I awake from a dream
where we're still entwined
to find the harsh morning sun
piercing the blinds
severing my body
into precise segments
of shadow and light.
THE EMPTY ROOM
by Scott Hughes
If the day comes
when I knock
at your door,
let me in
and offer me
your empty room,
the one you've
kept for me,
the one that needs
by Gail Tyson
You come to me as a wee wren
in ballads, in soft landings,
in needling tweedle - tweedle -
tweedle aubades. Left
behind, I have forgotten
how to sing.
Weaving dummy nests,
swaddling grief in sawdust, I stuff
dumpsters full of our past. We paired
for life in this house, a life gone
in eleven weeks, the same span
strangers take to turn our home
into mine. Sing me how to shed
skin called wife, molt a lover's cries.
by K.B. Nelson
did you see my hands
did you see my unlined
face, my virgin-white smile
with the barest curl of
did you think of me
on that highway
did you think of me
my quiet remains now lie broken
become one with the forest floor
I am unheard unseen undone
I am remembered by my sisters
- they'd like to think I took off
maybe got a job in Saskatoon
they'd like to believe -
I am forgotten by the world
hang out my red dress
think of me on that
by Celeste Ewan
She is missing
Her soul has diminished to dust
Her smile is gone
They stole her Mind,
The life in her eyes has been robbed and replaced by darkened circles
Her glow has dimmed
Her heart has grown absent from love
They stole her body.
Her being has gone astray
Her loving ways are not to be found
Her emotions have been diverted
They stole her beauty.
They left us all yearning for her in short supply.
My best friend is not present,
And her family left lacking her existence.
They stole her youth,
Her footprints have disappeared,
Her contact and touch nowhere to be found.
Her conscience unaccounted for.
They stole her life.
Her laughter has ceased
Her spontanism has been snatched
Our light has been diverted.
They stole our girl.
THOSE LITTLE THINGS
by Moinak Dutta
I do not miss the big huge things,
Like the big playground of my childhood
which now houses skyscrapers, standing side by side
Like proud yet imbecile things, having no variety in their facades,
Boring sameness that makes them look ridiculous;
Instead I miss those little things
Like that small wooden cottage
Where a gardener lived
And whom would I find every morning on my way to school
Working at that small yard , a patch of green, before his hut;
I miss that grand krishnachura tree
Right at that corner of the road
Where fifth street intersected the trunk road,
It had smooth light brown bark,
And in spring it would turn red,
Absolutely red, so red that it would look like on fire from distance;
I miss that little paan shop
In which sat a grand old man
All through the day
Listening to engali songs on radio,
Having a face which had a simple tinge of satisfaction,
As if he was quite content sitting there all day,
Occasionally making little envelopes of betel leaves,
Nearing his shop , one would unmistakably come across a mixed fragrance of cardamom, betel leaves, cherries, ground nuts, lime and several other things;
Many other things like these I miss,
Everyday, like half forgotten slices of memory,
A bit sepia colored.
FEATURED POET: MARK HALLIDAY
THE MISSING POEM
It would have been dark but not lugubrious. It
would have been
fairly short but not slight. It would have
contained a child
saying something inadvertently funny that was
not said by my daughter,
something strangely like what your daughter or
sister said once
if you could remember. The child's voice flies
a small parking lot where, in one of the cars,
a man and a woman sit listening to the silence
The child's voice probably hurts them
with a sense of beauty apparently very possible
yet somehow out of reach. In the missing poem
implied, conveyed, transmitted without being
And it does a dissolve into the look of a soccer
after a game - the last three or four players walk
slowly away, their shin-guards muddy, their cleats
one player dragging a net bag full of soccer balls
the players seem to have known what it was all
yet now they look somehow depleted and aimless
at the field's far end; and a block away on a
the eyes of a thin woman sixty-three years old
search the shadows
in each passing car, as the poem recalls what she
wants to recall.
Hours later the field is dark
and the hills are dark and later even Firehouse
Pizza has closed.
In the missing poem all this pools into a sense of
we must cherish life; the world will not do it for
This idea, though, in the missing poem is not
Remember when you got the news of the
or the illness - in the life of someone
more laced into your life than you might have
the cool flash of what serious is. Well,
the missing poem brings that. Meanwhile not
an imitation of Mark Strand or Mark Doty or
Yet not like just another Halliday thing either.
Instead it would feel like a new dimension of the
the real world we imagine. With lightness!
With weight and lightness and, on the
that certain song you almost forgot to love.
Craigslist Maine - Missed Connections - April 15th, 2017 - Anonymous
Missing Bethany - m4w (Portland)
I miss you !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
:-) :-) :-)
(N.B.: "where is my love? . . ." - a note from the editor
"Where is my coffee?" - a note from the other editor
"Where is my keys?" - a note from the editor
"Where is my shoelaces?" - a note from the other editor
"Where is my missing _________________________?" - a note from the editor
"Under the bridge" - says Machiavelli
"Behind the fridge" - says Mrs. Machiavelli
"Pizza!" - says the cat)
THE SNOW DEAD: APOCALYPSE POETRY
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: The Snow Dead
Author: Marc Zegans
Publisher: Cervena Barva Press
Date of Publication: 2020
"But the days get harder in November
Love grows colder in the winter
All the things you say, I'll remember . . ."
- from Winter by Khalid
The Snow Dead by Marc Zegans, weaves a New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry spell, like falling into a
parallel universe, apocalypse poetry in the gothic horror tradition. Marc Zegans (Poet, arts mentor) lives and works
in northern California. He is widely published and has had 3 appointments as Writer in Residence in the United States.
He has written a number of plays and performed poetry audiobooks as well as writing books of poetry. This is the
second book of poetry This Reviewer has Reviewed for him, the first being La Commedia Sotterranean.
A haunting, poetry inside the silver wheel, possibly influenced by Satanic ritual, the royaume cultural way and the
quiet dis-ease of disaster, a reflection on a culture that creates human rights abuses. A horror story of people,
places and winter, a truthtelling, a disquieting artefact that shakes out demons. Perhaps an exploration of portent
as Zegans portrays the ice carnival, the sacrifice, the dead enthroned in ice, and a parallel picture of love lives,
of ended beginnings, of suffering, the body politic. This poem manifests a place lost in time, as if a post-modernist
treatise cast in the mirror, the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty, the princess eats of the poison apple, falls asleep
encased in glass, the vines grow, time passes and everything and everyone is asleep until she is kissed by Prince
Charming, the poison apple piece falls from her mouth and she awakens and with her the people of the village.
The poetry unfolds in layers, rich and considered, each new stanza, a new piece of cake. A progression in Beat Poetry,
lyrical, it is a study in loss, perhaps lovers lost in time.
Very advanced societies throughout history often collapse and morph into new entities, often because of human rights
abuses, new inventions, new systems of thought, ecological/biological disasters. Ixtapa, the ancient Meso-American
society based in human sacrifice dissolved when the head was poisoned, the people in chaos fled the cursed city.
In Ancient Egypt a culture based in too close incest and the enslavement of the Jewish people falls and morphs. The
Roman congreve across Europe around the time of the birth of Christ ends after 900 years. All things come 'round,
there is a natural balancing for justice and peace in karmic principal based in the Holy Spirit paradigm that operates
in the background of the lives of all peoples.
A story of winter in the dead of night, a truthtelling that shines a light, a story of opera and love and sleep.
A brilliant New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry gothic horror long poem, The Snow Dead by Marc Zegans.
There was an American Haiku craze in the Sixties and Seventies of the twentieth century, rooted chiefly in California
and New York. It arose from a widely shared interest by American writers, such as Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg,
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Thomas Merton, and Ted Berrigan, in Zen religion and Asian cultures in general. Preceding our
contemporary globalism, this was a genuine movement to forswear the distortions of the old "Orientalism" (Edward W.
Said) in favor of a more contemporary and accurate image of Asia.
Few people know that Jack Kerouac (1922 - 1969) has written hundreds of Haiku. But Kerouac would not bother with
counting syllables, he shunned the classic Japanese 5-7-5 pattern ("Seventeen syllables?/No, as I say, [I call it]
American Pops:--/Simple 3-line poems"). In his wish to popularize the genre, Kerouac insisted on calling American
Haiku "Pops," which he aptly defined as "little jumps in 'the freedom of eternity'. Freedom also, we might add, from
conventional "meaning" and interpretation, and the entire confessional baggage of the American poetic generation of
Robert Lowell, Randall Jarrell, Elizabeth Bishop, John Berrigan and others. Kerouac rarely put in a "kiga" (reference
to the season), but mostly did observe the "kiru," thee surprise, or shock of contrasts. He used capitals on the first
and third verse, but not on the second, which he indented. He used no punctuation:
In my medicine cabinet
the winter fly
Has died of old age
All that ocean of blue
soon as those clouds
The windmills of
In every direction
The 'Haiku' ('haikai' means 'playful') arose from a Medieval Japanese court verse, the 'renga', which was written
collectively, almost like a poetic correspondence. It was a social pastime similar to the "automatic writing" of
Parisian Surrealists, in which each Poet wrote one line, then folded the paper, for the next person to add blindly.
In Japan, a Poet would write three verses, a Haiku properly speaking, then send it to someone else, maybe a lover,
who would add two more verses to make it a 'tanka', returning it to the original writer. An outstanding tanka writer
is the great Japanese woman Poet Ono-no Komachi (ca. 825-ca. 900), whom I've translated, a contemporary of the
Carolingian period in Europe. Later however, the fourth and fifth verse of the tanka, which had tended to become a
bit moralizing, like the two last lines of some English sonnets, was left off and the original three-verse Haiku,
as we know it, reemerged.
In the Nineties, a systematic, scholarly as well as poetic, attempt to introduce the classics of Japanese Haiku into
American poetry was made by San Francisco poet Robert Hass, born in 1941, American Poet Laureate from 1995 to 1997.
In his excellent introduction, Hass defines Basho (ca. 1644-1695) as "the ascetic and seeker"; Buson (ca. 1716-1784),
who was also a painter, as the most visual and poetic; and Issa (1763-1827) as whimsical and expressive. Hass' lively
translations respect the division in three verses, but do not count syllables, and thus lack the discipline that
originally sublimated the spontaneity of Haiku among Japanese practitioners. As such, Hass is certainly faithful to
the original content, but he abandons any attempt of rooting the characteristic poetic form of Japanese Haiku in
American writing. Haiku in the United States becomes, as it were, merely a genre without a form.
In my opinion, the emphasis on the longer, substantial middle verse of Haiku, as opposed to the slight introductory
first and the decrescendo third, is a splendid characteristic feature that ought not to be discarded lightly.
In my several thousand Haiku, which I write daily, I practice the traditional form of 5-7-5 syllables, to honor
Japanese culture. But opinions still differ widely, and maybe you would like to comment.
Here are some examples of Hass' translations:
The spring we don't see-
on the back of a hand mirror
a plum tree in flower.
First winter rain--
even the monkey
seems to want a raincoat. &nsp; Basho
its tiny mouth
the summer river,
sandals in my hand. Buson
The snow is melting
and the village is flooded
Approaching my village:
Don't know about the people,
but the scarecrows,
are crooked. Issa
Haiku may be prefaced by a remark that gives the context of a lived moment, as is the case in Issa's "Approaching my
village." This is especially true of Basho's, with his strings of Haiku providing a virtual travel diary, in accordance
with his motto, the aphorism: "Haiku is simply what is happening here at this moment."
R. H. Blyth, in his original presentation of Haiku in English, which at the time was still published in Japan, has
counted the tiny critters in Issa's over 20,000 Haiku: he "wrote 54 Haiku on the snail, 15 on the toad, nearly 200
on frogs, about 230 on the firefly, more than 150 on the mosquito, 90 on flies, over 100 on fleas and nearly 90 on
the cicada." This Zen respect for all living things and rejoicing in their beauty is akin to the Japanese art of
Haiku is a poetic flash that, in my opinion, offers the promising capacity of reviving interest in poetry in today's
Basho, Buson, Issa. The Essential Haiku. Edited with translations by Robert Hass.
New York: Ecco Harper/Collins, 1994. (The volume also contains prose texts by the three poets,
such as diaries and theories of poetry, translated by others than Hass.)
Blyth, R. H. History of Haiku. 2 vols.
Tokyo: Hokuseido Press, 1963-64.
Kerouac, Jack. Book of Haikus. Edited with an introduction by Regina Weinreich.
London: Penguin Poets, 2003.
Kerouac, Jack. Poems all Sizes (contains some Haiku). Introduction by Allen Ginsberg.
San Francisco: City Lights, 1992.
Komachi, Ono-no. The Complete Tanka. [to be published]
OF COLD IN THE BONES
Rebecca Anne Banks
In the background
breath from a baby.
The Sun King,
with the child
on the hard floor
the chess board
she moved the horse
across his backlot
in seconds, the game over
she smiled and laughed
"new rules" for "old."
by C.R. Resetarits
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, guides 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
and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts (www.kintsugiartquilts.com).
Moinak Dutta. He has been writing poems and stories from school days. Presently engaged as a teacher of
English in a government sponsored institution. Many of his poems and stories are published in national and
international anthologies and magazines and also dailies including Madras Courier, The Statesman (Kolkata edition),
World Peace Poetry anthology (United Nations), Spillwords (published from New York,USA), Setu (published from
Pittsburgh, USA), Riding and Writing (as a featured poet twice, published from Ohio, USA), Pangolin Review, Tuck
Magazine, Duane's Poetree, Story mirror, Tell me your story, amongst others. Dutta has written reviews of books and
fictions; essays and articles on education and literature and other topics. He has written Online@Offline (Lifi
Publications, 2014) and In search of la radice (Xpress Publications, 2017), worked as a Poetry Editor of an Anthology,
Whispering Poeisis (Poeisis, 2018), and loves to do photography apart from listening to music and watching films
and traveling. www.moinakdutta.wordpress.com.
Celeste Ewan. The Poet writes, "My name is Celeste Ewan I have a passion for writing non-fiction short stories
and poetry of all sorts. I am a working mother of two and my hobbies include writing (obviously), metal detecting,
magnet fishing and time with my beloved children."
Mark Halliday (Poet, professor, literary critic) was born in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He has studied at Brown
University, earning a PhD. in English literature from Brandeis University. He is well-published and has received
awards and honours including Poet in Residence at The Frost Place, inclusion in Anthologies, The Best American
Poetry series and Pushcart Prize Anthology, a Guggenheim Fellowship (2006) and Rome Prize (2001) from The American
Academy of Arts and Letters. He is a professor of English Literature. He has written 7 Poetry Collections including
Losers Dream On (University of Chicago Press, 2018), Thresherphobe (University of Chicago Press, 2013),
Keep This Forever (Tupelo Press, 2008) amongst others.
Scott Hughes's fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in such publications as Crazyhorse, One Sentence
Poems, Deep Magic, Redheaded Stepchild, Entropy, and Strange Horizons. He is the Division Head of English at Central
Georgia Technical College. His short story collection, The Last Book You'll Ever Read, is available from Weasel
Press, and his poetry collection, The Universe You Swallowed Whole, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. For
more information, visit www.writescott.com.
K.B. Nelson is a Canadian writer who thrives in the intersection of art and science. She has won awards in
both poetry and short fiction, and is published in a variety of journals and anthologies. K.B. has resided from
coast to coast in Canada, Arizona, and in New Zealand. A graduate of Simon Fraser University's Southbank writing
program, she currently lives in Greater Vancouver.
C. R. Resetarits is a writer and visual artist. She has had writing out recently in Southern Humanities
Review and Native Voices: Indigenous American Poetry, Craft and Conversations (Tupelo Press). Her collages have
appeared recently in New Southern Fugitive, Midway, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gasher, Sonder Review,
Pretty Owl Poetry, Empty Mirror, and Nashville Review.
Margaret Saine was born in Germany and lives in California. She has taught French and Hispanic literatures and
writes in five languages, also translating othher 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.
Gail Tyson. Recent and upcoming journals that feature Gail Tyson's poetry and prose include Artemis, Cargo
Literary, The Ekphrastic Review, The Other Journal, and Still Point Arts Quarterly. An alumna of Stanford's Creative
Writing Program and the Dylan Thomas Summer School at the University of Wales, she has attended juried workshops at
Collegeville Institute, Looking Glass Rock Writers Conference, and Rivendell Writers Colony.
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),
La Commedia Sotterranean (poetry collection) and The Snow Dead (Chapbook).