




 November 1994  Volume 2, Number 11 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      
                    Associate Editors: Paul Lauda                           
                                     : Pedro Sena                           
                                     : Gay Bost                             
                    Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy                        
                      European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch           
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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      INTRODUCTION................................Klaus J. Gerken

      Reflections.................................Marilyn Hutchings
      Through A Mirror Darkly.................... Marilyn Hutchings
      On Mending Childhood's Petticoats...........Gay Bost
      Clear definitions...........................Gay Bost
      Character Resolution........................Gay Bost
      Echoed......................................Gay Bost
      She being non being.........................Gay Bost
      Wake Up Call For Zero Hour..................Gay Bost
      Restructuring, Canto I......................Klaus J. Gerken
      Men made the World..........................Jim Yagmin
      Does the Morning Start too Late?............Jim Yagmin
      Wink of a Dead Man..........................Jim Yagmin
      Leda........................................Steve Bliss
      Rachel......................................Steve Bliss
      Five Plums..................................Steve Bliss
      wine........................................Michael Kelly
      shesaid.....................................Michael Kelly
      5-5-94 and so forth.........................Michael Kelly
      online......................................Michael Kelly
      anotherniteofprimetime......................Michael Kelly
      careless end of...something...?.............Igal Koshevoy
      Estranged...................................Greg Schilling

      POST SCRIPTUM...............................Peter Handke




                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

   Someone asked me the other day how Ygdrasil is managed, and what each
   editor's responsibility is. Well, there is no real itinerary. While
   Editors are not assigned a role per se, they usually manage to find their
   own niche. Ygdrasil, is governed by an equality of purpose, shared among
   all the editors. While I, holding the position of Founder and Editor in
   Chief, have a veto of anything that can be admitted to the pages of
   Ygdrasil, this veto is rarely enforced, and each editor has a free voice
   in determining what should or should not be contained in its pages. For
   instance, Editors have the right to edit an edition of the magazine
   whenever they feel they have enough material, or wish to do an issue
   which pertains to a special topic. Any editor on the staff, who wishes to
   do this, will retain complete editorial freedom, and unless the issue in
   question will damage Ygdrasil's credibility, I will not interfere.
   Furthermore Editors are free to pass poems to me for inclusion, and these
   will in not be questioned.

   Each of the editors have brought their own special functionality: Paul
   Lauda, is the editor directly responsible for the distribution of
   Ygdrasil; Pedro Sena has chosen to edit his own fine editions; and Igal
   Koshevoy, our Production Editor, oversees the format and finer points of
   the magazine's layout. Once he puts his stamp of approval on each
   edition, it will be released. On the other hand Milan George Djordjevitch
   has been our European connection. Also, with this edition Gay Bost, who
   has, throughout the past year, contributed many fine poems, not only her
   own, but also those of others as well, joins our staff. It will be
   interesting to see what role will evolve for her with each new issue. Her
   fine sense of poetry, and erudite intelligence will be of immense benefit
   to the evolution of Ygdrasil.

   Poems come to us through various avenues, but most of all through the
   Centipede Network, which originates out of Lawrenceville, New Jersey, and
   Paul Lauda's Revisions Systems BBS (the phone number can be found at the
   end of this edition). After all, Ygdrasil and Centipede are linked as an
   integral part of each other, and the Centipede Poetry Conference remains
   the main avenue for submissions to Ygdrasil: but under no circumstances
   will we refuse submissions through other means. Ygdrasil's address is
   provided at the end of the Magazine, and we have had a fair number of
   submissions in this manner -- indeed it is hoped that submission will be
   obtained from writers who do not have access to the Centipede Network
   (although we hope eventually all will be curious enough to seek it out),
   which means that Ygdrasil has gained an audience beyond the Information
   Highways. Poems of any length and of any topic are acceptable, as are
   Plays and Prose Pieces. But the Plays and Prose Pieces should be kept
   fairly short, although nothing will be rejected on length alone. Keep in
   mind that Ygdrasil is still a Journal of Poetry, and that should be the
   primary focus of anything submitted for inclusion in its pages.

   A final note on contributions. We would dearly love to be able to pay for
   contributions, but as it stands, and since Ygdrasil is a non-profit
   enterprise, it should be realized that this is not a credible situation.
   The main purpose of Ygdrasil has always been to provide poets with the
   widest possible audience, whether here in North America, or in Europe
   (and hopefully, at some point, throughout the world). It is hoped that
   though Ygdrasil, the poets printed in these pages will gain a much
   deserved audience, and hopefully wider publication and acknowledgement.

   If you have the good fortune to have read a copy of Ygdrasil, please drop
   us a line. We would be very interested in hearing from you, indeed it is
   very important, because only through feedback from you, the reader, can
   we, indeed make Ygdrasil a truly universal vehicle for the art of poetry.



                                                       
                                     з           ַ ַ ַ / ַ ַ
                                          Ľ       Ľ      



   REFLECTIONS
   ~~~~~~~~~~~

   On the other side of the window
   Vehicles are driving through intersections
   People stroll and bike the sidewalks--
   Outward signs of busy lives on the go.

   On the other side of the window
   Heads are not bent over papers and books
   Pens and pencils don't scratch and scroll
   Across blue lines--row after row.

   On the other side of the window
   Feet tread across thresholds to banks and bakeries
   Factories and photo studios day after day
   No thought beyond the everyday to and fro.

   On the other side of the window
   Books are not scoured for theme and meaning
   Libraries are not haunted for obscure notes
   Decisions are not made to increase what is known.

   On the other side of the window
   Colors, when combined, create enmity
   Lifestyle choices bring people to the brink of war
   Religion becomes a means of hate to sow.

   On the other side of the window
   Values are not examined for validity
   Stereotypes are not exploded--myths debunked
   Traditions are set in stone to keep the status quo

   On the other side of the window
   Life goes on--unexamined
   The merely mundane, an end in itself
   No questions asked--contentment sits on a shelf.


                                        -- Marilyn Hutchings
                                           September 1994




   "...THROUGH A MIRROR DARKLY"
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   We use the mirror to study our countenance
   Our hair, our teeth, our clothes.
   Does it reflect our inner self
   Can it see past the hoax?

   In the mirror is an image
   of the person whom I try to be--
   Sometimes the face that's reflected back
   Is a person I have never seen.


                                        -- Marilyn Hutchings
                                           September 1994





   For Marilyn...

                                      

   On mending childhood's petticoats.
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   It's life I've dreamt of, lately
   In the darkness of the light
   In the shadows of the morning dew
   I've tried to stretch my sight.

   There's something there, I know
   Beneath time's fallen leaf
   There's something hiding gently
   Between old lesson's grief.

   A ray of laughter, soundless
   Slipped under proprieties' skirt
   A rustling, pinned up nicely
   Tucked into childhood's shirt

   Ah, there, walks the mystery
   It is my daughter's face
   It is within my own tired grasp
   That stumbling, growing grace.


                                        -- Gay Bost
                                           September 10, 1994




   Clear Definitions
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   One-eyed minstrel in a travelling show
   leather and ribbons
   and Poetry to Go.

   Over her shoulder a nap sack, slung
   canvas and lace
   and songs unsung.

   It's a load, it's a drag on weary feet
   thankless occupation
   carrying a beat.

   Ignoble tradition dressed in tidy rags
   bearing stories
   in empty bags.

   Come she here to Del Tachi's place
   arriving at sunset
   riding apace.

   Speaking in riddles the bartender hears
   whispered confusion
   dusty tears.

   Land bound grey dragon, wings hung slack
   unresolved mystery
   monkey on his back.

   A drink and a word and a ripe illusion
   wink of an eye
   mist diffusion.

   A character in a story, a player in a show
   leather and ribbons
   and Poetry to Go.


                                        -- Gay Bost
                                           September 10, 1994




   Character Resolution
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Truncated role, clipped personae
   Snide remarks, mana e' mana.

   Afraid she's mad, she's gone wild
   Gutter  mouthed, street child.

   Trimmed at the wing, grounded third
   She's come loose,strange bird.

   Back of the alley, trash can fire
   Fingerless gloves, leather attire

   Bootless feet shod in alien skin
   Tapered tales, newspaper thin.

   Endless repeat, partially revealed
   Destiny's Rider,  Fate-sealed.

   Ghostly vision on Eternity's road
   Frogless Princess, astride a Toad.


                                        -- Gay Bost
                                           September 10, 1994




   Echoed
   ~~~~~~

   In all the empty places
   In maze and empty hall
   A listener hears the wailings
   A wanderer hears the call

   Within, without, the palaces
   Below upon the lane
   There is a blind girl searching
   with soot smudged tears of pain

   "Are you my love?"
   She begs of each
   As outward looks
   Her empty reach
   "Are you my love?"
   As they pass by
   Those strangers
   For whom the blind cry.

   In lofty garret,vacant now
   There lived a poet,fair
   'Tis long since he has gone
   Away to none know where

   "Where art, My love?"
   His words lay bare
   Upon the empty pages
   'Oft writ in pain
   "Where art, My Love?"
   He cries so sweet
   For strangers
   who will never meet.

   In all the empty places
   Behind the hallowed doors
   Upon the wind swept heath
   Deep beneath the Moors

   There is a Lady wailing
   There is a Lord gone cold
   A singer sings the saga
   An ancient tale re-told

   And all the wandering listeners
   The minstrels dressed in care
   Repeat the  age old echoes
   Of the love that was not there.


                                        -- Gay Bost
                                           September 7, 1994




   She being non-being, she being a vessel of empty places...
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   She contemplates the empty space which sits beside her, silent.
   She walks the roads of solace, now, a wish, illusive,gone,
   The vacant hand, the full, and weighs the balance scales of life
   Loss and gain revisited.

   Too young, too old, to feel to the rift
   Too weak to bare the gift
   Too weary, too worn, too trapped within
   To speak the words she cannot form

   She speculates upon the void and searches through the stars
   She dreams the light years by reflected water wheels
   The empty land, the fool, and waits, the balance, scaling life
   Less and more, resisted.

   Too young, too old, to ride the rift
   To seek the barren reef
   Too bleary, too torn, too wrapped, without
   To sing the songs she sees reborn

   She integrates the destitution while wrestling with the joy.
   She rides the waves of constant change between old patterns,  new
   The forsaken band, the tool, and sways, in balance, sailing life
   Peace and war, recanted.


                                        -- Gay Bost
                                           September 7, 1993




   Wake Up Call for Zero Hour
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Arise, awake, slumberer
   The dream is nigh,anon
   Come lift the weary,
   Come feed the restless ones.
   With tattered veils and tales

   They call

   Come bid them fare
   And kiss their brows
   Their worried, weathered
   Woes set free in  West
   Winds' howling

   It calls.

   Come up! Enough of sleep.
   Enough of life's delusions
   Tried and dried on stalks
   Of walking maze king's
   Whispering lies

   He calls.

   On ancient child anew
   Forever born upon the dew
   Come quick, come now
   Before the frost sets seals
   Upon the door

   She calls

   Oh, Mother,Daughter,
   Sister, Friend! I beg,
   I plead I pray.
   Come forth, come play
   Come hither, Lady Free

   I call.
   Am all
   I'm thee.


                                        -- Gay Bost
                                           August 31, 1994






   RESTRUCTURING
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Canto I

   Leaves
   Bright yellow leaves
   Covering a faded lawn
   Around the Johnston House
   On Metcalf Street
   A golden blanket of appeal
   A history lesson
   The very simple structure
   Asking  "Is it real?"

   Chill winds
   Autumn
   Wet street
   Deserted
   Strange

   From Parliament
   To the Museum of Natural
   History
   Where huge woods
   Woolly Mammoths
   Still roam
   Upon an timeless hill
   Half hidden by the
   Shrubbery
   And black bones
   sparkling tar-black diamonds
   Stand displayed
   Solid, cold
   And seemingly invincible

   On my way to get the
   Sunday New York Times
   Sunday morning
   White cat purring
   Waiting patiently
   On life's peripheral
   In a weeded back-yard
   Alley way
   Beside an old brick house
   Jammed between
   Two modern high-rises
   blatantly obstructive
   of the cold green edge
   of a blue horizon
   Paper-twisting wreckage
   In the twirling tap-dance
   Wind
   Hair awry
   White cat stares at me
   Green eyes
   We are one in compromise
   "You go your way, I'll go mine"

   Past th'Iraqi Embassy
   Iron gates around
   And then the one stationary
   Blue police car
   Officer apparently oblivious
   to any pedestrian
   reading a magazine
   Guard duty must be lonely
   In the night
   Disposable bums
   A siren shatters Bank Street

   There is a full flat moon
   In the sleepy morning sky
   The parking lots are empty
   Two young girls
   Walking briskly
   On the side walk opposite
   Giggle
   Share a private joke
   Look at me

   I see theirs and my own reflection
   In the one-way office glass
   Enclosure
   Bundled in red and blue
   Ski jackets
   Tight blue jeans
   Pony tails
   Rosy cheeks
   And Ah the unassuming
   Breath of youth
   Frisking in the Autumn
   Air

   Broken clouds
   Upon the far horizon
   Glimpsed at only fleetingly
   Between the ruddy colour
   Of stone buildings
   And the maples down the street
   The sun is in the south-east
   Scattering its pristine rays
   Like a foreign god among us
   Ah would Ihknaten be here now
   Ra would have a different face!

   The white cat follows me
   Through the alleys
   Down the streets
   Across the parking lots
   On a journey through my History
   Not forgotten
   But remembered in a
   Misty autumn atmosphere

   Twenty years ago
   I walked these same streets
   With a camera
   And have these faded
   Photographs reminding me
   The true past only
   Has existence in our minds
   Never in a physical
   Reality

   I do not invoke the
   Same reality
   These twenty odd years later
   For your heart was burning
   With desire then
   Desire of life
   Of living
   Love
   Desire of an
   Exploration

   I surmise that youth
   Experiences new
   While age must deal with
   A desperate familiarity
   Some side-step this
   by a constant
   Travelling
   Some by just ignoring
   Other by refusing
   Everything
   "Je Reviens Je Reviens"
   And as I comprehend reality
   Reality holds no new
   Surprise
   And the burden of the poet
   Taints his wounded words

   I was born in the spring of '49
   The day young Mao-tse-tung
   Began his long cold march
   "That year a bloody battle raged"
   "The scars on the mountain path"
   "Made it lovelier today."
   He wrote in one of his poems
   And it is almost an expression
   On the life I journeyed on
   "The scars upon the mountain path"
   "Make it lovelier today."
   And why should this have touched
   Me so? Why should I have been
   The one to feel these lines
   Scrape clear the living sinuses
   of my soul?

   Far out of the shivering shadow
   And into the selectively warm sun
   On Elgin Street
   More people I have come to shun
   "You seem to be an old Egyptian,
    dry, stale and dusty.
    Lips are cold, sandy and chapped,
    Like the rest of you.
    No one has ever seen you
    Walking down Elgin Street
    Or in love, or anything but
    Reacting to the world with a
    Smug stare. In fact I think
    You
    Are
    Dead."
   The poem echoes dully
   Through my brain
   But of course it wasn't true
   At the moment it was written
   I was much in love with some
   Blond beauty in the realm of
   Arts and strange commitment
   Both revealed the same
   And why should Elgin Street
   Be the odd-street out
   The one street above all others
   We had come to know
   Where dreams were free of valour
   And where sex and drugs
   Were handed out
   With such abandon
   (Youth is such a strange conductor
   Hardly sees the world at all)

   But today I am on a mission
   And I see no person gathering
   Commitment on a revamped
   Tourist avenue
   With sidewalk clubs and restaurants
   BMW's parked idly
   While their owners
   Sip their cafe au lait

   Just the cat and me
   Walking down the street
   What used to be a forest clearing
   And a swamp
   Before the "Christians" came
   Before diversity of cultures
   Clashed like cymbals in the discord
   Of an orchestra

   And what has this clashing
   Of divergent cultures centuries ago
   To do with me? Having come here
   Brought here actually by parents
   Who sought what? They were not
   Poor. They lived a good life
   Where they were.  "To give you,
   A better life," my mother said,
   Meaning me.  But my cousins and
   The relatives who stayed behind
   Have just as good a life, if not
   Better -- they have still their history
   And culture, while I've become a breed-
   Of-Half in both --neither
   Belonging solidly to me and
   Exiled from the other.

   And yet it is a new identity
   Something only Destiny could
   Push into a life.  And every day
   It haunts me like a curse
   A corpse upon my back
   The coffin of my past
   And the coffin of my future
   Life and death - that's it!
   Shouldn't be surprised
   The poet always works with
   Difficulty in himself
   The past hides beneath a
   Plethora of metaphors and
   Allusions and strange exotic
   Landscapes - and sometimes
   Even God.

   The cat meows -
   She speaks to me
   She is trying to tell me something -
   "It's ok, I'll lead you home"
   I say, as if a comfort to a
   Blind lost man, who somehow
   Is not lost at all, and wants to
   Comfort you by asking for your help.
   The cat curls up beside the door,
   A youthful looking beggar asks for change.
   I shrug my shoulders, hold out my own
   Empty hands and close my curtained eyes,
   As if to say "I have no money" and go in.

   One can smell the intellectual
   Atmosphere.  The newsprint, the international
   Newsprint; the selections of a civilized
   Communion.  A shelf for sports, or food,
   Or Nature, Science, Media and Politics,
   More for computers, and gossip...man appeared
   And man communicated, interchange of true
   And false ideas; from the static to the
   Flexible; from the profound to the
   Absurd.  I look around, shuffle past
   The crammed-in bodies shuffling for
   Position at the counter. But still
   Too well organized for me.  Long ago
   A block away, down the street
   Another store: magazines and papers
   In a an awful heap.  No clear order - I could
   Browse and still "discover" things --
   I used to come there every sunday
   From across the river just for these
   "Discoveries"... Obscure magazines,
   Little known anthologies, and the work of poets
   Still unknown and for that, still driving
   Taxies now; more unknown than ever.
   But I never forgot their first impressions
   On a fertile mind.  With me always, even
   Though the physical example of their
   Proof is gone.  A mindscape.  A past
   To shape the future.  A quiet grave...
   But still a  mighty cornerstone
   In the cemetery of Ideas.

   And not just these, but also the "hidden"
   Second-hand book sellers, one, now gone, replaced
   By a sterile mirror-window office block.
   A tower that reflects the sun without restraint,
   Back into the sun, while pedestrians below
   Accrue their merit in the shadows far below,
   On Bank Street (Rue Bank) for we are all bilingual here.
   Or on Rue Metcalf (Metcalf Street), in the
   Shadow of the Tower -- That is where I first
   Discovered Balzac, Wagner, Rimbaud, Keats and later
   Also Carlisle, Arnold, Swinburne, Tennyson and
   Browning and this englishman who had a Tuscan name:
   Rossetti, with his fine attuned poetry
   That made the english language one with
   Dante, Cavalcanti and with Villon too.
   Where I first knew the ancients; where I
   Sought the secrets of a sacred youthful
   Indiscretion, hungry in the desert of decay,
   In the boundless dunghill of our history.
   I breathed atoms --breathing soul--
   A perfect harmony -- wooden shelves
   On crumbling bricks -- stacked

   Precariously at odds with gravity,
   That one was almost fearful of the
   Touching of a book, lest the whole side
   Crumbled into dust.  Bytown bookstore,
   That is where I read the London Times
   Of 1865 and found the first editions (Yet
   Unread, untouched by human hands at 50 cents) of
   Byron, Joyce and Kafka ---
   I remember fondly an old paperback
   Edition, in German, of grave Wittgenstein,
   And a volume of Clausentum --
   And the simple structured
   But still profound works of
   Simenon - (But that was later, I
   Digress, at another store on Bank)
   Which later moved to Sparks
   In the basement next a Barber Shop,
   Where I found again my three
   Golden bound volumes of the
   Hinayana Buddhist Texts I had sold
   When I was wanting for the money
   Mortals need to live.  But
   That was long ago, when Trudeau
   Was the rage in Politics
   And I was ready to assault
   The world and knew of no
   Restraint. Everything was part
   Of the Ideal.
                 I step
   Up to the counter, pay my
   Dollars to the clerk (Pretty
   Smiling beauty) and head out
   Into the city street.  The cat
   Meows, and stretches slow
   And steady and deliberate.
   Another beggar has replaced
   The one before: "Any change?"
   "Sorry." We pass on.

   The cat and I.

   Logic dictates a reservoir
   The cat and I
   Mythology
   Rite of Isis
   Aphrodite -- Jesus
   The Heretic King
   Icknaten
   Founder of a dynasty
   Apart from Egypt's old cosmogony --
   And where Jesus died upon a mythic cross.

   The cat has always been a sacred entity
   From Cynthia the Huntress
   To Ptah, the perfect God.
   Or Hathor and of isis,
   Of Sappho, queen of hearts.

   I continue on
   The cat just follows me.
   No. The cat must lead.
   The cat is leading me.
   She teaches me
   I who think to know so much
   And end up knowing little.

   But a desperate quest is lonely.
   The cat knows this and walks
   Beside me as an equal.
   The cat's aware of what my
   Life has meant these past few days.
   The torment and the torture.
   The knowledge of "Misunderstanding"
   The "trying to explain"
   The hope that something matters
   The hope "I'm not alone."

   It's a lazy step to follow
   When the track is cracked and torn.
   What then of the train?
   The destination?

   I cannot stop the train
   can't even sound the "alarm"
   A frightful stranger unto me
   Tell me something
   Can I really be the only one
   Who longs to be alone?

   Many moments like a nest of rats
   I have been in danger
   Of annihilation --
   Of being so discovered.
   I could not go on:
   This lie to live with is a terror
   The darkest moments come alone --
   No one there to help me.
   I knock, and no one's home.
   I can't express it otherwise:
   They live, I die.
   A slow deliberate unworthy suicide.

   I stop for a red light.
   The cat rubs up beside me.
   The cat purrs.
   I try to pick her up,
   But she refuses me.
   I am not her master.
   I am not "superior"
   We are peers.
   Although I do not seem to know
   The cat already understands.

   I cross the street
   And pause before a building
   Where I used to live
   "Domesticated" so to say,
   With a wonderful companion
   7 Years -- and what became
   Of it?  A wild despair?
   One? Two? maybe more --
   But I, committed to this "suicide"
   Made good rot of the foundation.
   Of a "perfect match".
   But neither was it bad
   Nor was it perfect
   And the memories I've hidden
   Like I've hidden all the memories
   That are not "perfect" -- the
   Memories that deal with pain.

   It seems colder now
   There's a brash wind
   That rustles leaves
   And rearranges things.
   We are almost back
   To where we met
   This cat and I.
   We are almost back
   To the "returning"
   The beginning of the
   Quest --
   And the "parting" also
   I suppose.
   The restless questing
   Of a restless soul --
   Condemned forever
   Stones on back
   To circle Hell.

   So the summer left us
   Fast enough --
   A scattered year --
   A year of clearer focus
   And of hope --
   Of building something new
   And that would last ---
   A year of building bridges
   From the past
   Into the future
   Exciting and unknown --
   A year of writing Poems
   And communication--
   And still a year of
   Loneliness of being
   Stood apart
   And the image
   In a shattered mirror
   (Cubist repercussions
   Cross-word puzzle
   As an orator on
   Stage
   Frightened that your
   Lines cannot be
   Understood --
   Frightened that you
   Cannot make the
   Curtain-call.

   So we return
   Return to whence we came
   Back before the journey
   Back before the start
   But somehow
   We have found the heart.
   We know the difference
   Don't we cat?
   Of darkness and of
   Shadow...
   One is the abysmal
   Limbo
   And the other is the sun --
   So now you have to bid farewell, cat
   You still have a life to live
   And so do I --
   We have been like minute-lovers
   Neither having nor belonging
   To each other --
   But we have this reality
   You and I, cat, you and I...

   She disappears into the
   Nether-growth of garden
   Behind some garbage can --
   And I return to read my papers
   In the garden of my room.


                                        -- Klaus J. Gerken






   Men made the world-
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Men made the world-
   But Man tried to leave.
   Men killed and conquered-
   But Man searched for peace.

   Men created morals-
   But Man wanted freedom.
   Men were born with equality-
   But Man yearned for wisdom.

   Men existed forever-
   But Man became a gravestone.
   Men grew a society-
   But Man strove -alone.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin




   Does the morning start too late-
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Does the morning start too late-
   Or does the sun fall soon,
   The daylight hours dwindle by:
   A looming conquest of the moon-
   The evening starts- serenity-
   Or if early- dark storm-
   Thoughts drift to wasted plots of time-
   A wish to be reborn.

   One Man would not accept this-
   One Man would not soon die,
   He chased the sun around the world-
   Forever Darkness he defied.
   He built machines to make him run
   Fast and long and hard-
   Yet still the sun spun round and round,
   Waiting for his fall.

   The Man was quite ingenuous-
   He took of rope, a ton-
   The Man, he made a Lasso,
   And threw it 'round the sun.
   The Man pulled taunt the rope,
   Then tried to pull the sun-
   The sun -instead- pulled him inside-
   But the Man, by far, had won.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin




   Wink of a Dead Man
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   We together-
   One shall be dead
   One shall be alive
   But we must decide
   Which of us is dead
   Which is alive-

   Let's hold a contest-
   The first to blink
   Must be alive-
   The second-
   Well, the second must be dead.

   And so I bore into your eyes
   You tore into mine
   Time passed
   Then more-
   You hadn't blinked
   Nor I
   You wait,
   And I-
   My eyes beg to hide-
   And your eyelids seem heavy
   We wait-
   We wait-
   I strain to keep from blinking,
   You do the same-
   At last!
   You have surrendered
   By winking to me-
   Somehow I think
   You could have lasted longer-
   You could have beaten me-
   But you've given up-
   You've left me sweet death-
   With a dignified wink
   And as I sit here relishing death-
   I thank you
   For your sacrifice-
   Because only a strong man
   Would go to life willingly.

   And so to you,
   I wink.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin






   Leda
   ~~~~

   You stood startled
   as the white wings descended.
   Watching orange feet
   draw you nearer,
   pulling you close,
   you resisted
   at least in appearance.
   Inwardly
   you liked the feeling of down
   against your thighs.
   Your eyes sparkled
   as you received
   a godly reward;
   knowing the dreadful
   history that must follow.


                                        -- Steve Bliss




   Rachel
   ~~~~~~

   How should I feel ?
   On your wedding night you slept with my sister,

   My older, homely sister.
   I hope she appreciates our crafty father.

   Now, another seven years have passed.
   I am no longer the young maiden.

   The sun has darkened my once fair face.
   Callouses line my hands where the sheepgoad rubs,

   But my eyes are still slate-blue. Remember when you
   opened the well ?  You kissed me that first day.

   My love,
   Let us move beyond these hills

   And the cattle of my father.
   Let us build our own tent.


                                        -- Steve Bliss




   Five Plums
   ~~~~~~~~~~

   As the hum of a one-engine plane subsides
   the voice of crickets become stronger again.
   One the table sit  five purple plums.

   It seems a shame for summer to end this way.
   Supple wind chaffs leaves into falling;
   like the serpent and Eve.

   But this apple will return, in cycle.
   Each season spent, awaits the nest.
   The fruit ripens.  The flies hide for a day.

   Lulled to sleep
   I sit facing the kitchen table
   where sit five round purple plums.


                                        -- Steve Bliss






   wine
   ~~~~

   8:30

   Everything went to smash
   trembling hands, never know how to hold
   Who knows who, I never know
   look in my eyes, before you crush my ego
   White doves fly to high to see
   nothing I need, ever needs me
   The vicious headline on the front page reads;
   "Their Are No Friends To Be Made."
   Everything went to smash.


                                        -- Michael Kelly




   shesaid
   ~~~~~~~

   What's the value
   of the english language?
   I never knew you to think
   the way you spoke
   tie the string to the spool
   when you fly a kite
   over and up
   to the field on a windy day
   one day you might end up
   staining your pants
   in the mud and grass
   and "thank you for your time"
   is all she'll say.



                                        -- Michael Kelly




   Girl
   ~~~~

   Everything is good
   pure and hard like wood
   I never showed this to anyone before
   expect the one I wrote it to.
   Now she's a whore
   along a lonely road
   say goodbye,
   and get in their cars.
   Dust like rust
   it cuts and makes you sick.
   The word bitch
   makes my hands itch
   and sometimes this gun I own
   fires faster than my temper.
   Tides pull strong
   lead men sink boats.
   Clenching teeth
   for a rib cage that won't close
   leave my insides alone.
   No room with a view
   will calm the wind
   just say something
   that will swim
   and i'll find my eyes, again.


                                        -- Michael Kelly.




   5-5-94 and so forth..
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   This is the last place
   I started
   so I must end it
   here I tried
   and here I'll try again
   and if I weep,
   I weep
   for not getting
   what I was meant to
   get
   What's written in stone
   isn't always the
   truth, it's
   just how the truth
   should feel
   Feeling cold and
   weathered
   we walk along the
   back wall of the world
   feeling the bricks
   as we move along
   and if the boundaries we make
   should topple and fall
   we'd trip
   over our own feet
   and forget
   what was meant
   by the relationships we
   hold, for the sake
   of holding on
   This is a cold
   and weathered stone
   this is a cold
   and weathered stone
   why must glass break
   from the impact of
   a single word?
   this is a cold and brittle
   man
   this is a cold and brittle
   man
   The heat of the sun
   and the presence of your
   voice, makes a million
   pieces of me
   why must this glass enclosure
   shatter so easily?
   I've walked with my
   back to the world
   I've walked all this way
   with my back to the world
   I've walked all this way
   with my back to the world

   cast-iron breaks when you drop it.


                                        -- Michael Kelly




   online
   ~~~~~~

   Hang yourself on the podium
   the seats are filling
   fill out the obituary
   with a string of quotes
   wear you coat in the winter
   watch the lick of ice
   over the bricks leading home
   we found that roses bloom in winter
   but only with two eyes watching
   for god, god knows I'm pretentious
   I can see my breath
   but never can smell, what my words
   are lusting after
   tell me one thing, that I know about myself
   It hurts to ask.


                                        -- Michael Kelly




   anotherniteofprimetime
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   I can't watch tv
   without closing my eyes
   is the truth on tv?
   the truth is too embarrassing
   things are coming too close
   to how I think
   forty-year olds
   are writing my life
   and they're making me fight
   to see my reflection...

   ...Is this the way guys act
   I'm not a guy like that
   everything I love
   is nothing that I know
   who's real in this real world
   who can feel
   like I'm feeling right now
   my weekend was horrible
   and how was yours?
   I made the nights
   out of knowing myself...

   ...things were never this dramatic
   I never found the drama
   what's the personification
   what's the personification
   what's the personification?
   everything I hate is everything I love
   and I'm throwing up all the time.


                                        -- Michael Kelly






    careless end of ... something...?
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    over a decade of punctual apologies
    hidden beneath multi-lingual guises
    under these hundred faces
    none of which i even believe

    the black clouds swell with anticipation
     a need to give back something
      waiting so long to impress
     saving up for retribution
    but they're only vapors

    and the sun dies no matter how hard i try to hold on to
    it watches with shutting eyes, the end of my world

    the repeated mistakes hum dull inside the framework
    "i did my best" ... or so i tell myself

    with a soft whimper i hug myself a little tighter
    and whisper quietly, "you tried" but i do not believe


    amidst these chirping, faded strangers
    amidst this perfumed sea of suits

    i stand between no where and nowhere
    and now i'm nothing


                                        -Igal Koshevoy (m^LH^TR)
                                         June 15, 1994; 9:10pm






   Estranged
   ~~~~~~~~~

   Ask me son
    questions i know you'll have
     why is the winter cold
     why is the sky blue
     why is the heavens twinkling
     why is the heart always true.
   I'll speak of
    answers spent by travel
     in my zealous footsteps
     in my singular view
     in my earnest searching
     in my love for you.

   Ask me son
    emotions building your soul
     euphoria when we meet
     passions when we talk
     laughter when we play
     guidance when we walk.
   I'll recite of
     phrases visioned long ago
      as father in a sons waning eyes
      as father in a sons wondering days
      as father in a world of millions
      as father in so many loving ways.


                                        -- Greg Schilling





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


   THE SOUND OF SOUND
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   ANNOUNCEMENT.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   Coca-Cola, poured silently from the bottle to the glass, foams,
   until the carbon dioxide bubbles cannot be heard any longer.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   The refrigerator begins to hum and hum until it stops.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   A piece of soft butter falls from the table to the stone floor.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   A thick newspaper falls on the floor.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   Someone walks past on tip-toes, wearing a robe that rustles.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAU--

   A jug, standing in error on the wet table top shatters.

   PAUSE.

   A postage stamp is slowly peeled off an envelope.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE--

   A telephone receiver is hung up softly.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   A vacuum cleaner is turned on and held in the hand,
   without sucking up any dirt.  Then it is turned off again.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   A piece of red liver falls from the table to the stone floor.

   PAUSE.

   A piece of cellophane is slowly crumpled up.

   PAUSE.

   The light switch is switched on.

   PAUSE.

   Someone turns from one side to the other in bed.

   PAUSE.

   An elastic band is pulled over a mason jar and then let snap.

   PAUSE.

   A band-aid is slowly peeled off a finger.

   PAUSE.

   With one stroke butter is scraped from wrapping paper.

   PAUSE.

   The electric stove it turned on.

   PAUSE.

   A "flat iron" is placed on a marble board.

   PAUSE.

   A soft heavy coat is dragged across the floor.

   PAUSE.

   A matchstick, struck, flares up, until the flame cannot be
   heard any longer.

   PAUSE.

   Gas from a gas-burner hisses. Then, ignited by a lighter, and
   then turned off again.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   From a silent telephone receiver just picked up, distant
   voices can be heard: the voice of a man and a woman, who,
   on another line are conducting an almost unintelligible
   conversation.  "What did I tell you?" one hears; then:
   "Anybody could have told you that."; and then: "When it
   concerns life and death, one does something."; and
   then there is silence on the line.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   A heavy fur coat falls to the stone floor.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAU--

   Again, a heavy fur coat fall to the floor, this time with
   the buttons hitting the floor first.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   Slowly a brush is pulled through crackling hair.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAU--

   The record player turns itself off.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAU--

   Quietly, fat begins to crackle in a pan.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAU--

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAU--

   A wet towel is slowly squeezed dry, but in such a way
   that one is only able to hear the squeezing.

   PAUSE.

   PAU--

   Someone slowly scratches his fingernails over a piece of
   paper.

   PAUSE.

   A thick drop of water falls on a tin plate.

   PAU--

   A plug is pulled from the electric light socket.

   PAU--

   The "flat iron", standing on the marble board, cracks,
   as it begins to cool.

   PAU--

   The "flat iron" cracks again.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   Very soft music is heard: "Mourning morning, sad day...mourning
   morning, sad day..." from the song "Mourning sad morning" from
   the album "Free" by FREE, Island Records ILPS-9104....

   LONG SILENCE.

   A bath-mat, on which water has been poured prior to this, slowly
   stretches, until there is nothing more to hear.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   PAUSE.

   SIGN OFF.


             END


                                        -- Peter Handke
                                           Translated from the German by
                                           Klaus J. Gerken, 1977





   ͻ
       A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers    
   Ķ
        - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet   [9310]     
   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].






                        (tm)
                                              
            Cent                         
             Net                               
                               

           A Professional Mailing NetWork 

                              - A  or   -

             Welcome to Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network!

             Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a
       very special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the
       sharing and distribution of poetic material.  It was our
       feeling, THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in
       life which should be treated with honest feeling, and not be
       censored, because it might have one word, or one feeling which
       someone did not like.

            When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY.
       But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all
       also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share.  Immediately
       a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease
       the needs and interests of the several members who helped place
       this on the map.  All in all, we find that we are a group of
       dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of
       writing.

             And what does Centipede stand for?  The body of the
       Centipede is made up of the Sysops who carry CentNet.  These
       Sysops have a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM ( BBS ) which dedicates
       itself to carious uses depending on each individual user.  There
       are many types of BBS's and some of them are specially dedicated
       to electronic mailing of messages.  For this purpose several
       NETWORKS have been created.  Centipede is one of these.  These
       Sysops, which means they are Systems Operators, when joining a
       larger system, become known as NODES.  And without the hard work
       of many of these Sysops, CentNet and any other network would not
       be able to flourish properly.  The legs are the Users, without
       the users the Sysops could not move anywhere.  Without the body,
       the Users could not interact with one another.

            Our NetWork offers a special program for Sysops and Users
       in case there may be questions or problems.  A 24 hour Voice
       Support Line is here for your questions: (609) 895-0858.  If per
       chance there is no one there to answer your call, please leave
       your name and voice phone number, and the best possible time to
       contact you (Eastern Standard Time), and someone will get back
       to you as soon as possible.  We are here to help you, please
       feel free to call, even if it is just to say "Hello".

             CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would
       like to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are
       about.  You may give us a call at the number mentioned above,
       and we will gladly find a way for you to interact with us.




  
                 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  BBS:
  No  other  version  shall  be  deemed  "authorized" unless downloaded from
  there.

  Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or
  anything else  appropriate  should  be  addressed,  with  a self addressed
  stamped envelope, to:

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

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS







                  
                      
                   
                          
                                       
                             
               
                   
              
      

  
            THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
            FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
            ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
            THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
            THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
            FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
            POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
            DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
            KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
            THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
            FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken

            MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
            BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy

            THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
            THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
            THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
            INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena

            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

  

  All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each, and may be ordered from:

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

  Checks should be made out to the respective authors  and  orders  will  be
  forwarded by Ygdrasil Press.

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

  Note  that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems
  BBS (1-609-896-3256) or  any  other  participation BBS. Revisions, though,
  holds the official version of Ygdrasil.


