YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

July 2001

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

ISSN 1480-6401



         Barking Fate
   	 Dead London Town
   	 Our Moments
   	 Real Writer
   	 Shut Your Mouth
   	 What poem?
         Licenses of 90+
         Soliloquy to Bitter Sky
         The Real Stradivarius
         The Echo of the End
         Red Noses

         My Friend
         Six Million
         My Poems
         Global Economy

         His Car
         love happens
         Hello again
         DeathWish Ten

      LISA ARAN 
         Anger Managment 101
         Sometimes Love Is As Perishable As Fruit
         Windfall, unresolved
         Inside Those Eyes
         The Oddities of Parts
         Those Things Deep Within
         The Blame For Us

	 Night Journey


   The act of creation was indeed a matter
   Of substance and no mean consequence.
   Let there be light and there was.
   The first phases earned scarcely a mention,
   Seven phrases. Adam, God's masterpiece
   Was ushered in with a word.
   Man's striving ever since has spoken volumes.
   As man peered into darkness,
   Into his own darkness he was petrified.
   He has struggled ever since like the devil.
   God showed rare kindness when
   He bestowed on his kin, a precious flint-stone.
   We did not need to steal heaven's fires
   Yet I can appreciate the panic of Prometheus.
   Better to take fire in a bid for independence.
   Beware the messenger bearing gifts
   He demands our subservience.
   Jehovah proved not, an unforgiving God.
   He was only very severe.
   Very humanly, he was jealous of his creation.
   He granted us such a short life span;
   Barely time to gain some perfection.
   Zeus among others, must have been a ripe cynic
   To punish his kindred spirits so.
   When Jehovah smote Job, left him writhing,
   We learned that though committed to ceaseless trial,
   We are not condemned to an eternal punishment.
   No one can be bound to a rock forever.
   We might suffer the sickness unto death
   But we were after all, given the gift of light.

   Barking Fate
   Invisible friend
   Strangled wrestling
   Intelligent shadows
   Potting marbles
   Visible friend
   Sports and shorts
   Cancelled throat
   Lead happenings
   Crispy heart
   No throat
   Punctured birthday
   Dynamite news
   Nuclear truth
   Really lose
   Costly moves
   Married blues
   Pensive looks
   Nervy nights
   Autumn jeers
   Sunk holiday
   Pensioner shoes

BOGDAN TIGANOV Dead London Town ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I intend not to repress You, you made me repress Through drawn out boredom. In dead London town I repressed the savage. I bare my teeth at night Like the tyrant hero Vlad Dracula Restless to dig my claws Into your sorry flesh. Now forgive my London cage Spit from a fly's empire. How I hate idiotic habits, Rituals defying small individualism Repressing real ecstasy. 'I don't care' works once, block, London's air locks, its rain pulls faces.
BOGDAN TIGANOV Our Moments ~~~~~~~~~~~ Our moments of unspoken intimacy Were important to us But do you ever ask me 'Bout the foreigner's feelings? Mistakes, apologies that I've made. I now know why you doubt yourself. Do we deserve a heaven and hell For our advanced thoughts? I am not about to pretend (false civilisation) And ask your mother's questions. A kiss on the cheek, new year's kiss, A steadying touch, kind words, Some of our better friends Hug then pull the rug But how do you cope? You feel awful and that tortures us.
BOGDAN TIGANOV Real Writer ~~~~~~~~~~~ Real writer loses. Loses money, loses heart, What a loose light Writing by candlelight. The real writer bleeds. Bleeds work, solitary bleeding. You say you're that type, The type losing blood. Dear, darling writer, His visits end in argument. Words, unfinished symphonies, Realist vision dragging, pushing Him the real writer at a loss Freed from honorary sitting. Lucky peasant, he's a pleasant drag.
BOGDAN TIGANOV Shut Your Mouth ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He shuts his mouth With a soundless shiver As if to apologise for life. He will stay closed Locked in guilty neurosis. He is wholly capable Of snuffing a pillow. In preference, though, His life is a languid apology For that closed mouth of his, Shut by a frightened light. Yes, his friends are confident And he loves their success. Days of hunger crumpled, Light matter of spring migration. 'Twas his annoyed thoughts That kept you from knowing The heart behind his dreams Serrated by life's cruel regrets.
BOGDAN TIGANOV What poem? ~~~~~~~~~ Send you a heavenly poem To lift your mind from this world, What world? I fell out with God When she refused to see our lives, And what lives? Join me in my search for purpose For your sins are normalised. When you see God leave! Your woes never ceased to answer My unmasked question of poetry. Poetry is cowardly and useless!
JANET I. BUCK Licenses of 90+ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Summer's dirt is a dry birthday cake. With licenses of 90+, you drag the hose along the curb. Dressed in aged translucent skin, wispy as that pastry phyllo wrapped around those crushed pecans. Skimpy, checkered boxer shorts, their billows pregnant with the air, make you laugh that itchy chortle, raise the eyebrows rolling by. I wonder from my filthy car sitting at a nearby light (its red just teasing me to run), if I should quit my 9-5 and help you water daffodils. Their lanky stalks, a perfect mirror of your legs, mostly husk, their yellow trumpets almost straw minding nature's savagery, its winding toward oblivion. From the house, its shingles thick as fingernails that grow for years then suddenly return to flesh, your wife is waving flabby arms, reminding you to cut the grass. Its patches brown and weathered now -- puzzle pieces dogs have chewed on tables of a waiting tomb. The mower sits, a Pharaoh full of rust and grit, a book of action dwelling on the chapters torn -- what blisses it has bagged and cast in duty's putrid jewelry box. "One last piss on pending grave" is all you cough in firm retort. Water dribbles from your spout like sprayed saliva on a word.
JANET I. BUCK Soliloquy to Bitter Sky ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "I have been breaking silence these twenty-three years and have hardly made a rent in it." Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) I drop on tea cup knee at the lip of your grave, its stone and sand, its vacancy, amid sharp emerald blades of grass. My heart these days, a lost screw looking for its proper hole. What bend should rivers fist and take? Mother whom I've never known -- speak like suns through mucus under puffy lids. The fingers of my tears are sore from running up and down the keys. You are gone, but Father is alive and here, pacing tunnels of his grief, hugging like he's swatting flies, loving from behind thick doors with dead bolts set above the knobs my sweating palms have tried to turn. A part of me is longing to retort to rock, gather chisels, hone a love without a dead museum chill. Soliloquies are lonely forms; paper burns to whiskey's torch. A listen wreath is all I ask. Each time I pour, each time I serve another meal, I water flowers shrinking in their chosen paths. My tarnished temples, lathered in their silver streaks, curl themselves around his ear, beg for conches of the sea to leave a pearl beside the shrugs. Our instruments have drying reeds. Moments seem like ash to tap, sequins falling from a dress. In dreams, I wrote a different score. Soon these seeds will ride the wind. Task of music sits before this orchestra. Hours grow late around this waste.
JANET I. BUCK The Real Stradivarius ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Another brunch of surly nerves. Liquor sets the basic rules. It's 10 a.m. A bottle's cork assumes its throne of porous wood. All my wishful clamoring, a kitten at a Brillo screen. I cook to please and rinse the plates, tossing scraps of batter burned, disappointment's petrie dish. My stomach growls, but not for food. Our fences higher than our kites. Paper you will never read is coveting a crushed pecan. Combine the ether with the chill and all my love just hits the road. It's packing time inside the dream and I hear music in the wind. I listen for the gravel spit, rinse your teeth marks from my neck, study bruises years have gathered sadly like bouquets of flowers. My tires full of angry air I wish were just a summer breeze that didn't cannon heritage. Emotion's awkward overture, a sand dune blowing in your eyes. Perhaps we are an instrument I haven't tuned and didn't play, but I am tired and soaked in tears that never found receptacles. My heart must pound, direct its pulse, in pastures where amour refracts, where green is more than shades of jealous, chilly jade of dollar bills, musty in their lethargies. The real Stradivarius is miles away in cherry pies with parents who have sorted pits, shred their rinds and reveled in the moisture of a rocky sea. Where cherishing is noisy doorbells ringing in the darkest night with slippers there to answer cries from deep inside the wilderness.
JANET I. BUCK The Echo of the End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "These be Three silent things: The Falling snow ... the hour Before the dawn ... the mouth of one Just dead." Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1914) Women chat their mockeries. Discuss their dull advantages, applying them like salt on wound. Whispering gossip as if. As if it will ply accordions of wrinkled cheeks, brittle in their aching scores -- play a song, a better one. Their ears perking at the sound of slaughter. Light as jockeys on a horse, house keys jingle in a purse. Out of sugared thunderheads, comes lightening strike: "Lucille, you know, is dying. It's only a matter of time." They crunch on crumbs with quiet teeth. Echoes of the end are near. Gasps inside this utterance -- short stray threads on blankets of their bosoms reeling from the facts. Their passive grief, a bank acount. Silence kicks remaining shins. Sadness smears their fingerprints. Too soon a check will bounce and spit on hands that scribbled signatures. A grave comes up like indigestion's evidence spewed across a slippery floor. Mouths slam shut on scissored hour. I watch the bruises spread across their knees, as if they're blood bags of a prayer. Pneumonia in their lungs like rain.
JANET I. BUCK Red Noses ~~~~~~~~~ A row of red noses glitters in this dark. Affected laughter like a plague. Emotion's awkward overtures fall in puddles of deaf ears. With one weak hand, I pour your exit happily, a stream to rivers memorized. The other scrubs the countertop as if it bears the stain of semen after rapes. This fist of anger is my hurt. Longing is a valve to close. Rapping on the doors so locked they could be prisons in disguise. You hug me like you're swatting flies. Clocks cough out the moment shrunk and rolled in dung; idle chatter, porous corks sit reigning on their gilded thrones. Depths untouched, a palette full of drying paint. I tell myself, again, again, in sloughing chants of wishing sky, as if I want the lie to end. My family loves their alcohol, but if we held a real race between my need and bottles of this borrowed bliss, I would win and clavicles of shoulder blades would rock my tears as if they were a matter clique. That they aren't hooked and they aren't fried and I'm not boned like day-old fish.
MOSHE BENARROCH My Friend ~~~~~~~~~ I never wanted to be your enemy I don't know how it happened each time I reached out my hand you thought I was going to beat you all I wanted was to say hello I still don't want to be your enemy but each time you smile I ask myself what are your intentions if your smile is just trying to make me give something you I don't have We don't talk anymore our words are masks behind untrusting faces words that should be comunication have become weapons against the light.
MOSHE BENARROCH Six Million ~~~~~~~~~~~ When we say 6 million what do we mean? We mean that six millions jews according to the Nazi's definition were killed, anyone who had a a jewish great grandfather could either be killed for being a jew or be a Nazi if nobody knew Do we accept the definition of the Nazis for people that didn't want to be jew And were they alive would be annoyed if they were called jews. So, now, even dead, their race and entity was defined by their killers. What does all this mean? It means that science invented the idea that Races exist This was real Science in the nineteenth century What next? Genetic extermination? Genetic races? Hears about it already the Jews have a specific Gene. Which means? People from a religion that accepts everyone and has mixed with every nation on earth was killed for being a scientific race. Which also means? That the Germans exterminated not only jews but also their own people and race accusing them of being jews. It means that scientific truth can lead to hell.
MOSHE BENARROCH My Poems ~~~~~~~~ My poems don't open doors they close them Each door opened by the human race has brought more atrocities There are very long Saturdays and wars that end in less than a week I am tired of peace agreements I just want to see less people dead That's why I have closed the doors to all the cemeteries with my poems.
MOSHE BENARROCH Israel ~~~~~~ This is the land of 2000 years dreams that so many leave disgusted while others die to get in most feel uneasy and disappointed and uneven and they can't point to the real reasons so many expectations so many eyes so many discussions into the night as if a country is a living entity that should become some kind of messiah as if being a Jew among Jews weren't enough or is something no Jew can cope with or know what to do about Arabs around becoming more and more Nazis targeting the life of my grandmother and my children as if every Jew held some kind of key to the mystery of this land of these people that never live by the rules. I took a walk on the quiet side said God after his five o'clock tea and there you are now with a book to decipher forever.
MOSHE BENARROCH Global Economy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I will work for peanuts if you fire me or I will set fire to your house I see now that you have made of me a commodity my work my life my wife my children will be slave to you and I will work for peanuts like the monkey in your circus did and my daughter if she's beautiful she will whore for you if she's not your houses she will clean I will work for peanuts if this is what you ask you call this progress, realistic economy, the global village, but it's just as always the rich against the poor you win I loose just give me some peanuts.
RICHARD SOREF His Car ~~~~~~~ is a freedom machine, a killing machine, a bedroom on wheels, the holder of cups, the room for a rage, a luminous sensuous sculpture, an object of lust, a wistful face with almond eyes, an angry guided projectile, a guzzler, a trasher, an American.
RICHARD SOREF love happens ~~~~~~~~~~~~ love was dormant, untouched, unbidden at first, then ignited, revealed, examined by two-- two loves then flourished as outlaw dreams of consummation hovered near. so love turned forbidden, strong and tensely wrong. love, now injured, slips into achy dark eclipse.
RICHARD SOREF Quattro ~~~~~~~ The number of letters in "four" expresses the meaning of the word. This is a puzzle, a knot within the language. Four-letter words hold mystery and power in their core. Rowdy ones like "s**t" and "f**k" cry out for editorial evisceration, although "scum" and "slut" slide by untouched, trailing marginal offense. Gentle tones and harsher themes-- all are figured into fours. A soft breeze tickles "harp" and "mist" upon the landscape "view" of "pond", while pundits ponder "good" and "love", "evil" and "hate", the inescapable quartet. The deepest lake is finally "self", a body slippery, changeable in aspect, tangible yet elusive. Who can fully fathom "self" or "four" itself?
RICHARD SOREF Hello again ~~~~~~~~~~~ dear diary, small spirit soaked in ink, patient elf dwelling in these pages; you may think me strange for monologueing in your home. But I perform a sacred task. I put truth in a time capsule by inscribing unvarnished events replete with emotion. Diary, I sense your skepticism. You're thinking that truth is harder to capture than a squirrel, history is bogus, emotions are tricky butterflies. What then are these notes? Are they simply emphemeral songs of a day's sunlight, storms, and shadows? That may be all I know.
RICHARD SOREF DeathWish Ten ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tonight I am weary, life-weary, wanting release or oblivion perhaps. Am I so jaded that tomorrow holds no spark or spice, no reward for wakefulness? O sleep, O peace, come to me now. Now, with arms spread, I fall backwards softly down into deep darkness like a diver descending. In this black state, will my willful mind stop my heart? No, no such easy exit exists. Instead, the darkness fades to a dreamscape, a play-within-the-play that lurches towards its denouement until the unbidden sounds of another dawn intrude.
LISA ZARAN (Untitled) ~~~~~~~~~~ When I die I want to come back as a duck because ducks can fly faster than cheetahs can run, my teacher said. Okay son, I nod and let you believe. I let you believe in the flight of your heart. After my father died, I had his body cremated. All that remained was a package of sand (not dust) the size of a child's shoe box. I paid cash for him and buried him in the back of a coat closet. All my friends at school have grandpa's that can talk, my son moans, closing the door. And when you die, he tells a neighbor, full of childhood wisdom. You turn into a box! Oh God. Come, let me hold you while I still can. While your heart still sits in a cage. Already you've spent some time with flight and your youth has gotten stained.
LISA ZARAN Anger Managment 101 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I came hoping to find reason in the swell of voices. I found instead, voices in the swell of reason, unjustified and coarse, angry just the same. I am learning to manage my own anger by taking this class. There are ten of us, altogether. We are all here, pretending to care. Sitting in metal fold-up chairs, two rows, facing our speaker. Each head is a knuckle on a double barreled fist. The profile of the man sitting next to me is pretentious and brings to mind a sort of imported redemption. He belongs here, whereas, I do not. The speaker, a former angry person himself, reminds us, love is a verb not a feeling. I already know this. I just happen to love roughly, in spite of the pain. Two hours remain until the end of the class, six days until the next. Twiddle thumbs, smile with a hint of remorse, dig fingernails into palms, stick with it. Convince self, you do not belong in this room with these people, these types of people. Tell self, next time you fall, make sure and hit the ground.
LISA ZARAN Sometimes Love Is As Perishable As Fruit ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ slipping down a sour throat. nothing more. pity marks the day i met you, hanging by the cord of your own tongue. okay, here is the issue: i only wanted to startle you with a kiss buried deep in your plump, peach skin, not tow the line of an orchard. i only wanted to taste the blend of your sweet, round juices, not bottle you up or pit you against me. i am sorry if i've left you bruised and clinging by a stem. love is not precise, but random. you picked me out of a dozen palms and mine, though willing was not in season.
LISA ZARAN Windfall, unresolved ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ and then there are times.... when the casualties of love fall all around our naked feet, trembling. after the arguement, as you lay sleeping, i burned a hole in the mattress to symbolize the gap growing between us. last night as you lay dreaming i picked the lock that keeps the dogs at bay. i watched as they tore into your heart. this, all imagination. last night as you lay, under a blanket of stars, i looked for you. last night as you lay, under the assumption that i too found sleep, i could not find you.
WARD KELLEY Inside Those Eyes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When future ages look back at this one, who is peering out at them from here? I'm afraid it's the poets. For everyone else is busy looking at the present, and it's only the foolish poets who are most concerned about seeing their own souls hundreds of years from now. This premise is easy to prove: simply look back into the 19th century and immediately you will be confronted by the eyes of that era's poets . . . gripping, pounding eyes, all peering back at you, as though you yourself could give them the answers they seek, the same odd answers they already know, inside those eyes.
WARD KELLEY The Oddities of Parts ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There is a part of me who wants to sleep forever, balanced, one hopes, by a part of me who wants eternal life. There is a part of me who will love you forever, a part of me who wants to flee into the arms of several new women. There are parts who will not ever be reconciled to parts who never complain. How can so much tragedy occur to those of us who simply try to exist in the breathing? Or how can life be so exhilarating? There is a part of me who wants to sleep forever, punctuated by a part of me who wakes up to give it all another chance to bring reason or comprehension to my splits.
WARD KELLEY Those Things Deep Within ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Deep inside the heart of the soul is a thing infallible, yet it seldom speaks, for it knows we rarely obey and never listen to its reason. Deep inside this thing, inside its own heart, is a thing immortal, something who knows it will never die. It whispers to the heart of your soul, but this knowledge never succinctly makes it all the way to the body's brain, even though it's the very one thought to which we would surely listen and believe.
WARD KELLEY The Blame For Us ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Who is there to blame for our loneliness? God might head the list, but gods have always been blamed for every affliction known to the human, and frankly they're much too easy of a target. If gods have reasons for our loneliness, they will never be fathomed by us. The better candidate for blame would be our poor communication apparatus, for no matter how hard we try, we never succinctly convey our desires to another, hampered as we are, by our contrary and ever- lasting refusal to honestly say what it is we really want; if we ever do, no one believes us, of course, since we all know humans never truly confess to anything
WARD KELLEY Longing ~~~~~~~ It is the longing for the indefinable that forms into an invisible craft, something like a sailboat or the lift of a woman's eyebrow, that will at last transport us into different chapters of our lives, all layered, none with clear beginnings or ends, to where we think we will find a fulfillment to this odd longing, yet we are only satiated for a day or two, a moment in the book, before off we sail again, or here she beckons again, and we might even despair of ever making sense of these desires, or ever achieving a just completion, until we near the end of our lives where, from this vantage, we can look backwards to encompass the whole of the story we were writing and writing with this quill of longing, and here we see a comprehension.


   Night Journey
   Even a sliver of a moon cuts the four corners
   Of our souls. Women and youths show it most.
   It scatters bright stars like shards even while
   A tumult of cloud clothes our world of light.
   The night remains the playground of the soul
   Though we learn to slide over cultural rainbows.
   Let twilight fall on my earliest consciousness
   As mists and dust compound light and darkness.
   Too soon we lose contact with the rootstock
   Of everything. I grasp at rays with tough cords
   Of illusion, dreams, warmth and creature comforts.
   These entrap me when I should be wiser.
   Despite lethe, let me embark on my night journey
   Over and over like the boatman rowing forth and fro
   Across the fabled Styx of the nether world or
   On the surface of the deep until there was light.
   Life is a night time journey even when greenness
   Breathes perpetually, pulsing more profoundly
   Than the course of blood through wild creatures.
   I must see more, know better, confront,
   Do battle, fight fatigue and temptation and accept
   The specter and his scimitar not in excitement
   But with awe. Let Dawn's promise persuade us
   To keep rapport with each other a while longer.


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 - 2001 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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