ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume III Issue I
 
CoverforIssue18



The Cover Art/Photo:

“Watermelon”

by Danielle Bedard

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/danielle-bedard.html.










 
“brilliance all over the water

and a tied packaged heart

dreams of my nightsphere

in a garden

by lilacs

and roses

warm rain

and an orange sun”










Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume III Issue I
 
(January 2015)










SubterraneanBluePoetryLogo
 
Subterranean Blue Poetry

www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com
 
© 2015










Velvet Tangerine

by Strider Marcus Jones


i was drinking tea with Dali

in an underworld cafe,

arguing down his table

on General Franco's hand-

when The Persistence Of Memory

that melts my pocket watch

made time less rigid-

so i fell with names and numbers

into old obsidian dreams-

where your long legs pointed

from six to twelve,

then nine to three

when you bent them-

for me to play and pleasure

each exotic segment

of your velvet tangerine.

Dali left the table

to meet Picasso in Paris,

while my benzedrine mind replaced-

the soft and spent infinity of your face.









When the Road Forks

by Strider Marcus Jones


soft scented ring

on straightened bow,

the joy you bring

inside me now-


the candle burning, slowly down,

the mirror showing more of you-

arched back and shoulders golden brown,

hips rock, hair tumbling too-


as hope and passion rise and fall

in symmetry and space,

the perfect beauty of it all,

enraptures face and place-


and be it now, or beyond this,

with gentle hands and loves soft kiss-

to trace your smile and touch your thoughts,

still, after this, when the road forks.










 
Featured Poet: John Keats

The Eve of St. Agnes

by

John Keats


ST Agnes' Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no---already had his deathbell rung
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing'd St Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full rnany times declare.

They told her how, upon St Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by---she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere;
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.

She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss---in sooth such things have been.

He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland.
He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
"They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
He had a fever late, and in the fit
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
More tame for his gray hairs---Alas me! flit!
Flit like a ghost away."---"Ah, gossip dear,
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
And tell me how"---"Good saints! not here, not here;
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
And as she mutter'd "Well-a---well-a-day!"
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.
"Now tell me where is Madeline", said he,
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
"When they St Agnes' wool are weaving piously."

"St Agnes! Ah! it is St Agnes' Eve---
Yet men will murder upon holy days:
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays
To venture so: it fills me with amaze
To see thee, Porphyro!---St Agnes' Eve!
God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
This very night: good angels her deceive!
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
Who keepeth clos'd a wondrous riddle-book,
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot: then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
"A cruel man and impious thou art:
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go!---I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment's space,
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing,
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespied,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
The Dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St Agnes' charmed maid,
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
With silver taper's light, and pious care,
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
She comes, she comes again, like dove fray'd and fled.

Out went the taper as she hurried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven:---Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumbrous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!---how fast she slept!

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
A doth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:---
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:---
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.---
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes' sake,
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains:---'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
It seem'd he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,---
Tumultuous,---and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy:"
Close to her ear touching the melody:---
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceased---she panted quick---and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep,
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,---
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St Agnes' moon hath set.

Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.---
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;---
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
After so many hours of toil and quest,
A famish'd pilgrim,---saved by miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.

"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Arise---arise! the morning is at hand;---
The bloated wassailers will never heed:---
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,---
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."

She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears---
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.---
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one, and one, the bolts fill easy slide:---
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones,---
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.










 
Missed Connections

Craigslist Montreal – Missed Connections – September 15th, 2014 - Anonymous

Rue Chateauguay Afternoon Delight - m4mw

(Pte St. Charles)


To the couple echoing up and down Chateauguay street today around 1pm: kudos... sounded like a great time!

(N.B.: “love, blue in the afternoon” – a note from the editor)










 
Book Reviews




Spoken Word by Magic, Strings, the audiobook by Gina Nemo.


Byline: Reprint from The Book Reviewer

Title of Book: Strings: the audiobook

Author: Gina Nemo

Publisher: GPlan Music/GPlan Media

Date of Publication: 2014

# of Poems: 17

“It must have been moonglow
Way up in the blue ..”
- from Moonglow
by Billie Holiday

Gina Nemo reads love poetry awake in this magical spoken word offering from her first book of poetry Strings. Gina Nemo is an American actress, poet, writer, singer, songwriter, musician, entertainment/marketing executive who has graced stage and screen since a child and is best known for her role in “21 Jump Street”. This Writer has reviewed the music CD’s Cicada (2014) and Plastic Wonderland (1999) as well as the books of poetry Scarlet (2014) and Strings (2013) by Gina Nemo.

The audiobook Strings is a magical voice recording of 20 poems from the poet’s first book of poetry by the same name. This offering is enchanting, presenting elements of the Gothic Revival and the New Age word. With a beautiful and clear intonation that portrays the emotion of the work, the poet and her words come alive, a gentle seduction, moonlight on a quiet winter night. The spoken word is immediate, brings the written words off the page into a magic place beyond the presentation of the book into an entirely new dimension of dance. This audiorecording is so magic it makes me wonder if the true presentation of poetry is spoken word rather than book format. As in the pagan custom from the Old Agricultural Society, during the fire festivals, people reciting poetry and stories of the tribe and ancestors, oral history alive that really was performance art.

“My Suitcase

. . . a one way conversation

Did you read it?

The Secret letter,

Inside my head?

It said “Dear the one,

I have got to go.”

Come closer,

Before I disappear.

I hate goodbyes,

My suitcase inside,

Has everything,

That I need,

For a long journey,

A boat, a plane,

A hovercraft perhaps?

You can see the map,

In my eyes,

My windows are shut.

The tank is full,

I am so ready!

That’s right.

I’m leaving!

What did you say?

You don’t want me to go?

Well then,

I guess I will have to play,

Just for awhile,

A little time can’t hurt,

I’m talking to myself,

Again.

I’m thinking,

A few more days perhaps?

Maybe a bit longer?

Do you really want me to

Are you sure?

O.K., I will stay,

My suitcase is still packed,

Inside my head.”

As if the poet is the wise child, presenting the entanglements of love life N.A., telling a love story, unrequited love or love that escapes, while at the same time weaving the ideal of never ending love within reach. As if she is telling an adult bedtime story, sweet and true despite the quiet and dark. The style is narrative/broken thought forms with regular rhymes at the end of lines, heralding in the Beat Poet tradition and post-modern Hip Hop/Rap, painting pictures of romance, light and dark and as if through the magic of incantations a better day.

“Lost on a Train

Thinking of all those years

When the distance took its toll

I could never let you go

Fate had taken control


Both stuck on our own planet

Nothing we could do

Many nights in hotels

Escaping real life with you


You were like a cool wine

I could sip you forever

We were like a volcano

That drowned out a feather


Memories are sweet

Better than regret

Making out in a graveyard

Was just a silly bet


Life throws surprises

And then takes them away

Treasures come with age

Love in this life is not a play”

Mysterious, with elements of horror/goth perhaps influenced by the works of Edgar Allen Poe amongst others, the poetry presents as a new twist on New Age Americana.

“Strings

My heart weeps,

Paint the guitar with it.

Pull my strings apart,

With your gentle whispers

And your electric shivers.

As you take me down,

To silk and springs.


Touch me,

Like you tune your soul,

In that special place,

That we know so well.

Our story that was never finished,

A tale too powerful to tell.

But still we played it well.


You were my savior,

The King of eternity.

I was your queen,

For a lifetime.

But here we are again,

Hearts still aching,

For the strings to sing.


Living parallel lives,

Waiting for the perfect ending.

Falling into yet another dream,

On that dusty country road,

Paved with hope.

You my love are home,

Stay this time.


Don’t disappear,

For you have lived,

Too many lives.

Your heart is mine.

Bury the treasure map,

Time waits,

For true love.”

This poetry exists in the place of modern day mythology, of dark chocolate and wine, incantations to the god of love, by the goddess, Strings, the audiobook by Gina Nemo.

Available @ CD Baby.











 


today’s woods, satirical poetry from O’ Canada and Pearl Pirie.
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: today’s woods

Author: Pearl Pirie

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2014

Page Count: 5


“Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Goldilocks. She went for a walk in the forest.
Pretty soon, she came upon a house. She knocked and, when no one answered, she walked right in.”
- from Goldilocks and the Three Bears, a children’s fairytale


This is an incredible poetry read from Pearl Pirie. Poet Pirie is the radio host of Literary Landscape on CKCU fm.com and gives talks and workshops on poetry. She also photographs and blogs about the literary highlights of Ottawa @ www.pearlpirie.com. This is the second Chapbook I have written a Book Review for, the first being vertigoheel for the dilly.

A sendup of the children’s story, The Story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, with subtle humor/satire and an introspective look that is a new twist in post-modern poetry waring. As if an intelligent child’s politically correct version/interpretation of the children’s story, the subtle truth and humor brings a smile as the poet chases demons. Ringing in on thoughts about injustice and the patriarchy, political schisms and racism, the unquestioning male iconoclast is called to question in the world of grizzly bears.

“the middle bed and medium chair and so-so bowl are mom’s and
The stolen things are all baby’s because injustice happens most to the smallest”

“alternate scenario: bears like their porridge cold
unlike little blondes with entitlement or no boundaries.”

In the Canadian tradition of Poet F.R. Scott writing satirical poetry and about social injustice, this is a new cyberphonic play on old themes, fantastical, as if picking up the thread and continuing. “are we still protesting this shite?” Enlightenment is the call of each new generation.

“let’s see, what’s the effect? Papa’s porridge will be right while
Everyone’s else, say, those he presumably cares for since he’s there,

will be worse when at least mama’s was already right
when they left? patricarchy in bears! patriarchy in bears!”

“back to kid who would leave her blithe scent trail all over
the furniture. was she a runaway whom the bears would have helped

under scenario A’s natural civic nature? Given half a chance who
would call the cops on a child unless Palestinian, black or native?”

The style is poetic prose/narrative that is easy to fall into and grabs your attention to the very end. It is a style particularly favoured by rob mclennan and above/ground press, a new take on New Age poetry. A captivating look at inculcated values and attitudes, a social justice rally cry, from the crime scene N.A. a brilliant read from Poet Pearl Pirie.

Available @ above/ground press.











“quiet jet

haunts an orange Summer sky ..”


 
pinné noire

by

Rebecca Anne Banks



fashion clothes

haunt a black and brown winter movie

smelling fish hut

the sunlight across the water

holdin’ onto blueschool

o’ chacocoa

oui, sunny sambroka

radioman

food in the day nights

lookin’ for sunshine.










 
Biography


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in Montreal. She has written 23 books of poetry, a family cookbook and a book on discernment in marriage all available on www.amazon.ca. She is the Artist/CEO at Tea at Tympani Lane Records ( www.tympanilanerecords.com) and the Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca).

Danielle Bedard. “A native of Québec, Canada, Danielle Bédard studied at Champlain College in film and photography followed by an intense commercial photography program at college Marsan. Her love of photography began after her parents gave her a 35mm SLR on her 9th birthday. In 1998, Danielle began her photography career, covering major events in the music industry in Montreal, Toronto, Ottawa and Vancouver. Her work has been sold, exhibited and published in several news papers and magazines.” from http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/danielle-bedard.html.

Gina Nemo lives in Los Angeles, she has been writing poetry, songs and stories since she was a child. She received an international award for her role in the hit television show “21 Jump Street” (which was presented by Bob Hope) many years ago on Canadian TV. Since the 90’s she has been singing, producing and writing music and releasing albums. She has also been producing and directing television and also writing for various print and web based mediums. She has also been producing and directing television and also writing for various print and web based media outlets.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate, ex civil servant and Salford born and bred. His poem Exotic Birds is currently published in the Huffington Post USA with other poems published in many anthologies, journals and magazines. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical. My books: Lulu.

John Keats is a celebrated English Romantic Poet born in London, England. He writes lyric ballads and odes that grow in popularity. His father died when he was 8 years old and the mother eventually left the children to be raised by her mother. His literary studies showed promise, yet he was formally trained as a chemist. He continued to write and be published despite being criticized by contemporary literary journals. He contracted tuberculosis after a love affair with Fanny Howe whilst weathering in Rome, Italy. Major works include Endymion, Ode on a Grecian Urn, Ode to a Nightengale, On Autumn, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems amongst others.

Pearl Pirie is Poet, an editor, gives poetry workshops, publishes Chapbooks and ephemera from the micropress phafours press and has been published in journals (filling station, Hava LeHaba, Branch, Truch, Peter F Yacht Club, The Puritan, Ottawater amongst others), and produced Chapbooks (Corrupt Press, obvious ephiphanies press, above/ground press amongst others). She has also published books of poetry been shed bore (Chaudiere Books, 2010) Thirsts (Snare, 2011) and forthcoming is Quebec Passages (Noun Trivet Press, 2014) and pet radish, shrunken (Book Thug, 2015) and has received numerous prizes.