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╔════════ November 1994 ════════════════════════ Volume 2, Number 11 ════════╗ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ █▀█ █▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀█ █▀█ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █▀▀▀▀▀ ▀█ █▀█ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀▀▀ ▀█ █▀ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ ▀▀▀ █ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ ▀█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █▀█ █▀ █ █▀▀█ █ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █▀ ▀▀▀ █ █ █ █ ▀█ █ █ █ █ █▀▀▀▀ █ █▀ ▀█ █ ▀▀▀▀█ ║ ║ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╓──┐ ─┬─ ╓──┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╓─╖ ┬ ╓──┐ ╥─ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ║ ║ ╟──┤ │ ║ │ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║ ║ ╨ ┴ ╙─┘ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╓─╥─┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ║ ║ ║ ╟──┤ ╟─ ╟──┘ ║ │ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ╟──┤ ╟─┬┘ ║ ╙──┐ ║ ║ ╨ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨──┘ ╨ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙──┘ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ Editor: Klaus J. Gerken ║ ║ Associate Editors: Paul Lauda ║ ║ : Pedro Sena ║ ║ : Gay Bost ║ ║ Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy ║ ║ European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╚════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ╥─╖ ╥ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╟─╢ ╟─╢ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ╙─╖ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╨ ╜ ╙ ╨─╜ ╙── ╙── ╙─╜ ╨ ╙─╜ ╙─╜ ╨ ╙ ╨ ╙── ╨ ╙ ╨ ╙─╜ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ INTRODUCTION................................Klaus J. Gerken Reflections.................................Marilyn Hutchings Through A Mirror Darkly.................... Marilyn Hutchings On Mending Childhood's Petticoats...........Gay Bost Clear definitions...........................Gay Bost Character Resolution........................Gay Bost Echoed......................................Gay Bost She being non being.........................Gay Bost Wake Up Call For Zero Hour..................Gay Bost Restructuring, Canto I......................Klaus J. Gerken Men made the World..........................Jim Yagmin Does the Morning Start too Late?............Jim Yagmin Wink of a Dead Man..........................Jim Yagmin Leda........................................Steve Bliss Rachel......................................Steve Bliss Five Plums..................................Steve Bliss wine........................................Michael Kelly shesaid.....................................Michael Kelly 5-5-94 and so forth.........................Michael Kelly online......................................Michael Kelly anotherniteofprimetime......................Michael Kelly careless end of...something...?.............Igal Koshevoy Estranged...................................Greg Schilling POST SCRIPTUM...............................Peter Handke ▀█▀ █▀█ █ ▀▀█▀▀ █▀▀█ █▀▀█ ▀█▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀▀ ▀▀█▀▀ ▀█▀ █▀▀█ █▀█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █▀█▀ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀ ▀ ▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ Someone asked me the other day how Ygdrasil is managed, and what each editor's responsibility is. Well, there is no real itinerary. While Editors are not assigned a role per se, they usually manage to find their own niche. Ygdrasil, is governed by an equality of purpose, shared among all the editors. While I, holding the position of Founder and Editor in Chief, have a veto of anything that can be admitted to the pages of Ygdrasil, this veto is rarely enforced, and each editor has a free voice in determining what should or should not be contained in its pages. For instance, Editors have the right to edit an edition of the magazine whenever they feel they have enough material, or wish to do an issue which pertains to a special topic. Any editor on the staff, who wishes to do this, will retain complete editorial freedom, and unless the issue in question will damage Ygdrasil's credibility, I will not interfere. Furthermore Editors are free to pass poems to me for inclusion, and these will in not be questioned. Each of the editors have brought their own special functionality: Paul Lauda, is the editor directly responsible for the distribution of Ygdrasil; Pedro Sena has chosen to edit his own fine editions; and Igal Koshevoy, our Production Editor, oversees the format and finer points of the magazine's layout. Once he puts his stamp of approval on each edition, it will be released. On the other hand Milan George Djordjevitch has been our European connection. Also, with this edition Gay Bost, who has, throughout the past year, contributed many fine poems, not only her own, but also those of others as well, joins our staff. It will be interesting to see what role will evolve for her with each new issue. Her fine sense of poetry, and erudite intelligence will be of immense benefit to the evolution of Ygdrasil. Poems come to us through various avenues, but most of all through the Centipede Network, which originates out of Lawrenceville, New Jersey, and Paul Lauda's Revisions Systems BBS (the phone number can be found at the end of this edition). After all, Ygdrasil and Centipede are linked as an integral part of each other, and the Centipede Poetry Conference remains the main avenue for submissions to Ygdrasil: but under no circumstances will we refuse submissions through other means. Ygdrasil's address is provided at the end of the Magazine, and we have had a fair number of submissions in this manner -- indeed it is hoped that submission will be obtained from writers who do not have access to the Centipede Network (although we hope eventually all will be curious enough to seek it out), which means that Ygdrasil has gained an audience beyond the Information Highways. Poems of any length and of any topic are acceptable, as are Plays and Prose Pieces. But the Plays and Prose Pieces should be kept fairly short, although nothing will be rejected on length alone. Keep in mind that Ygdrasil is still a Journal of Poetry, and that should be the primary focus of anything submitted for inclusion in its pages. A final note on contributions. We would dearly love to be able to pay for contributions, but as it stands, and since Ygdrasil is a non-profit enterprise, it should be realized that this is not a credible situation. The main purpose of Ygdrasil has always been to provide poets with the widest possible audience, whether here in North America, or in Europe (and hopefully, at some point, throughout the world). It is hoped that though Ygdrasil, the poets printed in these pages will gain a much deserved audience, and hopefully wider publication and acknowledgement. If you have the good fortune to have read a copy of Ygdrasil, please drop us a line. We would be very interested in hearing from you, indeed it is very important, because only through feedback from you, the reader, can we, indeed make Ygdrasil a truly universal vehicle for the art of poetry. ╥ ╓─ ─╥─ ╓─── ╖ ── ╟─╨╖ ║ ║ ╓╖ ╓╖ ╓╖ ║/ ╓╖ ╓╖ ╨ ╨ ╙─╜ ╙──╜ ╙─ ╙ ╙╙ ╙─ ╙╙ REFLECTIONS ~~~~~~~~~~~ On the other side of the window Vehicles are driving through intersections People stroll and bike the sidewalks-- Outward signs of busy lives on the go. On the other side of the window Heads are not bent over papers and books Pens and pencils don't scratch and scroll Across blue lines--row after row. On the other side of the window Feet tread across thresholds to banks and bakeries Factories and photo studios day after day No thought beyond the everyday to and fro. On the other side of the window Books are not scoured for theme and meaning Libraries are not haunted for obscure notes Decisions are not made to increase what is known. On the other side of the window Colors, when combined, create enmity Lifestyle choices bring people to the brink of war Religion becomes a means of hate to sow. On the other side of the window Values are not examined for validity Stereotypes are not exploded--myths debunked Traditions are set in stone to keep the status quo On the other side of the window Life goes on--unexamined The merely mundane, an end in itself No questions asked--contentment sits on a shelf. -- Marilyn Hutchings September 1994 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ "...THROUGH A MIRROR DARKLY" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We use the mirror to study our countenance Our hair, our teeth, our clothes. Does it reflect our inner self Can it see past the hoax? In the mirror is an image of the person whom I try to be-- Sometimes the face that's reflected back Is a person I have never seen. -- Marilyn Hutchings September 1994 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ For Marilyn... · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · On mending childhood's petticoats. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's life I've dreamt of, lately In the darkness of the light In the shadows of the morning dew I've tried to stretch my sight. There's something there, I know Beneath time's fallen leaf There's something hiding gently Between old lesson's grief. A ray of laughter, soundless Slipped under proprieties' skirt A rustling, pinned up nicely Tucked into childhood's shirt Ah, there, walks the mystery It is my daughter's face It is within my own tired grasp That stumbling, growing grace. -- Gay Bost September 10, 1994 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Clear Definitions ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ One-eyed minstrel in a travelling show leather and ribbons and Poetry to Go. Over her shoulder a nap sack, slung canvas and lace and songs unsung. It's a load, it's a drag on weary feet thankless occupation carrying a beat. Ignoble tradition dressed in tidy rags bearing stories in empty bags. Come she here to Del Tachi's place arriving at sunset riding apace. Speaking in riddles the bartender hears whispered confusion dusty tears. Land bound grey dragon, wings hung slack unresolved mystery monkey on his back. A drink and a word and a ripe illusion wink of an eye mist diffusion. A character in a story, a player in a show leather and ribbons and Poetry to Go. -- Gay Bost September 10, 1994 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Character Resolution ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Truncated role, clipped personae Snide remarks, mana e' mana. Afraid she's mad, she's gone wild Gutter mouthed, street child. Trimmed at the wing, grounded third She's come loose,strange bird. Back of the alley, trash can fire Fingerless gloves, leather attire Bootless feet shod in alien skin Tapered tales, newspaper thin. Endless repeat, partially revealed Destiny's Rider, Fate-sealed. Ghostly vision on Eternity's road Frogless Princess, astride a Toad. -- Gay Bost September 10, 1994 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Echoed ~~~~~~ In all the empty places In maze and empty hall A listener hears the wailings A wanderer hears the call Within, without, the palaces Below upon the lane There is a blind girl searching with soot smudged tears of pain "Are you my love?" She begs of each As outward looks Her empty reach "Are you my love?" As they pass by Those strangers For whom the blind cry. In lofty garret,vacant now There lived a poet,fair 'Tis long since he has gone Away to none know where "Where art, My love?" His words lay bare Upon the empty pages 'Oft writ in pain "Where art, My Love?" He cries so sweet For strangers who will never meet. In all the empty places Behind the hallowed doors Upon the wind swept heath Deep beneath the Moors There is a Lady wailing There is a Lord gone cold A singer sings the saga An ancient tale re-told And all the wandering listeners The minstrels dressed in care Repeat the age old echoes Of the love that was not there. -- Gay Bost September 7, 1994 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ She being non-being, she being a vessel of empty places... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She contemplates the empty space which sits beside her, silent. She walks the roads of solace, now, a wish, illusive,gone, The vacant hand, the full, and weighs the balance scales of life Loss and gain revisited. Too young, too old, to feel to the rift Too weak to bare the gift Too weary, too worn, too trapped within To speak the words she cannot form She speculates upon the void and searches through the stars She dreams the light years by reflected water wheels The empty land, the fool, and waits, the balance, scaling life Less and more, resisted. Too young, too old, to ride the rift To seek the barren reef Too bleary, too torn, too wrapped, without To sing the songs she sees reborn She integrates the destitution while wrestling with the joy. She rides the waves of constant change between old patterns, new The forsaken band, the tool, and sways, in balance, sailing life Peace and war, recanted. -- Gay Bost September 7, 1993 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Wake Up Call for Zero Hour ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Arise, awake, slumberer The dream is nigh,anon Come lift the weary, Come feed the restless ones. With tattered veils and tales They call Come bid them fare And kiss their brows Their worried, weathered Woes set free in West Winds' howling It calls. Come up! Enough of sleep. Enough of life's delusions Tried and dried on stalks Of walking maze king's Whispering lies He calls. On ancient child anew Forever born upon the dew Come quick, come now Before the frost sets seals Upon the door She calls Oh, Mother,Daughter, Sister, Friend! I beg, I plead I pray. Come forth, come play Come hither, Lady Free I call. Am all I'm thee. -- Gay Bost August 31, 1994 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ RESTRUCTURING ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Canto I Leaves Bright yellow leaves Covering a faded lawn Around the Johnston House On Metcalf Street A golden blanket of appeal A history lesson The very simple structure Asking "Is it real?" Chill winds Autumn Wet street Deserted Strange From Parliament To the Museum of Natural History Where huge woods Woolly Mammoths Still roam Upon an timeless hill Half hidden by the Shrubbery And black bones sparkling tar-black diamonds Stand displayed Solid, cold And seemingly invincible On my way to get the Sunday New York Times Sunday morning White cat purring Waiting patiently On life's peripheral In a weeded back-yard Alley way Beside an old brick house Jammed between Two modern high-rises blatantly obstructive of the cold green edge of a blue horizon Paper-twisting wreckage In the twirling tap-dance Wind Hair awry White cat stares at me Green eyes We are one in compromise "You go your way, I'll go mine" Past th'Iraqi Embassy Iron gates around And then the one stationary Blue police car Officer apparently oblivious to any pedestrian reading a magazine Guard duty must be lonely In the night Disposable bums A siren shatters Bank Street There is a full flat moon In the sleepy morning sky The parking lots are empty Two young girls Walking briskly On the side walk opposite Giggle Share a private joke Look at me I see theirs and my own reflection In the one-way office glass Enclosure Bundled in red and blue Ski jackets Tight blue jeans Pony tails Rosy cheeks And Ah the unassuming Breath of youth Frisking in the Autumn Air Broken clouds Upon the far horizon Glimpsed at only fleetingly Between the ruddy colour Of stone buildings And the maples down the street The sun is in the south-east Scattering its pristine rays Like a foreign god among us Ah would Ihknaten be here now Ra would have a different face! The white cat follows me Through the alleys Down the streets Across the parking lots On a journey through my History Not forgotten But remembered in a Misty autumn atmosphere Twenty years ago I walked these same streets With a camera And have these faded Photographs reminding me The true past only Has existence in our minds Never in a physical Reality I do not invoke the Same reality These twenty odd years later For your heart was burning With desire then Desire of life Of living Love Desire of an Exploration I surmise that youth Experiences new While age must deal with A desperate familiarity Some side-step this by a constant Travelling Some by just ignoring Other by refusing Everything "Je Reviens Je Reviens" And as I comprehend reality Reality holds no new Surprise And the burden of the poet Taints his wounded words I was born in the spring of '49 The day young Mao-tse-tung Began his long cold march "That year a bloody battle raged" "The scars on the mountain path" "Made it lovelier today." He wrote in one of his poems And it is almost an expression On the life I journeyed on "The scars upon the mountain path" "Make it lovelier today." And why should this have touched Me so? Why should I have been The one to feel these lines Scrape clear the living sinuses of my soul? Far out of the shivering shadow And into the selectively warm sun On Elgin Street More people I have come to shun "You seem to be an old Egyptian, dry, stale and dusty. Lips are cold, sandy and chapped, Like the rest of you. No one has ever seen you Walking down Elgin Street Or in love, or anything but Reacting to the world with a Smug stare. In fact I think You Are Dead." The poem echoes dully Through my brain But of course it wasn't true At the moment it was written I was much in love with some Blond beauty in the realm of Arts and strange commitment Both revealed the same And why should Elgin Street Be the odd-street out The one street above all others We had come to know Where dreams were free of valour And where sex and drugs Were handed out With such abandon (Youth is such a strange conductor Hardly sees the world at all) But today I am on a mission And I see no person gathering Commitment on a revamped Tourist avenue With sidewalk clubs and restaurants BMW's parked idly While their owners Sip their cafe au lait Just the cat and me Walking down the street What used to be a forest clearing And a swamp Before the "Christians" came Before diversity of cultures Clashed like cymbals in the discord Of an orchestra And what has this clashing Of divergent cultures centuries ago To do with me? Having come here Brought here actually by parents Who sought what? They were not Poor. They lived a good life Where they were. "To give you, A better life," my mother said, Meaning me. But my cousins and The relatives who stayed behind Have just as good a life, if not Better -- they have still their history And culture, while I've become a breed- Of-Half in both --neither Belonging solidly to me and Exiled from the other. And yet it is a new identity Something only Destiny could Push into a life. And every day It haunts me like a curse A corpse upon my back The coffin of my past And the coffin of my future Life and death - that's it! Shouldn't be surprised The poet always works with Difficulty in himself The past hides beneath a Plethora of metaphors and Allusions and strange exotic Landscapes - and sometimes Even God. The cat meows - She speaks to me She is trying to tell me something - "It's ok, I'll lead you home" I say, as if a comfort to a Blind lost man, who somehow Is not lost at all, and wants to Comfort you by asking for your help. The cat curls up beside the door, A youthful looking beggar asks for change. I shrug my shoulders, hold out my own Empty hands and close my curtained eyes, As if to say "I have no money" and go in. One can smell the intellectual Atmosphere. The newsprint, the international Newsprint; the selections of a civilized Communion. A shelf for sports, or food, Or Nature, Science, Media and Politics, More for computers, and gossip...man appeared And man communicated, interchange of true And false ideas; from the static to the Flexible; from the profound to the Absurd. I look around, shuffle past The crammed-in bodies shuffling for Position at the counter. But still Too well organized for me. Long ago A block away, down the street Another store: magazines and papers In a an awful heap. No clear order - I could Browse and still "discover" things -- I used to come there every sunday From across the river just for these "Discoveries"... Obscure magazines, Little known anthologies, and the work of poets Still unknown and for that, still driving Taxies now; more unknown than ever. But I never forgot their first impressions On a fertile mind. With me always, even Though the physical example of their Proof is gone. A mindscape. A past To shape the future. A quiet grave... But still a mighty cornerstone In the cemetery of Ideas. And not just these, but also the "hidden" Second-hand book sellers, one, now gone, replaced By a sterile mirror-window office block. A tower that reflects the sun without restraint, Back into the sun, while pedestrians below Accrue their merit in the shadows far below, On Bank Street (Rue Bank) for we are all bilingual here. Or on Rue Metcalf (Metcalf Street), in the Shadow of the Tower -- That is where I first Discovered Balzac, Wagner, Rimbaud, Keats and later Also Carlisle, Arnold, Swinburne, Tennyson and Browning and this englishman who had a Tuscan name: Rossetti, with his fine attuned poetry That made the english language one with Dante, Cavalcanti and with Villon too. Where I first knew the ancients; where I Sought the secrets of a sacred youthful Indiscretion, hungry in the desert of decay, In the boundless dunghill of our history. I breathed atoms --breathing soul-- A perfect harmony -- wooden shelves On crumbling bricks -- stacked Precariously at odds with gravity, That one was almost fearful of the Touching of a book, lest the whole side Crumbled into dust. Bytown bookstore, That is where I read the London Times Of 1865 and found the first editions (Yet Unread, untouched by human hands at 50 cents) of Byron, Joyce and Kafka --- I remember fondly an old paperback Edition, in German, of grave Wittgenstein, And a volume of Clausentum -- And the simple structured But still profound works of Simenon - (But that was later, I Digress, at another store on Bank) Which later moved to Sparks In the basement next a Barber Shop, Where I found again my three Golden bound volumes of the Hinayana Buddhist Texts I had sold When I was wanting for the money Mortals need to live. But That was long ago, when Trudeau Was the rage in Politics And I was ready to assault The world and knew of no Restraint. Everything was part Of the Ideal. I step Up to the counter, pay my Dollars to the clerk (Pretty Smiling beauty) and head out Into the city street. The cat Meows, and stretches slow And steady and deliberate. Another beggar has replaced The one before: "Any change?" "Sorry." We pass on. The cat and I. Logic dictates a reservoir The cat and I Mythology Rite of Isis Aphrodite -- Jesus The Heretic King Icknaten Founder of a dynasty Apart from Egypt's old cosmogony -- And where Jesus died upon a mythic cross. The cat has always been a sacred entity From Cynthia the Huntress To Ptah, the perfect God. Or Hathor and of isis, Of Sappho, queen of hearts. I continue on The cat just follows me. No. The cat must lead. The cat is leading me. She teaches me I who think to know so much And end up knowing little. But a desperate quest is lonely. The cat knows this and walks Beside me as an equal. The cat's aware of what my Life has meant these past few days. The torment and the torture. The knowledge of "Misunderstanding" The "trying to explain" The hope that something matters The hope "I'm not alone." It's a lazy step to follow When the track is cracked and torn. What then of the train? The destination? I cannot stop the train can't even sound the "alarm" A frightful stranger unto me Tell me something Can I really be the only one Who longs to be alone? Many moments like a nest of rats I have been in danger Of annihilation -- Of being so discovered. I could not go on: This lie to live with is a terror The darkest moments come alone -- No one there to help me. I knock, and no one's home. I can't express it otherwise: They live, I die. A slow deliberate unworthy suicide. I stop for a red light. The cat rubs up beside me. The cat purrs. I try to pick her up, But she refuses me. I am not her master. I am not "superior" We are peers. Although I do not seem to know The cat already understands. I cross the street And pause before a building Where I used to live "Domesticated" so to say, With a wonderful companion 7 Years -- and what became Of it? A wild despair? One? Two? maybe more -- But I, committed to this "suicide" Made good rot of the foundation. Of a "perfect match". But neither was it bad Nor was it perfect And the memories I've hidden Like I've hidden all the memories That are not "perfect" -- the Memories that deal with pain. It seems colder now There's a brash wind That rustles leaves And rearranges things. We are almost back To where we met This cat and I. We are almost back To the "returning" The beginning of the Quest -- And the "parting" also I suppose. The restless questing Of a restless soul -- Condemned forever Stones on back To circle Hell. So the summer left us Fast enough -- A scattered year -- A year of clearer focus And of hope -- Of building something new And that would last --- A year of building bridges From the past Into the future Exciting and unknown -- A year of writing Poems And communication-- And still a year of Loneliness of being Stood apart And the image In a shattered mirror (Cubist repercussions Cross-word puzzle As an orator on Stage Frightened that your Lines cannot be Understood -- Frightened that you Cannot make the Curtain-call. So we return Return to whence we came Back before the journey Back before the start But somehow We have found the heart. We know the difference Don't we cat? Of darkness and of Shadow... One is the abysmal Limbo And the other is the sun -- So now you have to bid farewell, cat You still have a life to live And so do I -- We have been like minute-lovers Neither having nor belonging To each other -- But we have this reality You and I, cat, you and I... She disappears into the Nether-growth of garden Behind some garbage can -- And I return to read my papers In the garden of my room. -- Klaus J. Gerken ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Men made the world- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Men made the world- But Man tried to leave. Men killed and conquered- But Man searched for peace. Men created morals- But Man wanted freedom. Men were born with equality- But Man yearned for wisdom. Men existed forever- But Man became a gravestone. Men grew a society- But Man strove -alone. -- Jim Yagmin ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Does the morning start too late- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Does the morning start too late- Or does the sun fall soon, The daylight hours dwindle by: A looming conquest of the moon- The evening starts- serenity- Or if early- dark storm- Thoughts drift to wasted plots of time- A wish to be reborn. One Man would not accept this- One Man would not soon die, He chased the sun around the world- Forever Darkness he defied. He built machines to make him run Fast and long and hard- Yet still the sun spun round and round, Waiting for his fall. The Man was quite ingenuous- He took of rope, a ton- The Man, he made a Lasso, And threw it 'round the sun. The Man pulled taunt the rope, Then tried to pull the sun- The sun -instead- pulled him inside- But the Man, by far, had won. -- Jim Yagmin ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Wink of a Dead Man ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We together- One shall be dead One shall be alive But we must decide Which of us is dead Which is alive- Let's hold a contest- The first to blink Must be alive- The second- Well, the second must be dead. And so I bore into your eyes You tore into mine Time passed Then more- You hadn't blinked Nor I You wait, And I- My eyes beg to hide- And your eyelids seem heavy We wait- We wait- I strain to keep from blinking, You do the same- At last! You have surrendered By winking to me- Somehow I think You could have lasted longer- You could have beaten me- But you've given up- You've left me sweet death- With a dignified wink And as I sit here relishing death- I thank you For your sacrifice- Because only a strong man Would go to life willingly. And so to you, I wink. -- Jim Yagmin ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Leda ~~~~ You stood startled as the white wings descended. Watching orange feet draw you nearer, pulling you close, you resisted at least in appearance. Inwardly you liked the feeling of down against your thighs. Your eyes sparkled as you received a godly reward; knowing the dreadful history that must follow. -- Steve Bliss ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Rachel ~~~~~~ How should I feel ? On your wedding night you slept with my sister, My older, homely sister. I hope she appreciates our crafty father. Now, another seven years have passed. I am no longer the young maiden. The sun has darkened my once fair face. Callouses line my hands where the sheepgoad rubs, But my eyes are still slate-blue. Remember when you opened the well ? You kissed me that first day. My love, Let us move beyond these hills And the cattle of my father. Let us build our own tent. -- Steve Bliss ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Five Plums ~~~~~~~~~~ As the hum of a one-engine plane subsides the voice of crickets become stronger again. One the table sit five purple plums. It seems a shame for summer to end this way. Supple wind chaffs leaves into falling; like the serpent and Eve. But this apple will return, in cycle. Each season spent, awaits the nest. The fruit ripens. The flies hide for a day. Lulled to sleep I sit facing the kitchen table where sit five round purple plums. -- Steve Bliss ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ wine ~~~~ 8:30 Everything went to smash trembling hands, never know how to hold Who knows who, I never know look in my eyes, before you crush my ego White doves fly to high to see nothing I need, ever needs me The vicious headline on the front page reads; "Their Are No Friends To Be Made." Everything went to smash. -- Michael Kelly ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ shesaid ~~~~~~~ What's the value of the english language? I never knew you to think the way you spoke tie the string to the spool when you fly a kite over and up to the field on a windy day one day you might end up staining your pants in the mud and grass and "thank you for your time" is all she'll say. -- Michael Kelly ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Girl ~~~~ Everything is good pure and hard like wood I never showed this to anyone before expect the one I wrote it to. Now she's a whore along a lonely road say goodbye, and get in their cars. Dust like rust it cuts and makes you sick. The word bitch makes my hands itch and sometimes this gun I own fires faster than my temper. Tides pull strong lead men sink boats. Clenching teeth for a rib cage that won't close leave my insides alone. No room with a view will calm the wind just say something that will swim and i'll find my eyes, again. -- Michael Kelly. ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ 5-5-94 and so forth.. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is the last place I started so I must end it here I tried and here I'll try again and if I weep, I weep for not getting what I was meant to get What's written in stone isn't always the truth, it's just how the truth should feel Feeling cold and weathered we walk along the back wall of the world feeling the bricks as we move along and if the boundaries we make should topple and fall we'd trip over our own feet and forget what was meant by the relationships we hold, for the sake of holding on This is a cold and weathered stone this is a cold and weathered stone why must glass break from the impact of a single word? this is a cold and brittle man this is a cold and brittle man The heat of the sun and the presence of your voice, makes a million pieces of me why must this glass enclosure shatter so easily? I've walked with my back to the world I've walked all this way with my back to the world I've walked all this way with my back to the world cast-iron breaks when you drop it. -- Michael Kelly ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ online ~~~~~~ Hang yourself on the podium the seats are filling fill out the obituary with a string of quotes wear you coat in the winter watch the lick of ice over the bricks leading home we found that roses bloom in winter but only with two eyes watching for god, god knows I'm pretentious I can see my breath but never can smell, what my words are lusting after tell me one thing, that I know about myself It hurts to ask. -- Michael Kelly ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ anotherniteofprimetime ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I can't watch tv without closing my eyes is the truth on tv? the truth is too embarrassing things are coming too close to how I think forty-year olds are writing my life and they're making me fight to see my reflection... ...Is this the way guys act I'm not a guy like that everything I love is nothing that I know who's real in this real world who can feel like I'm feeling right now my weekend was horrible and how was yours? I made the nights out of knowing myself... ...things were never this dramatic I never found the drama what's the personification what's the personification what's the personification? everything I hate is everything I love and I'm throwing up all the time. -- Michael Kelly ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ careless end of ... something...? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ over a decade of punctual apologies hidden beneath multi-lingual guises under these hundred faces none of which i even believe the black clouds swell with anticipation a need to give back something waiting so long to impress saving up for retribution but they're only vapors and the sun dies no matter how hard i try to hold on to it watches with shutting eyes, the end of my world the repeated mistakes hum dull inside the framework "i did my best" ... or so i tell myself with a soft whimper i hug myself a little tighter and whisper quietly, "you tried" but i do not believe amidst these chirping, faded strangers amidst this perfumed sea of suits i stand between no where and nowhere and now i'm nothing -Igal Koshevoy (m^LH^TR) June 15, 1994; 9:10pm ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Estranged ~~~~~~~~~ Ask me son questions i know you'll have why is the winter cold why is the sky blue why is the heavens twinkling why is the heart always true. I'll speak of answers spent by travel in my zealous footsteps in my singular view in my earnest searching in my love for you. Ask me son emotions building your soul euphoria when we meet passions when we talk laughter when we play guidance when we walk. I'll recite of phrases visioned long ago as father in a sons waning eyes as father in a sons wondering days as father in a world of millions as father in so many loving ways. -- Greg Schilling ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ╤══╕ ╒══╕ ╒══╕ ╒═╤═╕ ╒══╕ ╒══╕ ╤══╕ ═╤═ ╤══╕ ╒═╤═╕ ╤ ╤ ╒═╤═╕ ╞══╛ │ │ ╘══╕ │ ╘══╕ │ ╞═╤╛ │ ╞══╛ │ │ │ │ │ │ ╧ ╘══╛ ╘══╛ ╧ ╘══╛ ╘══╛ ╧ ╧═ ═╧═ ╧ ╧ ╘══╛ ╧ ╧ ╧ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ THE SOUND OF SOUND ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ANNOUNCEMENT. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. Coca-Cola, poured silently from the bottle to the glass, foams, until the carbon dioxide bubbles cannot be heard any longer. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. The refrigerator begins to hum and hum until it stops. PAUSE. PAUSE. A piece of soft butter falls from the table to the stone floor. PAUSE. PAUSE. A thick newspaper falls on the floor. PAUSE. PAUSE. Someone walks past on tip-toes, wearing a robe that rustles. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAU-- A jug, standing in error on the wet table top shatters. PAUSE. A postage stamp is slowly peeled off an envelope. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE-- A telephone receiver is hung up softly. PAUSE. PAUSE. A vacuum cleaner is turned on and held in the hand, without sucking up any dirt. Then it is turned off again. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. A piece of red liver falls from the table to the stone floor. PAUSE. A piece of cellophane is slowly crumpled up. PAUSE. The light switch is switched on. PAUSE. Someone turns from one side to the other in bed. PAUSE. An elastic band is pulled over a mason jar and then let snap. PAUSE. A band-aid is slowly peeled off a finger. PAUSE. With one stroke butter is scraped from wrapping paper. PAUSE. The electric stove it turned on. PAUSE. A "flat iron" is placed on a marble board. PAUSE. A soft heavy coat is dragged across the floor. PAUSE. A matchstick, struck, flares up, until the flame cannot be heard any longer. PAUSE. Gas from a gas-burner hisses. Then, ignited by a lighter, and then turned off again. PAUSE. PAUSE. From a silent telephone receiver just picked up, distant voices can be heard: the voice of a man and a woman, who, on another line are conducting an almost unintelligible conversation. "What did I tell you?" one hears; then: "Anybody could have told you that."; and then: "When it concerns life and death, one does something."; and then there is silence on the line. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. A heavy fur coat falls to the stone floor. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAU-- Again, a heavy fur coat fall to the floor, this time with the buttons hitting the floor first. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. Slowly a brush is pulled through crackling hair. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAU-- The record player turns itself off. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAU-- Quietly, fat begins to crackle in a pan. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAU-- PAUSE. PAUSE. PAU-- A wet towel is slowly squeezed dry, but in such a way that one is only able to hear the squeezing. PAUSE. PAU-- Someone slowly scratches his fingernails over a piece of paper. PAUSE. A thick drop of water falls on a tin plate. PAU-- A plug is pulled from the electric light socket. PAU-- The "flat iron", standing on the marble board, cracks, as it begins to cool. PAU-- The "flat iron" cracks again. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. Very soft music is heard: "Mourning morning, sad day...mourning morning, sad day..." from the song "Mourning sad morning" from the album "Free" by FREE, Island Records ILPS-9104.... LONG SILENCE. A bath-mat, on which water has been poured prior to this, slowly stretches, until there is nothing more to hear. PAUSE. PAUSE. PAUSE. SIGN OFF. END -- Peter Handke Translated from the German by Klaus J. Gerken, 1977 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗ ║ A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers ║ ╟─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────╢ ║ - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310] ║ ╟─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────╢ ║ (C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda ║ ╚═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝ Come one, come all! Welcome to Centipede. Established just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies. Even a chance to be published in a magazine. Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area, an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and speculated history & publishing. In all of the ten conferences, anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends. For that is what CentNet is here for: for you. Ever wonder how to accent a poem at the right meter? Well, come join our PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out. Have any problems in deciphering your dreams? Select The Dreams echo, and you're questions shall be solved. The Network was created on May 16, 1993. I created this because there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience. And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to grow, and become active on Bulletin Board Systems. I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking. Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer can now download the whole network, without phasing out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created. If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences. You'll not be disappointed! Or, check out the latest info packet being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE]. ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ █████ ████ ██ █ █████ █████ █████ ████ ████ ████ (tm) █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █Cent ██ █ █ █ █ █ █████ ██ █ █ ██ █ Net █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █████ ████ █ ██ █ █████ █ ████ ████ ████ ──────── A Professional Mailing NetWork ──────── - A or - Welcome to Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network! Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a very special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the sharing and distribution of poetic material. It was our feeling, THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in life which should be treated with honest feeling, and not be censored, because it might have one word, or one feeling which someone did not like. When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY. But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share. Immediately a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease the needs and interests of the several members who helped place this on the map. All in all, we find that we are a group of dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of writing. And what does Centipede stand for? The body of the Centipede is made up of the Sysops who carry CentNet. These Sysops have a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM ( BBS ) which dedicates itself to carious uses depending on each individual user. There are many types of BBS's and some of them are specially dedicated to electronic mailing of messages. For this purpose several NETWORKS have been created. Centipede is one of these. These Sysops, which means they are Systems Operators, when joining a larger system, become known as NODES. And without the hard work of many of these Sysops, CentNet and any other network would not be able to flourish properly. The legs are the Users, without the users the Sysops could not move anywhere. Without the body, the Users could not interact with one another. Our NetWork offers a special program for Sysops and Users in case there may be questions or problems. A 24 hour Voice Support Line is here for your questions: (609) 895-0858. If per chance there is no one there to answer your call, please leave your name and voice phone number, and the best possible time to contact you (Eastern Standard Time), and someone will get back to you as soon as possible. We are here to help you, please feel free to call, even if it is just to say "Hello". CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would like to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are about. You may give us a call at the number mentioned above, and we will gladly find a way for you to interact with us. ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ─╥─ ╓─── ╥ ┬ ╓─╥─┐ ║ ║ │ ╟──┘ ╙──┤ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ ┌┐ ╟──┤ ║ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴ ╨ ─╥─ ╓─╖ ┬ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓─╖ ┬ ║ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ ║ │ ║ ║ │ ─╨─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╨ ┴ ╨ ┴ ╨ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ╙─┘ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited. YGDRASIL A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Copyright (c) 1993 by KJ Gerken The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS: No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or anything else appropriate should be addressed, with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: ┌────────────────────────────┐ │ YGDRASIL PRESS ███ │ │ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. │ │ OTTAWA, ONTARIO │ │ CANADA, K2P 0C7 │ └────────────────────────────┘ All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ░▒▓█ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ░▒▓█ █▄▄█ █ ▄▄ █ █ █▄▄█ █▄▄█ █▄▄▄ █ █ ░▒▓█ ▄▄▄█ █▄▄█ ▄█▄▄█ █ █▄ █ █ ▄▄▄█ ▄█▄ █▄▄▄ ░▒▓█ ▄▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ░▒▓█ █▄▄█ █ █ █▄█▄ █ █ █ █▄▄█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ░▒▓█ █ █▄▄█ █▄▄█ █▄▄▄ ▄█▄ █▄▄▄ █ █ █ ▄█▄ █▄▄█ █ █▄█ ░▒▓█ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ░▒▓█ █ █ █▄▄▄ █ ░▒▓█ █▄▄▄ ▄█▄ ▄▄▄█ █ ░▒▓█ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each, and may be ordered from: ┌────────────────────────────┐ │ YGDRASIL PRESS ███ │ │ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. │ │ OTTAWA, ONTARIO │ │ CANADA, K2P 0C7 │ └────────────────────────────┘ Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press. YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $2.50 an issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems BBS (1-609-896-3256) or any other participation BBS. Revisions, though, holds the official version of Ygdrasil. ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════