ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue V


The Masthead:

"The Missing: jonquils in spring"

Courtesy of The British Library

"The missing, Jonquils in Spring, the haunting, the loved one, the
one lost on the highway, the one who shines, the story of someone
who is missing, the story of the lost guitar"

"such a beautiful one

on a blue winter day

blues . . ."

"jonquils and greens

haunt the new spring . . ."

the haunting

some let you forget

some you don't forget

the one who shines

playing white lightening sound

his guitar hung on the wall

the one who travels

(and everything is better in blue)

a photograph

the young girl in the yellow dress

with stones in her hand

by the field

by the roadside

ode to Dionysius

the black/brown holidays

the drink

and Longmans

o' to cuss

and beauty

he of graces

heartache and heartache

the haunting

he is missing

and they tell stories

long into the night

the golden one

the mystery, a little brown jug

found in the bedroom wall

a bar fight

going downtown

to pick him up from jailhouse rock

for drinkin'

takin' him downtown to the busses in the round

always going somewhere

they cut the picture of his ex-wife

out of photographs

"we don't want to remember her"

his mother said

the sunken Crimea

the story of someone with a guitar

the story of someone who danced

is dancing still

we tell stories long into the night"

(if you don't love your own

who do you love?)

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue V
(May, 2020)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2020


by Scott Hughes

My grandfather
used to tell me

stories of the relative
I was named after -

how he hunted foxes
and stopped a mob

from lynching a man
in North Carolina in '21 -

but now he has
to ask me my name

every time I visit.


by Scott Hughes

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.


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,
or unknowingly,
the one that needs
my breathing.


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

palms outstretched

    lifeline short

did you see my unlined

face, my virgin-white smile

with the barest curl of

    mature astringence

did you think of me

    on that highway

did you think of me

    at all

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

high  way


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.


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.




Mark Halliday

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
     between them.
The child's voice probably hurts them
with a sense of beauty apparently very possible
yet somehow out of reach. In the missing poem
     this is
implied, conveyed, transmitted without being
     flatly said.
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
     wood-grainy porch
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
     how much
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
     accident -
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
     seeming like
an imitation of Mark Strand or Mark Doty or
     Mark Jarman!
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
     hypothetical radio,
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)



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: The Snow Dead

Author: Marc Zegans

Publisher: Cervena Barva Press

Date of Publication: 2020

Pages: 34

"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.

Available @ Amazon.com.




Margaret Saine

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
Pass away

The windmills of
       Oklahoma look
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

        Sparrow singing--
its tiny mouth

the summer river,
        sandals in my hand.     Buson

        The snow is melting
and the village is flooded
        with children.

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 'netsuke'.

Haiku is a poetic flash that, in my opinion, offers the promising capacity of reviving interest in poetry in today's world.


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]



Rebecca Anne Banks

In the background

the cat

that snatches

breath from a baby.

The Sun King,

with the child

on the hard floor

the chess board

between them

she moved the horse

across his backlot

in seconds, the game over

she smiled and laughed

"new rules" for "old."

"missing mitten"
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 (www.thebookreviewer.ca) 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).