Blue Rooms, Black Holes, White Lights

By Belinda Subraman

As a Registered Nurse, Belinda Subraman has worked in several difficult areas, but from 2001 to 2007 she was working as a hospice nurse. Hospice is the art of preparation, and when Belinda's own father reached his final days in 2008, she took what preparation she had and flew back to Carolina to assist him in his passage. No doubt she was more aware than most of us that no preparation is adequate.

Unlikely Books is privileged to present the resulting book of poetry, Blue Rooms, Black Holes, White Lights. It is not an easy book of poetry to read. It is easy enough to understand—though Belinda's extensive poetic education is clear, this is essentially plain-language poetry, written to be accessible by anyone. But Belinda's brutal analysis of her grief brings the reader's own tragedies into sharp definition. The book mercilessly explores the author's most painful memories, and aspires to share the most fundamental aspects of human experience with the reader. It is by turns discomfiting and comforting, in the way that great poetry is meant to be.

Blue Rooms, Black Holes, White Lights contains thirty poems by Belinda Subraman and five full-color images by César Ivan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Unlikely Books
• Release date: Dec 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301627608

Book preview

Invisible Journey

(last night’s dream)

We were on a bus to the airport,

studying our fears.

(The world gave us crackers

as we sought peas).

We worried our plane tickets

were in our suitcases

on their way to somewhere else

then we were told

we needed no fare

for the plane where we would be.

Then something I don’t remember…

and we’re on a ship

feeling the liquid motion of the earth.

We were calm,

expecting to arrive.

The moment came

and we were asked to cross a line

and meet our greeters.

As we looked up into faces

we saw ourselves

with new eyes,

same hair, same skin.

Blue Room

Wildlife flickers above the fan.

A hummingbird approaches.

A plane lands on the wall.

A lace wedding cake flutters in the breeze.

Buddha appears with light and stone.

Ashes surround the pagoda.

A book and father lie waiting.

The fame of love is framed

above a door’s encryption.

A camel prances with a prince and a woman.

Flowers are mistaken.

A change of season brings armies and storms.

A tall thin bookcase holds

a Moroccan rug down.

An Italian bed holds up the dog and pillows.

The TV is blind without birds.

Tiny life takes over.

A thousand calls of night paint the mood.

Thin caskets of words and sound

slide into frames.

Neon sculptures dip down from the ceiling.

A hum of blades disturb the throat.

Hands tilt upwards.

Nothing can be said that is news.

A corner is filled with mosaic nakedness.

Santa sits near a fairy and a beer

above a steeple in a bookshelf of dreams.

A folding angel hovers over flowers

and a sweet but angry man.

Kleenex unfolds and catches.

The pink column of myth and wood

supports air and possibilities.

A tree lamp grows under mirrors.

A woman meditates, floating.

Her breast wears hats from many lands.

Her crotch is laid with red tile.

Moths thump the beaded sameness

of a hat-framed lamp.

A purple dragon across the room

shines with amethyst eyes.

Bugs and the dog fade as soon

as light turns inward.

A change of season brings armies and storms.

A thousand calls of night paint the mood.

Nothing can