ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume I Issue IV
 
CoverforIssue4



The Cover Art/Photo:

by Melissa Pelchat

Melissa Pelchat Photography

www.melissapelchat.com










 
“All trains go to Berlin

blue sky

riding night

looking for gentleman walking.


“Ding, dong, bell,

Pussy’s in the well.

Who put her in?

Little Johnny Flynn.

Who pulled her out?

Little Tommy Stout.”


Somewhere inside the blue

wings of chance

and circumstance

someone in the sun.


Blue as the night

your eyes

the night is my lover

blues cat, my song

so the night . . .

thick with roses

and the edges of the sky”










Subterranean Blue Poetry


Volume I Issue IV


 
(August 2013)










SubterraneanBluePoetryLogo
 
Subterranean Blue Poetry

www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com
 
© 2013














Te Espero

Words by Ruben Dario Giraldo

Music by Isis Giraldo

www.reverbnation.com/isisgiraldo



Tu voz dijo

en el beso del ojo que volvias

esperando por tus ojos la promesa

sobre el contraste en los patios del alma

por entre mis sueños

solitario ya serenos

aunque no estés

ven a mi

así me olvides

ven a mi

te espero


English Translation:

Your voice said

In the kiss from your eye, that you would return.

Waiting for your eyes, the promise

Above, in contrast on the terraces if the soul

Within my serene

Even if you’re not here

Come to me

I wait for you.

Lagrimas de Sudor

Tears of sweat,

Through the yunque

Their nerves, their muscles,

Open paths

Tear the soil, make the world. Where unnoticed Where lies their blood

Might their names remain?













Last Date

by Laura Cleary

For Colm


We wore black

Drank black

Handled, warmed up

In dark gaping pubs

The only club open

Hand-holding and noting

Industrious females

Willing to brazen out frostbitten toes

To dressage Lobouttins

Unseasonably tanned


We watched and we talked and we

Laughed and talked faster and

Kissed

Kissed again and

Felt our wave break

Pitch forward

Wash back, unveiling us

Smiling

Those smiles that you smile when

The stem of your nose is flat on the cheekbone of

Someone whose hands are warm on your waist and

You’re walking (Wait—

When did we start walking?) and then with

No warning we turned in to face

The three walls I lived in

Still black and made blacker by

You stood against them


You didn’t notice, just

Stared and then sat,

Leant down and held

Your two lips around a

Space curled between them,

Black as the shadows now

Cast by my body,

Dormant until I slid onto you

Fevered to fit

What you claimed you had lost

Though to me you were just

Barely uncellophaned

Inviting as untouched

White cupcake icing

Or twilight-time time fields

Of fresh-fallen snow.













We Will Be Attacked in Fifteen Minutes

by Lucile Barker


That’s what it just said on the radio,

some kind of joke, the War of the Worlds…

Where is Orson Welles when you need him?

CNN says the same thing and then plays the National Anthem,

I once read that Ted Turner had it done

for such an occasion as this.

I look out the window, expecting deserted streets,

but they are jammed, bumper to bumper.

All psyched up and nowhere to go.

“It’s always worse in your imagination,”

a surgeon once told me.

Static on every station but the classical one.

didn’t even interrupt with a bulletin.

Maybe they have the right idea.

Fifteen minutes, eh? Well, twelve now,

And a half an hour later in Newfoundland.

The phone lines jammed and I couldn’t begin to thank

all the people I should have thanked in earlier times.

Attack? Don’t be crazy. No one will bomb here,

a quiet suburb, nothing worth taking but our lives.

But if it doesn’t hit, there will be the radiation.

What were those iodine pills that were recommended

when the nuclear plant almost went?

That didn’t happen and neither will this.

I think of all the bad fiction I have read

about what will happen after.

Which will be worse,

the attack or after?

There are all the nevers that will never be.

Forever finally has a definition.

The children are at school;

I wonder if the janitors even have a key

to the old bomb shelter.

Duck and cover.

They may come out in a hundred days

and find that here is gone or just empty.

I take a can of black spray paint from the garage,

pull down the paintings over the sofa,

graffiti “I love you” on the living room wall.

Who is it for? The children, my husband,

the enemy who will come to see what is standing.

The next door neighbour passes by, tells me

she will sit on her porch steps and watch the fireball.

The radio is silent. I sit at the piano

and gently play waltzes, pretend it is a normal day.

I stare at my message on the wall

and wish it was for me.

I no longer remember how many minutes ago

we heard the bulletin, perhaps years.

Countdowns sing in my head and I lose the rhythm.

My hands are cluster bombs of noise.

Love has always been my conventional warfare.

I play a rhapsody, and there is a chord now

that I have never heard, and the black and white keys

fuse under my fingers.

So bright, so dark.

No one will see the message on the wall.










 
Featured Poet: Frederico Garcia Lorca


Song of First Desire

by Frederico Garcia Lorca


In the green morning

I wanted to be a heart.

A heart.


And in the ripe evening

I wanted to be a nightingale.

A nightingale.


(Soul,

turn orange-colored.

Soul,

turn the color of love.)


In the vivid morning

I wanted to be myself.

A heart.


And at the evening's end

I wanted to be my voice.

A nightingale.


Soul,

turn orange-colored.

Soul,

turn the color of love.














 
Missed Connections


Montreal Craigslist - Saturday, May 4th – Missed Connections – Anonymous

To the couple at Maisonneuve and Fort... (Wednesday Morning)
...who stopped at the red lights on your bicycles and immediately proceeded to hold hands.

You make me sick.

You also give me hope for the human race.

(Just Sayin)














 
Book Reviews


 



a seed within: a quiet tome of romanticism and the sacred.

Byline: Rebecca Anne Banks

Title of Book: a seed within

Author: Bruce Kauffman

Publisher: Hidden Book Press

Date of Publication: 2013

Page Count: 65


A book of New Age poetry, an extrapolation of the original chapbook seed by Bruce Kauffman published by The Plowman (2005), the new edition includes new poetry in the Prologue and Epilogue. A quiet tome of romanticism and the sacred. This is the second book of Poet Kauffman’s work I have reviewed, the first being The Texture of Days, In Ash and Leaf.

A truly good poetry read is like beautiful dessert, an escape on a Summer afternoon, you suspend the day and dwell inside the gift of the Poet. The poetry has the ability to touch you in a place past reason, as if existing within a secret world and this is the gift of a seed within. Drawing you into the artist’s painting quietly without any capitalization and a lack of punctuation the themes of romanticism, nature, life, death and rebirth begin to unfold. There is a lack of punctuation (particularly I have noticed a lack of punctuation in other New Age Poets) perhaps a protest at the growing angst and violence of modern times, and the dis-ease of modern love. The lack of capitalization may be interpreted as a reflection of the sacred. The theme of love “in the echoes/of another/language/the moon/wears them/all/and you tell/me about/old dreams/weeping/new dreams/whispering/and I now/with the moon/the only one left/believing still/in them all” and “the shadows/of gull/of the crow/the eagle fly/without body/and/fly above/in your whispers/painted/across the sky” as if propelled by some sweet mystery, the words across the page. Similar to ee cummings, the words are constructed like a layer cake with indents and sudden windings that punctuate the flow of words. Like the shifting sands of time and the disharmony of a quiet violence the words are constructed, like being brought up, a new recognition, a new sadness. “the opposite/of silence is/neither sound/nor noise/ but instead/emptiness” a quiet lament. Also the idea of rebirth, “you, alone/the last/of your seed” goes on to weave the idea of continuity into a lost and broken world. The darkness of Existentialism in a seed within has become quiet as if having morphed into a warmer day “a new polished surface/of new fresh skin”. As if the violence of man is somehow misplaced in such a world and how the world of nature survives and will go on without us “when we/have forgotten/all the words/in all the languages/the new birds/will still fly/remembering/even this”. Inside the words is the wisdom, wonder and enigma of a sage. As if painting the days into quiet and disallure, the poetry falls into grace, a worship of birds, forest, leaves, rain and desert inside the inner eye of the Creator, beautiful poetry, a work of the New Age.

Available at Amazon.















 



How the Light is Spent, upon the occasion of stories in poetry.


Byline: Rebecca Anne Banks

Title of Book: How the Light is Spent

Author: Gail Sidonie Sobat

Publisher: Wintergreen Studios Press

Date of Publication: 2013

Page Count: 94



How the Light is Spent is a book of poems by Gail Sidonie Sobat, the stories of a world traveler, a Canadian, the stories of home, not home. She is the daughter of a first generation Ukrainian mother and Serbian father, born in Calgary, Alberta. She is an award winning author, mostly for children’s fiction and this is her second book of poetry.


The book is divided into 3 sections, Badlands, Sailing to Byzantium and How the Light is Spent. The first part, Badlands centers on the experiences of a bride in W.W. II, as if inspired by the memories of her mother. The second part, Sailing to Byzantium is inspired by life in a foreign country, perhaps Istanbul. The third part, How the Light is Spent is about time, ruminations on the passage of time. The first book is set in the Depression years and the time of W.W. II, the beginning in the voice of a young adult girl, through the stories of an older woman, perhaps her mother. It is a fascinating telling of rural life, poverty and survival, a young girl, her mother dies, her father remarries a woman with 5 children, he kicks her out at 15 years old, she finds a job in a dress shop. She marries her lover, the war is in the background, the husband dies in the war, the girl as old woman as time passes. The poem “red sweater” is riveting, the war widow goes to the Army and Navy to purchase a toaster and “then I spy it/red delicious candy apple/my favourite colour” instead she purchases the red sweater “who needs toast/when you’ve got a bright red sweater.” Another theme in the background is the coal mines and the coal miner, “coal is a thick vein through this valley” “you can smell the coal dust” and “you wash your father’s back/careful to avoid the mole/that disgusts you”, the reality of life in a small town centered in the mining industry. The style is simple and direct as if mouthing themes too old for a young girl’s heart. A book of poetry rooted in rural Canada, the profound shines in the truth telling of the everyday. The entire work has barely any capitalization and absolutely no punctuation as if in protest at the injustices of a broken world. Also, there is an activist bent to the work,”black as the owner’s hearts/the same who send men for pennies/down into ill-lit tombs” about the mine owners and writing about losses “ . . . what will I put in place of my heart/cut out by your albatross beak”; notes of protest “one click of key in lock/admits me to the stale air/of missing” and “I’m still here and still raging/know more than I did yesterday”, the poetry is the dance.


The second book Sailing to Byzantium is set in a foreign place, perhaps Istanbul, it is the colour and dance of life in distant places. “skinny street cats/tortoise, black, calico/thread between our legs”. And the quiet in “that life is precious and rich/as the dark thick coffee/in the demitasse.”


The third book, How the Light is Spent is a story about the passage of time. “the sky still is streaked with blue hope/though the wind raises a cruel hand to the cheek/a heart tosses in the tempest like the spruce limbs/desire flutters to the ground with the other dead leaves.” A quiet rendition of life, “birdfeeder needs filling/walks shoveling/doorsteps sweeping/throughout a colourless month/signifying death” somewhat repetitive almost pendantic as if weaving the day out of nothing. There are daily urban/rural images of the modern world “morning will break/like the yellow yolk of a soft boiled egg”. The bones of truthtelling, the Poet as outlander, inside; a deep anger with a subtle humour, a celebration of dance and survival. Upon the occasion of stories in poetry, a beautiful read on a Summer afternoon.

Available @ Wintergreen Studios Press.















 



She’s an Island Poet, a celebration of epiphany in poetry.


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: She’s an Island Poet

Author: Melinda Cochrane

Publisher: YMPmedia!Network.com

Date of Publication: 2013

Page Count: 89



She’s an Island Poet a brilliant work of poetic craft in poetic prose and poetry celebrates the beauty of the ways and people of Newfoundland, the rich tradition of the Maritime Celts. The book is divided into 8 sections with the title The poet’s journey; including Her Letter, Island life, Shaped by, Her knowing, She, The she, Free, Music in her. The poetry seems structured as if perhaps in biography and stories about her people and ends with an entire ensuite of passion in music, the story of paradise found.

Poet Cochrane writes in the full lilt of Irish brogue, the lines are effusive and full of imagery of the ocean, the land, the natural world juxtaposed with the everyday, the institutions of the modern world. As if evoking the Spirit of St. Brigid, herself, this writer stands in awe of such beautiful paintings of the written word. The poetry is rooted in the island homeland of Newfoundland, the celebration of her people and the poverty with the loss of the fisheries and a way of life, “we once caught our way of life on the tables of our kitchens now government houses in Ottawa forget to notice our tables were the fishery as well.” As well as being artistically masterful, the poetry takes on the protest of our times “I forecasted rain over hill tops destroying waters of all lands with industrialization in the name of corporate taxes” and “realities are blurred between the individual right and/no government and state controlled speech”. Yet, more than protest is the persistent dance of passion in the face of hard times and the loss of the Old Ways “I grew roses in jars where nothing was seen in droughted soil” and “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”. Woven amongst the poetry is the stories of her life, of the life of her family and the people of the Community, “my grandmother’s spoons tapping the beat on her leg, and I smiled at my Irish rose in her crib, but heard nothing, nothing, nothing, in response to my own voice, but the echoes of ocean and extended family I left behind on a beach polished to perfection amongst rougher/edges thrown around by North Atlantic Ocean.” And the perfect revelations of truth, “Mother pressed my dress,/got me ready for onlookers,/ waiting to talk about mother/Something she always went on about/and I don’t think she ever let them know she hated them.” In Mainland teaching there is the story of how her peers made fun of her accent but the children loved it “and each day the stranger became a mainland accent.” The words often paint rich images as if creating mythology, “when the heritage of my island/does not and the silks sway around/me in endless, endless, motions over/crowns with no men, and swords with/few answers, and I am the bull fighter/on my knees for forgiveness,/and where is my faceless/man in a monk’s hood holding/a red light, he walks/slow circles,/around fallen/stairways and minds,/jammed shut,/and the island waves sweep/back through/time, and lands on rock/deeply hidden beneath her lost.” And perhaps mourning having left her Newfoundland home but living still within its celebration of life, the beauty of place and sacred space, the synchronicity of living amongst your own people.

Capitalization and punctuation is sporadic, even the rhyming quiet in the face of such a gift. The poetic prose style is a new innovation of the New Age, often seen in the works of Rob McLennan and the poets published at Above Ground Press, it is a stream of consciousness flow of language, in this case neatly encapsulated in justified lines, perhaps heralding in the new way of peace and accountability through the Internet and the New Age. In the writing of poetry there are moments of epiphany but this is pure cake, the passion and celebration of the Celts from Melinda Cochrane, She’s an Island Poet.

Available at Argos Bookstore (Montreal), www.melindacochrane.com and Amazon.ca.















Ode to white tulips on a blue Monday day

by Rebecca Anne Banks


waiting on the last tithes of the moon

the last habitai of war

I can hear the singing of the Muse

enchante en chanson

the peace of the flower

la danse

the peace . . .

ode to white tulips on a blue Monday day.














 
Biography


Rebecca Anne Banks is at home in Montreal. She is the CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records. www.tympanilanerecords.com.

Lucile Barker is a Toronto poet, writer and activist. Since 1994, she has been the co-ordinator of the Joy of Writing, a weekly workshop at the Ralph Thornton Centre. Recent poetry and prose publications include poems in The Big Scarborough Art Book, Linden Avenue, and Decades Review. Her poetry has appeared on posters and in the 2013 Digging to the Roots Calendar. Her recent fiction published in The Quotable, Memewar, and Green Briar Review. Upcoming work will be appearing in Paper Plates and Mixitini Matrix.

Laura Cleary is a poet and writer (among other things) living in Dublin. Her poem “Breaking Point” was shortlisted for the 2011 iYeats Emerging Talent Award, and she was a featured poet in the recent Ash Wednesday series in Ranelagh, Dublin. She received first prize in the inaugural Heart in Mouth competition for her performance of her poem "Note to a Mislaid Friend". She currently lives in Dublin with her partner Colm and an extensive nail polish collection.

Melinda Cochrane was born in Newfoundland, teaches on the West Island of Montreal and is a Poet, writer and educator giving writing workshops and is an inspirational life coach. She has won awards for her poetry and gives poetry readings both locally and in the States. She has written a novel, Desperate Freedom and 2 books of poetry, The Man Who Stole Father's Boat and She's an Island Poet. www.melindacochrane.com.

Isis Giraldo was born in Bogota, Colombia and lived there until she was ten. She then moved to Canada where she continued her studies in classical/jazz piano and choirs. She is currently a freelance musician and educator in Montreal, and makes a great sandwich.

Ruben Dario Giraldo. The father: the poet, Ruben Dario Giraldo. The Isis Giraldo Poetry Project encapsulates the poetic universe of her father and the musical universe of Isis’ various environments. The power of the project lies in the dynamic between the poet’s meaning and the composer’s ideas.

Bruce Kauffman is a leading light in Canadian Poetry and based in Kingston, Ontario. He is a Poet, writer and Poetry Editor. He hosts the Open Mic Reading Series, Poetry @ The Artel and a Poetry radio program, "Finding a Voice" on CFRC. He has written poetry books The Texture of Days, in Ash and Leaf and a seed within amongst other writings.

Frederico Garcia Lorca was born in the small town of Fuente Vaqueros in Southern Spain, his father a landowner his mother a gifted pianist and teacher. Lorca is a Spanish Poet, Dramatist and Theatre Director. His work is known for its passion and haunting images of Andalusia, dark with sorrow and loss. He is most noted for his poetry: Songs (1927), Gypsy Ballads (1928), The Poet in New York (1940), Lament for the Death of a Bullfighter and Other Poems (1937), First Songs (1936) and plays.

Melissa Pelchat "is a Montreal potograper who is inspired by too many people and too many things to be mentioned here . . .She loves being able to capture the essence and beauty of those she photographs and the depth of their unique relationship to each other. She smiles a lot because life is beautiful." www.melissapelchat.com.

Gail Sidonie Sobat has been a teacher, actor and singer, grounds keeper, flower seller, flag girl and woman in black. She works with writing education programs for children and teaches at Grant MacEwan University. She has a Master's degree in English from the University of Alberta, and has had work published in anthologies, literary journals, performed on stage and broadcast on radio. How the Light is Spent is her second book of poetry and her tenth book.