




 November 1993  volume 1, number 7 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      
                    Associate Editors: Paul Lauda                           
                                     : Igal Koshevoy                        
                                     : Pedro Sena                           
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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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



                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

     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.



                                                          
                                        з           ַ ַ ַ / ַ ַ
                                             Ľ       Ľ      



  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 crivant le plaisir sur les murs
   Sadiques
   Je bois ton sang voluptueux
   T'es Serbe ! - Elle rit
   Je n'entends que la Tl
   Malfique
   Pose sur les paules de camarade
   Librto de Belgrade
   Assez
   Assez des dsirs cannibaliques
   Ouvrez la porte de Paradis
   Je veux baiser
   Aimer
   Aimer ! - Elle dit
   Je n'entends que le gazouillement
   Du liquide rouge
   Bien vers
   Pollu par mes peurs mythiques
   Balkaniques ! - Elle vomit 

                            -  Miodrag Djordjevic








  The Old Man and The Cat
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I stand in the fields
  and watch as the
  train goes by
  and wave at the old man
  who sits by the window.
  The old man waves and
  then turns to smile at
  the cat by his side,
  contendly cleaning his face.
  The old man and the
  cat exchange a glance
  of understanding
  and the train whistle
  blows and a breeze
  ruffles the fields
  as I stand and wave
  goodbye.

                            - Jan Kingsford




  Hawks and Fishes
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The hawk fishes for
  fishes too large
  for it's talons,
  and making the
  catch soars away
  with floping fish
  in tow.
  The floping fish
  flops for freedom
  and makes it's
  daring escape,
  diving nose first
  into land that
  once was sea.
  The fish now rapidly
  turns and turns and turns,
  drilling a well into
  the sandy loam,
  as the hawk stands by
  and ponders the
  way of fishes too large
  for it's talons.


                            - Jan Kingsford




  White Roses
  ~~~~~~~~~~~

  "You may break, you may shatter,
   the vase if you will,
   but the scent of roses will hang round it still" - Charles Lamb

  She bleeds pearly white,
  the cloudy ice
  of a frozen heart.
  No crimson stain
  records the rape of this
  virgin bride,
  swathed in a veil of
  illusions and false words.
  She snaps the reigns of
  her chariot of carousel horses,
  and returns to her
  cloistered walls,
  a pagan nun
  bethrothed
  to a dream of love,
  stillborn.
  A wraith of dreams
  weeping a penance of tears,
  a powdery perfume
  of molding white roses.

                            - Jan Kingsford







       The Kiss
       ~~~ ~~~~
  To loose the budding gift
  To rise beyond the pain
  Alight the Night!
  Recall the day!
  I no longer walk this Way.

  Battlefields above the clouds
  Blood below the fields
  Children weep!
  I hear them cry.
  This path to glory's dry.

  Invoke me not, mortal fool
  My sister stands in pain
  I know your touch
  'A gift' you say ?
  Ah, one I would repay.

             - Gay Bost






        From The Lady's Garden
        ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
                      Dedicated to Jan Kinsford

  We's low to the ground for a reason, we is
  The gardeners don't understand us
  Though we's bright in the sunlight
  And fly through the winds
  The gardeners always remand us

  To the dumpster we goes, us 'noxious' weeds
  For we likes to make our own beds
  We plants our own gardens
  We digs our roots deep
  They hates to see our fluffy heads

  But we's here, right out in the open, now
  Here with the rose and the vine
  So, buck up, you old gardeners
  From outta' them mists
  We's gonna make dandelion wine.

                            - Gay Bost









  Entry: 10.14.93, 06:18:53pm
  Title: "The Sidhe", by Shawn Tribe

  They have been known by many terms:
  the sidhe, the hill people, the faeries,
  and countless other guises to many people,
  depending on your persuasion.

  The Sidhe are a magickal creature
  by their very nature,
  as old as time itself,
  and are said to represent
  the 4 elemental kingdoms:
  Earth, Air, Water and Fire.

  We have seen the four gifts
  of the Tuatha DeDannann,
  who live beneath the Hollow Hills
  of Olde Ireland.

  We have heard of Lammas Tide,
  held upon the seventh day,
  of the eighth month,
  when the sidhe move to a
  new faerie hill;
  those who are lucky,
  may just see the shows
  of brilliant light they put on.

  It is said that you may best see them,
  in the hours of midnight, noon, dawn or dusk,
  or upon Beltaine and Samhain.

  But be forewarned!
  If you do see such a creature,
  be humble and gracious,
  for the faerie have no reason
  to trust or honour us;
  For we have ignored them for too long,
  and have done irreversible damage
  to the very elements they represent.


                            - Shawn R. Tribe





  Entry: 10.10.93, 06:23:26pm
  Title: "The Pagans", by Shawn Tribe

  When pagans look at the world,
  they see more than just trees,
  grass, water, and sky.

  To pagans, when they view
  the world, they see the awesome
  beauty and power of IAO.

  They view it in terms of the deities
  that man itself created,
  and make sure to thank them,
  and therefore, thanking IAO.

  To pagans, nature is something
  that is sacred and to be cherished.

  To pagans, the modern world
  is not the 'real world',
  for it is an artificial world,
  with no link to nature,
  and no respect for the middle kingdoms.

  The pagans have but one thing to say:

     "Return to the olde ways"


                            - Shawn R. Tribe






  Entry: 10.09.93, 12:27:18pm
  Title: "Upon this Night", by Shawn R. Tribe

  Upon this night,
  from dawn to dusk,
  the veil is thinnest.

  Upon this night,
  the beings from the Otherworld,
  easily slip to' and fro' between the realms.

  Upon this night,
  we pay notice to Gwyn ap Nudd,
  Samhan, and Cerridwen.

  Upon this night,
  we light bonfires, and bear costumes,
  to ward the evil away.

  Upon this night,
  we eat apples, root and vine vegetables,
  and drink red wine.

  Upon this night,
  we burn wormwood, nightshade,
  and ghost flower.

  For this is a special night,
  it is Samhain, the Feast of the Dead,
  and the Night of the Wild Hunt.


                            -  Shawn R. Tribe







  December 13, 1987
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The light flickered, withered and died.
  The candle warmth, cooled and froze.
  And I stood there, ready, and wrote.

  What else was there to do?

  A few lines stood up, wilted,
  couldn't stand the weight
  of their lousy rhyme,
  and were shot...
  right out of the pen
  into a white piece of paper
  which allows you to read
  mesmerized, maybe
  even think
  that I meant something...
  which mattered...
  and you cared...
  ahh, but I know you,
  your glutonous and gifted will,
  that makes you wonder,
  what am I
  Who am I
  ...
  I know.
  A mirror of my image,
  or perhaps another,
  image in my own mirror.
  whatever difference...except,
  that I am not afraid to look
  and see...
  You...
  As you stand there naked,
  with soul against your wall,
  you mean nothing to me,
  but,
  I must write
  for you,
  and about you.

  The light flickered, withered and the pen died.

  And I realized that I was here
  with a bullet near my poor head
  waiting for a blessing, a tear
  before it hit me, n' I awoke, dead.

  I woke up from another dream
  realizing the role of a poet
  who wished not to escape,
  and lead a new life
  somewhat afraid.
  I've always wanted to die.
  And have done so in my dreams.
  Ohh, but that fear
  of what... monsters of the deep,
  no, simple ignorances of the mind.
  Devils from a loud hellish place,
  no, illusions please unwind.
  Damned allusions, fires from within,
  yes, maybe a few clouds yet live
  waiting, waiting...

  But I sat there, I wrote a dream
  I think of times when I was lean
  of inside tremors
  but I had you for hope and fervour
  the eternal love kept me, mon amour.

  At that time my pen kept me alive
  when all else failed, and thrived
  into worlds beyond appearances
  forever into many distances.

  As I love you
  and always will
  you will hear all this
  humbly
  and I accepted my penance
  for perjury,
  of the spirit...
  ahhh, but what peace I had.

  I will stand trial by the pen
  of unforgiving souls of men
  who refuse to acknowledge my life
  and defy the love of my only wife.

  To her, whenever, if ever,
  I dedicate this soul
  Written by a simple pen
  and piece of paper
  while the candle warmth
  flickered a little
  then went out,
  and the air cooled
  and then, slowly, froze,
  me to sleep,
  ...
  but what sleep.

                            - Pedro Sena






  January 1988
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The wild, dreamy eyed woman of yesterday
  went by, her scent as clear as her sway.

  I watched
     the fortitude of a work of art
     the magnitude of a life's part
     even forgot we all enjoy, live
     to see, appreciate, take, give.
  I watched a little more

  A mother walks, her children in tow
  their energy flew, in a blazing glow.
  I watched
     the sins of hatred word
     suddenly turn to stone
     when thought of real life
     meant the taking of a wife.
  I turned away, then

  A bird from the clouds above appeared
  and told me to watch, listen and hear
  his song of infinite words and wisdom
  until it fled from the mind's prison.
  I had to watch, then

  Someone tapped my shoulder lightly
  and told me to leave, very mightly
  and all thoughts of wonder left
  I must have been, clearly, bereft
  and I was watching, then

  I tried to watch some more
  but the feeling was gone
  and my tears slipped before
  they dried, telling me, DONE.

                            - Pedro Sena







  January 26, 1988
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  One never knows what comes and goes
  through our minds, bodies and toes
  but you can rest assured that there
  resides in you something, somewhere
  that likes to speak of its own peace
  regardless of what you will believe
  accept, decide, and probably must do
  before meeting a proverbial waterloo.
  The question always appears, risen
  from depths of you know not where
  self righteous, contemptable, you,
  bigger than a dangerous white bear
  we feared as children, and still do,
  as supposed adults in a mad world
  of killers, sinners, and many saints
  who have claimed wisdom by many words
  of thoughts, feelings, and complaints
  you once decided not to accept
  and one day may even regret
  much to oyur dismay and mine
  that while you felt and perhaps hid
  you actually ran and fairly well hid
  from none other than yourself.

  To this day I declare that my thoughts
  are not reasons, but what I've wrought
  and you need to wake up, learn to feel
  the horrible sting of the turning wheel
  which runs over your veins and red blood
  trying to reap what you need understood
  not realizing that your gain is not here
  and you can't possibly learn, and adhere
  to the rules that were meant for you, I,
  before it is time for us to go, also die,
  quietly...
  few will notice...

  For this cause I often pray,
  while your feathers stray,
  hoping that one day you'll see
  what is really meant for you, mere tree,
  that glorious heavens' given us all
  and is not the only universe in light
  but an earth made of our wronged fall
  and secured by another one's might
  which you can claim as your own
  anytime you are inclined with desire
  and truly I speak of mine, your home,
  or punish me, with the eternal fire.

  ( For Diana )

                            - Pedro Sena






  November 1989 to January 1990

  A Baptism of the Holy Spirit.
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The serious,
  and soft face of dawn
  ...
  approacheth
  ...
  and as it does
  smooth flows,
  into the spark
  which makes us both
  the light and a spirit
  of many sources
  which holds us
  so dear in some love.

  And in this,
  and only this manner
  do I
  as representative
  of the ascended masters
  and of all the flames
  related to all highest ideals,
  I am here
  to consecrate,
  to initiate
  YOU
  ...
  into a new life
  ...
  with this salty water
  thou shall become clean.

  with this salty water
  thou shall forget the past.

  with this salty water
  thou spirit of heart
  shall rise and unite
  with all forms of good
  and help direct
  this spiritual one
  upon its path
  the one and only path,
  to liberty
  to freedom,
  to learn
  to live
  to love

  ...
  ( silence )
  ( A shell picks up some water and is poured from the crown )
  ( Allow water to run freely )
  ( wash and bless the crown )
  ( wash and bless the forehead )
  ( wash and bless the bridge )
  ( wash and bless each eye )
  ( wash and bless each cheek )
  ( wash and bless the lips )
  ( wash and bless the chin )
  ( wash and bless the neck )
  ( wash and bless the upper chest )
  ( wash and bless the middle chest )
  ( wash and bless the diaphram )
  ( wash and bless each breast )
  ( wash and bless the belly button )
  ( wash and bless the pussy )
  ( wash and bless the legs )
  ( wash and bless the feet )
  ( wash and bless the toes, each )
  ( then kiss each, on the way back up in reverse order, once )
  ( apply another shell of salty water on top of crown and allow it
  to run freely )

  You,
  have been washed
  to undertake your
  spiritual message
  which is much larger
  than you can imagine.
  From this point on
  You are to know
  that all shall be alright
  and in proper accord
  with the order of things
  as prescribed by the holiest
  of all books available.
  This act empowers you.
  This act has not placed you
  under any obligation
  that you do not see fit,
  under the eyes of your maker.
  You are
  simply expected to carry on
  ...
  with love
  ...
  and humble thanks
  for having allowed
  this servant
  to perform such a task
  ...
  God speed be with you
  ...
  ( lower heads )
  ( small prayer each quietly )
  ( touch foreheads quietly )
  ( end of ceremony, except to enjoy the ocean water, in a must fun... )

                            - Pedro Sena









  Strangers
  ~~~~~~~~~

  So, we are strangers.
  We haven't smelled
  Each other's scents.
  We don't know, the
  Color of our eyes,
  Disposition
  of our teeth,
  We don't know
  Of the bone
  We carry
  To our Death.

  I propose
  That we carry
  Our steaming dogs
  Into the field
  Under the cake
  Of the moon
  Let them lie,
  Breathing,
  Showing
  Their teeth
  Because, we
  Are strangers.

  We should go
  Home and listen
  To cassette players
  Filled with blank tape,
  Whirring a single noise
  Forever--
  For we are strangers,
  We have not smelled
  Each other's scents.

  And we should
  Break mirrors
  In private rooms,
  Review our images
  In the broken pieces,
  And we should fetter
  Our reflections
  In the mud
  With our fingers
  Like strangers.

  Yet we'll walk
  Opposite sides
  Of the Earth
  Follow,
  The equator.

                            - V.A. Blevins





  Concerning John
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
       for my Aunt after my Uncle passed away a few weeks ago...


  Tobacco and striped overalls,
  Silver buttons & boots.
  The land stretches for miles
  And what could you do, John
  With the tall green tractor?

  Laugh from your belly
  With a scratchy laugh, go
  Lean back like a burlap sack
  Full of the harvest to be,
  Survey the great stretch beyond
  The swing sets and toy trucks
  Rubbing a graying, spiny top
  And laughing a scratchy laugh.

  Work the farm until dusk
  And talk softly to the sheep
  Who baa and baa into the night
  Until you are tired and hungry
  And come home to Dorothy
  In evenings of peace and comfort
  Like Oklahoma at bedtime
  Under that moon that raises
  The crop you've sewn so dearly
  In irrigation stripes whose fruits
  Are like your silver buttons & boots.

  And when I hear your laughing
  As I could not in the last church,
  Will I still come visit you
  As the child fast running away
  From the sheepdogs; crying
  With drying smiles in your tale.

                            - V.A. Blevins








                Who
                ~~~

  If I pull the breath out of angels
  Watch it take flight
  Or show the fire of dragons
  To fuel the furnaces of minds
  If my heart was actually like the sun
  Where would my sister moon have left to run!
  But then when you look my way
  Hey my hands don't feel like stone
  In your arms I'm home
  and feel
  how she feels
  watching the oceans stir
  wanting us
  it begins Now!
  intensely
  who stole the stars and thieves the skies
  and who actually believes a poets ethereal lies
  Who feels so fire fragile at night
  and who has a tear left to cry
  Who knows the reasons why
  And who feels the sorrow beneath your eyes
  But Who loads the bullets in your brain
  Who opens up your soul and sees the fire and rain
  Who knows why living causes pain
  Who knows why there's much darkness about light
  Who feels alive tonight?...
  Who wants to wash your hair?
  Who wraps their arms around you bare
  Who sits like a king upon life's electric chair
  Who has dragon lungs
  Who feels like their drowned in an oven of suns
  Who knows why we see light
  who feels alive tonight...
  Who's willing to battle with light
  (sweet dreams my love),Good-night.


                            - Sean Hinds





       FULL BLACK Q
       ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Black
  black
  black
  ten to eight
  black
  the night stalks everything
  there are shadows in which we cannot dwell
  others dwell in them
  you dwell in them
  like mirrors that explore
  the wrong side of you
  you who are lost
  you who are the seekers in the desert
  of african violets
  you find only scorpions
  you find only poison asps
  hot sand
  black night
  even stars don't shine
  black pawn
  in a jungle of deposed kings and queens
  you try hard
  try harder - it is the darkest night
  and the brightest day
  grey day
  paynes grey
  black non-colour
  mixed with white
  full colour produces
  grey
  grey
  black and grey
  darkest night
  the poet writes a song about a bird that does not fly
  about old men waiting for their demise
  which has already come so long ago
  young men lost to emptiness
  everyone lost
  broken bottles
  drinking drunk
  stumbling falling falling
  it is the abysmal alley
  through which we stumble
  in which we fall
  it is the alley through which we walk
  drunk and drugged
  hoping for the night
  the day
  hoping for anything
  it is woman
  it is life

  it is a dragnet
  which is all that is gathered
  it is the poet gathering
  he gathers everything
  the tree might grow
  but it doesn't grow fast enough
  it is books and dust
  books and dust and
  repetitions
  it is periods of this
  it is periods
  the ending of a sentence
  the next paragraph does not begin as easily
  as the next note
  what is the next note
  what is not
  streets
  walking up and down the
  streets
  walking up and down
  one's past
  poems of the
  notebooks of the
  journals of the
  passing of the
  past the indecision
  the decision that
  gathers
  what to do
  or not to do
  the words
  angry words
  sullen words
  words without a hope
  of evidence
  that we exist
  letters
  answering letters and
  telephone calls
  and noise
  bearded men and
  lovely ladies
  poet's verses
  sunshine maybe
  perhaps clouds hide it
  hide everything
  there are clouds in my eyes
  your eyes
  everybody's eyes
  the eyes that see
  the eyes that don't
  the ears that hear
  and the ears that won't
  read read

  read the
  blackest poem on the whitest page
  in this monotony
  seated by the open window
  years ago
  dreaming
  dreams still come and go
  dreams still do a lot of things
  but we mix them with reality
  reality
  fine illusion
  like the tv set
  are there really actors
  are there really people who write this stuff
  are there really poets
  can there really be poets
  this cant be true
  truth is stranger than fiction
  fiction is the stuff of dreams
  dissected into fact
  and how we conquer it
  how we want to conquer it
  how we have a wish to conquer
  what is there
  what is left
  take stock - fifteen thousand pages
  fifteen thousand ages
  in a world a-swim
  and how the world has aged
  how we turn the page
  how the world has bled
  for understanding and for knowledge
  calling wood and city
  country places
  cars and bicycles to work
  I just realised how alien this is
  I just realised I was realizing
  nothing that has been the same
  stale conversation
  stagnant poem
  like the stagnant and polluted waters
  of the world
  whales and oceans
  saviour and society
  telephones
  snags in all communication
  it's a wrong number
  always the numbers one wants not
  out of order
  passed away
  ten years ago when the world was younger
  it was aging still

  this poem stretches back ten years
  it stretches back to shape and form
  upon an unknown canvas
  just exploded in my mind
  it ages back to everything
  old and new
  the past that is the past
  which was once before the future
  one searches and one finds
  renew yourselves
  yes thank you
  works of art are incorrigible
  everything is
  people of the roofs and jars of
  opium
  disturbance in the audience
  the audience is on the radio
  everyone should know that
  what
  yes yes
  whatever is
  whatever's not
  all of us
  chains do not unlock
  they make such pretty sounds
  clanking through the corridors
  go down do go down
  deep wells of wisdom
  filled with garbage
  on the beach a bottle
  and no message
  in the bottle
  cold wind
  and a dead gull
  white black
  feathers ruffled
  by a living wind
  pages
  black
  white
  peanuts and
  squirrels
  blue jays
  music
  photographs
  not liking one's own
  the image in the words
  the images on porcelain
  and the mirror of picasso
  the lives relived in words
  and photographs
  only surfaces
  too romantic to be seen
  in true flight

  why couldn't i have been born earlier
  when the world was young
  and people stuck together
  in their feeling for each other
  and their art
  all of us
  what have we done
  we have seen our heritage
  diminished
  we have shrunk from our duty
  as citizens of the world
  we have made a sham of everything
  fragile planet
  birds
  rows of birds are art
  everything is art
  nothing is
  where do we stop
  where do we go
  where do we see these things
  we do not see
  what are these words
  these images
  these repetitions
  what are these poems
  with no rhythm
  these poems with no rhyme or reason
  reasons being out these days
  the poets are such simple people
  who like to think themselves much more
  they know as much about a poem
  as they know about themselves
  nothing
  we are all dumb
  broken
  shattered
  vanquished
  dumb
  it is boredom that we are afraid of
  we play games
  it is games that we aught to be afraid of
  it is panes of window glass we see the world
  through
  see through everything
  writers cramp
  of course
  everything's the curse of need
  machines break down
  and can be fixed
  like democracy
  at ten a.m.

  rain
  clouds
  dark and black and
  grey
  paynes grey
  of the voices
  voices that communicate
  voices that fall silent
  that can't
  some have no ears
  some only scars
  some are devastated
  some collect their ingenuity
  and smoke a cigarette
  and talk to pretty girls
  about their civil wars
  in bed
  break
  pause
  back grey day
  day that must be rain
  fingers of prague
  rain that must be shadow
  without sun
  salt
  and pepper
  rain on all of us
  blue roofs
  darkness in the streets
  don't shave
  when morning comes
  like a lark on fire
  singing
  songs of torture
  but the morning isn't
  good enough
  don't look in the mirror
  even if it cracks
  don't look at people
  they might just look back
  don't do anything
  pace the room
  pace it up and down
  shout
  scream
  drink
  get drunk
  forget to forget
  everything
  the blackness in your heart
  the too full jungle in your mind
  contrived in spaces
  that are inaccessible
  to anyone but god
  and who can boast
  of being god

  my guts ache
  they don't write poems
  like that
  they copulate
  like that
  the dregs of earth
  the lowest of the low
  that grace the lips of satan
  in eternal hell
  what's the use
  disguising in the world
  the good and bad
  the sun and moon
  what togetherness is not
  good poems do not lie
  they twist the truth
  society tells the lie
  and why not
  we're only here for the duration
  of eternity
  we can never do ourselves
  the harm to put ourselves away
  what we do not finish in one life
  we finish in another
  what is the use
  what can we do
  of love and of devotion
  love what
  devotion to whom
  STOP
  and as the sign bearer stops
  everything also stops
  black
  notice that there
  are no stars
  the last one having been
  outdone by the dawn
  the pregnant dawn
  all our images are broken by the dawn
  the blazing dawn
  society depends upon the dawn
  the ageless dawn
  everything depends upon the dawn
  the dawn of what
  another day
  a new beginning
  question yourself
  the dawn of what
  i just want to top
  the dawn of
  what
  we know everything
  nothing
  the nothing that we know is everything
  only we don't know it yet
  isn't that a laugh

  the birds are on their southern journey
  give a warning sign
  they are going on vacation
  we only lock ourselves
  into our prison cells
  it is like we would be if we were not
  or vice versa
  with ladders climbing to the sky
  the rungs are broken
  we all think we can climb the ladder
  we try
  we only fall down trying
  and still think that we succeed
  we get nowhere
  the higher we get
  the further we get away from what we had
  and what we had
  has been our solid base
  we are in outer space
  the solid base is weightlessness
  how long will it last
  chains rust
  but to actually cast them off
  that takes courage
  how much courage do we have
  what is freedom
  will we ever dare again
  were we ever in danger as today
  do we have each other
  do we know any more
  do we know ourselves
  were all these things as important then
  are they that important now
  the art of fighting
  without philosophy
  yes yes yes
  they are important
  the saviour is society
  we are the witness to the truth
  we are the witness
  to the silence we equate
  with full communication
  if we could
  only learn the language
  of community
  if we would only listen
  to the cars and the
  machines
  and where the footsteps end
  upon a barren beach
  where is the wind
  where are we
  and do we really know ourselves
  do we really know anything at all
  do we really care

  are we so broken as to think that we are together yet
  and look at what we lose by losing
  look at all of it
  all the wonder
  the light
  the different light
  that permeates everything
  as open to the sky
  as love envelops us
  the blue cerulean
  the wonder of this studio
  with outstretched arms
  the radium sun
  heightens us in shadows
  shadows of our nature
  shadows of the brightness of our silhouettes
  let is leave the darkness of this city
  let us leave the darkness of all cities
  let us walk into Beethoven's pastoral
  and let us seek the quiet place
  where we are sheltered in the gentle sounds
  and breathe the freshet air of harmony
  beneath the gentle universe of stars

  it is late
  and it is early
  and the voices of the night are silent
  and the voices of the day begin
  another clamour
  i will say no more
  i will let the word come through
  of its own accord
  forgive me reader if i've said too much
  i will say no more

  Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyara.
       Shantih shantih shantih...


                            - Night of 21/22 Aug 1975

                            - Klaus J. Gerken







   ͸ ͸ ͸ ͸        ͸ ͸ ͸  ͸ ͸    ͸
   ;    ͸             ͸     Ѿ    ;           
       ; ;             ; ;             ;   
  


                   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







   ͻ
       A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers    
   Ķ
        - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet   [9311]     
   Ķ
    (C) CopyRight     "I Write, Therefore, I Develop"     By Paul Lauda 
   ͼ

       Come one, come all! Welcome to Centipede. Established just for
       writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place
       for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn
       from all.  A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
       Even a chance to be published in a magazine.

       Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area,
       an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and
       speculated history & publishing.  In all of the ten conferences,
       anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends.
       For that is what CentNet is here for: for you.  Ever wonder how
       to accent a poem at the right meter?  Well, come join our
       PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out.
       Have any problems in deciphering your dreams?  Select The Dreams
       echo, and you're questions shall be solved.

       The Network was created on May 16, 1993.  I created this because
       there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience.
       And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to
       grow, and become active on Bulletin Board Systems.

       I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
       specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
       Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most
       nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest
       to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in!  No more fuss.
       A writer can now download the whole network, without phasing
       out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to
       the writer's interests.  This means that Centipede has all
       the active topics that any creative user seeks.  And if we
       don't, then one shall be created.

       If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call
       at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences.  You'll
       not be disappointed!   Or, check out the latest info packet
       being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE].









                  
                      
                   
                          
                                       
                             
               
                   
              
      

  
            THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
            FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken
            THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
            DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
            FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
            KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
            ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
            FURTHER SONGS 1986, songs by KJ Gerken
            THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
            POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn
            THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
            STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            BLATANT VANITY, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            ALIENATION OF AFFECTION, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE, poems by Igal Koshevoy
  

    All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each, and may be ordered from:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from  the  same  address:  $2.50  an
  issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac),
  operating  system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for
  delivery.

  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems
  (1-609-896-3256 at 300 - 57600 bps).




  
                 Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ    Ŀ      Ŀ
                         Ĵ      ڿ Ĵ   
                                 
            ķ  Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ ķ 
                           Ĵ              
                                   
  


  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:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS




