ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue VI


The Masthead:

"the last station"

by Rebecca Anne Banks

"I loved you in the morning

Our kisses deep and warm"

- from Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye by Leonard Cohen

"your hair all soft and long

a sleepy morning storm . . ."

"sunshine light

through coloured glass

the afternoon . . .

orange and orange

the stone butterflies


the Nanticote

the Alleghyne cross


coco dime

noon day glows

the Carlisle numbers

Olio, Olio

and good lightsburgh

(capitol brothers

factory loans)

zin Ziggy

su macha


the tunnel


the sleep


the night

I hear the siege of Montreal

in the rain

no fireworks

in my window

the night

peels back

my fingernails







the haunt by hour)





and somewhere



waters rise up to

streetcar windows

and I say

could be coming

could be going

could be . . .

the afternoon

dreams dark

of black and brown

the last taste of London fog

wild flowers

(the daisy

a new beginning

a new season)

the last drop of 30 below

the unwritten lives

is it easy

to fall in love?

"your hair all soft and long

a sleepy morning storm . . ."

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue VI
(June, 2020)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2020


by Yong Takahashi

I told myself I wanted to be on the same page
but I was reading at the beginning of the novel
and she was far ahead, almost nearly at the end.
We somehow missed each other in between.
I would always see her reading from our book
as I laughed at the time she spent with stories
I thought were already lived and forgotten.
One day, she set aside the worn volume as
it collected dust, mildewing on the nightstand.
I tried to find the spot where she left off but
her tears had melted the messages left behind.
The ink smudged my fingers and the traces of
our link dissolved, only leaving the realization
I couldn't find her again.


by Suzanne Bailie

Smoke like
She moves through your world
Ashy whispers of rose and
Powdery sandalwood
Cocoons you
Sparkles in moonlit shafts
You long endlessly
To be with her
Breathe out
She moves on


by David Estringel

Remember these hands you loved to kiss
that, now, fall cold upon your skin -
a wintery rain
of fingerprints.
Look at us,
lost in the night sky,
as the myth of us -
a symphony of falling stars -
dies in our hands
like fireflies.
Where do we go from here?
has replaced the love in our eyes,
but unlike you and I,
only cats walk fences.
Try as we may,
we cannot escape
our gravity -
this pull
that sends us tumbling
to the ground,
crushed into dust
like fire ants under God's thumb.
and round
and round
we go.
Where we'll fall,
nobody knows.


by Alessandra Salisbury

It's Friday night
around 10:30

I'm reading
Bolton's poem

the one that feels
like 'Talking to You'

he's at his desk
(I'm at mine)

feeling a bit under the weather
despite the full moon

he's drinking the
very last of his bourbon

I don't have a bottle
of bourbon at the moment

but I remember when
you brought me one

the night you decided
to tell me about your fears

when you got me drunk
took me to bed

and fucked me
without taking off

my peach

the one you gave me
for my birthday

in this poem of Bolton
he talks about

the poems
he might write

and if he will ever get
a bourbon for his birthday again

will I ever get
another dress for my birthday?

I'm thinking of you
now because

after that night
many, many years ago

I only saw you
once more

before you disappeared
at Bill Cunningham corner

Fifth Ave and 57th Street intersection
never felt so empty

where I cried
on my knees

after the argument
you started and then ran off

was this

if I asked you
you would say
I was acting

I was not

and I had to
pick up my broken pieces

pull them together
and walk away


but why am I
thinking of you?

Queen's CD is playing now
'Love of My Life'

and I remember
we used to listen to

yes 'you hurt me,
you broke my heart'

I remember
Mercury's death

then Bowie's
and Prince's

and the silenced
tune in my voice

our best collection
is dead

Why aren't you

if you were

I wouldn't be writing
you this poem

I'd be talking to you
by your grave

on my peach

but once you
are still around

I can offer me
the honour

to feel a little

and write to you
a poem

I could write
a lot of shit about you

but I want this to sound
like Sunday morning

at the Central Park
where you shameless

proposed to me
without a ring

and to think of all the rings
you didn't answer

the cries
you didn't care

the words
you didn't listen

well, it's over
long time

and this is
just a poem

I must end it

because if
I                              leave it

I might (delete) it later
and I can't

I must find the
last line

are you thinking of me?




Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.


Craigslist Maine - Missed Connections - June 4th, 2018 - Anonymous

Brooke Irving in Newport - m4w (Newport)

Brooke you are beautiful!!!!! Simple as that. Every time I get to the register to pay for my stuff I just want to make small talk with you but I usually get a little nervous.

(N.B.: "she made me nervous" - a note from the editor

"I made her breakfast" - a note from the other editor

"I gave her a wedding ring" - says the cat

"I gave her wedding cake" - says the other cat

"I made her clean my apartment" - says Machiavelli

"and do my laundry" - says Machiavelli

"you, Machiavelli, need to get your own girlfriend" - says the cat)



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Loose Canon

Author: Mike McNamara

Publisher: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Date of Publication: 2020

Pages: 135

"Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour . . .
Coming to take you away"
- from The Magical Mystery Tour by The Beatles

In the Age of Druids, the forest dark, dark by the sea, cast in the Bardic Tradition a fantastical New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry write, Loose Canon by Mike McNamara and Subterranean Blue Poetry, seeped in culture, writings, music, history and reinvented as the post-modern Muse. Mike McNamara (Singer, Songwriter, Poet) was born in Ireland and moved to Newport when 8 years old. He is the front man of the Welsh band Big Mac's Wholly Soul Band which has been a hot musical event traveling the countryside for 3 decades. He is from a musical family and his daughter, Erin, now sings with the band. Influenced by the soul music of Little Richard, Wilson Pickett, Sam Cooke, he also writes and performs original music and creates poetry.

A lament, the poetry drifts through nature imagery and the darkness of love lost painting pictures of rain and grey overcast evening skies, reminiscent of a John Atkinson Grimshaw painting. A classical Irish weave, perhaps influenced by the writings of William Shakespeare, studies in death, in darkness and light, a new day is painted with original words and word constructions in the New Goth. The turn of language is a celebration of Irish/Welsh colloquialisms reinvented in poetry. In the poem "The Old Gods" McNamara invokes the gods,

"Bathe my dreams in indigo,
become a coarse hewn shield around me
through the labyrinth of Constantine deliver me.
Oh, gods of fierce Conmara,
hound of sweet Eriu's healing sea
gods of Cormac, the warrior's raven,
still watch over me."

Inspired by love, death, nature, the storm and classical allusions of gods and goddesses, Loose Canon is a considered and lyrical write. Also fascinating, are the stories of historical personages, the poem of Idilia Dubb (1851) trapped in the tower of Lahneck Castle and of Bridget Cleary (1895) an Irish woman murdered by her husband for being a "changeling". Perhaps with elements of prophecy the poem, "Yesterday's Tomorrow and Today" talks of the Black Plague, a resurrection in post-modern times.

A magical U.K. write, of rain skies and storm, of nightmare and morning light, steeped in the tradition of the Bards creating the New Goth. A riveting Art Nouveau work, Loose Canon by Mike McNamara.

Available @ Amazon.ca.


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: The Elvis Machine

Author: Kim Vodicka

Publisher: Clash Books

Date of Publication: 2020

Pages: 193

"It's a crash course for the ravers
It's a drive-in Saturday"
- from Drive-In Saturday by David Bowie

"Are we not men?
We are Devo . . ."
- from Are We Not Men by DEVO

"You can check-out any time you like
But you can never leave!"
- from Hotel California by the Eagles

This hot Generation Y (is that a rhetorical question?) write comes with a Warning: Burn, Burn, Burn, book most likely to self-ignite into flames in the moonlight. The Elvis Machine by Kim Vodicka and Clash Books is a tell-all truthtelling in a riveting art nouveau post-New Age extravaganza where cultural/political occlusion has taken a turn for the worse. One word, nuclear, an entire exposé of the atomic strawberry, sex as sex, sex as love and sex, multiple sexual partners as dis-ease, takes poetry outside the box, in the last drive movie. A response to a cultural/political bathroom with an out of order sign on it.

The title plays with the theme of the beloved Elvis, the Hollywood icon, pin up movie star, rock n' roll singer in his last days doing drugs and bizarrely dying of a drug overdose on the washroom floor. Well, now you are Elvis. The living end drive movie going down Route 66 to Hollywood sound, high camp in a B movie going down down down. There are no subtitles but you could probably write a few. The Elvis Machine is an intelligent woman's response to not too smart. A play on drive where people's broken intimate relationships, as their survival instinct goes into overdrive manifests economic drivers. "Why tigers eat their young" (Al Capone) a comment on a society that eats its own elite, with a mirror in small town N.A.

"You make me feel murder-suicidal
when you sing about Audrey Hepburn
in mid-cereal strangle.

You make me feel double romanticidal
with your deep-fried firearms,
guarding the door that leads to nothing.

                                        The elephant in the room that doesn't even exist.

                                             I'll haunt you in your dreams tonight,
                                             unless I see you first,
                                             in which case, I'll haunt you in person."

Riveting inside poetry play that is gritty, hits the Reader in the guts with the immolation of revolving lovers, the suicide/homicide storyboard leading to queer mentality. George Sand (author) is noted for saying queer sex, "Was like eating too much cake", and not recommended for the vast majority of people, defiling the font often breaking friendships. Occasionally someone gets their queer relationship to work when their early childhood psychology and hormones are skewed, the disabuse manifesting political backlash where everyone questions their sexuality. The truth is a need for better mentoring and discernment in life and love and a course in The Holy Spirit Way. In my experience it is also too easy for a woman (and sometimes men) to be caged as a sexual receiver (someone who has revolving lovers) in this society.

Highly original use of language, lingering street lingo that plays into new treatises, pop art poetry gone madness, new word constructions flow into Beat progressions. A brave and very powerful bare knuckle presentation, The Elvis Machine by Kim Vodicka.

Available @ Clash Books.




Don Yorty

I've said it before and I'll say it again-writers one way or the other keep saying the same thing over and over until they're dead-I loved Yoko Ono before John Lennon did, and because love is selfless when it comes to Yoko, I was really very happy when I learned that they had met.

In my sophomore and junior years of high school, I had to wait an hour after class until elementary school let out so I could take the only school bus home to the South Mountain. I hung out in the library. And, let me tell you, the Cornwall High School Library was something back then. The librarian, Mrs. Troutman-she had been Miss Biddle for decades-"Not of the Philadelphia Biddles," she'd say-Miss Biddle got married at a later age, but kept riding her horse at the Quentin Riding Club like she always did so she was, a tall woman, always a little bow-legged-Mrs. Troutman saw to it that students and staff had all the major newspapers. Every day the NY Times, the Washington Post, the Philadelphia Inquirer, even the Harrisburg Patriot and the Lancaster Intelligencer were hung up on those thin long slatted posts for anyone; and there were weekly and monthly magazines as well: Newsweek, Time, the New Yorker, the Saturday Evening Post, and the Atlantic Monthly come to mind at once. Mrs. Troutman supplied all of the books that wound up the NY Times best seller list too, though students were barred from the likes of Candy. I remember Mr. Burkholder, a math teacher, returning Candy, slamming it down on the counter and saying to the smiling librarian: "That was the most disgusting book I've ever read," as I thought to myself: "Ah, but you read it." I had had a copy of Candy, but Allen Gill's mother burned it when she found that Allen had hidden his borrowed copy in the laundry-why and what was he thinking?-if indeed it happened the way he said it. I was lucky to have parents who, as bad as they could be, never censored a thing that I read.

Among all the magazines, papers, and books, I always made a point of reading Time Magazine while I waited for the bus, and it was there I met Yoko in an article about a performance she did at Carnegie Hall-this would have been 1965-where people came up from the audience and cut off a piece of her clothes until she was naked on stage. Yoko had me at naked, and from there on out I was always a fan of hers and even sometimes a follower.

Don't tell anyone, but I was glad the Beatles broke up and John went off with Yoko. The albums they did together are among my favorites. Her Plastic Ono Band that she did in connection with John Lennon's I first heard on acid. I forget her name-she lived at the Weatherman's House in East Lansing-which was a very paranoid place because the Weathermen were always cleaning their guns and waiting for a shootout with the cops-I mean the pigs-which never happened-it was like they were playing Cowboys and Indians as young adults just like they did when they were kids. Anyway, we were tripping and-I'll call her Mary-put on Yoko singing Why? with John Lennon on guitar and Ringo Star on those relentless drums, and as the saying goes, it blew my mind and again I fell in love. For me, Yoko Ono is the eye of the storm: When I heard her sing-most would say scream-I really felt at peace; I got all fuzzy and warm.

Shortly after, John Lennon released Cold Turkey as a 45 with Yoko on the B-side singing Don't Worry, Kyoko, Mommy's Only Looking For Her Hand In The Snow. There was a pizza parlor in East Lansing that had a jukebox. I would stop by sometimes to play both John and Yoko singing. It got to the point the owner would see me and say, "Not you again." Cold Turkey was bad enough, but one day, as I played Don't Worry, Kyoko again and again, customers began complaining. This was great art I thought and wouldn't stop even when a table of customers began threatening me with violence. In order to stop a riot, the owner came out and pulled the plug, and that was that. Silence. Like when people threw tomatoes at Dame Edith Sitwell reciting her poems through a megaphone, as much as I loved Yoko Ono, I could see others did not. I had never seen any other artist have such an effect on anyone. Yoko Ono was number one. I said to myself, "What helps to keep me sane, drives others mad. If I want people to like and read me what can I do about that?"

A few years ago, I was at a party where Yoko Ono was as well. As she was about to leave, I approached her and said as earnestly as I could, "Yoko, I love you very much." She looked really scared - she's such a tiny thing - and ran away at once.

"black imago
the leaves
in rain . . ."



Rebecca Anne Banks

we sleep
on rain days
go down to the dry goods store
September malva
(flowers under glass)
a gift of blue velvet
blue, sky blue
a citizen of the state

it's just the way the day blows
common graphics scene
(old punk in mirror, bright green shoes running)

black white
white black
violant, violant

"where they should have been"
"where they always should have been"

good nik
blau nik

at night
wild in season
down in the trains
he said dance

of night rag
ten thousand notes
of night rag,
in my hand.


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).

Suzanne Bailie is an active member of the Dramatists Guild of America and Driftwood After Dark playwrights located in Edmonds, Washington. Her short plays and monologues have been produced across the United States, United Kingdom, South America, South Korea and Australia. Her published plays include, The Raspberry, Baby Jesus Does Not Kill Ninja Zombies and The Blankie. Suzanne's inventive and quirky poetry continues to be included in many poetry anthologies and magazines.

David Estringel is a poet, and writer of fiction, creative non-fiction, & essays. His work has been accepted and/or published by Specter Magazine, Literary Juice, Foliate Oak Magazine, Indiana Review, Terror House Magazine, Expat Press, 50 Haikus, littledeathlit, Down in the Dirt, Route 7 Review, Setu Bilingual Journal, Paper Trains, The Elixir Magazine, Soft Cartel, Harbinger Asylum, Briars Lit, Open Arts Forum, Cajun Mutt Press, Former People Journal, The Ugly Writers, Writ in Dust, Cephalopress, Twist in Time, Merak Magazine, Salt Water Soul, Cherry House Press, and The Good Men Project. David can be found on Twitter (@The_Booky_Man) and his website at http://davidaestringel.com.

Mike McNamara (Poet, Singer, Songwriter) born in Ireland and lives and works in Wales. He is the band leader of Big Mac's Wholly Soul Band that has been a hot musical act traveling and giving performances for the past 30 years. McNamara is influenced by the great soul music artists, Little Richard, Wilson Pickett, Sam Cooke, and writes original music and poetry. He has written Overhearing The Incoherent (Grevatt and Grevatt, 1997), THIS TRANSMISSION (The Argotist Online, 2019), Dialling A Starless Past (Arenig Press, 2019), and Loose Canon (Subterranean Blue Poetry, 2020) and also recorded music, No Turning Back (Lahaina Records), Again In The Midnight Hour (MTS), The Days Were Long, Old School Reggae The Old School Mack Way amongst others.

Ezra Pound (Poet, journal editor, journalist) born in Hailey, Idaho, lived and worked as a Foreign Editor of literary journals in London during the early 1900's. He wrote over 70 books and 1,500 articles, helping to promote other writers. He knew Ford Madox Ford, W.B. Yeats, T.S. Eliot, D.H. Lawrence, James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Robert Frost amongst others. He lived in Italy supporting the Facists during W.W. II was held in a detention camp at the end of the war and incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital in Washington, D.C. for 12 years. A campaign by his fellow writers freed him in 1958 and he returned to Italy. He is famous for inventing Imagism and being an early modernist poet. Ernest Hemingway said of him, "The best of Pound's writing - and it is in the Cantos - will last as long as there is any literature." He is best remembered for the books, Ripostes (1912), Hugh Selwyn Mauberley (1920) and the unfinished Cantos (1915 -).

Alessandra Salisbury is a Brazilian creative writer, actress and dancer. She lives in Australia with her husband and their daughter Isabella who was the inspiration for Alessandra's first published kids book Naughty Nana. Her works appeared on the American magazines, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Borfski Press, Seethingograhy and BlogNostics, and in the Indian OPA Anthology of Contemporary Women's Poetry. In Australia, her works appeared on Northerly Magazine.

Yong Takahashi won the Chattahoochee Valley Writers National Short Story Contest and the Writer's Digest's Write It Your Way Contest. She was a finalist in The Restless Books Prize for New Immigrant Writing, Southern Fried Karma Novel Contest, Gemini Magazine Short Story Contest, and Georgia Writers Association Flash Fiction Contest. She was awarded Best Pitch at the Atlanta Writers Club Conference.

Kim Vodicka (Poet, Spoken Word Artist) from South Louisiana, lives and works in Memphis, Tennessee with her cat Lula. She is widely published, having art, poems and essays featured in Queen Mob's Teahouse, Spork, Makeout Creek, Best American Experimental Writing, Paper Darts, Nasty! amongst others. She travels the country performing Spoken Word with music. She has published three books of poetry Aesthesia Balderdash (Trembling Pillow Press, 2012), Psychic Privates (White Stag Publishing, 2018) and The Elvis Machine (CLASH Books, 2020).

Don Yorty "(writer & teacher). Once saved a Community Park in NYC {La Plaza Cultural at 9th St. & Ave. C}. Like to walk in the woods. Live and let live. Even little insects, try not to step on them. Published work: What Night Forgets, A Few Swimmers Appear, Poet Laundromat, the prologue, Spring Sonnets." From www.donyorty.com.