Poetry Month Newsletter Banished Poets Society: Katherine L. Gordon, editor

 

NEWSLETTER APRIL 2026  For National Poetry Month  THE BANISHED POETS SOCIETY APR 14   READ IN APP   This April, National Poetry Month Newsletter, The Banished Poets Society honours the power and passion of poetry to influence and impact the world with hope of transformation into peace and justice for every culture, every part of society. We salute George Elliott Clarke for his dedication to promote black culture in poetry and music. We note with pride that the first black astronaut went on the moon voyage, accompanied by a skillful woman and an astronaut wearing the indigenous wisdom of the cosmos, insignia embroidered on his jacket, examples of the equality of all cultures, the wondrous aspects of humanity seeing the dark side of the moon for the first time. They showed us a radiant Earth, pure poetry in cosmic music. This issue includes poetry from Italy, Israel, the U.S. many great Canadian poets and emerging poets from a variety of backgrounds who have found herein a platform to express past suppression, present hopes of healing and esteem. All reflect on the beautiful vulnerable humanity we all share, our growing recognition of evil politics that threaten liberty and life for so many. Speaking out now against cruelty and injustice we save democracy, we help to transform the Earth into its glorious potential. -Katherine L. Gordon. Editor. April, 2026 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Transcendence We have seen the glowing Earth from the dark side of the moon, rare, beautiful, worthy of cherishing, though its ancient dust no longer undisturbed or home to quiet craters of possibility but a frantic mix of bombs, bodies poverty and fear held hostage to the evil policies of tyrants. Trump, Netanyahu, Putin, the evil trinity eclipsing democracy. Yet the people are rising from the mountains and valleys the deserts and plains, the sea-shores, the forests, discovering that voices joined can change the world. This is the power of united human courage, poetry and passion, the music of the cosmos vibrating in waves that shape the future. A new era of transcendence is born. -Katherine L. Gordon ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gaza City Across the water across the bobbing, yellow-striped fishing boats in the long late light— we see the gold of Gaza City, sitting on the Mediterranean— its sandstone minarets, concrete apartment blocks, Byzantine architecture. And now more war is coming, bringing with it the weapon of enforced starvation. Omar Mukhtar Street, is soon to be blanketed with the gray powder of exploded and collapsed buildings. Soon to be like the rest of Gaza, where we see tens of thousands of the strewn dead, of whom other thousands are children. And other thousands of children are amputees— maimed children wander in the dust, maimed children, wandering in the dust. -Gene Grabiner ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Shimmer and Slime I have strolled down paths aglow with marigold shimmer, breathed in the tang of forever friends who've wandered along with me... side-stepped cracked and broken culverts skulking along the edges, their scent of brackish water as they seek their reflections at all costs. Marigolds are not famously fragrant, but their scent is one of honesty. - B. Alexander ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Washing Bananas I want to tell you how washing bananas is like writing a poem but the truth is more complicated than that I watch a woman working in the factory noise in Costa Rica music blaring over loud speakers roaring in the air like midnight torture in a American prison at Guantanamo Bay and she moves the bone machine of her body dipping her arms in the banana-floating water that washes the yellow crop with drippings of shipwrecked berries in clutchable bunches gripping each rinsed cluster and lashing them one by one into plastic baskets she pulls and shove pulls and shoves thereby filling her quota she’s dressed in a rubber bib running past her knees her hands gloved to the elbow a costermonger of the daily harvest she’s a cog and wheel of the human spirit paid by the dreary hour of each dolorous day the greengrocer’s serf and slave -John B. Lee ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dominion Day in Jail (celebration 1975) I spent last Dominion Day in jail in a cold cell on a steel bench - cold, sleepless, angry and proud tho almost wanting to feel foolish. Fed a cheeseburger and a coffee in 24 hours fingerprinted stripped of my shirt frogmarched - mugshot insulted. All this for the patriotic crime of daring to say YANKEE GO HOME! to the Yankee Shriners parading thru downtown Toronto. They thought it was the 4th of July (Canada Division). Cold, sleepless, hungry, angry PROUD that I was cold, sleepless, hungry, angry and not enjoying the July sun lounging on the green grass in Queen's Park or lining the parade route for the Shriners. This growing pride made my solitary jail cell a celebration of Dominion Day. -Chris Faiers ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Grave Digger, or Not Another Ode About the Trees I’ve learned I’ve pondered the trees in a fallacious way. Yes, I’m aware the poets gorge on oak & ash. A sycamore is less. Their buds outnumber the sand. But all this time their branches have been roots—roots have been their scions— stretching to a sacrilege of light, the undertow of earth. This is why the moles are nearly blind. Treasure at the bottom of abyss. Squinting’s a game for the quick & not the dead. Who decides what’s sky? Behold the flight of worms. Our grandson stomps on leaves to hear the crunching of their bones. This is something beauty cannot offer. Supple’s invariably soundless— which only the deaf can hear. A surface yet to wrinkle hasn’t lived. To wither is to feel the sigh of God. There below the stratum. Every stone a star. The basis for why you’ll stop at six feet down. Why you’ll roll your beloved over once the mourners sob & flee. Her dreams had always burrowed never soared. Your shovel like a staff that splits the sea. -Andreas Gripp -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Rise Of The Hydra We have been driven deep into the heart of our yearning, . . . — Robert Duncan Another spring-tide is threatened by war — war follows war as far back as memory lasts: Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, and now Iran. Maybe Cuba’s next? And still, human longing for peace persists. Today, government thugs in black masks beat and murder civilians, merely citizens who only desire freedom from violence. In this game there can be no winners; we will all be losers, or even dead. Six decades ago, Robert Duncan saw the Hydra break loose destroying bridges, temples, schools, rice fields, entire villages — entire villages. An ancient people faced the utter destitution of years of war. The young women and men who believed they could stop the killing displayed a raw courage and a truth that created a green place within the blind earth, a calm centre in the hurricane of fear. And yet the United States has resumed the slaughter of the innocents, the reign of wrath. How often will Herod return to inhabit the White House? School girls are hunted down in their classrooms, deserts have been turned into mass graves. As Ramadan and Lent fall together, waves of bombers thunder overhead. A whole region is laid waste. How many times must the Hydra rise? With each new war we are driven ever deeper into the heart of our yearning, deeper into our desperation for true brotherhood. We seem to have been fighting the Death Cult for generations, fighting the servants of evil forever. The sky’s aflame over the Persian Gulf. Outside, months of snow have been replaced by rain; we hunger for the new life we pray spring will bring. -James Deahl ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Mother Wise i Soft earth opens like a woman. Bulbs crown from her thighs and bloom. Fish swim from the river’s hips. But Mama is so small I am born of a wound. ii In a womb of time the midwives lay their hands on my twins’ damp heads. They will bury the placenta in the herb garden. Its fine hairs will sprout from the earth’s skin. Excerpts from Good Grief Shortlisted for the Next Generation Indie Book Awards and the Global Book Awards - April Bulmer ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- War Effects Child wanders in hunger this is not what life should be She looks to nearby adults does not understand differences Food must come from somewhere plentiful on shelves, not UN Aid boxes Enjoyment is not known to child only suffering amidst war rubble How dare nutrition is not available even worse as a tool of ultimate power Primary school should be for education not as a missile or drone target The word ‘War’ to stay in dictionaries What happened to classmates and teachers her playground to enjoy recess Rubble and dust landscape broken in wonderment Friends spontaneously cry over friends to never see again Someday, when this is over reunions will have somber moods Adult recollections of this disaster will forever need illness treatment - Ed Woods -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lament for a Homeland After Edwin Muir The anguish of plane engines in the night heading to one of our never-ending wars shatters our dreams; nightly we hear them roar, rumble like thunder, fade sound-smeared into the sky. Why? What has made this land so plagued, its promise unfulfilled, afraid of yet impatient for its doom, unable to make room enough between the river and the sea for both to share? Must it forever be all mine or only yours? We were beguiled like refugees returning to a lost isle by the mirage of a land, that once was ours, of milk and honey, eager to drink our fill; we were betrayed by decades of assumptions wrongly made finding not sweetness there, but bitter gall, the milk and honey turned to blood and dust; considering ourselves just, we did not heed the prophets warning us of future ills, telling us milk will curdle, honey clot, fruit slashed with swords will rot our silos will be empty in time of need; we, who through millennia never forgot this land, imagined they, its later conquerors, would fade away quietly, or let us in without a fight. While they believed false prophets who urged them to savage deeds for decades taught their children to hate, to kill and do so still. Extremists on both sides have sown this seed. Beguiled by We are right, betrayed by those who promised We will win, no need to compromise, ignoring even now the words of the wise, both sides, lying awake in darkness, hear over and over, these last hundred years the anguish of plane engines in the night. -Judy Koren ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Green to Heal Time does not pass In this garden of citrus and thyme With a sprinkling of dove And sunbird Where anemones thrive And a blackbird praises Spring And greens The colour of calm and healing Greens that ease The pain of war… -Helen Bar-Lev -------------------------------------------------------------------------- For March 1 Oh, Love, we were bubbles In the flotsam of time Part of this river Part of some rhyme All promises fulfilled All projects on hold We had so many rivers Before we grew old The March wind was singing Some wild hero’s song The canoe was ready The evenings grew long And now we’re a couplet In the epic of time We followed our rivers To the end of our rhyme All dreams and all rivers To the end of our rhyme - Lenny Everson -------------------------------------------------------------------------- APPEAL TO POETS Poets, come out of your closets, open your windows, open your doors, you have been holed-up too long in your closed worlds. Lawrence Ferlinghetti - Populist Manifesto Poets, let’s write words of Hope for every country at war where homes collapse, like sandcastles at high tide, where an opaque veil fills the air and eyes are full of terror where children’s laughter is too often silenced…. Poets, let’s spread words of Peace on the far horizon there is a promise, waiting to bloom. -Lidia Chiarelli --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gift of India gift of india gift of bones gift of colour in the trees silver round the ankles glass around the wrist dust in cloudy eyes, and clouds, themselves, like ash i asked my eyes they sang inward, nameless tunes my ears rang dry through all the drenching dazzling afternoons i asked for nothing but to crouch within the crowds the feet trampling the dust below the clouds above the music of the anklets set a ringing and a numbing while the heat-dazed insects stared i asked no gift, but it was given anyway for the sound of the cicadas for the smell of tamarind and tangy urine for the incense toiling upward for the small waxy flowers with no voices for the mindless march of feet beating even in the rain they have taken all my numbers and the letters of my name and given me these inward eyes, overcast and tuneless like the eyes of the beggars in the lanes -kymme sun ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Transformation Nature in eternal cycle, greens the Earth rainbows her fields with flowers buds fruit trees with promise of sustenance. Poets transform war-burdened lands with hope and forceful voices visioning equality of justice, truth and sharing. Speak your protests, embrace every culture, all the dispossessed and weary. Together we create transformation. -Katherine L. Gordon -------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE BANISHED POETS SOCIETY's Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell THE BANISHED POETS SOCIETY's Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. Pledge your support   LIKE COMMENT RESTACK   © 2026 THE BANISHED POETS SOCIETY 548 Market Street PMB 72296, San Francisco, CA 94104  Unsubscribe

announcing The Banished Poets Society

 

July 30, 2025

Dear Chris,

         I think this may be of interest to you:

Announcing the Advent of The Banished Poets Society.

Some of the founding members include Becky Alexander, April Bulmer, James Deahl, Katherine L. Gordon, Andreas Gripp.

No fees required, no costly contests or arranged readings. What you will receive is a monthly printed newsletter with every contributor's work published in that month, mailed to them each month. Poets are free to read their newsletters in whatever setting they choose.

We are hoping for poems that represent all cultures: Palestinian, Jewish, immigrants of every culture, black and indigenous poets who need their voices heard, the marginally suppressed in a tough economy, those who yearn to find their unique places, their own spirits and meaning in a challenging era. We hope to reflect the true spirit of the turbulent 21^st, the glory of its diversity in loving and living.  Poetry is a universal language as is music. Your work will not be channelled or changed to suit the opinions of others. Just express it beautifully.

It won't be boring, it might be startling, but it might open the door to the harsh reality and sometimes wonder around us. It is time that we allowed our poetry to do that.

Please send suggestions and inquiries to: klgordonpoet@gmail.com

Send your monthly poem to:

Katherine L. Gordon

104 Alma Street South

Guelph, Ontario

N1H 5W9

         Perhaps you could help spread the word.

Fraternally,

         . . . James

email from Katherine L. Gordon:

You are a welcome member now. Just a poem a month and you will get a newsletter.  Please send me your return address for the mailing.

We have to change the current stagnant poetry scene and hear from suppressed and side-lined poets, no fees, this is my work of the heart for all of us. We need 

diverse points of view, all cultures. You are certainly a new era poet.  I am well Chris  Hugs from Katherine.

The 

Banished

Poets

Society 

 

      A Periodic Poetry Newsletter Produced by

Valley Press

QUERN: beerzen appreciation of a new anthology

 

I found this mini-anthology stuffed in my mailbox last nite 
courtesy of Stan White (thanks, Stan!).

Today I took it to my ZenRiver Gardens retreat, & gave it the shaman
shack deck test - would the poetry be powerful enough to hold my focus, or
would the dakinis singing in the river and the songbirds flustering about
hold sway? A couple of cans of Stella Artois added to the challenge -
the truth test of beerzen.

This isn't a review in any formal sense, just an appreciation of sorts. Perhaps
more an I Ching throwdown of casualness and causality.  My lefthandedness
dictates that I start poetry collections at the back & work forward. I dog-eared
those poems which spoke to me, sipped the Stellas, & took a few breaks to
water the transplanted pines.

The poems which spoke to me were all surprises. I didn't pay attention to the
poets, I just read & re-read those poems which appealed on first go-through.
Here are excerpts from the poems which spoke more passionately than the luring
river nymphs whispering in ZenRiver.



from Yellow Bird
(Stan White)

It struck the windshield,
fluttered, then was gone;
I watched it dwindle
in the rear-view glass
to fall a yellow asterisk
upon the road.


from Fish Fry
(Wendy Visser)

I think of my father
during shock treatments
and how he flip-flopped
like fish before gutting. 


from Early Winter Rain
(Katherine L. Gordon)

The rains have melted the sun
wrapped all the trees and grasses
in a mist of mystery.


from The Magic Show
(Lenny Everson)

The magic show is over
The circus, deep in rust
And questions asked when I was born
Are answered now, with dust


from The Corn People
(Becky Alexander)

And at the sail of harvest moon,
a full awakening,
amber eyes reflect the stars,
and the Corn People march
in midnight maze -
row, by row, by row. 


There is an easy sense of community reflected in the work of
the eight poets presenting here. The beautifully casual introduction
to Wendy Visser's section conveys this feeling of friendship
well.

If you were to drop by Wendy's place for a cup of tea and a
chat, she'd tell you about growing up in what was then a small
town with a big history for it was the home of both a famous
inventor and a Six-Nations' Mohawk poetess. Her eyes would
take on that far away look and her voice the timbre of
reminiscence as she recalls family picnics at the Bell Homestead.

This afternoon I felt a part of this poetic community.

Quern, 2013, 68 pages, np given
ISBN 978-0-9810318-7-3
Serengeti Press
Box 146, RR #3
Puslinch, Ontario
N0B 2J0


 note: The poets live in south-west Ontario. I couldn't help but
think of Sheila Martindale & her many poetic activities in this
area years ago with South West Ontario Poetry: SWOP  

Chris Faiers
June 27, 2013
(on the eve of my 65th birfday - who'd a thunk!)

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Conrad DiDiodato has left a new comment on your post "QUERN: beerzen appreciation of a new anthology":

Thanks, bro
It was a privilege to be published in"Quern" by Serengeti, one of Ontario's very best 'people's poetry' presses.

And, oh, Happy B-Day, Chris!

Discarded beer bottle in the rain--
my 65th!

Posted by Conrad DiDiodato to Riffs & Ripples from ZenRiver Gardens at 28 June 2013 05:09

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Many thanks for the kudos, Chris. I have directed the submitters to your blog.

Good luck with Purdyfest. Would like to go but getting too old not to sleep in my own bed.

Much appreciated,

Stan.

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It's a tight & unified little anthology. Guess I already said most things in my posting ...
Thanks again for sending it to me, Stan  :  )
 
Blogging is a great way to give an immediate response, unlike the bad old
days of pondering over writing a review, making sure it's 'academically' sound,
with just enough criticism to pass muster, & theeennnnnnnn ... waiting months or
years for your opinion to reach other lit lovers so they can share.

peace & poetry power!
Chris & Chase Wrffffffffffffff!

p.s. I'm the same way re my own bed - people assume I camp at ZRG, but I like
to spend the aft there, & then return home for a shower & freshly chilled beer  :  )
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Andreas Gripp has left a new comment on your post "QUERN: beerzen appreciation of a new anthology":

glad you liked the anthology, Chris. thanks for the plug. cheers.

Posted by Andreas Gripp to Riffs & Ripples from ZenRiver Gardens at 28 June 2013 14:47
     
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Ellen S.Jaffe has left a new comment on your post "QUERN: beerzen appreciation of a new anthology":

Lovely blog/review/meditation,Chris.

I wrote the back-cover blurb and share your feelings about entering this community of poets and poetry.

Ellen S.Jaffe

Posted by Ellen S.Jaffe to Riffs & Ripples from ZenRiver Gardens at 28 June 2013 15:04
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Thanks Ellen  :  ) As I enjoyed the antho back to front, your backcover blurb set the
tone for my appreciation.
- Chris
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