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YGDRASIL vol 2 nr 12
+======== December 1994 ======================== Volume 2, Number 12 ========+
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| [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] |
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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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+============================================================================+
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[ TABLE OF CONTENTS ]
***************************************************************************
INTRODUCTION................................The Ygdrasil Staff
Still Matters...............................V.A. Blevins
Ride........................................Greg Schilling
Untitled....................................Greg Schilling
Rat.........................................Scott Lawry
Poetry......................................Scott Lawry
Them........................................Scott Lawry
FLOWERS OF EVIL.............................Klaus J. Gerken
FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (I)..........Klaus J. Gerken
KILLING FIELD (I)...........................Klaus J. Gerken
and if i should.............................Igal Koshevoy
midnight roil...............................Igal Koshevoy
Suburbasomn.................................Igal Koshevoy
Restless World..............................Terry A. Long
Days of Fall................................Terry A. Long
A Simple Time...............................Terry A. Long
The Cultured Saint..........................Evan Light
The Great Lament of Sir Vinnie Vinccenzo....Evan Light
A dream that never was......................Amy St. John
Friday Nights...............................Amy St. John
Another Look................................Amy St. John
While the eyes of heaven smile..............Nicole Eichwald
You said....................................Nicole Eichwald
There is something about....................Nicole Eichwald
The rain is pouring down on me..............Nicole Eichwald
Margie XVI..................................Vince Otten
Margie XXII.................................Vince Otten
Reflection..................................Jennifer Mulcahy
Harvest.....................................Jennifer Mulcahy
Change......................................Jennifer Mulcahy
The feelings of man.........................Jennifer Mulcahy
Inside......................................Jennifer Mulcahy
A shallow...................................Jennifer mulcahy
I won't peak................................Alvin Brinson
POST SCRIPTUM...............................Igal Koshevoy
**************************************************************************
[ INTRODUCTION ]
**************************************************************************
This issue of Ygdrasil is a real landmark - it's our first
issue to be synchronously posted into the rich expanses of
Usenet's rec.arts.poems as well as our beloved Centipede
network, marking it as our formal entry into the Internet
community....
We proudly welcome you to Ygdrasil Press! A flourishing center for the
literary arts that is dedicated to the readers. Our goal and mission is
to move literature into the next generation: get it away from dusty
shelves, and trashbins of publishers; and give it back to the people who
love to read! And as members of the electronic community, our editor
Klaus explains our position well, "There should be a more permanent place
for the poems that flash on our computer screens for, what sometimes
seems like, the briefest of moments. A flash of inspiration, or thought
and, unless saved in a file somewhere, gone."
Ygdrasil understands that literature wasn't meant to be censored - for
free expression is the liberation of the soul. Not to mention, the
healing powers of unhindered, artistic expression match only those of the
imagination. The Arts are one of the most direct channels to the heart,
and we think that's beautiful ... that's the way we want to keep it.
The Ygdrasil Press is produced of a cooperative, volunteer effort from a
diverse group of people, living in many countries and continents. Lead by
Klaus J. Gerken, our Editor in Chief, Ygdrasil was started in May 1993
and was quickly joined by Paul Lauda lending wisdom, cheer and
distribution; Evan Light with his great creativity and ideas; and Igal
Koshevoy helping out with production. Pedro Sena joined soon to help
rally support for the Beauty of the Word, and has helped produce many
fine editions. Along with that we have Milan Georges Djordjevitch, our
European Editor, from France contributing multilingual masterpieces. And
with the November edition, we welcome our new associate editor Gay Bost
whose poems and stories have been a regular feature of Ygdrasil.
This Magazine and Press are living and breathing things - not static,
listless, rusted monuments. With each issue, each poem, each word we
evolve and grow.
Change, metamorphoses, New Light, fresh viewpoints and artistic beauty
are our only `grade' - and we only stop to make sure our product is of
the utmost quality.
We hope you all enjoy Ygdrasil as much as we have making and reading it!
And now, since this is the Holiday Season, we would also like thank all
the contributors, and all those who have supported Ygdrasil throughout
the years. From all of us, to all of you, have a very Merry and Safe
Holiday Season, and all the best for the coming New Year.
-- Igal Koshevoy and Klaus Gerken for
The Ygdrasil Staff
PS: Faithful and new readers alike, please take a moment to read the new
"YGDRASIL INTERNET" section at the end of the magazine, it gives a brief
explanation of the new services offered to you by our expansion to
Internet.
**************************************************************************
Still Matters
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If even she
would not stop
or he would stop
in some random place
at the rim of that
which sometimes came
smoother than daybreak
yet ignored true love.
The lie would forevermore
be no less the softness
that could come between
all of our monsters.
But, as in such ends,
like dusk in movies
or gutters of city,
these matters at hand
engrave only dead words
into some head-stone
so very small, for in
of all that scatters
will survive catalogs
of all the tatters
crossing any millennium
that still matters.
-- V.A. Blevins
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
Ride
~~~~
take a ride my son,
take a ride
let the wind blow your hair
and eyes pass the pastures
and nose smell the air
and ears hear the music
in a warm summers past
by marquees faintly glowing
by storefronts painted glass
by farmyards grazing animals
in summers travelling bye
so very, very fast
take a ride my son,
take a ride
let the miles move your thoughts
and mind rest at peace
and soul guide at rocks
and body stop to feast
in a warm summers night
while we travel a concrete road
while we follow a gleaming light
while we touch a familiar face
in summers travelling bye
so fast, far from sight
take a ride my son,
take a ride
let the warmth raise your spirit
and take you away
and show you to fly
and hold the euphoria
in a warm summers day
as the wind blows your hair
as the work feels like play
as the hour lends another turn
in summers travelling bye
you are riding my son,
for tomorrow and today
-- Greg Schilling, 1994
=============================================================================
Untitled
~~~~~~~~
Dear friend,
if we were to lay on a rolling landscape
with sunshine drifting from east to west,
sounds of gusting breezes moving treetops
and eyes lightly closed to the world;
Would our burdens float away like drifting leaves
with each intoxicating breath of air.
Would our spirits rise back as clouds
quietly changing as both moved onward.
Dear friend,
if there were no anger to waiver
deepening thoughts of clarity,
desperation of an impending night
pulling colorful kites from our sky;
Would we believe there still is no word or thought
no idea or presence deserving to be love.
Would we remember feelings of warmth from inside
before the sun scorches our skin in bliss.
Dear friend,
if our clock slowed from a fast swoop of its hands
and seconds did not melt to hours and days,
age fading as photographs sealed between
sheets of plastic gathering dust;
Would we again stop running in place
and lie down upon that rolling landscape.
Would we again know what is truly love
before the night erased our warm days.
-- Greg Schilling, 1993
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
Rat
~~~
the rat is back
he comes every year
to rest in our home
the villain
the slime
the rotted
the vile sickness
he brings...
never alone
he pushes his way
in
we wait for him
to go away
he stays
until the warmth
the heat
the life is free
as i die
with him
the rat
is mine
i am his
weak
weak
weakness of mind
inherited
the rat
the vile
the sick
we wait for him-
he stays.
-- Scott Lawry
=============================================================================
Poetry
~~~~~~
No words exist in poetry
Poetry is a feeling
a learning
A continuous growth,
anyone can make words
anyone can make 'poems'
but poetry...
Who are the teachers of the world?
They are dead
Yet alive
they are poetry
Who are the rulers of the world?
They are tools
Not real
they are poverty
And as this moves
Like the transient currents of the wind-
I sit and listen
to nothing-
That is poetry,
As well,
to me.
-- Scott Lawry
=============================================================================
Them
~~~~
Dont let the dirty bastards
Make you clean
Dont let those rotted fuckers
Turn you green
Burn em
hurt em
take em down
they are a fungus
cut them back
back
Their blood is water
pure
Their thoughts are contagious
lure
watch them burn
and learn..
watch them die
and see..
Never help them
never stop them
no time
no time
live and kill
walk away
they are too many
we are too few
they are upon us
we
we are below
low
under dirt
no time...
no time.
-- Scott Lawry
=============================================================================
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=============================================================================
FLOWERS OF EVIL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flowers of Evil
Marching along
Flowers of Evil
Singing this song
But it's right and it's wrong
Until the pain - is gone
They live by the western wind
And they smile when the tolling bell rings
They are the Flowers of Evil
They are the flowers that the murderers bring
They are the Flowers of Evil
They are the flowers that fill
the air with the sweetness of death
Flowers of Evil
Leading the pack
Flowers of Evil
No more look back
And it's right and it's wrong
Until the pain - is gone
They leave their mark on whoever they come
And they destroy the last radiance of a decaying sun
They are the flowers of the night
They are the flowers of a beautiful decay
They are the Flowers of Evil
And that shed no tears
for the ones who cannot pray
Flowers of Evil
Stand so proud
Flowers of Evil
Are fond of love
And its right and it's wrong
Until the pain - is gone
They find love in the desert gardens
They mock life, but revere heaven
They are the flowers of the world
They are the flowers that cannot be unheard
They are the Flowers of Evil
They are the flowers of the empty
who have no place left to roam
Flowers of Evil
All alone
Flowers of Evil
Have no home
And it's right and it's wrong
Until the pain - is gone
They are the flowers without a soul
They are the flowers that never grow old
They are the Flowers of Evil
That brink society together
to enslave society forever
Flowers of Evil
Nowhere to be found
Flowers of Evil
Lying on the ground
And it's right and it's wrong
Until the pain - is gone.
-- Klaus J. Gerken, 1966
=============================================================================
FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
plumes of smoke. the city rises
to address the winter in vernacular.
alone, i stare out the frosted window.
high stratus cloud, in variance, dome the sky.
the insanity of life amazes me, i guess
because i'm hardly that involved these days.
a friend once said to me
insane? how can we be insane?
it's the world that is insane. an artist
only sees reality, reflects reality
in a way the world can never see...
winter came early this year. officially
it's still fall. i listen to the silence
and wonder if the top quark really can be god.
-- Klaus J. Gerken
December 16, 1989
=============================================================================
KILLING FIELD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
I'd like to kill
It's superstition
It's the arc in Ethiopia
It's the violent solution
It's the drive in some fool car
It's the virgin that keeps poetry
Hidden in her heart
It's all, I think, a waste of time
It's all a shuff-e-ling of parts
I want to kill
I feel it in my heart
The meadow saunters in the wind
And the violets are torn
In retribution for the war
Which war? It can't go on.
I side with this indifference
knowing that indifference
Is nothing but a wasted heart.
I want to fill my boots
I want to laugh but fire
embraces agony - I said that, but i guess
too long ago to have an impact now
I'm just a frozen monument
I'm desperate for the glow
Of silence that a poet gets
When sacrificing his own heart.
I paint a foremost train apart
Apache in my soul and German in a plastic heart.
I gather no incertitude
Know me but stay very much apart
I have no lovers but alright
I live a hermit and I love my life
I form a presence on a BBS
I'm single and I run away - not from self
But from the ones who some are the able
And can face another day.
I read my letters only once
I find the truth just glows like fonts
upon a black computer screen
I hopelessly demean myself and others
Do not simply tar my feathers
I vanish but I vanish not
I sink my teeth in a marble god-
dess... did I shock? - but I did not
I revolutionize this poetry
But you don't understand
You cannot understand this faded provincial's story.
I wore my heart upon the scone of silence
I wrote the song of desperate transfusion
I sprouted trans atlantic wings
I went to the azores and I bathed in the blue waves
I met sir galahad and I spoke to him of what went wrong
and why he fell in love with the kings poor daughter
oh god, i mean, the kings pure love...
I was respectful of his unknown age
he shuffled round in silence
and headed for a bar.
I met my cinderella with violets of hope
Einstein blew a trumpet and Dylan met the Pope
It wasn't like a trip into the Paranoias
It wasn't like a coffee without sugar
It wasn't silent musings in an alley from afar
It was rather difficult and if i was amazed
don't blame it on the master, blame it on the hope
I had for this disaster...know me...i would know you
I was wind to your fine plaster
We were never masons
We never really knew what the two of us were after.
I drank my Chateau Magdalene
a simple wine of no illusion
in a transcendental organ transplant
I went to what the beatles moved into the foam
of masturbated silence, i was moved..i wasn't that alone
I fed the coal to stoves i knew kept lovers warm in bed
I was stunted by the confused element
I heard my parents crying in a raging argument
I saw the light disperse that violence...i'd shout
please quit please you cannot offer grief
upon a silver platter...and as saint John was baptised
I knew he was a thief...
I prayed to Jesus' suffering...I sprouted on the cross
a rose no one had wanted a final silver floss
upon a staid arrangement where monks voided love
of any type emotion...a level i could not
gather from the fragments...this was war...not loss.
I slowly sank the quicksand into books obscure
I noted an arrangement...I guess i was too pure
to be the evil ending god had had in mind
I had hope from the beginning
I guess this fool was just a fool too elemental
too be blind.
I want to rest...arrest the hope that there is something
other than what is or seems to be
this apparent. I want to wear no, but, I still wear gloves.
Perhaps I'm over sensitive. I regulate my life
awake at 5 a.m. I conquer an emotion. I wear the eagle crown
That no one wanted but I wished to capture.
I dance alone in somewhat of a forest
I dance beneath the burning trees
and find myself in chambers no one dare to come
Into the dark intrinsic elements
that touched what we have misconstrued as life...
I ponder what you have to offer...I ponder
what i sought to give...I give nothing
and you give nothing...yet still the two of us
so different manage to cohabitate this planetoid
and this dimension...both manage still
to somewhat live until...
You were offered up my heart as goddess
and I made your clay my fool
I suffered in this poem
you suffered in the doll
I would not have murdered darkly
You shook into my brain
I vanished incompletely
like my poison you remain
I want to kill...not surely
I want to somehow here remain
Regaining what I lost in you
Regaining confidence and hope
I have no other offering
This poem is my only scope
I want to kill and make you live
I want to kill myself and make you live
Without me.
How's that for this poor fool on dope?
-- Klaus J. Gerken, 1992
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
and if i should...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
straightforth execution
pull the knobs
unsheathe the knives
and go
just a hunk of flesh
an image
absurd projection
from filthy mind
can't hear
can't understand
stupid ... yeah
stupid - that's all that's left
i want to kill you
want you to break me
need you to smash me
gotta tear you apart
6 months gone
still in my eyes
my lacerated world
my incessant tries
can't find no better
disruption too far
i'm doused to the roots
godblessed distance spreads us apart
throbvisionary
circulation cutting out
all so damn fuzzy
oh please, i want to fade out
it's not another day
it's not another place
it's not another life
it's just another try
shotgun messiah
riding the growing dim haze
load up another bullet for me
friend
-Igal Koshevoy (lh^m^jtb)
November 27, 1994; 3:21am
=============================================================================
midnight roil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
take another swallow
drown out the bile
take another swig
flood out taste o' vomit
take another puff
numb away the membranes
shoot up another load
cause i don't want to feel
the same
not the same
not the same
not the same
i don't care about you
cause i care too much about you
gimme a break
break my neck
step forward
now that's a step back
let go the hammer
just pull the trigger
change me
for ever
not again
please not again
damnit, not again
take a turn
take a spin
watch me twitch
see you grin
a puppet for all
that's what i am
pull my strings
i ain't no man
got no brain
no one else to blame
only me left to blame
sleigh of hand
missed my eyes
i'll take the bad deal
cause it's all i got
she's all mine
though she's ugly
if only for a few minutes
if only for a few dollars
got no name
ten wet minutes of blame
just a stinking stain
take another swallow
drown out the bile
take another swig
flood out taste o' vomit
take another puff
numb away the membranes
empty another load
cause i don't want to feel
the same
the same
the same
just a crying shame
in the rain
draining pain
sucking vein
emptied stain
again
not again
why the pain
where's the gain?
-Igal Koshevoy (lh)
January 14, 1994; 2:32am
=============================================================================
Suburbasomn
~~~~~~~~~~~
Warm cement
Hailed by a rattle of air conditioners
Follow the path of a lone mosquito
Droning into the dark stillness
A party fading into the background
Stray cords wander into the night
Serenaded by the humming highway
Prowling engines, out of sight
An outline draped against a sink
A frightened figure beneath a still car
The shadows in their lethargic dance
Glinting past chromed bumpers
Pass by a house where Someone lived
Now empty like the rest to me
A soul is only found when one is known
But i don't know, i never did
Jet flight, jet bright
Oh first plane i see tonight
I wish i may, i wish i might
...oh well, nevermind
The dimmed light spilling from a window
Inside the shifting blobs burst into recycled laughter
And the glowing fingers massage the mass back into the Default
An unmoving state of Neverend
Basketball hoops relax in temporary abandon
While their sleeping assailants doze away
Hiding under sheets and plywood
Their hours tick away
Buzzing flies give praise to their Incandescent Angles
Hovering majestically in their robes of yellow and white
And above them is the vaulted ceiling
Of someone else's Heaven
And everything seems so far away
-Igal Koshevoy (TL)
September 16, 1994; 10:11pm
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
A Restless World
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Undaunting restlessness of time that never stops,
Mirror images reflecting a disillusioned world of man.
Many times he could have done the right thing but failed,
Will tomorrow's peace be a afterthought yet to be ran.
Too many deaths because some were too occupied to see,
The senselessness of their actions blinded by greed.
No small story, just add a few more pages to the chapter,
Starvation, salvation others just waiting to be freed.
Can't understand how we managed to get the world this way,
Legends of their mind are sent to the seats of power.
Building armies of destruction to inflict suffering pain,
Raining down on the unsuspecting people like a shower.
Wonder with all this going on if it makes the angels cry,
A world so torn apart by the people who were to make it right.
Would be difficult if it weren't so easy to make these errors,
Wish I could make things different for the people who die tonight.
Shadows beginning to fade as the sky turns into a darker gray,
I trudge through yet another day of troubles that never ends.
Make a world full of poets to see things in a different light,
A brighter life of peace and happiness would be common trends.
-- Terry A. Long, 1992
=============================================================================
Days of Fall
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I see the squirrels scurrying and gathering nuts,
Leaves are turning colors to red, gold, and brown.
Honks of geese are heard overhead flying south,
The humming birds no longer come around.
You can smell the beginning of fall,
Farmers in the field harvesting their crops.
The days have noticeably grown shorter,
Also the temperature slowly drops.
Last few days of fishing is coming closer,
First frost isn't that far away.
Halloween parades and trick or treaters,
Jack o'laterns flickering joins the fray.
Turkeys and Pilgrims in the school windows,
Kids are having fun in a pile of raked leaves.
Night air hints of wood burning from a fireplace,
Hardly see anyone with rolled up sleeves.
Can see through trees and see more things,
Where leaves earlier blocked my view.
Makes one want to go out and be part of the change,
With winter approaching days of fall are few.
-- Terry A. Long, 1994
=============================================================================
A Simple Time
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The stars of a dog appear in the sky,
Dog days of summer have come by.
Steady hum of a summer night's rain,
Thunder echoing across the fields of grain.
Dust on the ground is turning into a muddy mire,
A wall becoming a dark and shining raindrop's lair.
A breaking sky gives way to a new sunrise,
Night people retreat from their nightly guise.
Old machines left abandoned outside to rust,
While others in buildings just collect dust.
The sound of a distant train horn can be heard,
An endless daily flight of a bird.
Surface of a river's water lays still,
Smoke eludes from a stack of a nearby mill.
Sweat soaked brow from a hard's day work,
Shadows of mystery always on the lurk.
A dream of peace gives way to war,
Happiness takes a backseat to pain and gore.
An easier way of life, carries no name,
The pendulum swang...
then the rain came.
-- Terry A. Long, 1994
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
The Cultured Saint
~~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~
My ecstasy that drips
forth from
your loins.
pure
mesmerizing
life
More potent than any modern elixir
ever shot through my needlescarred veins.
If heaven were like this,
less people would burn or so
would say your priest.
To tire of this is
to die miserable
bloodied.
One urge introduces a next.
Now we scale mountains as
if they were bedposts.
-- 1994 Evan Light
=============================================================================
The Great Lament of Sir Vinnie Vinccenzo
~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~
In the dark corridors of South Jersey
there are walls made of
armadillo heads. Green Peace
is on our asses
Vinnie, zen monk extraordinaire, practices
his art upon my weeping willow
forever daring children
to come and visit
claims he does not molest.
He rides upon an antelope
down Rt. 30 through
construction, smacking inmates
who have behaved and now direct
traffic or stand guard over land manipulators.
The beast grazes in gardens of love
that have been conveniently transplanted
next to every other wawa on the right.
Pushing, not pulling, he
enters, steals Pall Malls and an apple.
Telepathically, Vinnie warns the counterboy to
give him all the $$$
but the boy is blind in the mind.
He is now in pieces.
It is pieces he is in.
They are taking him on a stretcher
while his brother calls for Bill.
I am screaming bloody murder
while I'm running down the corridor
of this damnable damnable
wasteland
where I'm trapped and canned like campbell's
like campbell's cream of mushroom
not progresso though it's better
maybe healthy choice or dog food
pass the pringles
let's get nasty
1-900 costs a fortune
a damnable damnable
fortune
but what to do in a wasteland
'cept shoot rats in Bob's new wreckyard
and bic your gas till it blows boom
and like a nasa shuttle you go blasting
to the moon and
then we dine on cheese and crackers
and a tiny spot an only spot
of white rhino tea from old italy.
The image here is vivid
for I'm stuck here,
now I'm livid
cause it costs a lot for diesel
and that's only what i drink
I don't want your damn budweiser
that makes the intestines dance and the
bowels boogie down like chubby checker on speed
and twist into white porcelain.
In these corridors of this locale
I am puking through my fingers
It is now that I heave dry.
-- Evan Light, 1994
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
A dream that never was
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A dream that never was
pale in my thoughts
and here you are
listening
you breathe into me
letting me touch
without hands so soft
your eyes
and I feel every thought
know every fear
cherish every breath
and then I'm dreaming again
Tired of rainbows that I don't need
I think of that wall
so high and careful
Broken by electric emotions
racing through my head
like cracks across ice
and the wind is blowing
cold into my eyes
and then I'm dreaming
again
in a dream that never was.
-- Amy St. John
=============================================================================
Friday Nights
~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
From my house I can hear
the pulsating beat travelling
across the island.
Reggae rhythms so familiar;
known by heart.
Walking towards the town, the music
gets louder, I soon see
crowd of people dancing,
laughing, a moving mass.
Locals mostly, a few tourists mix in hastily.
One block down, Rock Lobster.
Friends wave from a table beneath
a Heineken umbrella.
Smaller band plays a soft reggae beat,
we relax, listen, and sway to the music.
Calm breezes cause napkins to flutter.
Mouth-watering smells float in the warm air,
carried over from Hercules' Grille.
Spicy hot, and oh, so greasy!
We all catch a whiff,
and smile knowingly.
Timid tourists enter, looking out of place.
Clean white Rheboks and brown knee socks.
New Island t-shirts, fluorescent shorts clashing.
A rasta, dreads askew, comes up behind them,
yelling with fake anger:
"Meh-son! Yo' wan' move so I co' pass??!!"
They scatter, regrouping elsewhere.
We all laugh so hard, falling into each other!
We have one another,
Once again for summer,
everything is alright.
-- Amy St. John
=============================================================================
Another Look
~~~~~~~ ~~~~
High green hills,
shaping the land.
Looking closer now...
turquoise sea, calm,
and full of motion.
Smoothly sparkling, swirling,
lapping the land, and glimmering.
The mountains are rounded;
friendly in their awesome height.
Trees, bushes, vines, blended together.
On occasion our soothing breeze
gets bored, playfully rustles
leaves all around,
ant the trees between the Sunshine.
All is everyday...
I sit alone, watching
orange, pink, purple
sky streaked with pastel clouds
like some frustrated painter.
A bird flies low,
and I smile,
as the sun sinks
into the sea.
-- Amy St. John
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
While the eyes of heaven smile...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While the eyes of heaven smile,
and while my whole house sleeps,
often I get restless,
and down the stairs I creep.
This pilgrimage I make often,
the routine I know quite well.
Quick and quiet out I slip,
an no one do I tell.
For this is mine and only mine.
Well, I suppose it is his, too.
For it was with him this memory was made
When this memory was new.
Down the path I hurry,
the sand passes beneath my feet,
until I reach the lapping waves,
and their chilling liquid heat.
In that same spot we stood,
at that same moon we gazed.
Steadily it beamed down on us,
while over the ripples it played.
I remember how he watched me
and the light danced in his eyes.
And in those eyes I knew I saw
the kind of love that ties.
We learned a lot that evening,
while gentle blew the breeze.
We learned that with each other,
Our lives could be at ease.
-- Nicole Eichwald
=============================================================================
You said
~~~~~~~~
You said
you let me go so you could keep me
But you let me go altogether.
"I don't want to lose you"
you said.
But you pushed me away.
As I fell, as the sands fell,
you watched.
You said you'd hold out a hand,
But I couldn't see it.
Falling, falling, falling
the sand of time around me
At the very last minute, I was caught.
I tried to climb back to you,
but the sand swallowed me,
pulled me back.
And finally I grab your hand
but I can't hold on
And you are slipping,
like sand through my fingers,
And I feel you drift away.
-- Nicole Eichwald
=============================================================================
There is something about...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is something about
A blank piece of paper
Which draws my pen
to it.
A feeling, a compulsion
to fill it with
words, thoughts, feelings.
My frustrations, my emotions,
my problems.
Pour out my heart
down my arm
and out the tip of my pen.
It is my therapy.
-- Nicole Eichwald
=============================================================================
The rain is pouring down on me...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rain is pouring down on me,
soaking my hair, running in rivets down my nose,
washing away my emotions.
I can't see through my tears, and the rain,
and the fog.
The fog that spirals me
is a warm blanket, but blinds me.
Then a tunnel forms in the mist,
A clear path
and at the end is him.
Still the rain is pouring down,
my hair, my skin, my clothes all drenched,
but happiness returns.
The sun shines through the rain,
and as I walk toward him
I am walking in a summer storm.
The walls are vivid rainbows
pointing toward their gold.
But does this treasure want to be found?
claimed?
No - he just slips into the breeze
-- Nicole Eichwald
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
Margie XVI
~~~~~~~~~~
"Am I a sweetheart, Vince?"
Can you remember when I wouldn't say, "Yes;"
Just because I didn't know you well enough?
I think now that I really wouldn't say
Because the truth is so frightening.
For so many years I've done without
The gentle, affectionate, casual sweetness that you simply are.
Now that I've had a taste of it,
How can I go back to that dusty death?
How can I do without ever again?
This is need.
It frightens me to show you:
Does it frighten you, too?
-- Vincent Otten
=============================================================================
Margie XXII
~~~~~~~~~~~
I awoke this morning with a happy smile.
In a dream, I'd ridden my bicycle with my back to the rising sun
And I came across a character of an old farm house.
It was shaded by oak statesmen, but on the east side
Chris Colvin had carried out stereo speakers
And was teaching his young son the wonders of Handel's _Messiah_.
So I wandered over to listen and add my two cents' worth
When his two little daughters -- dreams have this poetic license,
you know --
About the ages of Naomi and Sarah
Came rushing out to greet me.
The eldest threw her arms around me and said,
"The strength of a loving heart
Is like the strength of the burning sun:
You feel it wherever you go."
And I woke up
And thought of you.
-- Vincent Otten
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
Reflection
~~~~~~~~~~
A reflection traced in silver
Apparition staring back
White light's spectrum does now filter
The appearance in the glass
What is seen does not belong
With the ancient soul inside
So longing to whisper the song
But ever forced to hide.
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
=============================================================================
Harvest..
~~~~~~~
Silence covers me with its velvet folds
And I peer outward, my face expressionless
In my heart some loneliness holds
A feeling strange, like emptiness...
Pouring forth from within myself
Selfless gaze above, beyond...
Harvest time, too soon to tell-
My ears strain for the sound..........
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
=============================================================================
Change
~~~~~~
Ancient hymns of serenity
Wash over me like the foaming sea
I sit and watch the seasons change
While others rush and rearrange
Patience fills me as I am alone
Branches bare where harsh winds have blown
I see now beyond the physical world
A deeper meaning has unfurled
Things here matter, but not as much as one might think...
Take your time to listen and think...
Life is too short to be bothered by stress
The more emotion you feel, you'll be burdened much less...
Take a moment to hold my hand
And doodle wishes in the sand
Glance in my eyes before they've gone
And inhale the crimson dawn
Aside from all else, you have been given this day
To love or to hate or to throw away
Cherish life and simplicity
With this, and love, your soul is free....
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
=============================================================================
The feelings of man...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frigid night air threatens to pierce my warmth
As I struggle to understand
How close should I stand to the fire to absorb
The feelings of man.....
My eyes are cast upon the ground
My shoulders hunched, I stand still
Whistling wind the only sound
Captured between the hills.....
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
=============================================================================
inside
~~~~~~
As I stand facing the east
I miss the sun's departure
Its crimson glow the least
Of what I cannot see ...forever?
Is a word that is held inside blown glass
Seasons change as time does pass....
Greyness overtakes the heart of the innocent
As the soulless live blind and ne'er repent...
To find another in this realm is a miracle...
I have wept in joy and now watch the tears fall...
A rain inside my swirling core
This man alone can open its door.
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
=============================================================================
A shallow...
~~~~~~~~~
A shallow, narrow corridor
With little, filtered light
Keeps my inner core
Trapped in endless night.
Afar I saw a gleam, beyond
Where and what I cannot say
Perhaps a deep and endless bond
Needing in the way
A piece of life has bloomed inside
I feel it when it's near
But sometimes then it seems to hide
And my heart aches from the fear.....
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
I won't peak!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Life is the holiday
Death is the gift
Lord, dear lord,
When my gift I do
Receive, I pray I
Do not suspect what
is under the wrap.
-- Alvin Brinson
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
**************************************************************************
[ POST SCRIPTUM ]
**************************************************************************
Nyd
~~~
"The more things change, the more they stay the same."
With bright, cheerful eyes we will look apon this world
this morn. Awaiting for all the goals to be
accomplished; all our prayers to be answered. For hope,
peace, friendship and love to spread like a flood of
champagne across the lands, the plains, the mountains,
valleys, and cities of this world. We smilingly remember
all the promising toasts by imaginative people - saying a
"A new age is ushered in, a prosperous and gleeful one."
And drunkenly we return to our beds and sleep.
when we awake and get up with high hopes, we look around.
disappointed we are, when we see that nothing has changed
except for one meaningless digit and another wrinkle on
our faces. war rages across continents - murdering
millions just because they were there. disease, hunger,
corruption and shame run rampant through the capillaries
of each land. and Mother Nature takes her toll in lives.
In the end, it's all the same:
"Nothing changes on New Year's Day."
-Igal Koshevoy;
January 1, 1993;
SUFFERAGE 20:1
+=====================================================================+
| A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------|
| - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310] |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------|
| (C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda |
+=====================================================================+
Come one, come all! Welcome to Centipede. Established just for
writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place
for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn
from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area,
an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and
speculated history & publishing. In all of the ten conferences,
anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends.
For that is what CentNet is here for: for you. Ever wonder how
to accent a poem at the right meter? Well, come join our
PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out.
Have any problems in deciphering your dreams? Select The Dreams
echo, and you're questions shall be solved.
The Network was created on May 16, 1993. I created this because
there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience.
And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to
grow, and become active on Bulletin Board Systems.
I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most
nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest
to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss.
A writer can now download the whole network, without phasing
out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to
the writer's interests. This means that Centipede has all
the active topics that any creative user seeks. And if we
don't, then one shall be created.
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.
** ** ******
** ** **
[ YGDRASIL INTERNET ]
**** **
** **
** ******
**************************************************************************
RESOURCES
The collection of Ygdrasil Press is now available on the World-Wide Web,
accessible as "http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil". This WWW site
contains the collections in their original and untranslated formats,
professionally laid out collections in Microsoft Word for Windows 2.0
format, GIF pictures, ANSI color graphics, and other goodies.
Coming soon, the collection will be also be available through anonymous
ftp and ftp-by-mail. Details on using Ygdrasil by e-mail will be
included as soon as we're finished testing it out.
WHAT THIS MEANS :)
If one has "direct" (LAN, SLIP, PPP, etc), "dialin" (UNIX, VMS, etc
prompt), or "e-mail" (FidoNet, Prodigy, America Online, Compu$erve, etc)
access to Internet, you can get all of our magazines and literature
collections viewed on screen, downloaded or delivered to your
electronic-mailbox without ever having to dial long distance or figure
out which BBS to call. This provides a much more intimate link to the
world outside our beloved Centipede. As well, this increases the
audience and broadens the coverage of Ygdrasil to better serve the
readers.
COMMENTS
Any comments or concerns about Internet access, as well as lengthy
submissions (preferably as MIME attachments) should be sent to the Igal
Koshevoy, who will either give direct feedback or direct it to `someone'
who's in a better position to help -
Internet: igal@agora.rdrop.com
Fidonet: Igal Koshevoy, 1:105/290
Comments about Ygdrasil, as well as short submissions, can be addressed
to Klaus Gerken, our Editor in Chief -
Internet: Klaus.Gerken@f56.n266.z1.fidonet.org
Fidonet: Klaus Gerken, 1:266/56
Long submissions are considered any single post over 80 lines with
headers. This is because the Internet to FidoNet gate is famous for
truncating messages longer than that.
We'd love to hear from you!
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
**************************************************************************
[ COPYRIGHT INFORMATION ]
**************************************************************************
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) 1994 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:
+----------------------------+
| YGDRASIL PRESS *** |
| 1001-257 LISGAR ST. |
| OTTAWA, ONTARIO |
| CANADA, K2P 0C7 |
+----------------------------+
All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS
=============================================================================
*****************************************************************************
=============================================================================
**************************************************************************
[ YGDRASIL PUBLICATIONS LIST ]
**************************************************************************
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:
+----------------------------+
| YGDRASIL PRESS *** |
| 1001-257 LISGAR ST. |
| OTTAWA, ONT
ARIO |
| 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 participating BBS. Revisions, though,
holds the official version of Ygdrasil.
=============================================================================
