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╔═════════ November 1993 ═══════════════════════ volume 1, number 7 ═════════╗ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ █▀█ █▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀█ █▀█ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █▀▀▀▀▀ ▀█ █▀█ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀▀▀ ▀█ █▀ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ ▀▀▀ █ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ ▀█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █▀█ █▀ █ █▀▀█ █ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █▀ ▀▀▀ █ █ █ █ ▀█ █ █ █ █ █▀▀▀▀ █ █▀ ▀█ █ ▀▀▀▀█ ║ ║ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╓──┐ ─┬─ ╓──┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╓─╖ ┬ ╓──┐ ╥─ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ║ ║ ╟──┤ │ ║ │ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║ ║ ╨ ┴ ╙─┘ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╓─╥─┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ║ ║ ║ ╟──┤ ╟─ ╟──┘ ║ │ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ╟──┤ ╟─┬┘ ║ ╙──┐ ║ ║ ╨ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨──┘ ╨ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙──┘ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ Editor: Klaus J. Gerken ║ ║ Associate Editors: Paul Lauda ║ ║ : Igal Koshevoy ║ ║ : Pedro Sena ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╚════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ╥─╖ ╥ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╟─╢ ╟─╢ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ╙─╖ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╨ ╜ ╙ ╨─╜ ╙── ╙── ╙─╜ ╨ ╙─╜ ╙─╜ ╨ ╙ ╨ ╙── ╨ ╙ ╨ ╙─╜ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ INTRODUCTION...................................Klaus J. Gerken ORWEL 1984 + x.................................Mirodrag Djordjevic POEME D'AMOUR "PARANOIQUE".....................Mirodrag Djordjevic The Old MAn and the Cat........................Jan Kingsford Hawks and Fishes...............................Jan Kingsford White Roses....................................Jan Kingsford The Kiss...................................... Gay Bost From the Lady's Garden........................ Gay Bost ........................................Igal Koshevoy .................................Igal Koshevoy The Sidhe......................................Shawn Tribe The Pagans.....................................Shawn Tribe Upon this Night................................Shawn Tribe December 3, 1987...............................Pedro Sena January 1988...................................Pedro Sena January 26, 1988...............................Pedro Sena A Baptism of the Holy Spirit...................Pedro Sena Strangers......................................Andrew Blevins Concerning John................................Andrew Blevins Who............................................Sean Hinds Full Black Q...................................Klaus J. Gerken POST SCRIPTUM..................................Gay Bost ▀█▀ █▀█ █ ▀▀█▀▀ █▀▀█ █▀▀█ ▀█▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀▀ ▀▀█▀▀ ▀█▀ █▀▀█ █▀█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █▀█▀ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀ ▀ ▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ This edition introduces some new poets to these pages who, I hope, will over the course of time become regular contributors to this Journal: Miodrag Djordjevic, who hails from the South of France, and writes about many of the most recent issues Europeans are concerned with during these times of extensive change to their socio-economic and political environment: especially the uncertainty of love in such an environment, and also touches on the issue of racial and religious tensions, and the conflicts which confine the resolution of these issues to the battlefied, rather than the solutions they should endeavor to obtain through peaceful means: Jan Kingsford and Gay Bost who both have an amazing gift and somehow manage to compliment each other in their exquisite phrasing and gentle understanding of the feelings touch the heart poetically: and last but certainly not least, Shawn Hinds who impresses me as beginning to form a very complex and relevatory style of poetry, a flash of images which guide the reader through a journey of intense and personal poetic vision. The Journal continues with the rest of the cast of "Regulars": Igal Koshevoy, Shawn Tribe, Pedro Sena and Andrew Blevins. There is little that needs be said about the very high quality of their work. This cast of "regulars" has been extremely supportive of the vision of Ygdrasil, a hand goes out to them. NOTE: I have, after long deliberation, decided not to publish a translation of Midrag Djordjavic's poem POEME D'AMOUR (PARANOIQUE). The decision was made more on aestetic grounds than not having a valid translation. I believe a poem should be be allowed to stand as it was written, and the reader has a obligation to further his or her own horizons by finding their own translation, whether it be in their hearts or in the endeavor of learning a new language. The translation is available from this editor, on request, and might even be in these pages in a future edition as a translation. As for now, let nothing detract from the originality of the poem. ╥ ╓─ ─╥─ ╓─── ╖ ── ╟─╨╖ ║ ║ ╓╖ ╓╖ ╓╖ ║/ ╓╖ ╓╖ ╨ ╨ ╙─╜ ╙──╜ ╙─ ╙ ╙╙ ╙─ ╙╙ ORWEL 1984 + x The spy rings My neck I'm striking the banner On which is written F r e e d o m F r e e d o m But I don't have any connection With my grandfather's warrior dances My Freedom lies in her eyes And her body is interwoven with my fears Computer made a new Man The man lifted his hands towards Sun Sun is caressing the war-heads Situated on dreamy launching posts Crooked fog on her navel In the sexual revolution of Desperity Her name is My Girlfriend And I don't understand when she Whispers to me L o v e L o v e People love to hear the Word From real battle-fields My words are mingling With her kisses Sometimes we lie in the grass Sagely counting birds and clouds You are beautiful You are beautiful Like famine on the Earth Poverty in the South Split thought Hidden God Nude photograph of a woman Don't talk to me like that My girlfriend I'm as ugly as Hope For the Word's joy give me P e a c e P e a c e ■ - Miodrag Djordjevic - traduction Tatjana Radanovic (1984) ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ POEME D'AMOUR 'PARANOIAQUE' ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ Mon Amour coupe mes oreilles T'es Serbe ! - Elle crie Je suis Tito sur ta vase de Zen En écrivant le plaisir sur les murs Sadiques Je bois ton sang voluptueux T'es Serbe ! - Elle rit Je n'entends que la Télé Maléfique Posée sur les épaules de camarade Libérto de Belgrade Assez Assez des désirs cannibaliques Ouvrez la porte de Paradis Je veux baiser Aimer Aimer ! - Elle dit Je n'entends que le gazouillement Du liquide rouge Bien versé Pollué par mes peurs mythiques Balkaniques ! - Elle vomit ■ - Miodrag Djordjevic ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ The Old Man and The Cat ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I stand in the fields and watch as the train goes by and wave at the old man who sits by the window. The old man waves and then turns to smile at the cat by his side, contendly cleaning his face. The old man and the cat exchange a glance of understanding and the train whistle blows and a breeze ruffles the fields as I stand and wave goodbye. - Jan Kingsford ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Hawks and Fishes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The hawk fishes for fishes too large for it's talons, and making the catch soars away with floping fish in tow. The floping fish flops for freedom and makes it's daring escape, diving nose first into land that once was sea. The fish now rapidly turns and turns and turns, drilling a well into the sandy loam, as the hawk stands by and ponders the way of fishes too large for it's talons. - Jan Kingsford ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ White Roses ~~~~~~~~~~~ "You may break, you may shatter, the vase if you will, but the scent of roses will hang round it still" - Charles Lamb She bleeds pearly white, the cloudy ice of a frozen heart. No crimson stain records the rape of this virgin bride, swathed in a veil of illusions and false words. She snaps the reigns of her chariot of carousel horses, and returns to her cloistered walls, a pagan nun bethrothed to a dream of love, stillborn. A wraith of dreams weeping a penance of tears, a powdery perfume of molding white roses. - Jan Kingsford ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ The Kiss ~~~ ~~~~ To loose the budding gift To rise beyond the pain Alight the Night! Recall the day! I no longer walk this Way. Battlefields above the clouds Blood below the fields Children weep! I hear them cry. This path to glory's dry. Invoke me not, mortal fool My sister stands in pain I know your touch 'A gift' you say ? Ah, one I would repay. - Gay Bost ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ From The Lady's Garden ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ Dedicated to Jan Kinsford We's low to the ground for a reason, we is The gardeners don't understand us Though we's bright in the sunlight And fly through the winds The gardeners always remand us To the dumpster we goes, us 'noxious' weeds For we likes to make our own beds We plants our own gardens We digs our roots deep They hates to see our fluffy heads But we's here, right out in the open, now Here with the rose and the vine So, buck up, you old gardeners From outta' them mists We's gonna make dandelion wine. - Gay Bost ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Entry: 10.14.93, 06:18:53pm Title: "The Sidhe", by Shawn Tribe They have been known by many terms: the sidhe, the hill people, the faeries, and countless other guises to many people, depending on your persuasion. The Sidhe are a magickal creature by their very nature, as old as time itself, and are said to represent the 4 elemental kingdoms: Earth, Air, Water and Fire. We have seen the four gifts of the Tuatha DeDannann, who live beneath the Hollow Hills of Olde Ireland. We have heard of Lammas Tide, held upon the seventh day, of the eighth month, when the sidhe move to a new faerie hill; those who are lucky, may just see the shows of brilliant light they put on. It is said that you may best see them, in the hours of midnight, noon, dawn or dusk, or upon Beltaine and Samhain. But be forewarned! If you do see such a creature, be humble and gracious, for the faerie have no reason to trust or honour us; For we have ignored them for too long, and have done irreversible damage to the very elements they represent. - Shawn R. Tribe ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Entry: 10.10.93, 06:23:26pm Title: "The Pagans", by Shawn Tribe When pagans look at the world, they see more than just trees, grass, water, and sky. To pagans, when they view the world, they see the awesome beauty and power of IAO. They view it in terms of the deities that man itself created, and make sure to thank them, and therefore, thanking IAO. To pagans, nature is something that is sacred and to be cherished. To pagans, the modern world is not the 'real world', for it is an artificial world, with no link to nature, and no respect for the middle kingdoms. The pagans have but one thing to say: "Return to the olde ways" - Shawn R. Tribe ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Entry: 10.09.93, 12:27:18pm Title: "Upon this Night", by Shawn R. Tribe Upon this night, from dawn to dusk, the veil is thinnest. Upon this night, the beings from the Otherworld, easily slip to' and fro' between the realms. Upon this night, we pay notice to Gwyn ap Nudd, Samhan, and Cerridwen. Upon this night, we light bonfires, and bear costumes, to ward the evil away. Upon this night, we eat apples, root and vine vegetables, and drink red wine. Upon this night, we burn wormwood, nightshade, and ghost flower. For this is a special night, it is Samhain, the Feast of the Dead, and the Night of the Wild Hunt. - Shawn R. Tribe ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ December 13, 1987 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The light flickered, withered and died. The candle warmth, cooled and froze. And I stood there, ready, and wrote. What else was there to do? A few lines stood up, wilted, couldn't stand the weight of their lousy rhyme, and were shot... right out of the pen into a white piece of paper which allows you to read mesmerized, maybe even think that I meant something... which mattered... and you cared... ahh, but I know you, your glutonous and gifted will, that makes you wonder, what am I Who am I ... I know. A mirror of my image, or perhaps another, image in my own mirror. whatever difference...except, that I am not afraid to look and see... You... As you stand there naked, with soul against your wall, you mean nothing to me, but, I must write for you, and about you. The light flickered, withered and the pen died. And I realized that I was here with a bullet near my poor head waiting for a blessing, a tear before it hit me, n' I awoke, dead. I woke up from another dream realizing the role of a poet who wished not to escape, and lead a new life somewhat afraid. I've always wanted to die. And have done so in my dreams. Ohh, but that fear of what... monsters of the deep, no, simple ignorances of the mind. Devils from a loud hellish place, no, illusions please unwind. Damned allusions, fires from within, yes, maybe a few clouds yet live waiting, waiting... But I sat there, I wrote a dream I think of times when I was lean of inside tremors but I had you for hope and fervour the eternal love kept me, mon amour. At that time my pen kept me alive when all else failed, and thrived into worlds beyond appearances forever into many distances. As I love you and always will you will hear all this humbly and I accepted my penance for perjury, of the spirit... ahhh, but what peace I had. I will stand trial by the pen of unforgiving souls of men who refuse to acknowledge my life and defy the love of my only wife. To her, whenever, if ever, I dedicate this soul Written by a simple pen and piece of paper while the candle warmth flickered a little then went out, and the air cooled and then, slowly, froze, me to sleep, ... but what sleep. - Pedro Sena ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ January 1988 ~~~~~~~~~~~~ The wild, dreamy eyed woman of yesterday went by, her scent as clear as her sway. I watched the fortitude of a work of art the magnitude of a life's part even forgot we all enjoy, live to see, appreciate, take, give. I watched a little more A mother walks, her children in tow their energy flew, in a blazing glow. I watched the sins of hatred word suddenly turn to stone when thought of real life meant the taking of a wife. I turned away, then A bird from the clouds above appeared and told me to watch, listen and hear his song of infinite words and wisdom until it fled from the mind's prison. I had to watch, then Someone tapped my shoulder lightly and told me to leave, very mightly and all thoughts of wonder left I must have been, clearly, bereft and I was watching, then I tried to watch some more but the feeling was gone and my tears slipped before they dried, telling me, DONE. - Pedro Sena ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ January 26, 1988 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ One never knows what comes and goes through our minds, bodies and toes but you can rest assured that there resides in you something, somewhere that likes to speak of its own peace regardless of what you will believe accept, decide, and probably must do before meeting a proverbial waterloo. The question always appears, risen from depths of you know not where self righteous, contemptable, you, bigger than a dangerous white bear we feared as children, and still do, as supposed adults in a mad world of killers, sinners, and many saints who have claimed wisdom by many words of thoughts, feelings, and complaints you once decided not to accept and one day may even regret much to oyur dismay and mine that while you felt and perhaps hid you actually ran and fairly well hid from none other than yourself. To this day I declare that my thoughts are not reasons, but what I've wrought and you need to wake up, learn to feel the horrible sting of the turning wheel which runs over your veins and red blood trying to reap what you need understood not realizing that your gain is not here and you can't possibly learn, and adhere to the rules that were meant for you, I, before it is time for us to go, also die, quietly... few will notice... For this cause I often pray, while your feathers stray, hoping that one day you'll see what is really meant for you, mere tree, that glorious heavens' given us all and is not the only universe in light but an earth made of our wronged fall and secured by another one's might which you can claim as your own anytime you are inclined with desire and truly I speak of mine, your home, or punish me, with the eternal fire. ( For Diana ) - Pedro Sena ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ November 1989 to January 1990 A Baptism of the Holy Spirit. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The serious, and soft face of dawn ... approacheth ... and as it does smooth flows, into the spark which makes us both the light and a spirit of many sources which holds us so dear in some love. And in this, and only this manner do I as representative of the ascended masters and of all the flames related to all highest ideals, I am here to consecrate, to initiate YOU ... into a new life ... with this salty water thou shall become clean. with this salty water thou shall forget the past. with this salty water thou spirit of heart shall rise and unite with all forms of good and help direct this spiritual one upon its path the one and only path, to liberty to freedom, to learn to live to love ... ( silence ) ( A shell picks up some water and is poured from the crown ) ( Allow water to run freely ) ( wash and bless the crown ) ( wash and bless the forehead ) ( wash and bless the bridge ) ( wash and bless each eye ) ( wash and bless each cheek ) ( wash and bless the lips ) ( wash and bless the chin ) ( wash and bless the neck ) ( wash and bless the upper chest ) ( wash and bless the middle chest ) ( wash and bless the diaphram ) ( wash and bless each breast ) ( wash and bless the belly button ) ( wash and bless the pussy ) ( wash and bless the legs ) ( wash and bless the feet ) ( wash and bless the toes, each ) ( then kiss each, on the way back up in reverse order, once ) ( apply another shell of salty water on top of crown and allow it to run freely ) You, have been washed to undertake your spiritual message which is much larger than you can imagine. From this point on You are to know that all shall be alright and in proper accord with the order of things as prescribed by the holiest of all books available. This act empowers you. This act has not placed you under any obligation that you do not see fit, under the eyes of your maker. You are simply expected to carry on ... with love ... and humble thanks for having allowed this servant to perform such a task ... God speed be with you ... ( lower heads ) ( small prayer each quietly ) ( touch foreheads quietly ) ( end of ceremony, except to enjoy the ocean water, in a must fun... ) - Pedro Sena ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Strangers ~~~~~~~~~ So, we are strangers. We haven't smelled Each other's scents. We don't know, the Color of our eyes, Disposition of our teeth, We don't know Of the bone We carry To our Death. I propose That we carry Our steaming dogs Into the field Under the cake Of the moon Let them lie, Breathing, Showing Their teeth Because, we Are strangers. We should go Home and listen To cassette players Filled with blank tape, Whirring a single noise Forever-- For we are strangers, We have not smelled Each other's scents. And we should Break mirrors In private rooms, Review our images In the broken pieces, And we should fetter Our reflections In the mud With our fingers Like strangers. Yet we'll walk Opposite sides Of the Earth Follow, The equator. - V.A. Blevins ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Concerning John ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ for my Aunt after my Uncle passed away a few weeks ago... Tobacco and striped overalls, Silver buttons & boots. The land stretches for miles And what could you do, John With the tall green tractor? Laugh from your belly With a scratchy laugh, go Lean back like a burlap sack Full of the harvest to be, Survey the great stretch beyond The swing sets and toy trucks Rubbing a graying, spiny top And laughing a scratchy laugh. Work the farm until dusk And talk softly to the sheep Who baa and baa into the night Until you are tired and hungry And come home to Dorothy In evenings of peace and comfort Like Oklahoma at bedtime Under that moon that raises The crop you've sewn so dearly In irrigation stripes whose fruits Are like your silver buttons & boots. And when I hear your laughing As I could not in the last church, Will I still come visit you As the child fast running away From the sheepdogs; crying With drying smiles in your tale. - V.A. Blevins ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Who ~~~ If I pull the breath out of angels Watch it take flight Or show the fire of dragons To fuel the furnaces of minds If my heart was actually like the sun Where would my sister moon have left to run! But then when you look my way Hey my hands don't feel like stone In your arms I'm home and feel how she feels watching the oceans stir wanting us it begins Now! intensely who stole the stars and thieves the skies and who actually believes a poets ethereal lies Who feels so fire fragile at night and who has a tear left to cry Who knows the reasons why And who feels the sorrow beneath your eyes But Who loads the bullets in your brain Who opens up your soul and sees the fire and rain Who knows why living causes pain Who knows why there's much darkness about light Who feels alive tonight?... Who wants to wash your hair? Who wraps their arms around you bare Who sits like a king upon life's electric chair Who has dragon lungs Who feels like their drowned in an oven of suns Who knows why we see light who feels alive tonight... Who's willing to battle with light (sweet dreams my love),Good-night. - Sean Hinds ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ FULL BLACK Q ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Black black black ten to eight black the night stalks everything there are shadows in which we cannot dwell others dwell in them you dwell in them like mirrors that explore the wrong side of you you who are lost you who are the seekers in the desert of african violets you find only scorpions you find only poison asps hot sand black night even stars don't shine black pawn in a jungle of deposed kings and queens you try hard try harder - it is the darkest night and the brightest day grey day paynes grey black non-colour mixed with white full colour produces grey grey black and grey darkest night the poet writes a song about a bird that does not fly about old men waiting for their demise which has already come so long ago young men lost to emptiness everyone lost broken bottles drinking drunk stumbling falling falling it is the abysmal alley through which we stumble in which we fall it is the alley through which we walk drunk and drugged hoping for the night the day hoping for anything it is woman it is life it is a dragnet which is all that is gathered it is the poet gathering he gathers everything the tree might grow but it doesn't grow fast enough it is books and dust books and dust and repetitions it is periods of this it is periods the ending of a sentence the next paragraph does not begin as easily as the next note what is the next note what is not streets walking up and down the streets walking up and down one's past poems of the notebooks of the journals of the passing of the past the indecision the decision that gathers what to do or not to do the words angry words sullen words words without a hope of evidence that we exist letters answering letters and telephone calls and noise bearded men and lovely ladies poet's verses sunshine maybe perhaps clouds hide it hide everything there are clouds in my eyes your eyes everybody's eyes the eyes that see the eyes that don't the ears that hear and the ears that won't read read read the blackest poem on the whitest page in this monotony seated by the open window years ago dreaming dreams still come and go dreams still do a lot of things but we mix them with reality reality fine illusion like the tv set are there really actors are there really people who write this stuff are there really poets can there really be poets this cant be true truth is stranger than fiction fiction is the stuff of dreams dissected into fact and how we conquer it how we want to conquer it how we have a wish to conquer what is there what is left take stock - fifteen thousand pages fifteen thousand ages in a world a-swim and how the world has aged how we turn the page how the world has bled for understanding and for knowledge calling wood and city country places cars and bicycles to work I just realised how alien this is I just realised I was realizing nothing that has been the same stale conversation stagnant poem like the stagnant and polluted waters of the world whales and oceans saviour and society telephones snags in all communication it's a wrong number always the numbers one wants not out of order passed away ten years ago when the world was younger it was aging still this poem stretches back ten years it stretches back to shape and form upon an unknown canvas just exploded in my mind it ages back to everything old and new the past that is the past which was once before the future one searches and one finds renew yourselves yes thank you works of art are incorrigible everything is people of the roofs and jars of opium disturbance in the audience the audience is on the radio everyone should know that what yes yes whatever is whatever's not all of us chains do not unlock they make such pretty sounds clanking through the corridors go down do go down deep wells of wisdom filled with garbage on the beach a bottle and no message in the bottle cold wind and a dead gull white black feathers ruffled by a living wind pages black white peanuts and squirrels blue jays music photographs not liking one's own the image in the words the images on porcelain and the mirror of picasso the lives relived in words and photographs only surfaces too romantic to be seen in true flight why couldn't i have been born earlier when the world was young and people stuck together in their feeling for each other and their art all of us what have we done we have seen our heritage diminished we have shrunk from our duty as citizens of the world we have made a sham of everything fragile planet birds rows of birds are art everything is art nothing is where do we stop where do we go where do we see these things we do not see what are these words these images these repetitions what are these poems with no rhythm these poems with no rhyme or reason reasons being out these days the poets are such simple people who like to think themselves much more they know as much about a poem as they know about themselves nothing we are all dumb broken shattered vanquished dumb it is boredom that we are afraid of we play games it is games that we aught to be afraid of it is panes of window glass we see the world through see through everything writers cramp of course everything's the curse of need machines break down and can be fixed like democracy at ten a.m. rain clouds dark and black and grey paynes grey of the voices voices that communicate voices that fall silent that can't some have no ears some only scars some are devastated some collect their ingenuity and smoke a cigarette and talk to pretty girls about their civil wars in bed break pause back grey day day that must be rain fingers of prague rain that must be shadow without sun salt and pepper rain on all of us blue roofs darkness in the streets don't shave when morning comes like a lark on fire singing songs of torture but the morning isn't good enough don't look in the mirror even if it cracks don't look at people they might just look back don't do anything pace the room pace it up and down shout scream drink get drunk forget to forget everything the blackness in your heart the too full jungle in your mind contrived in spaces that are inaccessible to anyone but god and who can boast of being god my guts ache they don't write poems like that they copulate like that the dregs of earth the lowest of the low that grace the lips of satan in eternal hell what's the use disguising in the world the good and bad the sun and moon what togetherness is not good poems do not lie they twist the truth society tells the lie and why not we're only here for the duration of eternity we can never do ourselves the harm to put ourselves away what we do not finish in one life we finish in another what is the use what can we do of love and of devotion love what devotion to whom STOP and as the sign bearer stops everything also stops black notice that there are no stars the last one having been outdone by the dawn the pregnant dawn all our images are broken by the dawn the blazing dawn society depends upon the dawn the ageless dawn everything depends upon the dawn the dawn of what another day a new beginning question yourself the dawn of what i just want to top the dawn of what we know everything nothing the nothing that we know is everything only we don't know it yet isn't that a laugh the birds are on their southern journey give a warning sign they are going on vacation we only lock ourselves into our prison cells it is like we would be if we were not or vice versa with ladders climbing to the sky the rungs are broken we all think we can climb the ladder we try we only fall down trying and still think that we succeed we get nowhere the higher we get the further we get away from what we had and what we had has been our solid base we are in outer space the solid base is weightlessness how long will it last chains rust but to actually cast them off that takes courage how much courage do we have what is freedom will we ever dare again were we ever in danger as today do we have each other do we know any more do we know ourselves were all these things as important then are they that important now the art of fighting without philosophy yes yes yes they are important the saviour is society we are the witness to the truth we are the witness to the silence we equate with full communication if we could only learn the language of community if we would only listen to the cars and the machines and where the footsteps end upon a barren beach where is the wind where are we and do we really know ourselves do we really know anything at all do we really care are we so broken as to think that we are together yet and look at what we lose by losing look at all of it all the wonder the light the different light that permeates everything as open to the sky as love envelops us the blue cerulean the wonder of this studio with outstretched arms the radium sun heightens us in shadows shadows of our nature shadows of the brightness of our silhouettes let is leave the darkness of this city let us leave the darkness of all cities let us walk into Beethoven's pastoral and let us seek the quiet place where we are sheltered in the gentle sounds and breathe the freshet air of harmony beneath the gentle universe of stars it is late and it is early and the voices of the night are silent and the voices of the day begin another clamour i will say no more i will let the word come through of its own accord forgive me reader if i've said too much i will say no more Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyara. Shantih shantih shantih... - Night of 21/22 Aug 1975 - Klaus J. Gerken ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ╤══╕ ╒══╕ ╒══╕ ╒═╤═╕ ╒══╕ ╒══╕ ╤══╕ ═╤═ ╤══╕ ╒═╤═╕ ╤ ╤ ╒═╤═╕ ╞══╛ │ │ ╘══╕ │ ╘══╕ │ ╞═╤╛ │ ╞══╛ │ │ │ │ │ │ ╧ ╘══╛ ╘══╛ ╧ ╘══╛ ╘══╛ ╧ ╧═ ═╧═ ╧ ╧ ╘══╛ ╧ ╧ ╧ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ The Black Rose ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Did you look into the face of the old black rose When you thought you'd rather die? Did you see something there you didn't have Something that made you cry For the strength to go on through the dullest day And the fight to stand proud in the light. Did you gaze into the heart of the old black rose When you knew you'd seen it before Did you feel something there that you'd lost somehow Something a part of your core Ripped and torn by the winds of fate from a center Gone cold in the glare of pain. Did you know yourself there in the old black rose But for the chance roll of the dice? Did you find something there that you needed to love Something that shattered the ice Of ignorance passed back and forth through the lines Of color and gender and time. Did you leave something there with the old black rose Something you needed to give Did you pass through the life of eternity's child Did you let her teach you to live In a world filled with scattered lovers and friends And children who prey on your mind. Then there on the lips of the old black rose Rides a smile you wish you could touch And there in the eyes of woman ill used An old woman who gave you so much Of yourself while you rocked on the porch and heard The hope of 'just one more visit'. (for Rose Meeks) - Gay Bost ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗ ║ A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers ║ ╟─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────╢ ║ - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9311] ║ ╟─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────╢ ║ (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]. ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ░▒▓█ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ░▒▓█ █▄▄█ █ ▄▄ █ █ █▄▄█ █▄▄█ █▄▄▄ █ █ ░▒▓█ ▄▄▄█ █▄▄█ ▄█▄▄█ █ █▄ █ █ ▄▄▄█ ▄█▄ █▄▄▄ ░▒▓█ ▄▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ░▒▓█ █▄▄█ █ █ █▄█▄ █ █ █ █▄▄█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ░▒▓█ █ █▄▄█ █▄▄█ █▄▄▄ ▄█▄ █▄▄▄ █ █ █ ▄█▄ █▄▄█ █ █▄█ ░▒▓█ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ░▒▓█ █ █ █▄▄▄ █ ░▒▓█ █▄▄▄ ▄█▄ ▄▄▄█ █ ░▒▓█ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken FURTHER SONGS 1986, songs by KJ Gerken THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS, poems by Igal Koshevoy BLATANT VANITY, poems by Igal Koshevoy ALIENATION OF AFFECTION, poems by Igal Koshevoy LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE, poems by Igal Koshevoy ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each, and may be ordered from: ┌────────────────────────────┐ │ YGDRASIL PRESS ███ │ │ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. │ │ OTTAWA, ONTARIO │ │ CANADA, K2P 0C7 │ └────────────────────────────┘ YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $2.50 an issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac), operating system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems (1-609-896-3256 at 300 - 57600 bps). ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ─╥─ ╓─── ╥ ┬ ╓─╥─┐ ║ ║ │ ╟──┘ ╙──┤ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ ┌┐ ╟──┤ ║ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴ ╨ ─╥─ ╓─╖ ┬ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓─╖ ┬ ║ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ ║ │ ║ ║ │ ─╨─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╨ ┴ ╨ ┴ ╨ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ╙─┘ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ 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: No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there (609-896-3256). 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 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════