Welcome. Subprimal Poetry Art looks toward poetry, flash fiction, music, and art work that takes the reader / viewer / listener out of the ordinary and into a place altered from that which they normally experience. In an enjoyable, thought-provoking way. Many of our written pieces are set to a custom musical composition to complement the author's recording. We pay our contributors.
March 10, 2017: Our Spring 2017 issue is on the way. All final decisions have been made, and we're in production mode. We should be ready around the end of the month or early April. Many thanks to everyone who sent work our way.
Meanwhile, you can take a look at the Fall/ Winter 2016 issue of Subprimal Poetry Art, with author's readings set to custom musical compositions and video (hosted on our YouTube channel). Here's some excerpts from this issue.
When my 25-year-old son died in a snowboarding accident on December 27, 2000, I was writing about raising my two kids, being a poet and teaching, and how each of these three vocations informed the others.
Now my beautiful son, who was to marry his fiancé Kristen in five months, was dead. Hundreds of miles from where it had happened, I obsessed about how there must have been something I could have done to stop this accident. Like so many who have suffered loss, I lived with a barrage of what-if-I-had-only-done-this-or-that’s, no matter whether I could have taken those actions that day or the day before or even years before his accident. Since I had failed as a parent, I didn’t deserve to write. Writing was a discovering, a becoming. I didn’t want to discover or become anything, only to have my son back…
The scene at the sound was of light
hurtling toward the beach, dusk
turning the shore and sea oats granular
and vanishing in the shadows, alive
but crouched in a mode of surveillance,
patient for a glimpse of us, weathering…
Dear Suki: Rio de Janeiro, April 25th
at the top of the world, the fault down
the valley affords me an early morning
dream. My eyes meet the gorging sun,
fast as though through a musical box
to nettle my heart's roseate blooms. I
scale the concrete steps with you here,
gilt damask charts the seven notes in
my breaths breathed low. A wrenching
anecdote in succession of sounds are
my inverting sky without you. Dearest
Suki: you, who are never still, a restless
skirt tossing my brindled grey, a surface
to my bottom, always letting myself be
teemed with a luster so fine that I weave
stories depending on the slant of your sun.