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╔═════════ November 1993 ═══════════════════════ volume 1, number 7 ═════════╗
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║ ╟──┤ │ ║ │ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║
║ ╨ ┴ ╙─┘ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ║
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║ ╓─╥─┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ║
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║ Editor: Klaus J. Gerken ║
║ Associate Editors: Paul Lauda ║
║ : Igal Koshevoy ║
║ : Pedro Sena ║
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╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ╥─╖ ╥ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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║ 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].
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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
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All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each, and may be ordered from:
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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).
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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:
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All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS
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