YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

September 2000

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

ISSN 1480-6401


TABLE OF CONTENTS


   INTRODUCTION

      MARIA JACKETTI
         The Road to Gold, An Alchemical Prayer

   
   CONTENTS

      JANET I. BUCK
         The Funeral Right
         The Retina
         The Viewing
         Recorded Grief
         Mosaic Bruise
         Sudden Strokes
         Under All Those Thunderheads
         The 11th Commandment
         Anger's River

      JANET KUYPERS
         Lost in the breeze
         praying to idols
         grab the other's neck
         Start All Over
         Gerbil
         MY DEAD DAUGHTER

      GARTH WEHRFRITZ-HANSON
         The Wonder
         Raising Lazarus

      GABRIELA MISTRAL (Translated by Maria Jacketti)
         The Vigilant Woman
         Wall
         The Sea
         An Owl
         The Little New Moon
   		 
   
   POST SCRIPTUM
   
      LI PO
         Drinking Alone With The Moon


INTRODUCTION


   MARIA JACKETTI
   
   
   The Road to Gold
   
   An Alchemical Prayer
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   
   
   I am Sedhana,
   mercury
   marinating
   in the sun's liquid butter.
   
   In am Ksetrukarana,
   master
   of the field where you plant.
   
   I am Svedana,
   mercury in the patient alembic,
   but there to seal the gates
   at the event horizon*.
   
   I am Murchichana,
   the swooning of mercury,
   pregnancy of gold.
   
   I am Uttahapana,
   eternal-return-ever-changing:
   mercury aroused
   to burnished splendor
   for her beloved.
   
   I am Bodhana,
   the awakening,
   blithe erection,
   the apotheosis of all jewels,
   
   Of all colors,
   I am violet, the end
   of all visible rays,
   the unribboning of light
   to the invisible.
   
   Of all fabrics,
   I am silk,
   the irony of mulberry leaf and worm.
   
   Of all continents,
   I am the resurrection of the
   East in the hurried West.
   
   I am India before Sanskrit,
   before Vedic,
   reborn in the Americas.
   
   I am Niyamana,
   shivering restraint
   in love's fervor,
   the glistering
   of mahogany limbs.
   
   I am Dipana,
   enflamed to consume
   all in my path.
   
   I am Rajana,
   the colored seeds
   of all sacred geometries,
   savage wildflowers
   at the elemental loom.
   
   I am Sarana,
   menstrual drops mixed
   with mercury,
   a sandalwood forest
   hung with near gold.
   
   I am Kramana,
   and so the process ends,
   mineral wed in amber,
   ikor-unguent,
   cinnabar's outrageous
   dream.
   
   I am the body alchemical,
   the Siddha map,
   stretched pole to pole,
   the weather controlled
   by vital breath,
   
   the control of age
   and element,
   the North Star,
   the Southern Cross,
   the constellations
   still unborn,
   the maternity ward
   in Orion's belt,
   
   I am the Pyramids yet
   To be built in New Jersey,
   where strip malls stand --
   
   I am the starships to set to rise
   from the coal pits
   of Pennsylvania,
   
   I am The Sphynx -Cheshire-cat-smiling-
   on the White House lawn.
   
   I am Mount Shasta erupting
   laughter,
   her clouds misting all of California,
   nourishing her wine,
   sealing the faults.
   
   With karmic forgiveness,
   I am the secrets of Roswell,
   told straight and plain
   to huddled masses.
   
   I am the flag of this America,
   Betsy Ross
   suddenly queen
   of all fashion --
   
   where stars make
   one ankh, squared.
   
   Hegemony and liberation,
   I am the kiss that awakens
   the dead,
   the touch that mends
   all wounds.
   
   And it is about time.
   
   May 2000
   
   
   *In quantum mechanics / astrophysics, when a star becomes a black hole, 
   an event horizon occurs.  Time of any sort becomes an impossibility 
   after the event horizon seals the black hole.  One second, an eternity, 
   all the same.
   
   Outside the event horizon of the black hole, which acts as one way 
   consuming vortex, an interdimensional gateway to other realities, time 
   passes as the laws of physics allow, relative to space-time.



   JANET I. BUCK
   
   
   The Funeral Right
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   
   Two scrapbooks lay open
   in margins of a casket's shadow
   treating dying differently.
   One is stoic; one is straight.
   One is brick; one is clay.
   I hate to own our bunker life,
   honesty's fuhrer isn't nice.
   Here we have the abscess grief.
   All these bugs inside a bubble,
   dodging moons with piercing rays.
   Afraid to land on real times.
   Craving passive oxygen.
   This judgment seat begins to itch.
   Take down screens,
   break a window, anything.
   We'll use our feet to sweep raw glass.
   
   We step across each other's tears--
   their corpses merely muddy possums
   sitting in a drying ditch. 
   Family knots that should be braids.
   Deceased should gather what's alive,
   bring it to epitome.
   Match of liquor stays our bunker
   drowning out impending depth.
   A false sense of brightness rules.
   I want to live in the other text,
   one truer to the inside pain;
   not glued to spraying nests of bees.
   They have grown from stings and swells,
   earth rebuilt from tidal waves,
   gracing the ground with poignancy. 
   Their widows are loved
   and held and patted to sleep,
   not some spider on a sill.
   
   

JANET I. BUCK The Retina ~~~~~~~~~~ Graveyard snaps a portrait of dawn, its edges flaming sepia. I shudder and shutter reclaimable hugs. Run my fingers through gardens of your thick chest lawn, counting all unknowing days, times you'll turn a doorknob softly in the night, leave me with a croissant kiss. Afraid to fall asleep in lateness blending with eternity. In moments stolen from a bag, I put my feet across your lap like waterfalls on mountain fists. Sorrow's hiccups shake my ribs. A friend has died and left his wife. But we are here, still sucking on a melting snow cone wandering a carnival. Its camera lens is sitting on a cyclone's wall, whirling me inside its spin. Symmetry is candle wax-- melt wins out, beside the burn. Vista of grief--a grappling thing. I hoard the slivers of our moons with canyon mouth. Care consuming, baring all. Heady from a funeral. Love allergic to its loss. Death is a retina for life itself-- coaxing us to cash its check while pens are in our trembling hands.
JANET I. BUCK The Viewing ~~~~~~~~~~~ I bring you an arrangement of measured flowers in a shapely vase we'd rather slam against some wall. A flat of muffins no one wants. Vacant stomachs growl at fate, relishing their emptiness. Your husband's life has earned that void. "The viewing of his body," you say, in a fog of sobs, "is scheduled for Wednesday afternoon." I will approach what I cannot bear to hover beside: tilted lampshades of your hat, begging back his light removed. Thirsty for prayers that don't seem real. A time when souls must band like wedding rings. Death stings globes, unready flesh, relentless stalking scorpions. A bible seems a cruel tryst. Sulking sorrow, cotton mouth, dandelions stripped by wind. Our eyes without mascara wands, proving welts, swollen with grief's adages. Human is a tiny wing, a piece of meat in skies of circling scavengers. Marble fountains--waterless. Composure's ruler won't exist.
JANET I. BUCK Recorded Grief ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ***For Gilbert Winget (1942-2000) A sudden stroke. 57 meager years. The postman finds your body down like ears of corn that fall off trucks. Every storm seems premature. Your hair was barely barely gray around dense temples lined with sweat. I call your wife to comfort her. All we have of your voice, a chirping welcome on some tape no one can bear to erase or hear. Your pipe will sit in its iron stand. Shirts in rows on closet arms reaching through mahogany. Conundrums like this exist with grief. Washboards of our waning strength collecting rust from thunderheads. They toy with tears like oil drips. We'd rather buy a brand new car than face the lease it has on hearts. The message that I leave for her-- as useless as a broken toothpick forking a huge wet bale of hay. My tongue is sand and life is paint peeling from the shattered walls. Your garden tools are sabers made of tiger teeth, ripping into memory's flesh. Cruel timing of the world snatching life from pressing death-- your clothes still running through the dryer on cycles frying liable hands.
JANET I. BUCK Mosaic Bruise ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Our skin is getting to that age where flesh is more mosaic bruise than chalk white dust naiveté. Tears fall in a painter's tray, dry in clumps before the brush has met the canvas, leaving strokes of heraldry. Portraits of a bathroom mirror show wrinkled prunes. Takahe wants the wings to fly. We can't admit the slipping song. Mother's health is slivered moons. Time's embryo, once braids of wheat, becomes the germ of olding's clues. Suns come up and torch the flowers. I water as fast as writers can with syllables that slide down laundry chutes of deaf. Emotion's crawlspace in the basement full of untuned memories. Fortune of short, meted youth orgasmic quakes we did not grab by taking all those country roads. I do not want the dance to end before my toes have felt the floor. Our bodies are a carriage drawn by wild horses chomping at the bit of night. I ask you what the doctor said, expecting him to be a wad of bubble gum filling the gaps of nail holes. Aware that sad is brand new shoes with heels or toes that might not fit the size of strength. Days pass by on swifter feet. An index of retracting light.
JANET I. BUCK Sudden Strokes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When the phone rings, I pick it up. A bucket of silence sits and you catch your breath. Lose it again in a sea of wails hidden by the walls of strength. "The postman found" his life erased. Just sitting in an empty street beside his truck, his garden tools. Ants crawl up the trunk of grief. I need some words to brush off pain; my tongue is just a flat balloon. "He went suddenly. A heart attack." And yours is gutted from its frame. "The blessing was he didn't suffer." You are left to tote that load. Sadly now through memory. You had a fight, well, months ago, never patched the denim torn. Your hair is soaked with sorrow's sweat. You'll wear a wig to the funeral beneath a hat of stoic lace. I'm dipping in the wishing well of angry things weren't otherwise. Health is there and teasing eyes. Too late arrives faster than a mower trims a wayward lawn. Mortal, in one falling sweep, becomes a pronoun hunting for identity. When a mother loses any child, the sun goes down eternally; moons just sulk in thinning light.
JANET I. BUCK Under All Those Thunderheads ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I light a candle at my desk, searching proper mourning words. They all escape my sandpaper tongue grinding at relentless grief. You were loved by many women, smitten by your teasing eyes, and tender ways with blooming flowers. Florence held you like a son. If she were here, she'd be on knees beside your grave. Admonishing. Reminding you to see a doctor for your heart the way you bent and kissed her hand. I'm thinking now as silence looms. Presence is a fragile thing wind removes at brittle whim. No cashmere tears will calm the wool of losing you. I pull my husband close to me. Run my fingers on his chest like syllables in sentences I'll save before they vaporize. I'll kiss his lips of lavender, rub his forehead with my thumbs, cherish seasons as they are before the blindness intervenes. Copper pennies of the sunlight adding up to dollar bills. A body is a stack of hay. We live beneath those thunderheads. Umbrellas of unspoken love are nails in a hole for screws.
JANET I. BUCK The 11th Commandment ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Our family rule is gardened silence. Mourning hats not built to pass. Grieving dust (if it exists) swept beneath the raw, dense wool and thicket brush of oriental rugs in place. Death, a possum on center stripes our callousness just winces at. We aren't prepared for deeper orbits of our loss. And I'm unwelcome porcupines. At 44, I cannot face a body in a velvet casket. Tremble in a tea cup's base, want my father splitting loads of firewood that won't grow back. You knew this man earth will bury with the leaves but cannot saunter near his grave. Menstrual cycles--my dissolve-- embarrasses you like Kotex in a grocery store. Brand and shade, oppressive depth. My tears are rulers on your knuckles, hoping they break in tidal waves against great rocks of granite flesh. If I had stayed in harbors of removal's vice, my eyes dry ice same as yours, I wouldn't have a headache now. My pulse not quickened, heart not peach thrown against torn mending wall. But missing him is necessary gravity. Teaches me that life is apples (tart and sweet) fine and waxed and gently tethered to a tree, rubbed upon a cashmere thigh. It falls when fate, not we, decide. Olive pits of sadness sit in cleaning up the mess alone.
JANET I. BUCK Anger's River ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A family friend has passed away. It's funeral time. Mother is shuffling cards at Bridge. Keeping her date with Chardonnay. Father is teeing off on a well-groomed course of aiming at denial's ball. They each draw Kings and Queens and Aces, running from the lower cards, mourning sewers filling up. I sink on pews in slimy shame of soggy penises of strength. My angry river rips the rocks in acid fugues, buries sunlight as it goes. Our car rolls near the chapel door. The priest reminds me not to judge. Tears fall in the flour drawer like someone dropping coffee cups. Squeezed in taut removal's vice, turning screws of leaving's itch, I wad up wishing they were here like tissue from my husband's pocket, smeared with ink now senseless in uneven blur. A flag is draped and folded with due ritual. My sister has the grit to come, respect the pearls that drip from eyes, choking on death's olive pits. Rifle shots before the noble sound of "Taps" tilting the tree of his scissored life at less than sixty meager years. His widow is chased by gutless absence of their arms that should be there to hold her up. Venom rising in my chest, coming out in messy sobs. Foam of bitter feels so wrong but I am rabid with its pain. Sticking pins haphazardly in every skulking voodoo doll.
JANET KUYPERS Lost in the breeze ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ July 5, 2000 I have only seen you through my rose-colored glasses I know you thought of me On the most important day of my life And well, wouldn't you think of me anyway We've had enough of a track record together to earn it I know you thought of me you did things for me But a part of me ask for you there Because I knew it would matter to you I know you thought of me you worked for me But the minute you're our obligations were met Well, my name flew away like a feather on the breeze Caught up in the wind And then muffled noise That was my night And was my life Was forgotten I know you were doing me a favor And I am grateful for that And all that I afraid I will carry with me Is that you did what you felt you had to do And then Like my name, a muffle sound lost in the breeze I left you In you went on your way
JANET KUYPERS praying to idols ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ July 20, 2000 every onc in a while i question whether or not there is a god bu i changed my mind i thought i have found him he had dark hair almost black just like a god should and he had these blue eyes not just blue almost white so light they look like glass and you could almost see right through them and could i see right through you if you gave me the chance? i'd clasp my rosary necklace and pray to the right gods and wouldn't they be you and i'd let the necklace drape over my shoulders around my neck and i'd let the rosary fall between my breasts and you would forgive me that much more for my sins how many hail marys would you want me to say i's ask i cannot believe i have seen you and i have talked to you and does everyone get to see their god like this and does everyone remember why do you have to be my god why did i have to see you and talk to you and realize how young you are and realize how inexperienced you are i mean, you're supposed to be the god you're supposed to be teaching ME is this what people think when their gods let them down did you let me down or did i just never know what i was looking for? is this what people think when they realize they are only praying to idols what then?
JANET KUYPERS grab the other's neck ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ July 25, 2000 I don't know where to start I don't know where all these feelings come from I don't know how to stop them These feelings seem to come rushing up to me And I don't seem to have any control over them And I hate myself for this And I'm not supposed to be having these urges And I hate myself for thinking that you may want me too You know, I don't know much of anything about you And I guess you don't know much about me But I like what I know Because in some respects you seem like me Yes, I like what I know That you work too much And have too much drive And you have a wild side And you do your best to keep your wild side in check And I still want to Be able to straddle you Take off your glasses Mess up your hair So you get strands falling around your for eye touching your cheek And touching you To remind you of me And grabb the hair at the back of your head And cock your head back Just so I can see your mouth starting to open Because God, I want to see that And it would make me know I'm right And it makes me know that you want me too And I'd let your hair go And you would stare at me And give me a look I just can't explain And can't argue with And have to submit to And when I want this I would wonder Who would grab the other's neck For the kiss I still don't know who would make that move Or who could make that move So I'm begging you to start this cycle I'm pleading you I don't want to be the only one with these fantasies Tell these stories to me Tell me you've thought these things too Tell me you know that we're both stuck Because you know there's nothing we can do And I know this too But I'd like to hear you say it To validate my fantasies, in a way, Because I'd love to hear you talk that way to me I'm a sucker for that, you know But tell me I'm not alone in this So I'm begging you I'm pleading you Tell me I'm not insane for thinking about you Tell me you have these fantasies too
JANET KUYPERS Start All Over ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ June 25, 2000 I want to be rinsed of all of this, I tell you, and I want to be a newborn all over again and I want to have your blood dripping all over me and I want someone to come along and clean me off and smack me on the butt and I want to start all over again Is it your blood that I want? Do I want someone to guide me through the birth? Do I want to even start all over again?
JANET KUYPERS Gerbil ~~~~~~ May 30, 2000 So I've got this gerbil this hampster this rat and he's running around and he's trying to get everything done and he gets distracted and he has to do something else and runs somewhere else it's like that little fucker is in one of those circular wheel cages and he's running in circles and he's getting nowhere and this is my life, you see and this is my brain, you see and this is what I go through I don't know how to explain it that fucking gerbil that fucking hamster that rat is still going in circles and I can't stop it but maybe I should just take my hand like the judge holding the gavel and slam that damn thing down and stop this damn cage circle and stop this damn cycle before it goes on any longer
JANET KUYPERS MY DEAD DAUGHTER ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ June 13, 2000 I keep getting this image in my head of a little girl, and she has long straight dark hair and she is quiet and she comes to me and asks me questions and I am working, but I turn around to answer her and she sounds really intelligent and I treat her that way and I answer her like an adult and then I wonder if I'm not spending enough time with her so while I'm answering I turn off my computer and I turn around to her and I continue to look at her I make a point to make eye contact when I communicate with her and I get up so we can walk to the library as I finish answering her question and we get to the library and I ask her is there is anything else she wants to know because I want to be the one to tell her the truth and she says no she says she doesn't need anything and underlyingly she makes me feel as if she doesn't need me and I think, I gave birth to that girl, she has to need something from me and maybe she's a smart girl and maybe she's learned to do things on her own maybe she does all the things I have had to do in my life maybe she understands more than I ever did but these are my memories these are the memories of something that has never happened and will it ever? I always imagined a girl maybe that's the maternal side of me, being a mom and knowing women but I never knew who the father was and I never got her name, whenever I would have these memories maybe she never had one
GARTH WEHRFRITZ-HANSON The Wonder ~~~~~~~~~~ The ricocheting silence of a full moon summer night, transforming shadows into light. The pristine water of life flowing from the endless river-ocean, filling my being with such sacred notions. The words of humankind touching heart with sound, the mind with thought, the spirit/soul with love like fire that's caught.
GARTH WEHRFRITZ-HANSON Raising Lazarus ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Light penetrates, pulsates, circles and spins: until everything and everyone is filled and transformed with it's beauty. This light is similar, yet profoundly Holy: recognisable, yet enigmatic. Its properties and nature are the same as any other, yet brighter than a thousand heavenly bodies. O Light, full of renewed birth, gently awakening a dead corpse. Blowing your breath again into this human being Lazarus. Responding to the love-grief of your friends and family, you, O Light, provide us with a foretaste of our eternal inheritance and destiny.
GABRIELA MISTRAL The Vigilant Woman ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Since I am a queen and I was once a beggar I now live with the pure fear of you leaving me, an pale, I ask you at all hours, "Are you still with me? Oh, please don't abandon me!" I would like to move ahead smiling and trusting now that you've come, but even in sleep I'm afraid And ask between dreams, "Haven't you left?" Translated by Maria Giachetti (Maria Jacketti) Published with permission
GABRIELA MISTRAL Wall ~~~~ Simple and extraordinary wall, wall without weight and without color: a hint of air in the air. From a hillside, birds pass, light passes like a swing, the edge of winter passes like a breath of summer. A leafy wind and embodied shadows pass. But a sigh does not break bounds, arms do not meet, and no heart-to-hearty is made flesh. Translated by Maria Giachetti (Maria Jacketti) Published with permission
GABRIELA MISTRAL The Sea ~~~~~~~ Again the sea, the singing and eternally unrestrained sea, again its great light in my eyes and its gift of forgetfulness. The sea washes away the past just a communion washes away misery from the believer; the sea bestows the only perfect freedom. From it comes a true state of grace, innocence, and happiness. Man forgets his occupation and limitations; he lets the pain and the pleasure earth gives him fall like shameful things that discolor the sea and eist only on the earth's crust. Whatever part of him is circumstantial, whatever is the product of time and place--all breaks apart over the marvelous sea. We are only naked essence, man or woman, without another name or contingency. We are the body that loves iodine and salt--we were born for them. The eye delights over the horizon, and the ear receives rhythm. Nothing more. It is a redemption that returns to be lost again--like the other; in port, redemption of the vile cities and inane actions, the dirty fabric of life, that which can sometimes be cut mercifully with a slash, letting it fall like an old tunic torn at the shoulders. After a year on land, I now feel that life rots inside of me. It softens and grows lax like a fig fallen from a branch. Among human-fruits, I am a sea-fruit with a taste for bitter sap, destined to be devoured by the albatross' bills. Now the mountain seems to me a creature dehumanized by excellence; it has nothing in common with the flesh that rejects it. It holds onto its answers and secrets. Wild abandon exists under its skirts for the one who adores the world below. The sea stimulates words, and on good days it seems that its celebration was made for us... But the journey, the true journey is not this one, or the one that the traveller, a master of crows, undertakes (the ownership of his life is not returned). It is not the mariner's voyage, a cause of worry for both the seashore and the woman. It is not my journey. The journey is one without a predestined port or destiny, without a date. It is a trip through the sea and for the sea, with no objective greater than the naked horizon and the eternally budding waves. But this cannot be forced upon someone. It belongs to free souls, inhabitants of an uncharted planet. They have no greater objective in life than the experience of life itself: slowly coming to know and savor the elements with lungs and loving eyes. Translated by Maria Giachetti (Maria Jacketti) Published with permission
GABRIELA MISTRAL An Owl ~~~~~~ She is completely white with an ancient headdress and amber talons. The beak belongs to an old Lady Macbeth, heavy with grief. She is irritated by the day's leap to life, its hard-quartz brightness. Clarity is set free; the noise of the park has imitated Lady Macbeth's sanguinary eye. "All those who pass by"--she tells me--"cannot understand the old white owl, her garnet eyes. They stop in front of me, and move on to the cage of the frentic parrots from Borneo. If they remained with me for a time, despite my sadness. I would tell them something about the night they ignor like a foraign land. The night is like a harvest of seven consecutive carcasses, and I have arrived at its empty purple almond. Night's almond is eneffable. It has softened my downy feathers and tapered my ears. I hear...I hear the wool bundle of the alpaca's neck, growing; I hear the horn of the black bison, hardening. I hear the high and attentive vein in your neck. "Touch me. See if you can enjoy a thought cloistered in this silence. And when this night passes, see if you obtain a poem as soft as my oblique flight." And I do not touch her. Despite her breast of fantacy and coagulated silence, I know her and tell her: "You are the white Devil. You fly crookedly like the lightning I observed one night. My eye, also, turns red in vigilance." Translated by Maria Giachetti (Maria Jacketti) Published by permission
GABRIELA MISTRAL The Little New Moon ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It is in the sky--the new moon is looking at me-light as air. Twilight's enchantment still endures. In the hills, glorious afternoon tapestries linger, but amid this dazzling twilight, the new moon is a drop of sweetness; I set my eyes on it and smile. So, Francis, in the Father's sky, there are magnificent saints like Paul, rich with passion, and those like Augustine, rich as twilight gold, and others who form the great and violent West. But my eyes have rested and want to remain on you, a little new moon, thin as a golden hair, lost in the red sky. Translated by Maria Giachetti (Maria Jacketti) Published by permission All Gabriela Mistral poems selected from "A Gabriela Mistral Reader" Translated by Maria Giachetti and edited by Marjorie Agosin, published 1993 by White Pine Press, 10 Village Square, Fredonia, New York 14063

POST SCRIPTUM


   LI PO
   
   
   Drinking Alone With The Moon
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   
   From a pot of wine among the flowers
   I drank alone.  There was no one with me --
   Till, raising my cup, I asked the bright moon
   To bring me my shadow and make us three.
   Alas, the moon was unable to drink
   And my shadow tagged me vacantly;
   But still for a while I had these friends
   To cheer me through the end of wpring......
   I sang.  The moon encouraged me.
   I danced.  My shadow tumbled after.
   As long as knew, we were boon companions.
   And then I was drunk, and we lost one another.
   ......Shall goodwill ever be secure?
   I watch the long road of the River of Stars.
   
   
   
   Anonymous translation from Three Hundred Poems of the Tang Dynasty
   Published in Hong Kong by the Loon Yik Book Shop.
   
   

CENTIPEDE

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 
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       We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
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       Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede

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YGDRASIL PUBLICATIONS LIST

  . 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.

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) 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


  COMMENTS

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    We'd love to hear from you!
  
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