollinating."
- Neil Young (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"I have tried to do what is true and not ideal."
- Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (Artist)

"Some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot, others transform a yellow spot into the sun."
- Pablo Picasso (Artist)

"All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up."
- Pablo Picasso (Artist)

"Painting or poetry is made as one makes love: a total embrace, prudence thrown to the winds, nothing held back."
- Joan Miró (Artist)

"I restore myself when I'm alone."
- Marilyn Monroe (Actress)

"Success is survival."
- Leonard Cohen (Poet, Author, Singer, Songwriter)

"There is a crack in everything, that is how the light gets in."
- Leonard Cohen (Poet, Author, Singer, Songwriter)

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."
- Robert Frost (Poet, Educator)

"The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn."
- Robert Burns (Poet)

"Surprise is the greatest gift which life can grant us."
- Boris Pasternak (Poet)

"I am a believer in cooperation."
- Franco Modigliani (Painter)

"Saints have no moderation nor do poets, just exuberance."
- Anne Sexton (Poet)

"Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today."
- James Dean (Actor)

"Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud."
- Maya Angelou (Poet, Author)

"Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness."
- Maya Angelou (Poet, Author)

"It's one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself, to forgive. Forgive everybody."
- Maya Angelou (Poet, Author)

"Find a beautiful piece of art. If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall in love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin - find some beautiful art and admire it and realize that that was created by human beings just like you no more human, no less."
- Maya Angelou (Poet, Author)

"I paint flowers so they will not die."
- Frida Kahlo (Artist)

"I never paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality."
- Frida Kahlo (Artist)

"I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other way - things I had no words for."
- Georgia O'Keeffe (Artist)

"You get whatever accomplishment you are willing to declare."
- Georgia O'Keeffe (Artist)

"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullabye."
- Langston Hughes (Poet)

"Time stays long enough for anyone who will use it."
- Leonardo da Vinci (Artist)

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."
- Michelangelo (Sculptor, Artist, Poet)

"At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet."
- Plato (Philosopher)

"Acting is experience with something sweet behind it."
- Humphrey Bogart (Actor)

"Well everybody in Casablanca has problems. Yours may work out."
- Humphrey Bogart (Actor)

"Is there anything better than to be longing for something, when you know it is within reach?"
- Greta Garbo (Actress)

"Paris is always a good idea."
- Audrey Hepburn (Actress)

"For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone."
- Audrey Hepburn (Actress)

"Imagination is the highest kite you can fly."
- Lauren Bacall (Actress)

"You learn to rise above a lot of bad things that happen in your life. And you have to keep going."
- Lauren Bacall (Actress)

"This has always been a motto of mine "Attempt the impossible in order to improve your work.""
- Bette Davis (Actress)

"I think to regret is useless in life. It belongs to the past."
- Marlon Brando (Actor)

"I'm an instant star. Just add water and stir."
- David Bowie (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"I'm glad that my music has helped other people as it's helped me. It makes me glad that I did what I did with my life."
- Don McLean (Singer, Songwriter, Musician)

"Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside - dreams, who looks inside - awakes."
- Carl Jung (Psychoanalyst)

"I'm a survivor - a living example of what people can go through and survive."
- Elizabeth Taylor (Actress)

"Yes, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry."
- Virginia Woolf (Author)

"I love people. Everybody, I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me."
- Sylvia Plath (Poet)

"There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them."
- Sylvia Plath (Poet)

"Mistakes are the portals of discovery."
- James Joyce (Author)

"In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all."
- Wallace Stevens (Poet)

"Having a bunch of cats around is good. If you're feeling bad, you just look at the cats, you'll feel better because they know that everything is just as it is. There's nothing to get excited about. They just know. They're saviours."
- Charles Bukowski (Poet)

"My love is a hummingbird sitting that quiet moment on the bough, as the same cat coughes."
- Charles Bukowski (Poet)

"Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none."
- William Shakespeare (Playwright)

"O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention."
- William Shakespeare (Playwright)

"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves."
- William Shakespeare (Playwright)

"A thing off beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness."
- John Keats (Poet)

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty; - that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know."
- John Keats (Poet)

"No one can be a painter unless he cares for painting above all else."
- Edouard Manet (Artist)

"Originality depends only on the character off the drawing and the vision peculiar to each artist."
- Georges Seurat (Artist)

"Color possesses me. I don't have to pursue it. It will possess me always, I know it. That is the meaning off this happy hour: Color and I are one. I am a painter."
- Paul Klee (Artist)

" . . . in all my poems I undress the heart."
- Julia de Burgos (Poet)

"What I've come to learn is that the world is never saved in grand messianic gestures, but in the simple accumulation of gentle, soft, almost invisible acts of compassion."
- Chris Abani

"Be awake enough to see where you are at any given time & how that is beautiful & has poetry inside."
- Jeff Buckley

"If you're in trouble or hurt or need - go to the poor people. They're the only ones that'll help - the only ones."
- John Steinbeck (Author)

"She survived whatever happened; she forgave; she became."
- W.H. Auden (Poet)

"It was not at all premeditated, I just started writing and it got out of hand."
- Ana Castillo (Author)

"And all is silent, And from this silence arise New beginnings, intimations, changings."
- Rainer Maria Rilke (Poet)

"I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame."
- Alice Walker (Author)

"The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks."
- Tennessee Williams (Author)

"Good writing is like a windowpane."
- George Orwell (Author)

"Don't be seduced into thinking that that which does not make a profit is without value."
- Arthur Miller (Author)

"You can read, read, read, which is the most beautiful thing you can do in your youth: and slowly you will feel enriched inside, you will feel inside you that special experience that is culture."
- Pier Paolo Pasolini (Film Director, Poet, Writer)

"If I waited for perfection . . . I would never write a word."
- Margaret Atwood (Poet, Novelist)

"Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue."
- Eugene O'Neill (Playwright)

"Obsessed by a fairy tale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace."
- Eugene O'Neill (Playwright)

"o' heaven

the night is in fire

the blue is in fire . . ."



Rebecca Anne Banks

a dream

and . . .


the romance stone

a vintage black sweater

with velvet embroidery

in shop windows

secreted into my handbag

the cruel war wages

in the back of the moon

(for everything

no one knows)

and he stood me in his kitchen

naked, without my sweater on

"you'll be cold"

and I was cold

the night dragged on

and finally, he dressed me in the sweater

"little blue girl"

"little blue girl"

for where have you gone

and i kept the sweater, gratis

warm in the winter streets.

looking for you.


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 38 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 IARA 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 Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry ( www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com), 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).

Irina Breitenstein was born in Bucharest and now lives in Paris as a teacher and a poet. She has published in several french and international printed and online magazines and is currently working on the publication of her first collection of poems.

R. Bremner writes of incense, peppermints, and the color of time. in such venues as International Poetry Review, Anthem: a Leonard Cohen Tribute Anthology, Poets Online, Jerry Jazz, and Climate of Change: Sigmund Freud in Poetry. Ron has published six books of poetry with "outlaw" and small presses, and created 13 eBooks. He has thrice won Honorable Mention in the Allen Ginsberg awards, and he invites you to visit his Instagram poetry at beat_poet1.

Patricia Carragon's recent publications include Bear Creek Haiku, First Literary Review-East, A Gathering of the Tribes, Jerry Jazz Musician, The Café Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Krytyka Literacka, Panoplyzine, Poetrybay, and Sensitive Skin. Her latest books from Poets Wear Prada are Meowku and The Cupcake Chronicles, and Innocence from Finishing Line Press. Patricia hosts Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. She is an executive editor for Home Planet News Online.

Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is an LA Poet who has a BA from the University of Texas at San Antonio and he is also a graduate of the MFA program at Antioch University in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and their cat Woody Gold. He is the author of the full-length poetry collection Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, the poetry chapbook So Many Flowers, So Little Time from Red Mare Press. Between the Spine is a collection of erotic love poems published with Picture Show Press and La Belle Ajar, a collection of cento poems inspired by Sylvia Plath's 1963 novel, to be published in 2020 by CLASH Books. He is widely published. You can connect with Adrian on his website: www.adrianernestocepeda.com.

Leonard Cohen (Poet, singer, songwriter, novelist) was born into a middle-class Jewish family in Westmount, Montreal. His mother, Masha Klonitsky, was Lithuanian, the daughter of a Talmudic writer and his father, Nathan Cohen. His father owned a clothing store and died when Leonard was 9 years old. He studied at McGill University and earned a B.A. He is very well celebrated with inductions into the Canadian Music Hall of Fame, the Canadian Songwriters Hall of Fame, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the Order of Canada, Prince of Asturia Award and the Glenn Gould Prize. He wrote numerous songs, books of poetry and novels. Best remembered for: Songs of Leonard Cohen (1967), Songs from a Room (1969), Various Positions (1984), I'm Your Man (1988), The Future (1992), Ten New Songs (2001), Dear Heather (2004), You Want it Darker (2016) for music and Let Us Compare Mythologies (1956), The Spice-Box of Earth (1961), Flowers for Hitler (1964), Book of Mercy (1984), Stranger Music (1993), Book of Longing (2006) amongst others.

Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. Recent publication credits include The Irish Times, The Phoenix, The Blue Nib, The Opiate, The Hungry Chimera, Evening Street Review, Ink in Thirds, Crack The Spine and The Cape Rock. He has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Best New Poet and his chapbook, Of Thunder, Pearls and Birdsong is available from Fowlpox Press.

Eugene Goldin is a poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals and reviews, including: The American Aesthetic, the Mud Season Review and Poetry Quarterly.

Carl "Papa" Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, Virginia, lives in University Place, Washington. He is retired from the military and Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) enjoying life now as "Papa" to his grand descendants and being a Franciscan Hospice volunteer. Carl is a Pushcart Prize and Micro Award nominee. MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever!

Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews has written five collections of poetry: The Whispers of Stones (Beret Days Press), Sea Glass (Espresso Bar Publishing), The Red Accordion (Lyrical Myrical Press), Letters from the Singularity (In Our Words Inc.) and A Jar of Fireflies (Mosaic Press). This summer she will be launching a new book of poems and photography entitled Sunrise Over Lake Ontario (Espresso Bar Publishing), with winning cover art by Canadian artist and poet, John Kinsella. She has been shortlisted and won awards for her poetry and writing. She is the host and coordinator of the Oakville Literary Café Series, the manager of the Ontario Poetry Society in Oakville, Ontario and a member of: The League of Canadian Poets, The Toronto Heliconian Club for Women in the Literary Arts and the Italian Canadian Writers Association. Josie is a second language teacher, an author and a poet. She lives and writes in Oakville, Ontario, Canada.

M. G. Stephens is the author of 22 books, including the critically acclaimed novel The Brooklyn Book of the Dead; the memoir Lost in Seoul (Random House, 1990); and the award-winning essay collection Green Dreams. Later this year, MadHat Press will publish his long prose poem, History of Theatre or the Glass of Fashion, about an out of work actor who lands the part of Hamlet.