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╔════════ June 1995 ═════════════════════════════ Volume 3, Number 6 ════════╗ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ █▀█ █▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀█ █▀█ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █▀▀▀▀▀ ▀█ █▀█ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀▀▀ ▀█ █▀ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ ▀▀▀ █ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ ▀█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █▀█ █▀ █ █▀▀█ █ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █▀ ▀▀▀ █ █ █ █ ▀█ █ █ █ █ █▀▀▀▀ █ █▀ ▀█ █ ▀▀▀▀█ ║ ║ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╓──┐ ─┬─ ╓──┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╓─╖ ┬ ╓──┐ ╥─ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ║ ║ ╟──┤ │ ║ │ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║ ║ ╨ ┴ ╙─┘ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╓─╥─┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ║ ║ ║ ╟──┤ ╟─ ╟──┘ ║ │ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ╟──┤ ╟─┬┘ ║ ╙──┐ ║ ║ ╨ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨──┘ ╨ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙──┘ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ Editor: Klaus J. Gerken ║ ║ Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy ║ ║ Associate Editors: Paul Lauda ║ ║ : Pedro Sena ║ ║ : Gay Bost ║ ║ European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch ║ ║ Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla ║ ║ : Evan Light ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╚════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ╥─╖ ╥ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╟─╢ ╟─╢ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ╙─╖ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╨ ╜ ╙ ╨─╜ ╙── ╙── ╙─╜ ╨ ╙─╜ ╙─╜ ╨ ╙ ╨ ╙── ╨ ╙ ╨ ╙─╜ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ INTRODUCTION Owner's Boner...................................Gay Bost Strange Love....................................Gay Bost Retrospect on Emma..............................Gay Bost from The Breaking of Desire XVII................Klaus J. Gerken Mist........................................... Andy Odendhal Storm...........................................Terry A. Long Chapter IV: Awaking in the Rapture Field........Greg Shilling Understood......................................Jennifer Mulcahy The Night.......................................Jennifer Mulcahy SnowShine.......................................Jennifer Mulcahy Apprentice to Deception.........................Jennifer Mulcahy Necco Wafers....................................Jim Yagmin March...........................................Emily Dare The Swordmaker..................................Emily Dare Toast the Mariner!..............................Emily Dare All my precious days............................David Anthony Cariddi On a cold February morning-.....................Jennifer O'rourke Where is my red crayon?.........................Jennifer O'rourke THESE HILLS.....................................Igal Koshevoy A Drum For each God.............................Ron Tisdale Kingdoms Edge (selections) * Resurrection * Champagne and Coltrane * Cat * Wonton Recipe * Musicians: Glass Harpist and Fiddlers * Giza Lingia (swahili for Darkness Enters) * Ocarina POST SCRIPTUM Sandy, A Monologue...........................Martin Zurla ▀█▀ █▀█ █ ▀▀█▀▀ █▀▀█ █▀▀█ ▀█▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀▀ ▀▀█▀▀ ▀█▀ █▀▀█ █▀█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █▀█▀ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀ ▀ ▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ A dialogue between Klaus Gerken and Henry Leirvoll: Klaus Gerken: A teacher can only teach those who have a burning desire to learn. When you surpass the teacher, then the roles will be reversed. Henry Leirvoll: Yes, I can agree to that - but I also heard somewhere that you should not change a single word of your poem once it is written, because those were your original thoughts at the time, and if you change that you change your thought. This man literally described it as "raping your mind". I don't know if I agree, but the principle has a "cling" to it.. KG: That's the old adage that the artist is somehow "supreme"; that whatever an artist touches becomes art; that being an artist is in itself art; that an artist changes perceptions just by being. Perhaps. But that can be said of any occupation; any title. When we are introduced to a person who bears the title of Doctor or General, right away, we change our attitude towards them, whether or not they have done anything to deserve the title. I think when someone says "there goes an artist", people have certain expectations: they say, "so that is what an artist looks like!". I used to feel that way towards my early poems. Never change them, even though I know how to improve them now. Should I violate the right of the poem to be as it was first written, even though imperfect? And it can feel like a violation. But I now routinely change those poems. I continuously revise. And it fascinates me how the poem changes through the years. It actually grows with me. I always come to the line that Bob Dylan wrote in "Like a Rolling Stone": "Once upon a time you looked so fine, Do the bumps and grinds, in your prime..." Of course everyone thought he wrote, "Once upon a time you looked so fine Threw the bums a dime..." When the first sheet music of this song came out in 66 it actually contained the phrase "bumps and grinds", but when I bought a copy of Dylan's collected songs I noticed he had changed it to "threw the bums a dime". That's a poems evolution. The artist isn't always right or inviolate. Sometimes the audience gets in on the act, and the artist just has to acknowledge the fact. Stand back and accept it all. Still, if Dylan hadn't written the song in the first place... HL: But .. When I write poetry I seldom think of which thoughts I want to express - I rather think about the lines all from the beginning. KG: That is fine. I write a lot like that myself. But what I am saying is to conform the words to the expression. To shape the poem around those thoughts. Thoughts don't always come as poetry; thoughts are oft times rambling and incoherent. What one has to get out of is the act of knowing what one says from an insiders view. I know what I mean, therefore others should also. That is where revisions come in. Many times I throw away what I think is the best part of the poem. That is the hardest part a poet has to do. I often find that people like those poems I despise the most. It's much the same with my paintings, people admire those I think have nothing much to offer. I find that they wildly personal and experimental canvasses appeal to me the most. But that is only because I see something in them only I can see. Poetry is much the same. The poet reads between the lines, the reader doesn't. This is a great fault with poems such as Pound's Cantos, Zukofsky's A, Olson's Maximus, or Joyce's Finnigans Wake. These works inhabit the poet's own psyche. They are great because of their complexity and use of language, but to understand them takes a great amount of effort and many years to accomplish. But also remember, that these works are there only after the other more accessible works of these writers. Even Picasso at first painted "like Raphael" before he created his more personal vision. We must all do our apprenticeship before we can attempt such a personal vision. The poet may exist without an audience, but them poem ultimately can't. HL: I agree when I think that it would probably be better if I tried to express a feeling, or a story, or something I had in my mind. KG: Expression is not a poem. The poems has a form, and thereby the poet is required to revert to a craft. A poet must learn his craft also. If not to prove something to the world, but to himself. Can I call myself a poet if I do not know how to write a sonnet, pentameter, a perfect couplet? To me, the past is indispensable. Even punk and Heavy Metal had it's roots in Rock 'n Roll. And Rock 'n Roll had it's roots in other popular music of the 40's 30's and 20's, and even then you can actually trace the roots farther back through classical music. It may sound strange to say, but Gay's Beggar's Opera and The Who's Tommy are not very far apart. HL: That is so correct! This I have experienced to be a waste of time, since you can never be sure if the reader understands what you have written. KG: But that is where the craft or poetry comes in. You can make the reader understand. You can nudge the reader beyond what the reader wants to see. I am not speaking here of giving the reader what he or she wants. Nor am I speaking of any type of compromise. A poet should never compromise. But when a poet expresses something new, it should be to teach. If the contemporary reader cannot "get it", then perhaps someone in the future will. A poet should write because he has something to new say. A new vision. A poet is a visionary and a seer. A poet must also be a shaman. A bridge between what is perceived by the audience and what is perceived by the poet. A poet is like a man on top of a hill shouting what he sees other side to the people below. The poet, being privileged to see something others cannot, must be true to what he sees. A poet never creates fantastic tales. HL: This makes it a challenge, though, to write it so that people can understand it. KG: Precisely. HL: Yet, I also like to write metaphorically just to see how people react to it differently. To see how people interpret it differently. KG: And that is where a poem gains its strength. Always to suggest something more. Always to tantalize... HL: I don't think that the reader should always try to find out what the writer was thinking when he wrote it, but also to try and to find an interpretation for him/herself. KG: Oh yes...but it is the poet who manipulates this. It is how the poet writes the poem, and what the poets wants the audience to perceive. HL: When I write poetry, it is always personal, but it doesn't necessarily have to be that way. If I can hear that people have read my poetry and say that the way they understood it contributed to their thoughts, then I consider that as a success. What do you think? KG: And that is perhaps the best success you can have with poetry. When you contribute something to another person's development. Not just "entertainment" value. HL: Yes, I couldn't agree more. The ultimate way I see it, is to write what you feel. Is it right? Is it good? This should never be your main concern. KG: Ultimately you must always be true to yourself, true to your own vision. "Is it right?" it is right when you feel it is right for you. "Is it good?" that is only determined when you step back from the poem and treat it as an outside entity. One reason I sometimes leave poems for years before coming back to them. If the poem still says something to me years later, then it is good. HL: To write - to be able to express your thoughts lyrically or poetic is just a love that I can never show, never explain, or never teach. That is something one must find for oneself. KG: The spark that sets a poem in motion; that first stirring of the lyrical. What is it? I don't know. A feeling? An emotion? Something from beyond? A voice only you hear and which dictates to you? I don't know. It's something I think no one can define. But I always say that if you look hard enough it should be in the first poem you ever wrote. That first line which awakened poetry in you. That is perhaps the closes you will ever get to knowing what opened this door to you. What made you be a poet. HL: Also something which I think can be very different from individual to individual. KG: As any individual is different from the other; but also as they are the same. There is a universal appeal in poetry, as there are infinite experiences. HL: Intelligence is very different from wisdom, this we must also remember. KG: Couldn't agree with you more. * Henry Leirvoll is the Manager of the Norwegian Heavy Metal band Enslaved. ╥ ╓─ ─╥─ ╓─── ╖ ── ╟─╨╖ ║ ║ ╓╖ ╓╖ ╓╖ ║/ ╓╖ ╓╖ ╨ ╨ ╙─╜ ╙──╜ ╙─ ╙ ╙╙ ╙─ ╙╙ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Owner's Boner ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ah, the dream gone stale 'neath the dreamer's lids. Screwed on tight, the quick-cook Knight took charge of the pantry self "All's Right!" The kettle bubbles with toil and troubles and soup spills to the floor Cat and dog squirrel and frog and beasties from the glen fairy wings and horny things come taste the waste "All's Right!" Control and command weigh the heavy hand and blades flash mirror bright. Pour, Knight's plight Command? The bitch won't even come! "All's Right!" Scream, Knight Deny the fright Of a world outside your hand. And fight. Oh, yes... and fight. Poor night. -- Gay Bost ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Strange Love ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Strange love beyond time's marching legions what winding paths your shadow takes in form and thought, if these are naught why take them? Why come and go on legend's endless rounds through eons tramping thievery through deed and wall if these be all why make them? Lasting ever fading dreams returning now in mirrored halls unbuilt of glass and shattered mind's fabric tattered why weave them? Seek and shower loveless power everliving by solitude's unbinding threadbare runners weaponless gunners why bear them? Symbols pulsing in the child's visions by way of the woman's body passions power sweet flower why pluck them? Strange love a glove ill fitting to your hand fingers trapped wrapped in death's sucrase forbid release why have them? -- Gay Bost ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Retrospect on Emma ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There's a woman with mahogany hands watching two segments of a dream. One the far and distant reality of her own world, a televised scream. The other, daughters, sisters of the heart, a hope-two hands entwined. A cookie platter shatters, dropped, a battle waged within the mind. They turn, the blue eyes and the brown, to focus on the sudden noise Tears shed on hands held tight are no longer shed for little boys. So sudden, the expected comes, a change blown through the calm. So near, so far, the raging center of the storm, ignited by a bomb. Bitter anger, walk away, sweep up the shattered platter of delight Little girls, your time has come; it walks in anger, dreams in light Honey hair and honey skin, daughters, sisters of the weeping heart As hatred touches deep and rips your lives, what will be your part? -- Gay Bost ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ from The Breaking of Desire ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ XVII I would like to tell you a story Of these lonesome men courting despair Driving their demons before them With scars that no time will repair They live in a smoky destruction Their minds in a tangled up web Who drink up their brandy and wager Their indifference away with each bet You ask how they came to this living Hell that they dubbed paradise Irony raised on their shoulders Like so much discarded advise When love formed a scar on their ego They rejected the good with the bad These lonesome men plead to the silence To offer what they never had A toss of the dice they've collected Each woman they hold is a threat With blood on their manhood exacting The ransom of thorns on each bed Their future looks bleak so they promise Themselves that there shall be no cure For shutting away all their feelings They thought would make martyrdom pure Each drop of this blood they've collected In a vessel of mud and of clay Performing the rites of spring passing Whenever the dust blows away So this is the story deflected From one broken stone to the sky So listen who have heart to listen Do not let the message go by. -- Klaus J. Gerken ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Mist ~~~~ Hurtling thru the mist. A grey wall rushing toward me. Taking the wrong way round. I've got to get home on time. Hurtling thru the mist. I stayed too long and left t0o late. She's waiting for me in bed alone. I've got to get home on time. Hurtling thru the mist. I shouldn't have lingered. She'll know why I'm away. I've got to get home on time. Hurtling thru the mist. Dark shapes leap out at me. I them dodge left and right. I've got to get home on time. Hurtling thru the mist. The wall turns solid. Blood, gas, fear, and fire. I'll never be home on time. -- Andy Odendhal ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Storm ~~~~~ Rain falling down on the parking lot, Grey clouds passing over leaveless trees. Winds pushing the clouds ever faster, The air cool and damp from the breeze. Headlights reflecting the light from the roads, Making it ever harder to drive and to see. Animals have all seeked shelter from the storm, The fog and mist roll in, it seems lost and free. The day becomes so dreary outside, Perfect for a funeral today. Don't feel like doing much of anything, Stay inside where its warm this day. Hear the thunder off in the distance, Streaks of lighting can be seen as well. Rain its coming down even harder now, Water on the lake begins to swell. Hope the rain doesn't effect anyone, Flashes of lighting, on a night dark and deep. Its time now to call it a night, The sound of the rain puts me softy to sleep. -- Terry A. Long ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Chapter IV: Awaking in the Rapture Field ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Where are my summer days of a wondering boy? there i drank from tepid park fountains lost in oblivion while peddling endless streets past high school marching bands which played proudly. there i walked through smalltown alleys lost in innocence and daydreams of what awaited men who kept their heart strong during stormy nights. This was my rapture field, the sanctuary of its muddied footprints hidden beneath tall rows of summer corn. Where are my summer days of a wondering boy? are they frozen by a cold winters past lost in the palette of colors falling from trees who have drawn a last warm breath of air. are they frozen by a cold ghostly fear lost in the cover of frost held still on rooftops by an Octobers dark night which lingers quietly. This was my rapture field, the whirlwind of its broken promises hidden under fallings of blight snow. Where are my summer days of a wondering boy? i too have awakened in the rapture field only to have a bittersweet taste of life stagnate amongst the boyhood reflections which ripple softly. i too have awakened in the rapture field only to sow more and more seeds before a bold winters death reappears to taunt us with its cruelty. This is our rapture field, though we all wish to wonder in summer though we all wish to frolic in spring, though we all wish to stave off winter though we all wish in bucolic fondness- so many dream field things. -- Greg Schilling ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Understood ~~~~~~~~~~ So red, the blood at dawn Yet blacker than the night Of fields and furrows, evil's pawn Lies uncaptured, frozen flight- The hollow sound of rotting wood Surrounds thy fragile ear The death of being understood... And the raw deceit of fear. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── The Night ~~~~~~~~~ Dark, damp and cool Moss surrounding I enter her Stepping first- then floating... I feel her thoughts, I venture deeper Deeper, darker Breeze as black as pitch- She envelopes me, caresses me ..then enters me. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── SnowShine ~~~~~~~~~ Snow shine, too bright to see, ice-light too free... Shiver, coldfear too old, ice-tear We hold... No ties, unstable to stay, ice-able We fray... Empty, no spring unmade, ice-wings We fade. . . . -- Jennifer Mulcahy ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Apprentice to Deception ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An Apprentice to Deception By the Learning of the Loom Weaving patterns out of pictures, Out of treacherous perfume The Pretence of a Pretender With his eyes of sugared glass Uses venomous charisma Dissect target, capture fast- Enemy to Intuition Muffling its warning cries With a dance of cold seduction Promised Love that buries Lies.. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Necco Wafers ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Damn those Necco Wafers! Tight and colorful Hidden on the bottom shelf Where only the small kids can see They're wrapped in wax paper Like memories And occasionally Every now and then I'll see them tucked there The same package since Grandma was a kid I'll pick up the roll And bring it to the counter But when I get them outside And I tug the wax paper off And taste the first powdery one I realize once again Why they're kept on the bottom shelf And why I'll always say: "I'll never buy those again!" -- Jim Yagmin ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ March ~~~~~ He and I and March are dawning. Slumber leaves our sore bodies After a stormy night that left Icy tree branches and stiff limbs Our hope for a fertile spring is cherished most by me Our hope for lots of freedom is cherished most by him. Crystal branches melting in the sun Stiffened limbs coming slowly to life. His kiss (so warm) awakes as a fist and frightens the promise from the day. -- Emily Dare ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── The Swordmaker ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The work of a fine swordmaker is fraught with love of steel as she removes the flame gorged member from the coals of its forge and thrusts it fully into the throat of the quenching chamber filling the air with hissing sighs. And so the sword is forged and tempered and its camber and bend made just so, as lavish annealing and stroking, yea, and furious polishing too, bring it to it finest lustre. A weapon of such fine tempre would be a prize for any woman. Slowly quenching its fire and Annealing the long sweeping blade would be a swordmaker's masterpiece. Finishing the hilt of such a blade, adorning it with chain and jewels, requires a night-time of caresses. What is a sword, made is such a way, if not plunged to the hilt in flesh, extracting sighs and moans of submission from the victim of its raping thrust? Are not the screams and moans the just and fitting reward for such a steel? Are they not the sounds of ecstasy? As the victim's arching back and firm, jutting breasts .... submit .... to the rapid thrusting steel, and the furious penetrations release the willing spirit to the vapour of rapture. -- Emily Dare ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Toast the Mariner! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Glancing slowly about the bar, Looking for a friendly face; One of whom I used to know But who is gone far away now. My Commodore sailed on the tide A year ago and I have seen Naught of this hardy mariner. Perhaps a stranger in this bar Will show this saddened lonely lass A good time, and dance, kiss and sing And make me smile until he comes Back from the sea, eager to greet me. So, hoist your mugs and be merry With me, while I sing you some songs Of love and passionate lovers, And keep one eye on the sea beyond. My commodore will come back to me On the morrow.. perhaps the next. I will give him reason to linger, This time, so he stays in my bed, And shares my charms, seeking joy, To race the wind yet another day. -- Emily Dare ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ All my precious days ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It seems to me, when I was young, The days would always last. Their light would n'er escape my eyes, Nor sliver from my grasp. Sunset, it felt, would never come, And surely not the moon! And even when the darkness came, The light would be back soon. But surely now it cannot be, That time has gone awry. Though somehow all my precious days Are passing me right by. It feels I've lost a right-of-birth-- To revel in the day! The nights, it seems, will never end, The sun n'er pass my way. I wonder if, when I am old, The light will never come. If I'll be always trapped in night, Devoid of any sun. If dawn will never break again, To 'luminate the sky. If lives will slowly fade away, Whisp'ring quiet goodbyes. To all the young ones, Take your days! Rejoice within their span! The time will soon be taken back, As it is with all man. And when I'm old and feebly built, During the night I'll say, When I was young, the days were years- And now the years are days. -- David Anthony Cariddi 27 March 1995 ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ On a cold February morning- I awoke Shivering under my own skin Cold with confusion, I rose Went through the motions Of the day - Every day There was nothing Extraordinary About that day Except, of course, the fact That you coexisted on this Earth With me -- Jennifer O'rourke ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Where is my red crayon? Gone Rolled away All that is left Are its markings on the page I tore the wrapper off Its minuscule pieces Were carried away in a breath The crayon itself Was smashed to smithereens And swept under the rug Under the rug Where all the unspeakable secrets are kept -- Jennifer O'rourke ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Israel.... · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · THESE HILLS ~~~~~~~~~~~ The warm wind blows; a dry, dusty and ancient scent to it. Small grains bombarding skin; softly, kindly, gently. Standing on the hills, those same hills that so many nameless souls have stood on before. Looking onto the desolate landscape. Brown-grayish hills rolling into eternity - as far as the eye could see, fading into a sandstorm in the distance. Ancient life, flowing lazily along. These smooth hills hold so much in their silent grainy solitude.... Naked, grey sand. Soft and hot. Pick it up and hold it - feel the heat, the warmth. Grind it around till it's dusty residue collects under fingernails. Then slowly let it go, watch it slowly, noiselessly settle back to its resting place - not to be disturbed for another few million years. A small bug-eyed and colorless lizard scuttles from a small clump of thin wispy grass to another. Quietly, it disappears again, into the hills, the hills, the hills.... I breath in the essence, the warmth of the air... One single word unfurls in my mind, the word is "home." -- Igal Koshevoy February 16, 1993 & June 20, 1995 SOCIOPATHS Ju.3b ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ A Drum For each God ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In West African tradition a ritual drum exists for each known spirit in the spirit world. Only one rhythm is played on each drum -- the one rhythm that will reach the specific god the drum was made for. I think that poems can be like drums. Instead of making pathways to specific gods, however, I would like to make pathways in time and space, and between people; pathways between this world and some other. And perhaps, even the odd pathway to a god. Listen, while I play my drums. Kingdoms Edge (selections) ". . . On the Plains of Heaven . . ." -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Resurrection ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Out of the eater something to eat, out of the strong something sweet. two seasons ----------- A dead lion, bees nesting among his ribs. Amber dripping from white bone, amber sealed in wax. Honeybees have also nested in a tree outside my window. Sometimes they climb inside glass panes, pace and wait on wood frames, their wings shiver and sustain a noise a sound a hum. Insects create new words in summer: they speak in Xhosa, a language of clicks and whistles. I watch them build their nest, fortify it against the coming cold with honey, their dead, and wax. In the fall I watch them die, thorax, abdomen, slowly working beating a pulse without veins or blood. Enough of empty shells rustling echoes on the sill, I leave when it is fall, no longer stay at home nights to watch them work I make my paths through beds of leaves and ash walk down autumn streets and when lights illumine leaves I dream the yellows of bees honey; dream the creamy white of wax. II -- Voices sounds drums awaken the dead. Chainsaws with their sound of a million hives were made for this awakening, this opening of a tomb. Dig through leaves at the base of a sycamore, sift loam, lift stones; dirt cemented by the blood of time and trees. When the tree is wider than your arms ask if there's some spirit you should pray to before you start the first cut; horizontal, to show the tree where to lay its bones then to take the wedge; diagonal cut from above to just beyond the center backcut; horizontal again, the plane defined by the chainsaw's blade, sawdust, smoke; your sweat and the tree's sap. All intent on two dimensions the plane of the blade against the tree for the final cut. This sycamore was hollow; at its center a skull, some teeth, vertebrae, the bones of a coon settled through the trunk from his grave in the branches above. I keep the skull and some of the bones, glue the jaw together, the teeth in their places. I call the skull "Lazarus". --------- Last summer I sought out that tree in six hundred acres of woodland, found it tapped it played it for a drum. Put my voice inside called, "Lazarus, come out" put my hand in, brought forth bees and honey, pain and wax. That night, with my hand wrapped in linen, still swollen, I dreamt the amber of bees honey; I dreamt the creamy white of wax the carcass of a lion which gave shelter to a bee hive bones sleeping in a wooden tomb, the rustling echo of a voice: "take the grave clothes off and let him go." -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Champagne and Coltrane ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Champagne and Coltrane ease the darkness smoothly into rooms of light, warmth... the warmth remains and light is chased, placed in waiting for the rising of a silver moon. II -- Moonlight shifts on my wall the shapes of ice in water and whiskey. Cold swirls of light and cubes, cylinders; whiskey snakes and eddies. III --- In the morning, light enters warm, air cool through the window; they touch, caress, tongue our bodies. Outside, green hills grown with trees are rolling, curving into sky. They buck and turn, slope and reach for heights: perpetual motion held in their stillness. IV -- On your way from the kitchen, the glasses in your hands shift cubes in whiskey and water: motion, light, and shapes words can't obtain. -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Cat ~~~ A cat of granite tongue roughs my finger, rubs against my boot toe and the concrete step. It will not have its softness come between us it keeps the distance clear, unsullied; the closeness clean, like the leafprints drawn on a sidewalk, left by September rain. ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Wonton Recipe ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The subtle curves of hip and breast align themselves amidst the kitchen clutter: seasonings, empty bottles, a vase with dried flowers, bowls of chopped meat and spices. Palms work flour into dough, dough into patties. II -- To knead: The pressure starts in the shoulders, works down through arms. Muscles in the hands do a slow turn from push to pull, push to pull. Squares of dough enfold meat and spices. Pinch corners, drop into cooking oil. III --- Each bite crushes the shell, breaks into pelvic softness: Motions of jaw, tongue and throat bring sustenance to my belly. -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Musicians: Glass Harpist and Fiddlers Newmarket Square, Phila. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Crystal speaks at his gesture. Fingers tapered, kept smooth by lotion and water, he dips them into china bowls then touches rims of glass strokes them; evokes notes, sighs, whispers: the crystal chime extends. Across the street, under neon signs, fiddlers feel the curves of the bows viols, basses; feel the depth and breadth of sound rumbling in bellies of wood, on iron strings, on hair from the tails of horses. Under the pavilion a listener shifts, admits the light and neon of cafe and shop color and clarity eclipse themselves in goblets brimming with water, light, a sound that tastes of raw honey; first roughness, then amber smooth. In this place of fingers touching curved glass and crystal, trinkets strewn on tables; belt buckles, boxes inlaid with brass and ivory, china cups and plates, myself in the angle of a brick floor and a pillar, a fiddler's voice in the belly of his fiddle: water, an audible crystalline honey, light, rest in the hollow of a glass. -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Giza Lingia (swahili for Darkness Enters) ~~~~~~~~~~~ Darkness enters through a dusty pane the moonlight passes from the picture on your dresser I wish telephone wires and kite strings wouldn't catch so often. Spiderwebs are silver, hung in air in the morning my breath clouds when I breathe on the webs they glisten and drop dew to the grass and my breathing the webs hold and pulse An hour later the gas man comes to check the meter and brushes away my lungs with his hat. The picture on your dresser is a street a telephone line a kite still sailing it's string hanging empty no child to hold up straight against the push empty except for the telephone line an empty street except for some houses, a dog, a telephone line, a kite and a gas man's cap blowing down the street. -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Ocarina ~~~~~~~ I took my Wind-maker I went to a pine tree the one with soft cones I took the fertile cones took the pollen holding cones I took them and rubbed them released their pollen blessed the wood of my Wind-maker, my song maker, my flute which has two chambers and sings in a double-kiva voice. I went then, left out from where I was standing, went into the stone building the stone house where the man hangs I went there I stood in the light the blood light; damu iliyotoka Juani ilikuwa nuekundu blood which came from the sun was red, blood which came from the sky was blue, blood which came from the trees was green, blood which came from the earth was brown, and yellow. Standing in this blood I breathed. I put my breath into my flute my double-fluted-kiva voice blessed with pollen, made fertile in its sounds. Niliicheza. (I played it.) -- Ron Tisdale ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ╤══╕ ╒══╕ ╒══╕ ╒═╤═╕ ╒══╕ ╒══╕ ╤══╕ ═╤═ ╤══╕ ╒═╤═╕ ╤ ╤ ╒═╤═╕ ╞══╛ │ │ ╘══╕ │ -ps- ╘══╕ │ ╞═╤╛ │ ╞══╛ │ │ │ │ │ │ ╧ ╘══╛ ╘══╛ ╧ ╘══╛ ╘══╛ ╧ ╧═ ═╧═ ╧ ╧ ╘══╛ ╧ ╧ ╧ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ SANDY ~~~~~ (A monologue) TIME: The present. PLACE: Sandy's one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan AT RISE: it's late at night on a weekend. Sandy has just brought home a new friend. SANDY I'm always trying to deal with this ... this ... (a smile) How do you think I felt when I woke up one day and realized my name was Sandy, Sandy Beaches? Huh? Tell me. No, you don't have to tell me, I know what I felt. I felt absolutely ridiculous. Wouldn't you? Sure you would. My parents had what you might call poetic sensibilities. It wasn't all that bad when I was maybe nine, ten, even into my teens. But, my goodness, I'm a fifty year old woman and I still have that name. Why don't you sit down. (pause) That chair isn't the most comfortable. You'd probably be better on the sofa. (pause) Suit yourself. Anyway, my parents had some sense of humor, right? I always wanted to ask them why they named me that. Never did. Hell, I sure hinted around enough times. I would do things like ask them, "What's in a name," or "a thing by any other name is just any other name," I started bringing home these stray animals just to see what my parents would name them. They came up with things like: our cat was called, Steven; our dog, Phyllis; our bird, who died two days after I brought him home, was called Napoleon. I even brought home a gold fish one day and asked them to name it. They didn't even ask whether it was male or female. They named it, Warren. Warren! Warren was a fish and it had a normal name! I was a human being and was named after a geographic terrain. Thank God our last name wasn't "range," they might have called me "Home On The," -- my father liked westerns -- or thanks be to God it wasn't "Forest," or "Mudd. We did know some people from Framingham, Mass, called Mudd. Ethel and Fenton Mudd. Maybe Sandy Beaches isn't all that bad when compared to Fenton Mudd. But I never had the guts to come right out and ask why they named me what they named me. (pause) You're sure you're comfortable? Something to drink? (pause) Am I hogging the conversation? (the unseen Harry, smiles) I know that I can change it. My name, I mean. Make it legally something else. But the thought of doing that always bothered me for some reason. It's like hiding out or something akin to that. A name is a person, right? It kind of defines us in a strange sort of way. (pause) Take your name, for example. Harry. HAA-RRRRRRR-YYYY. Harry! Harry. Harry is a nice name. It doesn't scream out at you. It's just what it is -- Harry. And Harry's a good name for a guy just breaking forty years old. Funny, but some people have to grow into a name. Like seeing a young kid who's called Seymour. It doesn't look right. "Hey Seymour," somebody yells and a small, two foot tall, blond headed kid turns around and says, "Yes, mother. He would never say, Mom, or Mommy. Seymours all say, mother, mother or father. But like Jane, Janes always say -- in a very ladylike way, "Yes, Ma'am, no Ma'am, why yes Sir, why no Sir. And Billys, oh yeah, you can always tell a Billy or a Hank. A Hank would never say, "Mother, would you please pass the butter," or "Why Father, what a nice pipe you're smoking. Hell, Hank would probably say -- no matter how old, "Pass the Goddamn spinach, will ya! or "Move the hell over, buddy. (pause) Sure you're comfortable? You have a nice smile. (pause) You see what I mean, Harry? A name sort of defines who you are. The name Harry kind of defines you. You're not too tall. And you're not too short. In between. And you want to know something else, thinning hair becomes you, is very becoming to a man named Harry. And your hands, they're kind of small, delicate. That'd be the only aspect of you that I would say doesn't really fit. (pause) Harry and Sandy. Sandy and Harry. Kind of has a ring to it, don't you think. Sure you wouldn't like a drink? I think there's vodka. A Diet Coke? (pause) Listen, ah, Harry, I'm really glad I invited you over tonight. Really. You go to that place often? I mean, you hang out at that particular bar? Me, it was my first time. This friend of mine, Crystal -- a girl I work with -- she goes there. Told me I should stop by and check it out. (laughs a little) Never thought I'd ever ask a fellah back to my place. Especially a fellah who ... never mind. So, how do you like my "digs" as they say? It's a real bargain in this day and age. It's truly difficult to find a large studio apartment like this for under a thousand dollars in this day and age. Great location, right? Upper East side is so much nicer than say, the West Side with all those joggers and dog walkers. The only damn thing that's killing this neighborhood are the lousy condos and co-ops. These Godawful real estate people, these developers. All they do is make it ugly. I mean, just how greedy can you get. (pause) Oh, that picture there, that's my parents, their fiftieth wedding anniversary. I know, a lot a photographs, right? I guess there's over a hundred in this room along. (pause) I don't know, I guess I just like good memories from when I was small. They help remind me. And my parents, as you can see, were very photogenic. That one is when they were on a trip to Las Vegas. Here they where in Florida -- Disney World. Oh, I guess you guessed that from the large Mickey Mouse guy standing next to them. (another nervous laugh) Can I get you something, a gingerale, something? You're the first fellah I ever had back to my apartment. Most of the time we end up .. ah. Geez, never expected to have somebody stop by. Hope you don't mind the mess. Now come on, sit on the sofa. I can see that you're uncomfortable. That's it. Better, right? (pause) So, ah, you sell insurance? Must be ... that's right, you don't sell insurance. I get confused. You sell real estate! How could I ever get those two professions mixed up. Oh, by the way, what I said before about developers and all, there are probably a lot of real estate people who truly care. How's business? Must be pretty good in this day and age. Especially in a city like New York. A lot of people. And they all need a place to live. I guess you must feel that you're doing something very important with your life; you know, providing people with shelter and all. Must make you feel good inside. Me, heck, all I do is sell jewelry at Macy's. "Yes Ma'am. "No, Ma'am. " "How about this, Ma'am? Oh darling, it was made for you! Well, one has to do something in life, right? Do something to fill the time. (pause) Mind if I sit next to you? It's the only real comfortable sit in the entire house. (long pause) Listen Harry, why beat around the bush. You mind If I just reach over here and put my hand ... I know it might be acting a little forward and all ... but ... I never minded a man's penis and ... (she watches the unseen Harry stand) Did I say something wrong? You don't have to leave. I'm sorry. I really didn't think it would bother you. Hey wait, I was only joking. The whole thing was a joke. I'm a real comedian. You have to know that about me. Harry? (it's obvious she is now alone) So, ah, it was real nice talking to you. Never even got his last name. Can you imagine that. Any other guy half his age would've jumped at the chance. Maybe I should have eased into it. (pause) Damnit, isn't that the way it's suppose to be done these days! You play hard to get and they never call again. You say, okay, let's do it and they're out of here like a shot from a canon. What's the damn answer! (pause) Maybe I should've worn the other dress; the low cut one. And these flats, should've worn heels. Hell, I thought modern men were suppose to like aggressive women these days. (pause) Maybe he didn't like the way I said his name. (pause) Guess I can't go back to that bar. Harry will certainly fill them in on good old Sandy Beaches, the over-the-hill broad who likes penises. (pause) Oh my God, did I make a fool of myself. (pause) What'd he come back here for: tennis, a little pin the tail on the donkey, scrabble, what! If he wanted something else, why didn't he just say it! He should've been up front, told me right off I was too old, said right away that he wanted a "younger" woman. (she starts to softly cry) This is it. Here it is. Nothing. I have maybe ten, twenty years left before I die and I'm going to spend them alone. That's it. Not a damn thing to do about it. My whole life by myself. Damn. Sandy Beaches, you are a looser, an old lady who'll die and no one will know the difference. Funny in a way. Men. Who do they think they are. And all these photos. Look at them. (she smiles and wipes away the tears. As if she were talking to someone in the room) Remember this picture, that trip we all took to Niagara Falls in fifty-three? What a time. And that Godawful motel with the bugs and leaking shower. Remember? Harry and I could've driven up there next year. We'd stay at the same place, remember the time in fifty-three. Oh, and Harry and I would make love twice, maybe three times a day like it was our second honeymoon. And the kids, our kids, would laugh when we told them of our adventure. And that summer we'd go to Disney World, maybe Coral Gardens. And buy that house we always wanted in Vermont. Harry's good that way. Always was a big spender with a huge heart, a giving nature. Harry and Sandy, Sandy and Harry. (pause) I like the way you hold me, Harry. Your arms always feel so good around me, holding me so I don't fall into a million pieces and be blown away by the wind, blown higher and higher 'till Sandy is no more, 'till Sandy is part of the sky, part of the sun, part of everything, part of nothing. Hold me Harry so I don't blow away and disappear. SLOW FADE OUT -- Martin Zurla ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗ ║ 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. Feel free to drop by and take a look at Centipede; simply dial up BITTER BUTTER BBS at 1-503-692-5841, enter "downloader" as the name, and "guest" as the password for fast access. If you are interested in joining Centipede, please fill out the following form and email it to Tom Almy at 1:105/290. +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ | THE CENTIPEDE NETWORK APPLICATION FORM | +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ | Systems Name: system's name | | BBS Software: system software & version | | Main Board #: full public main data number | | Modem Speeds: protocol & uncompressed modem speed | | Fidonet Adrs: system's Fidonet address | | Sysop's Name: full real name | | Sysop E-mail: sysop's email address | | Sysop Voice#: sysop's full voice phone number | | Sysop D.O.B.: date of birth | | Sysop Address: street address | | Sysop Address: city/state/zip code/country | +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ [ YGDRASIL INTERNET ] ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ RESOURCES The collection of Ygdrasil Press is now available on Internet through the World-Wide Web, accessible as "http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil". This site contains the collections as: 8-bit MS-DOS ASCII text, universal 7-bit ASCII, ANSI color graphics, GIF pictures, word-processor laid-out files and other goodies. The entire collection can also be accessed by FTP as "ftp://ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil". Each month, the Ygdrasil Magazine is posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.arts.poems. We hope this will give readers a break from having to dial long distance and figure out which BBS has Ygdrasil available for them; provide a more intimate link to the world outside our beloved Centipede; and increase & broaden the audience & coverage of Ygdrasil to better serve the readers. E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL Any person that can access Internet e-mail (ie. FidoNet, Prodigy, AOL) can access Ygdrasil's online resources. To get a E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL GUIDE, send e-mail to the Internet address "listproc@www0.cern.ch" (if you don't know how to send Internet e-mail, please ask your system administrator for instructions). In the message, leave the subject line blank, and in the body enter two lines into the message: "www http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil/wwwmail.html" and on the second line "quit". The Guide will be waiting in your e-mailbox within a day. NOTE: CASE IS SIGNIFICANT - "www" is not the same as "WWW"; if you don't type it the exactly same way, your request will fail. COMMENTS Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its contents: Internet: klaus.gerken@bbs.synapse.net Igal Koshevoy, Production Editor and Distribution Coordinator - for submissions of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access. Igal's PGP key is available on request to ensure privacy of transaction. Internet: igal@agora.rdrop.com Fidonet: Igal Koshevoy, 1:105/290 We'd love to hear from you! ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ░▒▓█ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ░▒▓█ █▄▄█ █ ▄▄ █ █ █▄▄█ █▄▄█ █▄▄▄ █ █ ░▒▓█ ▄▄▄█ █▄▄█ ▄█▄▄█ █ █▄ █ █ ▄▄▄█ ▄█▄ █▄▄▄ ░▒▓█ ▄▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ░▒▓█ █▄▄█ █ █ █▄█▄ █ █ █ █▄▄█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ░▒▓█ █ █▄▄█ █▄▄█ █▄▄▄ ▄█▄ █▄▄▄ █ █ █ ▄█▄ █▄▄█ █ █▄█ ░▒▓█ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ░▒▓█ █ █ █▄▄▄ █ ░▒▓█ █▄▄▄ ▄█▄ ▄▄▄█ █ ░▒▓█ 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. 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 participating BBS. Revisions, though, holds the official version of Ygdrasil. ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ─╥─ ╓─── ╥ ┬ ╓─╥─┐ ║ ║ │ ╟──┘ ╙──┤ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ ┌┐ ╟──┤ ║ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴ ╨ ─╥─ ╓─╖ ┬ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓─╖ ┬ ║ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ ║ │ ║ ║ │ ─╨─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╨ ┴ ╨ ┴ ╨ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ╙─┘ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ 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, 1994 and 1995 by Klaus J. Gerken. The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS: No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS 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 │ └────────────────────────────┘ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════