ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue VII


The Masthead:

"Tea Flower in Blue"

Photo by Ojo Taiye

"up, up into the grey

the doves fly

and fly . . ."

"a little bit of tea

for the hurt

and wounded


(and to everyone an antique teacup)

the day George

somewhere down in

English Bay

St. Mary of the Divine?

(wrong station)

public furniture

in a telephone box

inside the rain

el chordant lycee

the tv is on dadealus

some dead end pasture

friend of the cat people

in the street

inside the brutality

we recognize

each other

i pass you

you speak

I did not recognize you

(but that was years ago)

a God given civilian

no girl private

now we make

our Lunenberg tea

(the village floats

on Lunenberg)

"keep the place serene"

some ancient China

archetype in the badlands

my mind is a box

if I was beautiful

everyone would be beautiful

(nothing bad would ever happen)

mouthing the bit

the silence"

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue VII
(July, 2020)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2020


by David Estringel

As you lay sleeping,
pale shadows yawn and stretch o'er me
to kiss your shoulder.
The alarm clock rings.
You hit snooze,
suspending time,
holding me longer.
Here in the ether -
the warmth of these disturbed sheets -
we fly with polln'd wings,
rising, falling,
and rising, again,
through bands of yellow, orange, and rose,
that hem the folds
of Aurora's robes.
eyes closed to the world 'neath us,
substance falls away,
leaving us
sweetly aching.


by M.J. Iuppa

This question haunts me - shadow
of history, of impulse, whenever I find
myself walking on a path, I feel the shock
of my feet in contact with the earth's
gravity and I think-am I here, or am I
merely caught within the limits that pull me
inside the lines? And suddenly, I feel timid -
a memory of coloring the sky sapphire.

Now, I could float away, with-
out notice, which is what I
wanted as a child.


by Juanita Rey

I'm up early on an October morning.
It's fifty degrees out.
There's birds at the feeder,
birds I'm only now learning
the names, the songs of.
I perk up at the descending scale
of the chickadee's trill
and the high-pitched peter peter
of the titmouse.
I even know that the tree
that overwhelms the apartment building's
tiny backyard
is a maple and not an oak.
I'm learning the wildlife.
Not crows. Not pigeons.
And I'm reading Whitman.
And Toni Morrison.
The local newspaper.
I'm trying to acclimatize
even to the weather
that gave that word its name.
I'm dating an American guy
though, to be honest,
he doesn't know one bird, one tree
from another,
and doesn't read much beyond
the stickers inside used car windows.
I guess he's just not acclimatized.
Being born in a place
will do that to you.




Matsuo Basho

A monk sips morning tea,
it's quiet,
the chrysanthemum's flowering.


Craigslist Tokyo - Missed Connections - February 16th, 2019 - Anonymous

Peruvian guinea pig (Narita station)

Peruvian guinea pig for adoption (free no payment needed) male and female tamed..

(N.B.: "Pets 'r us" - a note from the Editor

"we luv our pets" - a note from the other Editor

"they're cute and furry" - says the cat

"they don't yell at us" - says the other cat

"they poop everywhere" - says Machiavelli

"and they don't fight with you, put mystery payments on your credit card, eat the dessert you had in the fridge, leave dirty laundry on the floor, borrow your books and not return or take the last of the cannibas you were saving for the weekend" - says the Editor

"they're our friends" - says the cat, the other cat, the Editor, the other Editor

"and guinea pigs smell" - says Machiavelli

"better than a girlfriend" - says the cat)



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: La Belle Ajar

Author: Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Publisher: CLASH Books

Date of Publication: 2020

Pages: 77

"Who'll love Aladdin Sane
Millions weep a fountain,
just in case of sunrise . . ."
- from Aladdin Sane by David Bowie

"The ash from the long night is burning."
- Unknown Source

"The Last of the Red Hot Lovers", la dernier vin de le vieux siècle, La Belle Ajar by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda and CLASH Books rockets in. Adrian Ernesto Cepeda lives and works in Los Angeles with his wife and Woody Gold their orange cat. He has studied at the University of Texas and Antioch University. Cepeda is published in journals and won The Children of Orpheus Anthology first prize at Subterranean Blue Poetry in 2016. This is the third Book Review This Writer has written for Cepeda, the first being Flashes and Verses . . . Becoming Attractions and the second Between the Spine.

This book is a series of cento poems written from The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. The title of each poem is taken from the first paragraph of each chapter, the poem built from single words within that chapter, a masterful work. Traditionally, a cento is a form of protest from Ancient Rome, lines of existing poems were reworked into new entities and presented in public. The biography of the write is included in the Foreword and Afterword of the book, always fascinating. Sylvia Plath, an icon of the modernist school, noted for brilliance in confessional poetry and best known for the poetry collections Ariel and The Colossus and Other Poems as well as this novel which is semi-autobiographical, The Bell Jar, published just before her death by suicide.

Electric. Each of the 20 poems presents an entre nous, as if an afternoon, an evening, a night in bed with a lover, a truncated first person narrative. The persona easily switches back and forth between the male and the female, the poet and the author Sylvia Plath, a contusion in obliteration, as the sexes meld, dissolve, the thoughts intertwining in poetry. A truly inspired and brilliant construction, perhaps of someone caught in a sexual dilettante scene. The poet, Sylvia Plath, and perhaps Cepeda caught in the white porcelain room somewhere between gazing into the mirror and the written page. The poet being broken into the crucible, a journey that some do not survive.

The images are surreal, broken, manifesting a haunted beauty, a deep depression, a violence. Lines about electroconvulsive therapy and drug injections, descriptions of the lover, the night clothed in nature imagery. From "I FELT DARKNESS, BUT NOTHING ELSE":

"I liked the flashes
of smoke. The noise. My skin
jolting. First came the smell.
Matches made of intense candy.
I disappeared without looking,
I didn't speak, my silk pajamas,
glanced back, my buttocks purple
scars savoring the hurt from asylum

A New Age progression in Beat Poetry from the roots of the Confessional storytelling of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. A brilliant poetic offering, a magical study in emotional violence that honours the gift of Sylvia Plath to literature and the world. La Belle Ajar by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda.

Available @ CLASH Books

and Amazon.com.


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Rose Poussiere/Dusty Pink

Author: Jean-Jacques Schuhl

Translator: Jeffrey Zuckerman

Publisher: Semiotext(e)

Date of Publication: 2018

Pages: 123

"As pink as the sheets that we lay on
'Cause pink, it's my favourite crayon, yeah"
- from Pink by Aerosmith

"If you're lost you can look and you will find me
Time after time."
- from Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper

The inside of the Paris salon, a fantasia of the arts/music and underground culture scene of the early 1970's with newly arisen British bands mounting the diaspora. A fantastical write originally published in French with a beautifully written Translation by Jeffrey Zuckerman, Rose Poussiere/Dusty Pink by Jean-Jacques Schuhl resonates as a poetic imagining. Jean-Jacques Schuhl (Poet, Writer) born in Marseille, France is the author of Ingrid Caven that won him the Prix Goncourt (2000). He has also written Telex no. 1, Entrée des fantomes, and Obsessions.

Written entirely in poetic prose, the novella dreams in night moves in half begun half-ended thoughts expertly painted. As if everything and everyone is incredibly asleep, a haze of sweet smoke, the great unnamed malaise, the missing lover, an unnamed war in dance. A grand silence filled with memories, images, a montage in colours, an escape of music, fine silks and satins, feathers. As if experiencing the inside of the mirror, a series of images juxtaposed, presents a world of great light and darkness in which everyone has already died. Spinning, spinning out of the box, brilliant impressions of the machine, a dance that begins and loses a step, a movement out of time, becomes a casual grace not a misgiving. The Zen of silence out of time.

Inside the dressing rooms of Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, the visiting Marlene Dietrich, the death of Brian Jones, the oeuvre of becoming, the oeuvre of loss, the magic of a place out of time.

" : brown, black, dusty pink, gray, dark turquoise, bilberry, rust, yellow, cream, honey, bottle green buried in the rubble where the detritus is strewn across coats and jewelry, like Berenice Maranhao, that young seventeen-year-old Brazilian woman from a photo published in France-Soir: dead in an earthquake, only two thirds of her face visible, but beautiful all the same, joists and debris forming her hat; the music still enveloping them all, connecting them to things that aren't there (the butcher shop facing the store), connecting them to each other - a weak link - all now dead, the turntable still turning and turning without anybody to listen - all these eyes wide open, calm, and dazed - like those of mannequins (nobody was ever able to perform that beautiful and furtive and simple act of using their thumbs and forefingers to shut their eyes)

       Then blue turns to gray
       blue turns to gray
       And try as you may

or indeed"

A brilliant Avant Garde write, that stops time, captures a moment in poetry and then let's it go. This Writer suspects reads as well or better in French, Rose Poussiere/Dusty Pink by Jean-Jacques Schul. Unforgettable.

Available @ Amazon.com.




Don Yorty

I'm not sure where to begin so why not begin with John Keats. I started to read him in 1973 when I was 23, a Signet Classic paperback that didn't have all of the work, just the hits. I'd begun to write poetry at the age of 16, and locally got a little famous, even winning a prize from the Pennsylvania Poetry Society that had a celebration in Harrisburg where I got a hundred dollar check, which in 1965 was a lot. It kind of went to my head. My English teacher, Mrs. Yaklich, who had sent the winning poem to Harrisburg, had a colleague at Millersville State College, Dr. Lingenfelter, who had been good friends with Robert Frost. Through him she sent some of my poems to Louis Untermeyer and John Wheelock, who responded, especially Untermeyer, with some praise for my work. At 16 I had no idea what I was doing, why people liked it or what the fuss was about. "You pick an image," my friend Fred Harris said, "and you go with it."

I began to emulate the crazy artist - you had to be crazy - I swallowed that myth. I would say to Crazy Youth now, "Don't try to be crazy; life's crazy enough." But what does youth know? The poetry I wrote began to copy others because I had no idea who I was. I gave up. I flunked out of college, drifted here and there, had menial jobs. I was ashamed of myself. But in 1973, Whitman and Keats, reading them encouraged me to write poems again, especially one I wanted to call Fucking. That would grab people's attention, and it was going to be long like Song of Myself or Endymion. In certain ways Walt showed me how to be a poet, and in another way John showed me how to sound. And what their gift was: I remained myself.

In 1976, I bought a Penguin paperback of John Keats, the complete works - the Signet Class was worn to shreds - with a painting of Diana and Endymion of the cover, and I took it with me when I went to the South Mountain to finish my first draft of Fucking. It was all in pieces and I was determined during my stay to put it all together in one flowing piece. The plan was to stay for a week. I pitched my tent where a stream from springs falls down the mountainside over huge rocks the size of dinosaurs, a beautiful spot close to where I grew up, solitary, the perfect place to create. I brought along a lot of oranges, raisins and figs which would keep, a lot cheese, an ounce of pot, John Keats, and LSD. There's was mint and berries to gather, and I'd drink from the stream. In Philadelphia at this time there were performance poets. The first and the one I really liked was Marty Watt. When I watched Marty, I felt instinctively that what I had to do was memorize Fucking and give it one flow. I was determined to finish it's and perform.

It was July. I had during that summer a handsome stoned lover in Philly who smelled of patchouli, and in the mountain that smell was everywhere, a fragrance that brought an erotic life to things when I remembered him, and read Endymion. On acid with the rocks and trees becoming the spirits of nymphs and satyrs embodying them, I would stand up on a rock and recite Fucking out loud. Once I started, I could not stop. I had to get through it no matter what. It was work when I got to a broken spot and had to create a bridge to keep the poem real and flowing. Here is a part of the poem about making love to the earth, which was what I was feeling at the moment as I spoke it:

I go into the forest
alone and hidden in the ever breathing
to dig an indenture with my fingers
and undressing, kneeling down
pierce the dead leaves
to move among the earthworms
balled in the mouth of corpses
out of which all things come growing
so occupied with the desire
I had no choice in choosing
but endlessly complete
I do not crush or brush away
the gnat and deer fly lightning
on my buttocks, shoulder, thighs
sucking their existence from my skin.
I let them knowing I am
nothing more and nothing less
than a sustenance for others needing
what they have no choice in choosing.
I clutch the grass with tightened fists
and kiss the orb that held my birth
and holds my death
spinning me through the universe
toward universes limitless
as one slender vine of wild rose
comes to scrape along my ribs.

One night I heard other campers a little ways off over the sound of the waterfalls. I'm not afraid of camping alone; I'm not afraid of the dark, but the voices, unexpected and unwanted, were menacing. The next morning a pretty much naked Tarzan came crashing through the bushes, barefooted through the thorny brush. All he had on was a torn pair of jeans practically torn down to nothing - I mean you could see his testicles. There were three campers: this Tarzan fellow, a transexual with shoulder-length hair who at the time was a man with breasts, but was going very soon to John Hopkins for a sex change, and someone I knew, the younger brother of a classmate from high school, whose name was David Donley, who sadly would die of AIDS some twenty years later. But at the moment, David put a face on this pansexual menagerie, and convinced me I was not hallucinating. I recited some of Fucking for them. They approved, thought the title was wonderful, and then they were gone leaving me alone to carry on.

Poets memorizing their work is a good thing. Memorizing the work also helps to edit it; only what's necessary remains. Poetry is traveling one place to another, and when you memorize it, you get rid of the excess baggage because it is too heavy to carry - as you get down to the essential you begin to feel comfortable and able to go on with what at that spoken moment is really the truth. By the end of the week I could recite Fucking from one end to the other. The spirit of Keats is certainly in it, but the poem is mine, and the spirit of the place, but most of all it is the determination.

A decade or so later at an East Village poetry reading, I recited the part of Fucking about fucking the earth, and Richard Hell, who was also reading, recited a poem - I believe from memory too - of coming upon a doe in the woods and having oral sex with her. I've been thinking of getting a hold of Richard Hell and see if he remembers and has it. I'd like to put him on my blog reading it. I see him around. You must be sure in this crazy time of ours to have something to look forward to.

and close
the dark sky
the air
close . . ."



Rebecca Anne Banks

and Tuscany in summer
ode to the beautiful
bigger than the blue-green sky
(the architecture of trees
in green)
on rain

the lethargy of no

I lift you up to the sky
to the sunlight

and stories of big yellow cats
by the firepit
brought inside out of the cold

the rhythm of the blue
draws you in
spins you round

rumba pajumba
in goblin market
something in a Kingston/Kensington a.m.

the bowling green
springer art
advice to the lovelorn
sad lips depart
pink and pink

i, so lonely
rictos caminos
and cool breezes

cheers, salmon de
lake teamincos
blank espresso autocats
a quiet ennui
the golden eye receiver
and diamonds in gardens
pink de Royal

everyone's in whiteface
there is a midnight procession
those who want to be found
can be found

the world is a crime scene and something in beautiful, blues.


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).

Matsuo Basho (Poet, teacher) is the most famous Japanese Poet of the Edo Period (1603 - 1868). He is most noted for popularizing the Haiku poem, which formerly was a social past-time like a children's game. He is world renowned and in Japan his poetry is reproduced on monuments and at historic sites.

Adrian Ernesto Cepeda lives and works in Los Angeles, California with his wife and orange cat Woody Gold. He has studied at and earned degrees from the University of Texas and Antioch University. Cepeda is published in journals, a Chapboook at Red Mare Press, So Many Flowers, So Little Time and won first prize for The Children of Orpheus Anthology/Contest (2016) at Subterranean Blue Poetry. He has written 3 books of poetry, Flashes and Verses . . . Becoming Attractions, Between the Spine and The Belle Ajar.

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.

M.J. Iuppa is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program and Lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College; and since 2000 to present, is a part time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at Brockport. Since 1986, she has been a teaching artist, working with students, K-12, in Rochester, NY, and surrounding area. Most recently, she was awarded the New York State Chancellor's Award for Excellence in Adjunct Teaching, 2017. She has four full length poetry collections, This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017), Small Worlds Floating (2016) as well as Within Reach (2010) both from Cherry Grove Collections; Night Traveler (Foothills Publishing, 2003); and 5 chapbooks. She lives on a small farm in Hamlin, N.Y.

Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Harbinger Asylum, Petrichor Machine and Fire Poetry.

Jean-Jacques Schuhl (Poet, Writer, Bon Vivant) born in Marseille, France won the Prix Goncourt (2000) for exceptional writing in the French language for the book Ingrid Caven. Also, he has written Telex no. 1, Entrée des fantomes, and Obsessions.

Ojo Taiye (Poet, photographer) is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool to tell his frustration with the society.

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.