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Book Review for She's an Island Poet:

Subterranean Blue Poetry

Volume I Issue IV


Music seemed to follow the islander, leaving the mind in a state of constant image seeking.


Colors

The cowbell fell,

sound met color

and metaphoric light hit the poet's eyes,


       it stood out there alone in black


on staged wooden boards with one arm longer than the other and

kaleidoscopic beginnings

ignite sitting matrons in rows

hiding poetry,

the patron of music

sent the mind spinning,


looking for spoons placed

in blues sounding from Cornel's Harvard diploma

reaching for the proletariat man,


and it hit her head,


bam,


anything but rhythm


red and golden belly dancers barefooted

kept echoes from hitting the golden lines down

raven hair falling in the middle of back rooms from

ripped head scarves for


anything but rhythm,


anything but rhythm

leaning in shades of color from tinsel recorded

on floors and it turns the poet into

yellow moons flashing greens in rum glasses,


baby the beat is flooding floor lines and the opium rooms of history

take lessons

from butter moving in dropping rain


covered with silk crimson


pouring the soul out

of the mouthpiece and two blue roses stand side by side


the beat takes part in the game

and

the poet makes love to the shaped out

triangle suspended in paint and red is the color,

standing out on the thronged charms of visual perception


and the beat plays outside the fanned window with a ladder waiting

for

entry with bad being a state of mind spreading quiet out of glass

magic heating in the funnel painted from vibrating tapping on

caste metals


against the rhythm plays without mother's milk and a polish

immigrant paid the bills for the rumba


and sound out of color circles a one timed

four standing and the time beats


swaying moments of all hands

shattering melody and the poet's mind resists the movement from

her place on the back wall

and the she moves over them with air bubbles blowing through her

eyes


and stays with her hand holding their heads waiting for inspiration

to give her the pitch for her poems pouring from wine glasses

rimmed with gold lines

with pictures of angry saints


and they praise operatic sounded

hats paying pensions to the guitar

but anything against the rhythm blasts light down her throat

and words come forth from dimes suspended on water




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