ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume X Issue III

The Masthead:
“The Beat Poets”
Art/Photo – Inside City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco

“Beat, Beat, Beat, sunshine restaurants, City Lights Bookstore, streetcars, San Francisco, sunshine, ocean,
beaches, warm, worn print Beat Poet books in your jeans pocket, in your knapsac, in your hands,
time and time moves . . .”

(Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Diane di Prima, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Gregory Corso,
Gary Snyder, Ted Jones, Herbert Huncke, Lucien Carr, Neal Cassady . . .)

“watching . . .
pink and pink
the colour
of candy-coated sky . . .”


“bleu, orage de bleu de l’été I remember my lover I remember grey mists and monsoon blue sweet darkening Summer in bed watching through the open window the rain falls falling in sheets just for awhile great abundance sky thunder above fire we sleep in the bed under the fired moon . . .

suffering so complete like the ending of the sky just to walk in the Summer day santa crucé the green jasmine tea-time a coté de the unofficial machine head our suffering so complete the perfect love on a plate the perfect love gone for an hour an afternoon a day gone just gone . . .

winterskill . . . LeRoi of Candlemas scabbies and knaves and underground romance, underground promise of summer and sunshine warm beaches Happy Buchenwald it was good times, then . . . evil pie, evil pie it’s a Leamington someone perfect on a winter’s day killing us with a foreign song a song on the wind a song of Blue and so, wind so . . . so and the master of blues “a thing of beauty is a thing of beauty always” . . .

somewhere in the desert, the drive by night herald into by the lights of the city hope in a dark green bottle all stoned on Bleeker Street blues coloured illusions in the rain people who walk by, people who walk away people who walk walking blue and blues shadows . . . illusions in the rain . . .”

(To be continued . . .)

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume X Issue III
(March 2022)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2022


“Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people’s.”
- Anais Nin (poet, editor/publisher, writer)

“Existentialism, although like some extreme blood sport, is all true.”
- Rebecca Anne Banks (poet, singer, songwriter, musician, writer, artist, philosopher, counselor, activist)

“When news becomes archetype, mythology is morphing into reality.”
- Rebecca Anne Banks (poet, singer, songwriter, musician, writer, artist, philosopher, counselor, activist)

The same can be said of poetry. New Age poetics as archetype, with the elements of neoclassical images, an evolving mythology, a certain re-creation of reality as the garden, is a round phenomenon This Writer suspects is largely rooted in the rediscovery of Holy Spirit knowledge and the influence of the Think Machine. As if coming through fire and absurdist theatre to find healing in the life of Artist’s calling. Indicative of good government, needs met, peace and perhaps morphing into the Old World village (the historical city of Troy where everyone except one or two was married to a Starcrossed Lover on a positive SignfromGod, a place of Nirvana, before the Greek ships appeared in the harbour (the people of Troy had well developed midwifery/Spirit knowledge so there were few deaths in childbirth and people understood SignsfromGod).

In the publishing of New Age Poets almost every second one is appearing as an offshoot of T.S. Eliot, they have become their own Muse, they have become iconic. Often one hears of “obscure” Poets passing having written scions of books of poetry (Naim Kattan, Kamau Braithwaite, Michael McClure, Nathan Zach . . .) I suspect these Poets have evolved their writing through shifts in form, through the influence of their immersion in the arts, the reading of books, the events of the day, the evolution of their lives and personal lives (or not) and the sunlight of The Muse. To be considered in the light of iconic, is a huge celebration of the artform that may be understated in the New Economy, perhaps because of the flowering of so many in the Online Arts Community and sometimes youth and people outside the Arts may not understand what they are looking at. This Writer is excited by the fantastical new offerings, yet to create such incredible Zen, she is rather afraid/appalled at the suspicion of incredible suffering. Yet, by staying on the right side of the Spirit, practising an art's calling and not hurting innocents, there can be great healing.

In the light of the Think Machine there is a flowering in the arts. Not only are Artists/Writers famous so is anyone who has a following on Social Media. For the Artist it is much easier to find an audience, for the poet/writer easier to be published. It is also a wellspring of peer support. As well as going to the physical storefront (The Old Economy) there is a virtual reality storefront (The New Economy), the ultimate in communication and advertising. However, this celebration may not be translating in sales. Artists/Writers/Poets can be notoriously underpaid, a study from 2017 in the Toronto Star (Deborah Dundas) indicated, the average annual salary was $9,380 (Cnd), significantly under the poverty line. Most Artists/Writers/Poets find ways to make ends meet by taking part-time jobs, welfare, finding low-cost workarounds. If it is a true calling, an Artist morphs into an iconograph and this brings fame and theoretically monies.

It is quite possible that the Think Machine has improved the Artist’s world to such an extent that there is less violence and suicide. It is easier to research and feed the craft, to find a Muse, easier to have your work viewed/critiqued and brought to market, easier to be supported by peers. Perhaps reflected in the nature of the New Age poetry itself, as mythology, as the Artist finds place and perhaps space to live, breathe. A public platform may also be creating accountability as bed rite conflicts and the political overlord system, the oppression of the Old World Society gives way to freedom in the Spirit to follow your callings for work and love in the New World Society. The New Economy and the Think Machine is an evolution in peace, not only for the Artist but for everyone.

- Subterranean Blue Poetry


by r. bremner

Oh the anticipation!
Caravan of paradise, children of the dawn, uniting for the cause, I don’t know what’s worse, do you? Let’s fly into the realms of nonsense, maybe find Jack there, maybe in a car somewhere speeding along a narrow mountain pass in search of Emma Lazarus and her colossus but she died too young and we have to make do , where can we find the dusk we’re looking for, the evening that never ends, never turns into night, never boils us in the cauldron of morning, oh Mr. K, are we on the right path, no don’t fall asleep, we have to find Emma before we fall into the dreams ourselves, oh, the anticipation, oh, the crack in the wall!


by r. bremner

Drained and hollowed, clawed and chiseled,
you grate against the real.
Now we’re mining the cosmic vector of contagious souls,
contagious in their wholesome nature, and it’s all too much
for a desultory wanderer like me, but you and your mellifluous lover
can see over the bridge of my nose and it’s like moonbeams shooting
across the black-brown sky to someplace where their wholesomeness
can’t infect me and I can be a happy child wandering again in this
strange world of colors and cognitive sequences.


by D.B. Cox

it’s cold—bleak.
no freedom
in the frozen streets
a copy of “on the road”
in his overcoat pocket
taking a break
over a warm subway grate
listening to subterranean trains
rumbling back & forth
on static steel rails
to nowhere
blue eyes cracking like ice
no dreaming
on the sidewalks tonight
a satori-seeking poet
dragging history around town
in a brown-paper bag
blood-colored tokay
blunts memories
that won’t go away
visions of benzedrine-fueled
ghosts spitting out
winding lines
of beat-inflected bullshit
rust-covered voices howling
about chaos in the cosmos —
the last desolation angel
takes a drink & thinks
about a stroll to the depot —
sit and raise a toast
to the 3 a.m. greyhound
leaving empty for the coast


by Akshaya Pawaskar

You lie on your bed like
a water drop on a lily pad,
scarcely touching, about to slide off
at the least bit of inclination.
Instead ease the tired body with
its monogamous toil into sweet stillness,
an unblinking bovinity.
Soothe the neuralgia with sleep.
As life unfolds like Kerouac’s
spontaneous prose, tumbling,
raw, ragged, red and yellow,
how rest is always lavender hued.
Feel the body melt as after
a stiff drink into an agility
of a cloth hanging on the line,
freely flailing.
Drain the lactates of the sore muscles
and let the limbs be sucked by gravity
into the soft cloud-like plushness,
water filling up a dry pond.
Open your pockets full of unspent steam
and blow it off in smoke
of deep calming breaths.
Float as light as god
as the kettle whistles, let it.

(July 2012)

by Louise Carson

Yes, he’s ninety-three,
the man who wrote Poetry as Insurgent Art.
He can’t stop living
or start dying,
or maybe he’s been balanced between for so long,
it’s an easy tightrope to walk
through July’s soft breezes.

Such striving, deriving from or out of what?
Only he can guess, the rest of us must wonder, envy,
and wish for him, ourselves, such continuous ending
and beginning.

(Lawrence Ferlinghetti: b. March 24, 1919, d. Feb. 22, 2021)


by Michael Mintrom

You shimmer still in this space of dreaming.
Between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur,

I saw you at a human rights convention,
a panel on the military and masquerade,

making connections back to Abu Ghaib,
the perversion of power and sodomy.

Let compassion be the measure of life.
Driving the Long Island Expressway,

between Huntington and Highway 61
across from the Walt Whitman Mall

I found you in the metaphor landfill,
grubbing for treasure, Bob Dylan holding the bag.

The spiritual life appeared that day
disguised as a blue commuter train. Saint of words,

I admire most your inner peace.
Between Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie

and the decade of assassinations,
when the pure products of America

did indeed go crazy, I spotted you
checking labels in a drugstore,

there on the edge of Alphabet City,
a thousand shirts hanging out, jazz playing.

Between the missile silos of Arkansas
and the Lawrence Livermore Labs,

I spied you in a truck stop, Kingman,
Barstow, where long-kept secrets pass

from mothers to daughters, fathers to sons,
the lonely freeway where the turbines spin.


by Katerina Fretwell

Jack’s and my trek took a strange turn, waylaid
by the mystic Pacific Highway’s slow progress,
and a flag-flapper who refused to sell me film.
At last, we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge,
leaving us Just One Day to know San Francisco.
We compressed the sights into a bus tour
and I groaned as City Lights Bookstore flashed by.

One consolation: a black man sprayed silver,
in top hat and tails at Fisherman’s Wharf,
denounced the Iraq War to loud applause,
not just us Canucks, Yankees clapped too.

The Beats would dig this scene, flooding my recall:
Cassady criss-crossing consciousness; Kerouac still
a Francophone; Waldman dancing The Village
into San Fran; di Prima parenting poems and kids.
Ferlinghetti’s Coney Island minding City Lights;
Ginsberg swinging his harmonium to Monk’s keys;
Rinproche Trungpa beaming from Naropa.

My one day swans outward, past Bay and borders,
in an orgy of limitless recollections.
After the Beats, before the Hippies, I arrived
as World War 2 turned. Namaste: my soul greets yours.


by Carrie Magness Radna

“Suzanne takes your hand to a boat by the river…”

Judy Collins’s version transported me thousands of miles
to whatever river M. Cohen was trying to describe,
and to the heavenly girl who gave him tea and oranges “all the way from China.”

Are there still junk boats from China?
Will they sail me away from my junked-up house?
Mom and Dad aren’t bad people; they just don’t clean-up,
& they don’t mind when I play songs on the Hi-Fi over & over again.

Suzanne was one of Mom’s favorites; we sang along with Judy Collins a lot.
Years later, when my chocolate alto tone took shape,
I heard the original version with Leonard. He was still young and finding his voice—
not yet using the throbbing bass tone of Everybody knows and I’m your man.

“Hallelujah, hallelujah”—

Besides, Suzanne would have never taken me down to the river,
where a certain Jesus or Jésus
may have walked on the water after a big sail across the ocean—

No, no sailing for me.
I was in the prairies during the ‘70s,
and I was way too young to be shopping at the Salvation Army Store all by myself.

But Darling, I was forever changed,
regardless what time it was, or where I was going to end up:
New York City, West Side, by the Hudson—watching the ships as they sailed by,
wishing she’d showed up
to take my hand as we walked towards the river.


by M.G. Stephens

Love is






Is all



The night

About you

Who knows

I mean
I am



by M.G. Stephens

I love this
Way and that

Like the rain

One minute
The next

My love is

Like a


In the

Love is like
A hammer


For a nail
A tale

A turn


The heart

Break it




I was in total silencio until...


Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Opening Ginsberg, Allen
taught me to Howl using
every bit of mi garganta,
no longer afraid of taking
the chapter riding on the road,
en este camino, Kerouac
urging me to leap inside
my own pagina, use mi
lengua, enunciating my own
manana, seducing palabras
with my tongue, Ferlinghetti
loves telling me poesia is
my lover desnuada, between
our labios, kissing the distance
between the spine, we love taking
turns tonguing Burroughs lines
making out with Naked Lunch,
always leaves me hungering
for City Lights, following
my own rhythm, San Francisco
causing tremors, stammering
forward, the wheels driving
me to journey towards the horizon
reflecting my own shadow,
scribbling outside highway
lines, becoming verses within
each curve, calling Big Sur
as my feet splashing on my own
private beach driving within
the waves, embracing desolation
angels telling me listen to su
Corazon, now when I reignite
Poesia from my mouth, no longer
fear the stuttering aftershocks
each beat sparked me to no longer
be silent, like Kerouac in front
of the transistor, I am now
cranking my Español volume,
turning on mi vida writing
while exploring on the page
hear me bailando bilingual
dancing to the Gemini
voice of my own speaker ritmo,
feel me proudly— Howling aloud.


New York Craigslist – Missed Connections – August 22nd, 2021 - Anonymous

Book lovers? (Harlem / Morningside)

Looking for a college guy who likes to read. Doesn’t have to be anything romantic; I just want to talk about good books with someone who enjoys spending hours getting lost in the library and used bookstores. Email me and tell me what you’re reading now.

(N.B.: “so far away from me” - a note from the Editor

“so far away from me” - a note from the other Editor

“we’re here, in the stacks . . .” - says the cat

“reading books . . .” - says the other cat

“eating chocolate/butterscotch tarts with ice cream . . .” - says the cat

“with cups of jasmine tea . . .” - says the other cat

“if I catch you eating in the library you will be kicked out . . .”
- says The Bad Librarian who needs a Hairdresser and a new life

“we’re sitting in the garden under a tree . . .” - says the cat

“reading books . . .” - says the other cat)



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Television Poems

Author: Jessi MacEachern

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 31

“past the television skies . . .”
- from We could’ve painted skies blue
by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Under the shadow of the moon, the day was night, the day was day, the television played and played . . . a brilliant original interpretation of Beat poetics, Television Poems by Jessi MacEachern and above/ground press. Jessi MacEachern (poet, teacher, researcher) lives in Montreal. She is widely published, being featured at CAROUSEL, Poetry is Dead, MuseMedusa, PRISM, CV2, Touch the Donkey, Vallum and Canthius. Her first poetry imprint, A Number of Stunning Attacks (2021) is available from Invisible Publishing.

This Chapbook is a haunting. As if the poet is sitting in front of the television reinterpreting, perhaps rewriting impressions of a tv show which are probably more interesting than the tv show itself. Each poem with an enigmatic title and a subtitle of the name and episode of a television show unfolds as an exciting reinvented archetype, each poem a disembodied story. Allusions to people and events in the poem have no names or titles, each sentence is a different thought form manifesting a violent undertow when the poem is read entire. The separate lines together create a new storyboard, perhaps a story of maleficence, of rambling contusions, riveting. The presentation borders on DaDa, as if in the spirit of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, Television Poems is somewhat more surreal with elements of the neo-classical.

Each poem features a box, also filled with poetry. It is as if the poet is playing the ferryman in the movie A Man for All Seasons, who stands and addresses the camera/audience with his observations of the events of the time (Sir Thomas More, the Archbishop of Canterbury, refuses to support an anullment of King Henry VIII’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon). In poetry, the commentary on the events/people/ places of the television poem is enigmatic, like a rolling newsreel in surrealist mystery, disaffected, creates interlogue between the Reader as audience and the poet as writer. A brilliant innovation of New Age poetics.

From She Was a Maid of Cleopatra
Inside No. 9 S4E1, “Zanzibar”

“This one is open.
                                        Guess it might be mine.
There is but one cure.
                                            Make my juices flow.
You had me worried.
                                  There you are, my love.
How are you feeling?
                                            I am sleeping now . . .”

(Then a box of writing appears)

“You are our country’s
future. A woman
should be wooed with
care. You’re stressed,
I’m not. Maturity
makes the unusual
request. A tart can be
one of two things:
sweet pastry or red
woman . . .”

In the background a play on the contuded bed rites scene of N.A., a truthtelling in metaphorical landscapes, a brilliant write, Television Poems by Jessi MacEachern.

Available @ above/ground press.

. . . 13 more songs the radio won’t play . . .

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: . . . 13 more songs the radio won’t play . . .

Author: Stan Rogal

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 30

“If you ooze masculinity, like some of us do, you have no reason to fear pink.”
- dialogue from Alfie (movie)

Late into the night someone listening to the record machine, writing through the bones of an ended marriage, Be bop and post-modernist street beat poetry . . . 13 more songs the radio won’t play . . . by Stan Rogal and above/ground press. Rogal (poet, writer, actor, playwright) lives and works in Toronto. He has earned an MA from York University. He is the author of 26 books of poetry, short stories and novels. He has authored 6 Chapbooks with above/ground press.

After the apocalypse, themes of classic rock’n roll music and ended love affair, perhaps somewhere rides the carousel, a truthtelling of underground violence couched in neoclassical images. A post Beat take on contemporary Leonard Cohen with London street beat breaking. Influences of the ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s, the golden age of rock’n roll music and the hedonism bred into that lost broken world. A protest, a celebration in voice, a blistered presentation of what is. This poetry sings.

In first person narrative, occasionally including lines from old rock’n roll songs, a woven running thought train. Sometimes cadence is created by repeating sets of lines, through the work and at the end of the poem.

From “Pretty in Pink”:

“the morning wets its lips
seemingly sexless but occasionally violent
after the cigarettes, the beer, the wake-up calls
it’s late, the bell has sounded . . .”

The centrepiece, a beautiful incarnation of John Lennon and The Beatles, [& yr bird can sing] – a compilation, explores the presentation of the said Beatles song by his contemporaries with brilliant poetics.

An idea of the poet and his life, this Chapbook is a window, is considered and constructs the inside, the historicity of the lost times at the end of the 20th century in N.A. Rogal is an icon of Canadian poetics, . . . 13 more songs the radio won’t play . . . by Stan Rogal.

Available @ above/ground press.





Rebecca Anne Banks


heavy nova
teardrops on branches . . .”

and the world falls away Spring’s in some little girl child from the neighbourhood comes into the night parlour says “it looks like a bad scene” a hard sorrow kit mother loves Sunday animal circus club candy surprise the girl carries her doll in a small quilt exquisite hand stitched in orange and white Sunshine says “i would love that blanket” “I made that for my daughter” the girl “we’re sewing a Dresden plate quilt with black thread in protest” Rain raises her eyebrows in “shhh”. . .

a long afternoon, by the blue-green sofa by the night parlour “do you have any poetry? we’re writing poetry today, I am writing about my purse” Sunshine “and fish swim back and forth”* somewhere on Mercy Street . . .

somewhere next door a round of “inky dinky spider” went up the garden spout down came the rain and washed the spider out . . . somewhere a big black spider . . . o’ Sunshine . . .

peek-a-boo Rain, “I see you”, peek-a-boo “I don’t see you” “Let’s make her disappear” . . . peek-a-boo . . . “Rain, Rain go away come to play another day . . .”

driving the nightsky riding in the car traveling with the moon “will the moon be in front of the trees behind the trees in front of the trees?” the lord of the dance “you’re not getting away with that” drive and night falls the blue green chesterfield in the night parlour the drinks at 7 with Rain’s black Irish cousins “they’re her first cousins but they’re not related” one night the cousin, he spun me ‘round and ‘round, ‘round and ‘round mr. friendly someone with time for a kid spumoni ice cream in a big round cardboard tub (for the kids) take-out Chinese food (not for the kids) . . . ringer mornings fishing maraschino cherries from the bottom of the tall boy glass sweet sour our lips pucker . . . never kiss . . .

*from Mercy Street (poem)
by Anne Sexton

(To be continued . . .)



Rebecca Anne Banks

(continued . . .)

. . . falls falling asleep on the beach by night, waken by the ocean in the light opens . . . sur un balayage baisy last chance pavilion harmony earth harmony sky revolving guest prog colours in slam . . . on the edge of no man’s . . .

some long deserted stretch of beach and we’ll dress in whispers wrapped in long white silk gauze holding hands winds off the ocean the weight of carillon rough the moon love perfect in imperfect circumstances the pinks in season, the taste of pink quiet lacuna the things you do on a soft Saturday afternoon the story of shadows, dark a dine out theatre on the cusp of the moon penny flori flora Lugastrada a penny larson dance the good graces of Kong a bright horse dancing a captive bird, stunned . . . then awake, then free inside a cage . . . amongst other things (missing) something in latitude and main and summer in the trees Avril sky blue lamplight tales of ropery Lucy’s caravan wild eye altar blistered somewhere sunrise stringline i don’t do stringline in the sycamore trees the beautful square stone earring, blue beautiful in the light in the daylilies suns and stars . . . quiet with rain standing in the shallow waters we run some nets for crustaceans, fish, ceci that become caught in the tide . . . the poverty of alone . . .


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 familycookbook, a book of children’s stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CDs of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CDs 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).

R. Bremner writes of incense, peppermints, and the color of time in such venues as International Poetry Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Paterson Literary Review, Anthem: a Leonard Cohen Tribute Anthology, Climate of Opinion: Sigmund Freud in Poetry, and others. Ron has published seven books of poetry, including Absurd (Cajun Mutt Press) and Hungry words (Alien Buddha Press) and has thrice won Honorable Mention in the Allen Ginsberg awards. Forthcoming is a chapbook of erasures from Moonstone Arts Press.

Louise Carson’s second book of poetry is Dog Poems, Aeolus House, 2020, and her sixth mystery is A Clutter of Cats, Signature Editions, 2021. She lives in St-Lazare, QC.

Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is the author of Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, Between the Spine from Picture Show Press, La Belle Ajar & We Are the Ones Possessed from CLASH Books and Speaking con su Sombra with Alegría Publishing. Adrian lives with his wife in Los Angeles with their adorably spoiled cat Woody Gold.

D.B. Cox is a Marine Corps veteran and blues musician/writer from South Carolina. His poems have been published extensively in the small press, in the US and abroad. He has published five books of poetry: Passing For Blue, Lowdown, Ordinary Sorrows, Night Watch, Empty Frames and the Chapbook, Blues: repetition of a blue bass line (Subterranean Blue Poetry, 2021).

Melanie Flores is a Toronto-born writer, editor, and poet. She is the Copy Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry. Her award-winning work has been described as provocative and has appeared online, in print journals, and in various international and national anthologies. Her poem “Nameless” will appear in the (M)othering Anthology published by Inanna Publications (Spring 2022). Melanie has been a member of the League of Canadian Poets since 2017. Visit her websites www.melanieflores.net and www.mdfcommsvcs.com to see her work and learn more.

Katerina Fretwell. In the poet’s words, “My ninth book, and art, is We Are Malala, Inanna 2019; eighth, Dancing on a Pin, Inanna 2015, was longlisted for Lowther Prize and part of IFOA Battle of the Bards. Five poems placed Runner Up in subTerrain’s Outsider Contest. My poems are in Love Lies Bleeding, By The Wishing Tree, and Community Poetry Anthology anthologies.”

Jessi MacEachern (poet, teacher, researcher) lives and works in Montreal. She teaches English literature. She is widely published, her research has appeared in Studies in Canadian Literature/Études en littérature canadienne and CanLit Across Media: Unarchiving the Literary Event. Her poetry is featured at, CAROUSEL, Poetry is Dead, MuseMedusa, PRISM, CV2, Touch the Donkey, Vallum and Canthius amongst others. Her first collection of poetry is A Number of Stunning Attacks (Invisible Publishing, 2021).

Michael Mintrom lives in Melbourne, Australia. Best known for his academic writing, he has recently published poetry in literary journals including Cordite, The Drabble, Ekphrastic Review, Meniscus, Quadrant, and takahe. He is a past winner of the University of Canterbury’s MacMillan Brown Prize for Writers.

Akshaya Pawaskar is a doctor practicing in India, and poetry is her passion. Her poems have been published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Shards, The Blue Nib, North of Oxford, Indian Rumination, Rock and Sling, the ekphrastic review among many others. She won the Craven Arts Council ekphrastic poetry competition in 2020 and was placed second in The Blue Nib chapbook contest in 2018. Her first solo poetry chapbook The falling in and the falling out was published by Alien Buddha press in January 2021. Instagram @akshaya_pawaskar

Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at NYPL, a singer and a poet who loves travelling. Her poems have previously appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Super Highway, Home Planet News, Cajun Mutt Press, Walt’s Corner, Alien Buddha Press, Jerry Jazz Musician and First Literary Review-East. Her latest poetry collection In the blue hour (Nirala Publications), was recently published in February 2021. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, she now lives in Manhattan, New York.

Stan Rogal (poet, writer, playwright, actor) lives and works in Toronto. He has studied literature and has an MA from York University. He is the author of 26 books of poetry, short stories and novels. He has authored 6 Chapbooks with above/ground press. He is a retired Master bowler and dart champion. He is known for, A Taste of Apricots, The Long Drive Home, amongst others.

M. G. Stephens is author of 25 books, including the recent collection of prose poems and poetry about an out of work actor who lands the part of Hamlet, and is entitled History of Theatre or the Glass of Fashion (MadHat Press, 2021), which has received endorsements from novelists Hilma Wolitzer and Richard Price, as well as from British-Hungarian poet George Szirtes and Chicago/Texas poet Michael Anania. In early 2022, Stephens will publish a long creative nonfiction book about the origins of the Poetry Project in downtown New York City in the mid-1960s. That is entitled When Poetry Was the World, and will be published by Dispatches Editions, Toronto.