ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume V Issue X
CoverforIssue50


The Cover Art/Photo:

Paris Blue: “o’ Paris tender is, my heart, the night”

Courtesy of the British Library










"o’ quiet blues

the stone abbey

Paris rain . . . "


"rain, rain and Summer rain

watching and watching

the quiet trees

he made me long

for my own freedom

inside

his arms

o’jangle heart

God made you perfect

balm and ryan oaks

el Sorenson

the night, i

firestars falling,

falling

red fireflies

and white stardust

falling

champagne and peanut butter nights"


"o’ sleep and sleep

orange and blues

Paris rain . . ."










Subterranean Blue Poetry
 
Volume V Issue X
 
(October 2017)










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Subterranean Blue Poetry

www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com
 
© 2017










Heaven and Hell in Paris

by Marjorie Thomsen


From the street I see where she is headed

with her bread, a baguette. Its length not close

and crisscrossed against her chest.

but perpendicular to her hip, it’s an object,

something airy she’ll carry

handover as his guest, before they undress. I’m across

from the wide-open window of the waiting man,

his head hanging out, coppery and damp.

I’m eating separating thick-sauced chicken meat

from it’s bone at Café d’Enfer; Hell,

The waiter translates. I arrange the last

yellowed pilaf grains to get on my fork.

There’s a bell, a buzz, then the perfect click

of a door popping and unlocking. In my

mind she takes her heals up four flights

of matte-green marble, making her think:

ripening apple. There are cheeses in a bag

on that woman, too; ones with names

she’ll never say to the man

but all the letters and accent marks

will reassemble to become confessions.









Exit at the Right

by Baisali Chatterjee Dutt


I used to be an existentialist.


I would prick

at my consciousness

with knitting needles

and puncture my lungs

with cigarettes,

for no other reason but

self-affirmation.


I was moody,

            broody,

a real sullen Sally,

longing for Paris

and a lover like Sartre.


Then,


the real world called

and my daily experiments with existence

became redundant.

Life kicked me in my throat

and I bled freely

                    and unwillingly.

What is absurd

is that a chair

is a chair

is a chair

and it was always there.


It is just as well.

Black coffee

was never my cup of tea.









Paris, a trance!

by Subhadip Majumdar


Yes! Paris is a trance to me

A love that paints me very well

It is like the silence of the Notre Dame Church

Like a sacred song of an ancient dawn as I lay beneath the Eiffel throughout the night

With the stars seeing me and I read in the first light “A Moveable Feast”

It is like a young girl of different moods sometimes with a smile, sometimes with tears

Like the night with a seductive lady of Moulin Rouge

Like a lonely tramp on the road

The old book stalls across the Seine

The pamphlets of the Second World War faded but still with invisible blood marks

The French editions of Verlaine or Baudelaire

Or the novels of Zola

It is like the smile of the lady at the riverside who held my hand and said, “Merci!”

I don’t know why but I then kissed her hand

It is like the candlelight of the inner Church

Or the bell from which Quasimodo the hunchback had hung himself

It is like Hemingway’s walk across the Latin Quarter

His stop at Closerie De Lilas

It is like the artist square of Montmartre

It is like a painting of an adolescent girl of Renoir

It is like the smile of Mona Lisa at the Louvre

It is like the anytime rain and the beautiful white clouds

It is like standing alone before the tomb of Apollinaire and uttering his poem

It is like finding yourself in your favourite bookshop and realizing it is not a dream

It is like being in love again and again

It is like being loved and a bit of pain, still searching for words

And writing them in Paris

It is like the existence

It is like solely forgotten and then one day is remembered as a Poet

It is like the secret promises

I make

I utter

I whisper

Of coming back here again

In search of a home

A little bit of soil where I would sit and write and dream

And then sleep

Paris, you are a trance to me

Paris you are my love!










Featured Poet: Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The Staircase of Notre Dame, Paris

by

Dante Gabriel Rossetti



As one who, groping in a narrow stair,

Hath a strong sound of bells upon his ears,

Which, being at a distance off, appears

Quite close to him because of the pent air:

So with this France. She stumbles file and square

Darkling and without space for breath: each one

Who hears the thunder says: “It shall anon

Be in among her ranks to scatter her.”

This may be; and it may be that the storm

Is spent in rain upon the unscathed seas,

Or wasteth other countries ere it die:

Till she, - having climbed always through the swarm

Of darkness and of hurtling sound, - from these

Shall step forth on the light in a still sky.










Missed Connections

Craigslist Maine – Missed Connections – March 11th, 2017 – César Vallejo



I will - m4w


die in Paris, on a rainy day,

on some day I can already remember.

I will die in Paris - and I don't step aside -

perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.


It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down

these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on

wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself

with all the road ahead of me, alone.


César Vallejo is dead. Everyone beat him

although he never does anything to them;

they beat him hard with a stick and hard also


with a rope. These are the witnesses:

the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms,

the solitude, and the rain, and the roads . . .

César Vallejo










Book Reviews



Cinematique: An Excerpt from Sunny girls by Sandra Moussempès.


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: From: Sunny girls (excerpts)

Author: Sandra Moussempès

Translator: Eléna Rivera

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2017

Pages: 16


“I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed
Get along with the voices inside of my head”
- from The Monster by Eminem


A fantastical treatise on desire and the edges of knowing and not knowing, brushes with the idea of expense through the mists of lack of comprehension, an art nouveau thinkpeace. The excerpts are presented in both English and French, the poetry by Sandra Moussempès, translated by Eléna Rivera. Sandra Moussempès (Poet, creative writing teacher, singer, musician, translator) is born in Paris. She is published in France and internationally, having written nine books of poetry.

The poetry is in broken narrative first person, esoteric, disjointed thought running in circles, enigmatic. It is as if she is talking around some nondescript concept, perhaps a large somber darkness, in the background, a monster. The theme presents itself as miscommunication, a lack of understanding. She talks of her mouth, intermittently, what it means to speak, what it means to think, the idea of wishes. The idea of etranger, what it means to be a young desireable woman on the edge of a man’s fantasia. The idea of trespass, the idea of costs associated with trespass. The poetry begins a dialogue, is fresh, a presentation of the subtle as violence, suggesting a movie. The cinematique presents as imagery, watching a movie, actors/actresses, subtitles as if in a parallel universe.

“THE ROUSSET PASS

I write while watching a film about a fox.
I am sitting dressed in green
I wore this sweater a long time rather like some kind of terrifying game
Stretches of forest are knitted there while the farmer STRIPS the trees from the thicket”

Playing within the shadows of cultural affect, the Poet presents, brings into the light the power of thoughts, something seemingly innocuous that may not be. And the idea of violence, the idea of trespass. The poetry is an innovation in style, a brilliant poetic New Age Renaissance Republique work, From: Sunny girls by Sandra Moussempès, translated by Eléna Rivera.

Available @ above/ground press.













poorsong one: poetry in ecstatic experience.


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: poorsong one

Author: Lisa Robertson

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2017

Pages: 16


“The White Lightening – On a dead end street”
- from White Lightening by Def Leppard


poorsong one by Lisa Robertson is poetry that lives within ecstatic experience, a treatise on love in the war economy. Lisa Robertson is a Poet who makes Chapbooks and lives in the small village of Nalliers in France, originally she is from Vancouver. This is the second Chapbook she has published with above/ground press, the first being “On Physical Real Beginning and What Happens Next” (2012).

This poetry is a joyous creation. Perhaps the product of serial love affairs, the painful trend of ended beginnings and the karmic dissonance that manifests violence and a debt-ridden war economy. As if a celebration of an unnatural brightness around the eyes that often leads to brilliance and tragedy. At once a freedom call and a call to love, the poet throws caution to the wind and the poetry blooms in song.



“Day Opens on Water

You say the Water is not a Grave

Over the still mirror of Water

Love moves the Bright Shadows

Penetrates Borders”


An enigmatic symbolist offering in staccato gun shot delivery, it is as if the page is a dark horizon and the poetry emerging over the mountain is pure emblazoned light. The running thread of imagery through the work is songs or singing with images from the natural world. The work highlights different perspectives on love relationships, how in antiethical theory one seeks to always be in an intimate love relationship often with revolving lovers when the natural order of the universe is that everyone should be in a happy longterm covenant marriage to their Fated One, or someone on a positive Sign from God that lasts forever.

A brilliant rendition of “where has the love gone”, a fresh look at all the Satanic Verses singing into war, poorsong one by Lisa Robertson.

Available @ above/ground press.













Paris Blue

(excerpts)

by

Rebecca Anne Banks



"The past is always present, if sometimes in the way of those movie spirits who can be seen
in the room but not in the mirror, or vice versa."
- from The Other Paris by Luc Sante


“dark, blue ink sky

impossible winter snow moon

the cold and quiet . . . “


he writes

in the road

past the town of clothtrade

past a place of, for 650 years

to remember

what i remember . . .


o’ Paris, tender is my heart the night.









"I don’t know what secret instinct impels the same classes or the same professions always toward
the same places. Thieves, pickpockets, beggars, street-walkers, street performers have still not
left the haunts they have inhabited since the middle ages."
- from The Other Paris by Luc Sante


“o’ bluesky

twilight

silent trees

black silhouettes

dance . . .”


scarecrows

of the citynights

boy toys and cattarooms

(pugenbellia cat

plays with new toys)

winken, tods and eddies

night witches

through the caverns of the dark,

walk

amongst the shadow people

live in the street

lost,

the gypsies of many coloured cloth

dance

harlequins, in the road

in the anarchy of nothing

how the old city becomes ruined by monies

how the shadow people dance

by night, by sky

and blue


o’ Paris, tender is my heart, the night.









". . . to stop, to see, to notice small changes and have one’s attention caught by a drawn blind,
by a closed shutter, by a shop-door without its handle, by the small square of a white notice,
Fermé pour cause de décès [closed on account of death] or fermé jusqu’au ler septembre, by a sign
painter painting out a familiar name, by a child’s face at a window, by a geranium in flower.”
- from The Other Paris by Luc Sante


"deep blue

and lavender sky

sunlight

in quiet trees

breathe . . ."


into the quiet of the night

the quiet of the day

the Spanish wine on your lips

a map

to the Christian bomb sites,

she

(the street fire

spring)


i purchase

a large square of cake

thick white icing

place inside my sac

down the corridor

to my Chinois cousins’ store

he who sells earrings

the blue and hearts kind

she who sells antique silver and scarves

the scarves so large

one in every colour

today he sits

behind the counter

quiet,

I look through the new art

it is quiet

I look into my sac

the top of the icing

off the cake

is gone

my cousin disappears

into the back

but where is the icing of my cake?

mysteries unbound

“the ghost of cupcakes”

when we were little

we would eat the icing

off the top of cupcakes

and throw the cake away

now, when I see him

I call him

“the ghost of cupcakes”

(but it may not have been him)


blue, blue, blue Harvey

the rain meter

rain metier

sans and sanity,

o’ Greta Garbo


o’ Paris, tender is my heart, the night.









"There is no such thing as Parisian society; there are no Parisians. Paris is nothing but
an encampment of nomads.”
- Henri Lecouturier (Philosopher, Lawyer, Republican, Social Activist) mid-1800’s Paris, France


"dark

tree shank bird

in the tree

blue sky

. . . and grey"


laying on Jane’s sofa

nothing much to do

perfectly draped across

your body

sunlight and shadows

play across your face

through the hum of darkness,

strains of Madama Butterfly ...

the audience watches

silent


I can’t remember the last time

I had motion sickness

(stone gargoyles

of a thousand years past)

swallowed the cat’s pajamas

could have bartered our soul

for death

(but they would not tell us)

could have bartered our soul

for train tickets

to Paris

better to die in a dream . . .


at a distance

sweet crickets in the bluesky,

not my bluesky

blue


o’ Paris, tender is my heart, the night.









“When in summer the sun beamed its rays straight down upon Paris, a sheet of gold, sharp as a saber blade, momentarily lit up the shadows of the street without being able to dry the permanent damp that dominated those black and silent houses from the ground floor to the second. The inhabitants, who in June lit their lamps at five in the afternoon, never blew them out at all in winter.”
- Honoré de Balzac (novelist, playwright, essayist, literary critic) (1830) describes rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean


“sunshine

sing song

sky . . .”


and pink marsala clouds

slow, fade into night

idlewiles

running with the moon

an entire history of war

in his history of love

a series of faces

the bit of Sebastien

bone Winston’s


winter

forecasts and weather:

blues

kiss the sky

kiss the river

there is no comfort

heart rules the spia glo

the butterfly

a movie in sepia tone

with stars,

falling and falling

at the end of night


(the night roars in his ears

brushes with the sky,

o’ the blue

in blues

the night . . .

so sharp, the edge,

without you).


as if the summer

through an open window

the white bricks,

on cold lace

i fashion

a rope

hang it

from the doorway

the body hangs in the

cool breeze

the half open window

in the halflight

i fall into the mirror . . .


She said, “I am a street person

with an apartment”

the sun sea island

moved through him,

my confessor

his head a landscape, silent

the offering of seashells

in every colour

every size

beautiful

(too many imprints of Imogene)

lining all the shelves, the tables

all the way up the wall

on any given Saturday afternoon

in Summer

she would hold the shell

in her hands

the beauty,

the magic

turn it over,

as if sucking on a candy

reluctant to put it down

and then, she would

immediately pick up another one

all the while

talking about the places

the places of light

the places of dark

the movie

sync reel

where no one

really existed

the islands of Tretheway

at a distance

as if coming out of a trance

she became silent

bought her purchases

happy


he never really said too much

he was married,

had children

took all his seashells

to the exhibition in the fall

when she left for the blue island in the river

she brought all her

seashells

and placed them in

the tops of

the pots of plants

flowers and seashells

all through the long winters

blue


o’ Paris, tender is my heart, the night.










Biography



Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She is the author of over 30 books of poetry, a guide 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 www.amazon.ca and other Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CD`s of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD’s of music awaiting production. She is mildly brain damaged since birth that went undiagnosed, that gave her a hidden disability. She is also the 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).

Baisali Chatterjee Dutt, a former columnist and agony aunt for Mother & Baby magazine and has compiled and edited two volumes for the Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series. She has authoured Sharbari Datta: The Design Diva, a biography on one of Calcutta's leading luminaries in the fashion world. Her poetry has been published in various anthologies and magazines, print as well as online, such as "The Blue Spider Press", "The Algebra of Owls" and "Veils, Halos and Shackles", to name a few. Her other passion is theatre. She has performed with some of the India's top English theatre groups. Currently she is a drama facilitator at The Creative Arts Studio and Sri Sri Academy.

Sudahip Majumdar. This is Sudahip Majumdar a writer poet from India. He is certified in Creative Writing from University of Iowa. He also edited for a longtime a reputed Bengali poetry journal. Wrote a short novel as Tumbleweed writer in Shakespeare and Company, Paris. Two poetry books published and one novel in process of publication.

Sandra Moussempès is a Poet/creative writing teacher/singer/musician/translator and was born in Paris. She is published in France and internationally. Also she performs at poetry festivals. She has written 9 books of poetry, including Exercices d'incendie (1994), Captures (2004), Photogénie des ombres peintes (2009), Acrobaties dessinées and Beauty Sitcom (2012), Sunny girls (2015) amongst others.

Eléna Rivera is a translator and Poet. She has won awards for her translations including the 2010 Robert Eagles prize and a 2010 National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship in Translation. She has translated work by Isabelle Baladine Howald. Her most recent books of poetry are The Perforated Map (2011), On the Nature of Position and Tone (2012), Atmosphered (2014), Scaffolding (2017).

Lisa Robertson was born in Toronto and lived in Vancouver for 23 years, currently living in the Loire Valley, France. She is a writer and teacher and has been an independent bookseller. She was the writer-in-residence at Simon Fraser University in 2010 and was presented with an honourary doctorate in 2017 by Emily Carr University. She has written at least 9 books of poetry and 2 books of essays including The Apothecary (1991), The Badge (1994), The Weather (2001), A Hotel (2003), 3 Summers (2016) amongst others.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (Poet/illustrator/painter/translator) born in England to Italian ex-patriates. He founded the Pre-Raphaelites and influenced the Aesthetics Movement and European Symbolists. His work was influenced by Poet John Keats. He is the brother of Poet Christina Rossetti, critic William Michael Rossetti and author Maria Francesca Rossetti. His personal life included his muses and models particularly, Elizabeth Siddal, Fanny Cornforth and Jane Morris. He is best remembered for his painting and poetry.

Marjorie Thomsen’s poetry collection, Pretty Things Please (Turning Point, 2016), gets its title from asking Pretty Things Beer and Ale Project to name all that she cannot since they come up with great names for their beers. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have been widely published and have received first-place awards from the New England Poetry Club and The University of Iowa School of Social Work. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

César Vallejo (Poet, playwright, writer, journalist) was born in Peru. He is regarded as a true poetic innovator. He was a member of a society of intellectuals, North Group in the Peruvian town, Trujillo. He studied at National University of San Marcos, in Lima. A failed affair caused him to lose his teaching position, he was imprisoned and fled to Europe and Paris. His first French mistress was Henriette Maisse, and he later married Georgette Philippart, eventually dying in Paris. He is best remembered for his books of poetry, including The Black Herald and Trilce.