YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

July 2000

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla; Rita Stilli; Michael Collings

ISSN 1480-6401



         The Life of the Yggdrasil

         The Root of Poetry

      RAYMOND FENECH                             
         A Biography
         The Primary School Classroom (1965)
            TAST(e)Y DELIGHT"
         Perfect Winter's Day
         A MOTHER'S LOVE
         The Nature Of The Game
         Some Other Time
         Days of Grace
         October 1961: Cold War Family 
         The Idea of England
         Stonehenge by Sea: Hunstanton Oak Tree Circle
         THE WRITERS PRAYER       
         se sentir mal *
         it's not




   The Life of the Yggdrasil
   Then Allfather created a huge tree-
   of time, of the universe-that circled
   the entire world, and called it the mighty Yggdrasil.
   Vedfolnir the falcon sits on the top branch,
   Lerad, reporting his seeings to all the Gods,
   and although Nidhug the dragon may chew at its roots
   and Ratatosk runs up and down causing conflict 
   between the bird and the beast, things remain in balance.
   The tree is too mighty and powerful for one
   dragon to eat its roots unhealthy.  Too powerful
   for one rat to foster its destruction.  Too powerful 
   for words to do it duty.
   Its health is essential to us all, so we must do our deeds.
   We must sprinkle this holy water everyday.  
   The limbs are extending like fingers as the tree 
   is waving to and fro with the wind, and we may fall,
   but we must continue.  We must sprinkle our
   holy water.  Because we are the Norns.  The Fates.


   The Root of Poetry
   Then the Aesir and Vanas spit
   into a vase because they found peace
   amongst themselves;
   were it not for this
   our lives would have no poetry.
   Formed from their saliva was Kvasir.
   His great wisdom (O his wisdom)
   circled the world over until 
   Fialar and Galar did him in;
   but we are thankful for this, 
   and know Kvasir did not die in vain
   because his blood was fixated into three 
   separate, bottomless vessels-
   Od-hroerir, Son and Boden.
   And mixed with honey this blood
   became not blood, but a potion
   so powerful, so inspiring 
   that whomever drank it became a poet.
   I give each of them to you-
   pick one.  Drink.  Again.

RAYMOND FENECH A Biography ~~~~~~~~~~~ The old grandfather clock chimed the Ave Maria. When his grandparents died the sound became a mental strain. It was sold in an auction, he will never hear its refrain. His uncle's summer residence was a lighthouse. With his cousins, as a child, they chased the shadows away. Dusk was an adventure, only stars lit their way. For years his father was a Franciscan novice. Sex was a sin. Sunday mass with cousin Elsie was a passionate quest. Hands folded, he reached with his fingers to fondle her breasts. In South Africa he lived in a hut with the poor. It was at the peak of youth, when he was moving at full steam. There, all hopes and aspirations vanished like a dream. The house where he lived, where he would want to die Smelt of the past, when all was well and he was young. There, garden ghosts whispered advice in silent tongues. When he was assigned to Bosnia, he became immune to fear. Being a Red Cross volunteer required a certain courage. When it was over, he was no longer afraid of carnage. He was thirteen and naked. He did not know he was being watched. His cousin Ralph walked inside his bedroom like a streak. His eyes spoke clearly. Ralph was strong and he was weak. His first "love" was homosexual. He was raped by pleasure. When eighteen Cecilia came giving him the first French kiss. When his tongue inside her churned up juicy bliss. Cecilia had the loveliest eyes he had ever seen. Her lips sensuous, when she spoke his eyes filled with tears. Her breath slid softly inside his ear like an elixir. As a child his favourite companion was a piece of cloth. When frightened he covered his face keeping the world outside. He grew violent. Tsaikovsky's 1812 was as if war was in his mind. Personality disorder struck. He fought against himself. Until reality and the fear of death drove him insane. A clock chimed the Ave Maria, he will never hear its refrain. Malta 1999
RAYMOND FENECH The Primary School Classroom (1965) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lightning flashed. All pupils were whipped awake. Shiny arrows flew across the sky thick like candy floss. The voice was smothered in dumbİstruck stillness. The teacher was no superman. He was frightened and cross. The Alps closed in. Hannibal marched on plastered walls. Death, blood red, drowned in spoils of Roman wars. Among the prizeİwinning watercolour paintings was mine. Depicting a gory battle, where soldiers fight until they fall. Tempus fugit. The old carob tree was like a hunchback. It whispered something I couldn't catch, from the past. I listened hard, but the breeze blew in galeİforce winds. And the tune changed from rock to rap and talking fast. Years are fossilized like roots grappling with death. I travelled, bought souvenirs to remind me of mystery: Since I was born, men have been to the moon and back. Suddenly it's the year 2000: the present becomes history. Malta 1999
WILLIAM WATKIN 1971 ~~~~ these were these conditions we were faced with these a pornography of silences is of lost love fuck about as poignant as pale pearls in yellow mustard I at my foot the dead puddle I see you face my pale classic fallen in an obscure 1970 disaster we face up to them the disaster rumbled slowly down the pass and the velocity of being caught glaciers gave me shivers I shun the dullest sheen truly noses run awkwardly in our family such conditions though fully full of pathos but for eyes having instead those translucent crawfish of before this flick of a tail masquerading as a glance for all that you could not look them in the claw the pages of a quiet rustle on the plain paper boarder the sea jellified by an excess of sperm yes a little of the consistency of sperm little "a" last years pale classic spent in the occult eroticism imagine betrayal you just can't these conditions masked us
WILLIAM WATKIN flaccid ~~~~~~~ why not let this hand break the veil no the turn in membrane dandles roars transparent and translucent and opaque the limp wet wet limp film is showing a slug besides of your thigh his hand is also no yes yes insides of your yes like a baby from a the dand- e-ling like a worm from the beak of the hesitant will-it-wont-it season letter in his hand reverberate the taut screen projects your gasp you darkening gasp you dilating the way he can close your eyes watch you open your mouth by the dandling lobes of his swallowed ear quietly groan no yesyes your come is born and borrowing in the flesh of soil yes.yes (petulantly) I know its unhealthy but
WILLIAM WATKIN 4 ~ lack of you make my foot mark the sod of a point city limit are you receiving me? of a pagan landscape of dull green glimmering becoming a citizen or a bastard you choose my terrier engorged on leaden grass several sniffs around eco-poetry force is in my foot tread tread my intention-agent it is dead leaves on the thresh hold a whole canopy on the thresh hold or the threat of wheat in the grey stubble my bird being idle in the blue cubed vent I would be better and my foot more integration as imperative but I am lazy a languorous a sleep- sensualised so and so caught liminally in in a dream reconciliation reconciliation infidelity infidelity sorrow sorrow tread tread my foot is in my mouth my heart in my throughts my angel penetrated by the transition of a wild light thudding in from the bush to an art nouveau softness of these septembrous street lamps or what ever 4 buzzes I intends to answer that
WILLIAM WATKIN 4,55 ~~~~ fifty five dead and the peace is dead monotony the situation and how it can come suddenly like water flushing in a pisser of the settlement of moved forward a film of soot on the for'ead (sans "h") of talks about talks it is ever so much like the sparking ink of grace arbitrates there is always going to be news now new is the news of no news teach the clouds to scud and wake up mozambique! the children the children an alternative unblinking moon above the taliban dead of kabul hung upsides down from the roundabout bauble of agreements ping! yesyes I'm coming I'm coming if I get to the point will you love me again? take my shifted corpse and give out comfort 'cos I'm the one with the funny eyes which see connectivity disruption fragments and snip pets pong! a toilet swallows the blackening mote of breakdown of moon of clouds enshrouded this talk about betrayal frightening people on the ground with moses and god 'n tha' say if it illegal to draw these parallel lines to police them hallo?
JOHN HORVATH, JR GROWING SILENCE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Having pursued language of their own, there was a vision of language shared among themselves and those other who once had like themselves run baseball cap and bat in hand up the reservoir hillsides onto cool flat surface overlooking the whole county into the far side of their next lives where who among them might tell what could come between. Having no words for the awkward passing into grace, they feared a language shared in secret closing them off; but, now they welcomed the holiness of private, unspoken words that clasped them all, together. For some along the creekside pond, their dreams in a moment under moonlight became a next life without running with the others pursuing words imagined as language but knowing experience evolves into an unspoken language of its own. She who was awkward now full of grace fills all of the moments away from the chase.
JOHN HORVATH, JR AFTER "TWO WOMEN WITH MANGOES" (PAUL GAUGUIN, 1899) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We know them, have seen them clogging neighborhood streets, business ghettoes of grown men deep in thought. Oh yes. We know women whose surplus breasts bob along under sad smiles of unnoticed good looks, forgotten attributes advertisers and bankers and bakers ignore -- perfect skin, smooth teeth, tight firm muscles on grand architectures of bone. We have seen them or those parts moving along under our steady gaze, beside our dreams of youth regained. Unencumbered women, mango and melon mongers, in huge cities of anonymous men in gray suits and ties black as hangmen's rope around necks. Anonymous men gape slackjawed into an unknown, the unknowable, the big breasts of women who have other things in mind. On Polynesian isles these women are mothers and daughters.
JOHN HORVATH, JR "QUICK-MART SELF-SERVE REFUEL" DISPLACES ELLE'S "PARLOR OF TAST(e)Y DELIGHT" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Men have to roam and try what's new, I understand; but once awhile they should come on home. They only stop to fill their tanks (imagined pit-stop crews work to move 'em into the traffic race). You'd think they think the water here's some devil's brew, the food a trap. They rush to move on through. It's nothing new. I've seen men come and go in business suits and coveralls, in borrowed clothes and tattered jeans. I've kissed a few off to their work and hugged a few in finespun silk-- I know that type. From nowhere off to nowhere work and never stop to take a bite. Sure, yeah, they do. They fill their tanks with candy bars with yellow dye with sodiums and artificial yum. I watch them from my window. I gotta fix that sign and make it brite so they might see just who they're passing in the middle of the night. It's lonely here between the towns; gets lonelier at night. Yet, sad to think the beauty of a place is just for gas and necessary stops. Lives of quickie lust they lead from place to place unknown; they roam. They haven't time to sit and chat; they must move on. They cannot see beyond the middle road; they must move on. What waits for them waits also here so why not rest and have a taste. I know the type. It's sad to say and worse to think. I know that type whose empty tank refueled is out the door again. I'm better off alone than serving one of them.
JOHN HORVATH, JR MISREADING GENESIS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ June Gillimund after church Sunday morning disrobes, lies across her satin-lace bedspread, and reads Genesis. The passage is a wondrous explanation for a missing bone, the incomplete beau who might have slept after, offered Eve who bored and unfulfilled explored this man whose other wife had run into the night with God knows who. June rises to unlock the door, leave it slightly ajar, hoping that should she fall asleep when she awakes that missing rib would reappear beside her; Such a strong woman, she thinks, to have listened giving no sign that she knew a fool for a fool or that at least the poor dear boy insecure over whether he had gotten or was gotten could not manage an unashamed word about the bone that was but was no longer. Accept the rib, says June, speaking to the wallpaper and window. Accept the rib, close your eyes, the bone will return. Imagine that.
HAZEL KING Perfect Winter's Day ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Watching winter breezes stir and ruffle the river's waters Smooth in places, mottled elsewhere where the wind's touch is firmer, Causing the water to dance to a wintery sonata. Dappled light shining softly through trees Swaying to the symphony of the wind. Joggers rugged up against the chilly weather, Faces brightly flushed as the wind caresses their cheeks, Breath visible as it leaves the warmth of their bodies And ventures forth into the cool morning air. Dogs leashed to their masters' hands Straining against the bonds Longing to break free and run ahead in happy abandonment. Grey hued gum tree trunks, one side lit by the morning sun Darker greys where the warmth of the sun has not yet reached. Beautiful winter's morn Bringing life and vitality to those who dare venture out. And behind glassed enclosures Others drinking in the warmth Protected from the chill of the winter's wind. A perfect winter's day To be enjoyed and embraced....... 29 May 2000 (Poem No 571)
HAZEL KING A MOTHER'S LOVE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Small child of mine So helpless there before me, Your tiny head cradled in my hands, Your destiny mine to mould. The very best is what I claim for you As I shape and guide your life.... The responsibility weighs heavily on my heart. So fragile as you lay within my arms A look of trust upon your sweet petite face, A look of contentment as you feel my touch, Protective arms and hands Enfolding and holding, oh so tenderly.... This tiny life entrusted to my care. Words cannot express the love I feel for you Welling up inside my wonder-filled heart, Creating a maternal bond between mother and child Never to be severed, no matter what life brings.. Tiny child of mine My love is yours For all eternity. (Written for Melody to Chloe) 19 January 2000 [Poem No 561]
LISA MARIE ZARAN The Nature Of The Game ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ is to have one foot in the door while the other prepares to flee (if need be) It is to be wise while portraying ignorance and saying very little. It is to smile when all you want to do is scream. It is to stand tall when all you want to do is fall back and lie awhile, atop the sweet grass, under the big sky, and close your eyes and close your eyes.
LISA MARIE ZARAN Some Other Time ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I saw you yesterday outside the Eastside cafe. You were wearing the blue sky on your shirt, the color I love because it matches your eyes and a silver watch, which you kept checking and I almost came over. I actually considered crossing Mill Avenue when the light changed, of approaching you, maybe, saying your name just as I neared the place you stood, waiting. Perhaps placing my hand on your arm, like I used to. I wanted to tell you that I dreamt we got stuck in an elevator between the fifth and sixth floors of the Courthouse Building downtown. (you know how old those elevators are) How it took crews nine hours to get us out and how, in that time we came to the conclusion that we were meant to be together, all that nonsense before was just that, nonsense. Seems so silly now. I promised to have more faith, patience and you swore to make an effort at calling more and being conscientious. Then the light changed and just as I was stepping off the curb, this woman, blonde and reckless, dashed past me, trailing a tangy, almost citrus-like scent, and calling your name. You looked directly at us, but, I could tell by your expression, you only saw her. I could have been the light pole. I watched as she ran up to you, hugged you, as you took her hand, and the two of you, like any other couple, went walking down the street, arm in arm. I was going to tell you how great you looked, how happy. How, I've missed you and wished I hadn't been so hard. So unforgiving. Then you kissed her, so, anyway, maybe some other time.
BEE SMITH Days of Grace ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Softly, so as not disturb Sabbath's solitude Rain plangently muffles Traffic idled, stalled. Inside, snug, we slumber Tasks left undone, sprawled- Side by side we rest and know The bliss of nothing, nothing at all
BEE SMITH October 1961: Cold War Family ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So attractive then that seemingly seamless simplicity. Women wore girdles made of spandex stayed home, cooked sauces out of cans of Campbell's condensed soups. Men wore hats. They drove Studebakers or Chevies off into the world, then back again. They relaxed like Rotarians should, clubbing to do good within limits. Children were scrubbed, shiny apple-cheeked. Their cleanliness next to godliness nylon shirts squeaked chalk on slate totting up infant achievements to give a good report - Legion of Mary, Aerofix, Boy Scouts. It was that last moment of the last somnambulant season just as Sleeping Beauty stirred. Eyes wide open she can read the signs posted on the castle walls. Drums roll a not far distant thunder. Spears at the ready cast shadows jutting along the ramparts. Plunging her face into a basin of icy rain water She shakes one hundred years of sleep off like a sleek retriever. Yet, the castle will still decompose. Soon the King will be struck dead. Lesser men will crawl out from the briar thorns and inherit.
BEE SMITH The Idea of England ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ All these years abroad and still I am a tourist bewitched by Betjeman's bells and Leithley Women's Institute. They are neat in their shirtwaisters, beige handknit waistcoats and sprig-printed pinnies. They are sensibly shod and yellow Marigold gloved. The tea they decant is strong but not stewed. They serve open-faced egg and cress sandwiches, ethereal butterfly buns. Early this morning flowers were sacrificed, a garden collection plate passed. The offerings are now arrayed in oasis nodding benignly above an aluminium patty pan plate one for each church hall table. I know that this must be Milk- in- First and Honeycake Land decked out in gingham bunting. Like lapwings these are fragile survivals needing high ground and hedgerows. I ache for this habitat, remember first stirrings of falling in love with the idea of England. I pay a pale pensioner for a jar of damson jam - thank her - and carry home my souvenir.
BEE SMITH Stonehenge by Sea: Hunstanton Oak Tree Circle ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Manannan laughs. Bares seaweed Teeth. Wheezes. Rip tide ebbs away Oak roots Arising open handed, Tunnelling out from Middle Earth. Invert. The sea gives the body back. Grandfather Oak. Splinter. Plank. Door. Old tongues Forgotten in long exile. The Old Good God knocks. It's muffled. Sludge. Sand. The excavator said, "Death." Awed. Over eager to unriddle it. Cradle. We are standing on our heads. Revolving. Strung from one big toe. Stubbed fool. Oak endures. Above. Below. A swan makes a beautiful door. Open.
MICHAEL LEVY THE WRITERS PRAYER ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Awaken To a new dawn, I stretch to Infinity 'n reach Beyond the Stars, In an instant I return, filling every tissue, sinew, with Joy, I feed the nectar of life, into each molecule and cell, The mind and body embrace Divine love Through the eye of time I see eternity, Life in life shine bright, Shine the torch of majestic light, Find the path to my universal frame, So I may bask in the wisdom of pure potential, Guide my hand to write your words.
CLARA SHERLEY-APPEL kids ~~~~ youths from oceans that ripped across the sky; the lightning component of the lost and dead and remembered -- split their existence off a bridge with arsenic and salt water mixed into a drink. they peeled their scathing existences away from each other until they could feel no more, wore their skin into erosion mind lost, body lost, soul lost slipping in and out of consciousness in cold, 110 degree desert. sat on a cliff contemplating everpresent god forgetting to take pills at noon, pills to kill genius framed in asylum. insanity gives you peace as far as you can throw. they ran their hands down arms that ran their hands down arms that danced in the evening with disillusioned vietnam soldiers who survived sixteen minutes and onward in, to destiny that wouldn't let them live, so they tore their teeth into creative flesh until they could bleed no more. back from the dead, they called to mythological peace to calm their deafening nerves. sat naked in a room where they found space to sit, finding singular haven in crouching behind the shadow of the sun, exploding from exploited tears of humanity that could never realize the passions it had lost, finding solace in pleasure that never was, in masaochism or blindness or bred morality when the old was just too fast. bullet shards breakfast, dawns bleakened with bitter fascination, the craziness of generations, the worth of black chalk writing, street-fair sweet. children in the absence of technological medical psychological ambivalent hope remniscent of those stricken while breathing, remembering to gasp for a final breath before they jump and gas themselves into oblivion with final blood-vows written on their heads, their hands, their backs, fright and speechless, gripping, working, groping, god-death spoken in a word to a thousand human souls as shock settles over a nation built on lies to find itself lied to. when no one wins in the slaughter of millions, we thought half a million would be enough to win us the war against a fictional anti-the-american-dream. art is communism. learn to embrace the color red or outlaw strawberries, irish, velvet lips and love in casteless society under human oppression that always was the reality to kill the dream. curled up, painful lovers crying for their milk in a society that calls to protocol to destroy bliss. fields of suicide stand before a crowd that found no grace in its fifteen minutes of fame. grow up and you'll forget the nightmares of your youth, only a kid, among kids and corpses.
CLARA SHERLEY-APPEL se sentir mal * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ wait an extra hour for the man with no hands -- to lead him somewhere unexpected, to lead him to a place he cannot comprehend, to lead him to this precious morgue, to lead him somewhere hopeful. i will wait. i will wait because i am the one who wants to lead him. an hour passes; i take his wrist, and as i become her, she speaks. "why this bad feeling?" his wrist slips from her hand, and she repeats the line: "why this bad feeling? why this silent sense?" his wrist she grabs, but still it slips away. "she doesn't understand," he thinks, and he is right. she knows nothing of this murder of the senses. she will wait. she will wait to the day she dies. she will wait until she is placed in that morgue of dying happiness. she will stand beside him there, in that shrine of fading roses. she cries out to him, but when he does not answer she grants him his despair. se sentir mal. and she will count her lucky stars... (but all the lucky stars have fallen) ...and some day he will speak and she will hear him. "you can't be the one to save the world," and she knows it is true. "you can't be the one to save the world," and she knows she will try. and he knows she will try. she feels the hours pass, though they are only instants added up together to form moments; to form years; to form integrity and space and understanding and form. she will wait. and the day that he speaks, she will wait to understand. the days will pass and nothing will come. she will hear his voice in some quiet newspaper article, telling of the fates of giants and the tears of monoliths. the print will fill her mind with fear, and speak to her heart of metal, stones, the color gray, and other things that do not live. the days will pass and nothing will come. the mailman will bring her paper and a letter or a bill. she will sit in her room with the comics, or mull over her horoscope with a cup of coffee and her mother. they will exchange their good words and sour faith. the days will pass and nothing will come. pizza men will remind her, "there is a minimum charge," and she will nod and pay for someone who isn't there. the days will pass until they reach an hour that can hear and see and taste and know what it's like -- se sentir mal. and then, she will hear a voice and wonder if it's the boy she left behind fifteen years ago. as she sits at her typewriter, crafted just for her, she will wonder if the voice at the door is his, or if it is just another deadened, ringing cry. she will wait. she will wait for an endless noon that never was noon. she will wait for the weapon of choice to arrive. and one day, after many have passed, the news will come. another way to live the dream. the tears will come and fade. some days they will be a virtue to her spirit. other days, they will be an end to all the moments. she will seek inside herself for the words, but she will not tell what she finds. she will wait, and wait. she will wait and wish that once, when she had the chance, she would have visited the graveyard with him. she will wish that she had been granted her own despair, so she might have been stronger. she will wait, and curse her frailty. she will wait, and she will die. the days will pass, and nothing will come. fears and unending questions will spite her heart. the man with no hands will greet her at the gate, but she will not take his wrists. her eyes will not meet his, and he will ask her why. slowly, cruelly, she will meet his gaze, and tell him that she waited, and she will raise her arms in this mal peine. "i have waited," she will say, and she will lift her arms and show them to him and to the world. she will pull them away from her sides and bring them to his face, only to reveal this: that she, too, in all of this -- se sentir mal -- has disappeared. she has joined him at the gate to this requiem aeternam for the lonely to tell him she is gone, and she will raise her arms, and she will have no hands. *se sentir mal - french for "to feel bad" in the infinitive. can mean close to anything describing a bad feeling.
CLARA SHERLEY-APPEL it's not ~~~~~~~~ one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand one one thousand one single memory she takes the time and shakes -- it will go through all the same. she tells herself it doesn't really matter, and it doesn't. as far as they will see, she'll have done her part. but something disagrees. she bites down on all the what-ifs and maybes and she swallows hard. she eats through her endings, but the crumbs sizzle and slice through her skin, sickly sweet. the past has a voracity she didn't notice the first time around. she takes a sip of the salt water she poured for herself. are you wondering if this is you? she trades it off, taking this blame if she can rid herself of another. she spits and it haunts her. up she gets, and the table, flat and even, tumbles on its side. she's sick of the bitterness and she's lost all the lines. they all fell apart and drifted in the ocean until what's clear crumbled, too. you had a will and she had a way to break it. now she knows -- i'll never know what's real again -- that you were real, even if she wasn't. she smiles into the mirror and the life she's shattered. she had the strength to ask and the weakness not to listen. what weighs on her conscience now is the pieces of herself that disappeared. "what did i do? what did i do? what did i do?" and she knows as she cries. she recognizes it, but she denies it. this is the fault she won't admit to. once upon a time, she would have starved herself rather than choke on her past. you will live you will die you will love. the last accusation rings in her ear, for it is an accusation. were it hers to decide, she would never love again. and maybe it is hers to decide. it would follow that she can't love another beyond the dreams she once had. maybe this is where the pain comes in. are you wondering if this is me? she speaks as if she knows what she's saying. as if something inside her will snap if she dares to tell the truth. she thinks she'll die if she speaks her mind. she knows she'll have to stop this soon. i've cried at stop signs brushed the streets with agony killed myself in dreams. are you wondering if this is glory?


   William Tell shot
   an arrow
   at son
   metal tip crushed
   boy's pate
   shaft deep sunk
   in tree trunk
   William Tell savored
   the apple
   fallen to
   sweeter from
   warm blood
        issue of cold
   soft flesh
        issue of hard
   I AM
   *: From a Jewish boy's notebook, found in the Warsaw Ghetto after its
   Note: The Latin verb peto, petere has a range of significations, many
   of which escape its English derivatives appetite and appetition.  These
   include: 1) make for, go to; 2) attack, assail; 3) seek, strive
   after; 4) ask for, beg, beseech, request, entreat; and 5) fetch,
   derive (from).  Peto, petere also refers to an arrow in flight, as in
   seeks a target.


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

       Welcome to Newsgroup alt.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.

       The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993. 
       Created 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 many world-wide Bulletin 
       Board Systems.

       We 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 access, without phasing out any more conferences, since 
       the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means 
       that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative 
       user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.

       Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede

  Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the
  Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all
  of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find
  Ygdrasil on the Internet at: 

    * WEB: http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken/ 

    * FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/

    * USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines and

    * EMAIL: send email to kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version 
         and method you'd like. We have two versions, an uncompressed 
         7-bit universal ASCII and an 8-bit MS-DOS lineart-enchanced 
         version.  These can be sent plaintext, uuencoded, or as a 


  . REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings

  . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
  . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. 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
  . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ 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
  . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
  . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken 
  . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken

  . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp

  . 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 $10.00 each. Checks should be made out to
  the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press.
  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 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 Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site at http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.


  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
  these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is

  YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995,
  1996, 1997, 1998, 1999 & 2000 by Klaus J. Gerken.

  The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.  No other 
  version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. 
  Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS


    * Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
    submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
    contents: kgerken@synapse.net

    * Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything
    that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored
    files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on
    Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access:

    We'd love to hear from you!
    Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: