YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

December 2000

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

ISSN 1480-6401



      Klaus J. Gerken
         Midnight Fantasy


      Penelope Talbert
         a moment with nature
         dancing with strangers
      Stephen R.
         Helsinki 1
         A bus
      Royce Sykes
         RUBY FALLS
      Christopher Mulrooney
         the great days of revolution and whatever
         towards a theory of subducted equipoise
         faux gazebo
         the conversation speaks
      Elizabeth Krueger
         Funny Mirrors
      Mike Kemp
         She was
         urban romeo
         Days of wine and sorrow
         moon, pain and pool of blood
      Gabriel Serrano
         Magic and Loss
         The Bullet Man   
         Writer's Block   
      Annie Lehberg
         When A Woman Loves
         The Voice Of My Spirit
         A deep-rooted yearning

      Klaus J. Gerken
         3 "Penny Pounds"


   Midnight Fantasy
   And the princess all lost in a curtain of light
   in the dark land of Urizon's plight
   dances --
   followed by the wizard and his fair-haired lancers
   alone from a land of oblivious chances
   where life is a cycle
   repeated for the pleasure of gods
   as she dances --
   And in her steps follow the Amazons
   one by one beyond the fullness of reason
   without comprehending the time and place
   for their treason
   And she dances inside the warm midnight
   like Shakespearian snake-charmers or a delay
   And from behind the moon
   the eyes of Oberon hold all at bay
   to gather his potions for Titania's eyes
   for so long gone is the spaceful earth
   on which she lies
   And the slumber of the feast
   crowds upon her in a realness and a vision
   alone at rest
   beyond the earthly decision
   of who to love and where to go
   or hide the pain (do not show...)
   But from here by her innermost dreams
   fairness--loneliness is all that is her being
   And so it shall be as so it seems.
   Jan/Feb 1969

   Penelope Talbert
   a moment with nature
   beware yesterday
   where things reverse stretch
   laid out on a laboring rock
   pushing its grandness
   through clear storybook waters
   my reflection resembles no one i recognize
   frailer than the mirror liar
   my outing rustles through the leaves
   tossed about among rumors of coming drought
   nature and i
   having a moment of commune
   breathing each other

Penelope Talbert creation ~~~~~~~~ we've been swallowed by nothing amniotic emptiness with the realization that we are so insignificant black space blank space cosmic silence - we are alone floating through white dwarf afterglow the echo of our measured breathing is the creation of sound the probing reach of touching fingertips the creation of life shattering our loneliness - we are alone
Penelope Talbert dancing with strangers ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ i've been mapping out the last few days scaling down the moments and minutes into a breathtakingingly concise legend the mossy green of a saturated spring rides the wind into a fractured window and polka in funneling unbalanced spirals i've never been in a whorehouse or even close but i have the most magical image of red velvet and strangers groping strangers after that i don't think about it because the beauty is the dance far more exquisite than the music
Stephen R. Helsinki 1 ~~~~~~~~~~ fins babyblue Cadillac convertible Currency for it to roll by top down hair dyed up Fabianinkatu outside the Exchange. The Exchange of glances with the woman twentyfiveish in the backseat in this American Cadillac in Helsingfors in Helsinki in Finland in Suomi. Markka keep me here fed with babyblue out of time, out of place.
Stephen R. Hakaniemi ~~~~~~~~~ June, and I put on my overcoat. Past this is language. The dog does not understand, "Sit." Pale yellow, cobblestones. Agglutenate. No matter -- I can ask for a cheeseburger and directions to the telephone. What cold 180 days from now. But now, this walk, this street, this light.
Stephen R. Limp ~~~~ escalalator teeth and sidewalk blocks. Tree roots. Twist. Twist. Shout. Look. Look. Look. Luck. Curbs. Cement. Stand no look. Stand. Hold the rail. Rail. Look down. Risers. Rise. Gait.
Stephen R. A bus decades ago, a serious 20-mile trip, suit and wingtips, dust and heat. All of us known to one another. Neighbors. The road around the lake. Pull off -- my mind howls. Four cups turned upside down in a square, 2x2 in my head. That's all. Run down the aisle and off the bus. The wingtips sink in the lake. My wife speaks to me from our backyard across the water. One mile, and she speaks next to me. Love beyond all I know. Call our son outside. My wife tells me she is pregnant with twins. We are going to a funeral. When I get home I will sleep a week.
Royce Sykes TRANSMIGRATION ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ steel stallions and mechanized mares race home before the storm along dusty asphalt trails, thunder stench of exhaust and ozone in their wake while within fragile souls freedom dream to shrilling stereos; rain begins, cowed resignation settles in on urban herd as it jams; at the hour, up comes a cud of news to ponderously chew while wipers cadence numbing rhythms; a gradual clamber over ramp, slow steer home, while carefully corralling thoughts away from those mavericks madly weaving in and out, charging undaunted into the night and vistas of something other; the sound of their swift passage over wet pavement, a wind whisper nay to this transmigration whether real or tenacious illusion
Royce Sykes VERSE AS FIBER ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I listen to a friend, who more than incidentally, writes some pretty terrific poetry, telling me how the verse flows as if by magic and she never needs revise it; on my plate glitters what was hidden in daily bread, crunchy bits I grind through night and day until somehow they seem to come out in a sort of pain less like birth than a battle with intermittent constipation only won by sitting until numb though within burns and bleeds as those razor edged pieces fall together into some sort of window on the world that looks like nothing more than a mirror from which the backing has been scratched away in places; some it seems, write from dreams, others for sheer relief.
Royce Sykes SUNDAY OUTSIDE THE DAILY PLANET ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thought I'd buy a newspaper when an old man on the bench outside the store asked me if I could spare a buck, gave him what I had, a five, and figured before I headed home, maybe would sit there a moment myself; he just looked at me as if I were some kind of loser, grunted and sniffed and finally got up with a show of great reluctance and shuffled off towards a family taking in the neighborhood sights; even though he could not bring himself to share a recap of the day, he did not offer change.
Royce Sykes RUBY FALLS ~~~~~~~~~~ Sometimes this solitary camp on Ruby Lake goes flat, grows stale. It's then I leave foamy wakes along the banks of Golden River; shoot through pools and drift past the bar hearing without listening to wildlife calls and intimate babblings --though have been known to stop and trade trinket memories soon forgotten. Yet always seem to find myself back at that place I'd like to lose: Ruby Lake of unspeakable beauty and undertows of memory I fight but don't escape, even in the red, red wine as I see her stroll through flotsam washed up on a ragged shore of dreams. The trail I followed here is now overgrown and gone; I'll not find it again. I know that soon must make my way, a new one, away before some current takes me to that branch ending in Whiskey Falls.
Christopher Mulrooney the great days of revolution and whatever ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ah what fiery trains in your head only thatís what you have your staff for ideas they come and only have a go on your say-so hee ho hah-ho I say the turtle green swards have holes in the middle in the middle I say remove the flag I putt over the trees the gasbag and on it my signs over the clouds the moon the abyss everything oh abolition of whatever pleases you everything I see here as goes clashing everything I see here pleases me it goes in the papers the TV everything else I see here goes on everything else the radio computers bus benches we know where they stand because they're standing there where they are and we're standing here you and me if you were standing over there that's where you'd be if I'd be standing there I would have things differently you know I'd made a few things work out smoother or so I'd have a few things smoothly run whatever I'm made of that's I'm glad to see not whatly or whyly but howly
Christopher Mulrooney towards a theory of subducted equipoise ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The World Turned Upside Down and then The Great Tortoise bites its own tail with rumbling and fireworks hence Himalayas and continents isolating men ca. 1970
Christopher Mulrooney faux gazebo ~~~~~~~~~~~ the grapehead laughs ha ha ha! I smell cat upon him the maker of bulls rejoins UCLA girls also here are the bolges and the masters winkbye S.H. the chopper and the slab the bucket-shop economy Ďhas he traded in aught foraine?í counter-spec "the mercantile Gehenna" tinhorned ponder are the darkling-famed Kilroy not so blankety-blank 1985 buildings still going up in 2000 from designs by Venturi etc. decades of critical theory back to nickel Angelo
Christopher Mulrooney the conversation speaks ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the conversation speaks conversation speaks do that thyself whither shall away do myself the tapioca doors and walls rubied falsely it is an accompaniment a veritablement of the dream of all its critics impermeably for the sinking roof the spectacle of it rankling the gross outrageous fortune and mesdames les faires and mesdames les chŤres quoiqu'il y a carillon of upturned water glasses in the hand of the waiter the banshees next door and spectacular the fright the fear the stoicism what would you ah I see don't you know slabs of paint the good works Italian workmanship at the Biltmore done up topped-off plain as the day it was made in 1923
Elizabeth Krueger Funny Mirrors ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Journey filled alliances with unmasked continuity flutter by like translucent butterflies blindly ensuing makers of the repulsive dollar and coin. The importance of the insects' unimportance drives us through rush hour pondering the suited man picking his nose or the obese teenager belting her memorization at the windshield wipers. Alliances are decorated with colors as a trip to buy 1% milk is entertained by a 5 year old boy lurking amongst the dairy section, and his Mexican mother bellowing in spanish "No, you cannot have the yogurt!" Tomorrow, the bathroom mirror with specks of hard water and crest should revert to a funny house mirror distorted like the carnivals they live in, so we might find ourselves to be translucent butterflies with noted alliance to the bright color of the Mexican woman. Would rush hour be different if dollars and coins could buy only funny house mirrors? Then, would dollar and coin and the obese teenager seem less repulsive? Be colorful. Buy a funny mirror. Drag Her fingers were throbbing on the burning cigarette. I stepped outside and watched. I've never seen anyone blink so slow. As her eyes closed she took the drag, and it seemed as if the world was so releasing in there, As if someone were kissing her neck when really it was just the calming sun toasting her hairline. Then reality unrightfully burst into smoke as she breathed out all of the other world into this rusted steel cage surrounding her ungenuine happiness. Her head turned cautiously toward me, and I sighed and melted back into her heart. Sometimes it is so devastating to take that last drag. and people think it's the nicotine Unconscious Dancers I watched you sleep the other day. It was late afternoon. The sun was still creeping through half-opened blinds leaving you with only striped warmth. I wondered if you unconsciously noticed the dust particles mischievously dancing around your nose and prickly chin. Oh what fun they must've been having as your nose breathed them in and shot them back out to dance again in the sun's fading rays. You turned then, using your left hand to swish at your nose moving the dancers to your sun striped back joyfully rolling to your heavy, slow breaths. I watched the dancers that afternoon frantically playing around your beautiful sleep. You were the stage for an exquisite performance.
Mike Kemp She was ~~~~~~~ I can remember her now She claimed her name Was Rosie A weird Smacked out Burnt up Streetwalker Who lurked like a Constant shadow And a too sad reminder Of the worlds sickness The fag perpetually Hanging from her lips Her semen stained Charity shop dress Hugging her frail Bones and Old flesh close As she ranted and yelled At the passing suburbanite Cars too afraid Or too cheap to stop for her Her beating on the Door of one of my neighbours Bashing and blasting The door from its frame Desperate Afraid It turns out She hadnít paid her Dues and the local dealers Came for her with their Guns and their Knives and their Snarls of rage She woke me up With her banging and yelling I cursed her And never saw her On her familiar street corner Again
Mike Kemp urban romeo ~~~~~~~~~~~ looking back at the streets I once knew the slivering concrete arms of a past dead lover I miss it in my own mad way I miss the constant threat of death or rape or worse the living death the wild dogs too tired and hot to bark or fight or move even when the fleas bit deep the stars were brighter the whores all knew me by name and the world left me alone to my drink and my silence and my desperation Iíll never forget it as the place I put the pen down only tired and too exhausted to fight I picked it up trying to find my voice again trying to get back to the arms of the dead lover
Mike Kemp Days of wine and sorrow ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Looking back through the years at what I was then and what I am now I am still amazed Iím around at all what with the complete emptiness of it the loneliness despair and no nothing knowledge I had in abundance now all I have is my wine my memories and my sorrow but sometimes like now it's enough
Mike Kemp moon, pain and pool of blood ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the streets are paved with pain and grey drizzle and the neon flickers and glares the moon gazes down silent hulk and cars drip through the lights the drink and the women never really help that much as the cats mewl and fight and the young men beat the old men and the concrete embraces the pools of blood and I watch like I always watch and try to tell the truth but the moon keeps on staring and the streets stay paved with grey blood and pain so I drink and look for help that never comes and never will
Gabriel Serrano Magic and Loss ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I have held the sun in my hands, My hands were burned from the heat, I have seen the moon in my eyes, My eyes were lit bright from the cool, I have walked the hard roads with my feet, My feet were sore from the ground, I have talked the soft lies with my mouth, My mouth were mute from the sound, I have cried the painful loss with my tears, My tears were soaked from the suspense, I have laughed the wonderful magic with my smiles, My smiles were wrinkled from the experience.
Gabriel Serrano The Bullet Man ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Have you seen the bullet man? The one who breaks your eyes into tears? The one who makes your brave soldiers into cowardly traitors? The one who takes your strong arm with weak fingers? Have you not seen the bullet man? Have you heard the bullet man? The one who shoots your guns to lovers? The one who stabs your knives to friends? The one who hits your bats to family? Have you not heard the bullet man? Have you touched the bullet man? The one who tries your patience into oblivion? The one who lies your trust into severance? The one who flies your beliefs into frauds? Have you not touched the bullet man? Have you felt the bullet man? The one who denies your soul into dust? The one who destroys your mind into combust? The one who employs your body into lust? Have you not felt the bullet man? Because he looks so much like you and me.
Gabriel Serrano Writer's Block ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Can you think? Can you feel? Can you smell? Can you touch? Can you believe? Is this all there is to death? Will you think? Will you feel? Will you smell? Will you touch? Will you believe? Is this all there is to life? Love. Hate. Peace. Violence.
Annie Lehberg When A Woman Loves ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Look into the eyes of a man in love and you will find the soul of the woman that loves him Place your hand in the palm of his and you will fell the pulse of her open heart Lay your head upon his chest and in hearing the beating of his heart discover the seductiveness of her passion's sighs 11-25-00
Annie Lehberg The Voice Of My Spirit ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ To the farthest depths of my lonely heart I feel your soft touch in the caress of autumn's gentle breeze closing my eyes, I am taken to flight, where alight upon a cloud, I am set adrift to the wind's embrace floating about in the swirls of nature's breath, I am suddenly undiminished, as my spirit speaks to my heart in the language of self love, and I know I am no longer alone 9-23-00
Annie Lehberg A deep-rooted yearning ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Inside of me, I embrace the fulfillment of the knowledge that I have penetrated your heart A heart so warm and kind, yet frightened by the sound of its own desire beating like a drum Shamelessly you have discarded the love offered to you by the hearts of other's also frightened, but willing to answer the call of a deep-rooted yearning As I have treasured this satisfaction within me, I still harbor a longing for the contentment of knowing the spiritual wonder of making love to you As I imagine you having the awareness of how to kiss me, where to touch me, drawing out a sigh, I become someone I didn't = know existed The two of us gripping each other in an exquisite moment of ecstasy, much like an out of body experience, exhausted, all I can do, is ~~sigh~~ 4-5-00


   Klaus J. Gerken
   3 "Penny Pounds"***
   (from Voiciferations 1970)
   A Lumiäre
   Deep immersed, to dedicate
   a certain group of images
   believe to be but words
   enclamoured to produce
   upon a certain size of page
   the total sins of humankind,
   finding that it's quite impossible
   to dedicate
   to each and every man, woman,
   of the entire world
   by name, such a work,
   sends out regards to
   only one;
   sd/ "for being borne
   to light again..."

For _____________. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yr/ songs Cantos Diplomatis brought from foreign soil have actually superceded (through translation) present standards of Politics. That is: they have words: a few. They have order: not much. And as to a meaning: they have none.
Appointment ~~~~~~~~~~~ The girl at the bus-stop naturally awaits the arrival of a bus. In this case she has waited for more than thirty six minutes (I counted them.) She will not leave the biting cold for warmer places. It must be a very important appointment she wants to keep. *** Dubbed so my Clayton Eshleman 1970


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
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  . 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

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  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 
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  Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS


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