Belinda Subraman has been writing and publishing for years. She had a ten year run editing and publishing Gypsy Literary Magazine 1984-1994. She edited books by Vergin’ Press, among them: Henry Miller and My Big Sur Days by Judson Crews. She also published Sanctuary Tape Series (1983-89) which was a mastered compilation of audio poetry and original music from around the world.
Belinda has been published in 100s of magazines, printed and online, academic and small presses. She has a Master of Arts from California State University. Her archives are housed at University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. Her latest book is Left Hand Dharma from (Unlikely Books).
In 2020 Belinda began an online show and journal called GAS: Poetry, Art & Music which features interviews, readings, performances and art shows available free at http://youtube.com/BelindaSubraman and https://gaspoertyartandmusic.blogspot.com
A scarf hides a biopsy bruise on the throat while I smile as if my dreams came true and choking was not an issue. Walking is painful but I must keep moving. I don’t want to lose fitness and my bones turn to dust before the grave. Patches, salves and pills take the edge off after yoga fails. Creating sometimes helps. Paint on my fingers reminds me I’m trying and these aching words. I can type today delete tomorrow. We’ll call this an exercise …on a heating pad.
Why It’s Hard to Visit
Maybe it’s the the years of calling my poems silly and useless because the lines didn’t rhyme and stealing my outgoing submissions from inside the mailbox before I was old enough to drive or leave home. It’s no wonder I took my poems when I left in a hurry. Everything I left behind, mother threw in the woods to rot. Or maybe it’s because she complains when I call at the appointed time that she’s eating or brushing her teeth or her son next door is calling and she’s got to go or maybe because, even though she has help I must wash the sheets, clean the room and move the junk she’s stored there before I can rest after 9 hours of layovers and connections. Or maybe it’s how she broke my cherished records outside my bedroom door my only place of refuge and the music that kept me alive. Or maybe it was the nights I sat with my dying father in the hospital but when I came home to rest she made me vacuum, dust and cook instead of sleep. I was born in the boonies where the male elders were mostly alcoholics and the women, bitter with religion raised daughters as domestic slaves and punching bags for disappointments. How bad she must have had it (continued) to have been so hard on me and how unaware I was raising daughters on my own. May they forgive me.
death is lights out like a coma or surgery but we won’t wake up the self imposed suffering of not mattering enough to live forever in movies, books or legend any lasting alter of love degrades our lives with pangs we are comforted knowing our dead loved ones will reach for us as we die hallucination or hope we like it we choose to believe in magic and forever to smooth the jagged edge and illusion of finality one of many realities we fail to discern as every molecule around us prickles beams life force sparks and radar’s connection we clutch still we fade away into the cycle of mattering where everything is enough