Ygdrasil: A Journal of the Poetic Arts -- February 2002

YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

February 2002

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


	     Buddha at San Francisco General

         This Ochre Resurrection
         Kali's Boxcars
         (#28)real life
         (#30)Wed July 27
         (#32)He was the man she was with when
         (#33)Tangible thing
         (#34)Amrit Vela (means early morning nectar)  
         (#35)But the world
         (#36)she lives in a museum in Paris
         (#37)India sucks the moisture out of me
         (#41)Hong Kong Short story
         (#43)Unsent letter
         (#44)A beautiful fragment
         (#45)Dark soul
         (#46)the egg shell orb
         (#47)Remembered meditations and dreads
         (#48)after the yogi was gone

	 The Great Ones
	 Granny Whitman
	 Improvisation on the Popular Vernacular/Blackwell's Bend
         JANUARY POEMS, NO 64
         JANUARY POEMS, NO 65
         JANUARY POEMS, NO. 66
         JANUARY POEMS, NO. 67
         JANUARY POEMS, NO. 68
         VIVENCIAS MONUMENTALES -- Tijuana, 24/2/2001
         METICHE (Busybody) 

	     For Poverty


   Buddah at San Francisco General
   Not yet human.
   Not yet divine.
   Here, he meditates.
   Waiting, listening.
   Not wanting to cause
   You harm.
   He knows that all waiting
   Must sometime end
   As the spark within
   Becomes the last
   Burning illusion moving him
   To thrust against
   The expanding impediment
   Of your thighs.
   He wakes. Saying:
   Sister of suffering
   Carry me while you may.
   I come. The truth
   Of my horizon pushes
   Through the darkness
   Of your flesh, I sence
   Paradise was never
   Lost, it is in the reflection
   Of ourselves. What we
   Struggle toward.
   Cry if you must,
   But know:
   You are that offering
   Through which all
   Worlds will shine.

JOHN CHAVIS WATKINS This Ochre Resurrection ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ by John Chavi= I crack open newly laid eggs still speckle-hot from the mother. I sift out the jellied whites, then Lave the yellow down around you. Slather your body with soft honeyed gold. Swirl the tawny softness down over you in the patient pale water of your nighttime bath. Like moist blind puppies, the yolks suckle into your freckled breasts. Your eyelids flutter, then calm. The yolks sink deeper into you searching for those old throbbing blood worms -- the veins -- the arteries. Then the yellow, oh the yellow, the hot pulsing saffron glides off into the slushing stream. Tumbles away into you -- into you -- into you. Warm amber coats the ravaged wounds, Oiled quince soothes the scars with the delight of Yes. Bright primrose sows the sun's harvest deep in side you -- Inside you -- inside you -- The great heart pump flushes with the gold and the warm and the yellow and the Oh! Swells with Oh Yes, My Sweet Jesus, Yes! Oh yes, Emily. This love. This joy. This ochre resurrection. And the great throbber roars with joy. Roars again with hot liquid yellow. Anoints you with the yellow faster and faster until you are only the yellow and the gold and the myrrh. The yellow and the gold and the myrrh. Then the yellow hits the brain. Slams into the brain. And you falter -- Sit up in the tub staggered by all this yellow. Dazed by this thick xanthous blanket. And you think, Can this be? Alive? Alive still? And Awake? My God, Awake? Up from the deaf dumb sleep of the soul, of the belly, of the throat? Awake from the darkened umbra of that old wrinkled beet, the brain? And Your breath quickens and you lift the bright wobbling yellow up to your mouth and you stare at it -- Then swallow a mouthful. This bright swallow burns going down, and you shudder. You close your eyes. You shudder again. Then sink slowly into the warm, now amber, water. Slip down under the yellow. Slide away -- away -- away -- into the yellow. I kneel beside the tub. Please God, Let this be. Let this be the hot yellow sun breath that floats us home yellow again. Let this be. And I take a deep gulp of air. Slide softly in beside you (I know this tub is big enough for two) and wait for the dream to begin.
JOHN CHAVIS WATKINS Kali's Boxcars ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (after Hand with Dice, sculpture by Varujan Booghosian, 1968) These are not nice dice. They do not shine your shoes or play with your dog or make you dinner or stop the virus or buy you a 401K retirement plan. They do not keep you from being fired or make the cop turn the other way or give you a bath or stop the Hindu child from oh so slowly starving to death in Ganeshpoor or swim you away from the oncoming darkness. These dice model impotent malevolence (Viagra?) Try not to take it personally. These dice: roll without boxcars, won't buy the baby new shoes, were tossed at the foot of the cross, do not shave, are loaded more often than not , see the world's four directions through the eyes of hungry snakes. Dice (dis), n.;pl. of DIE. Small cubes marked on their faces with spots from one to six. (Sentient?) Dicing (dis ing), v.t.; 1. To lose, waste, etc., by gaming with one or more die. ROLL THEM AGAIN (participular command) (Insert table prose from notebook) The whir of the 70mm Fuji high resolution color film stock racing across the camera sprockets is muffled by the First Best Boy's new Panavision sound blanket and even the lowliest third world production assistant knows not to make the slightest sound (no breathing) because this is like war and you must not do anything to shatter the illusion or you will die. Albert Einstein said, "(God) does not play dice." He also said "God is subtle, but he is not malicious." Wrong on both counts: She plays with us in the only game in town. She plays with an unwavering clarity of mind and will always win. Subtle and malicious are highly irrelevant. It is suggested that one Pray to her not to win, but only to be able to sleep with dignity. Good Luck.
MARIE KAZALIA (#27)east/west ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ wearing an Indian sari hair cut short, with red lipstick mouth I talk of intelligence what is and is not the most intelligent people in the world artists, poets, yes it's been said but not often enough some of the most intelligent people in the world are in this room balance between east and west foolish to be completely western and stressed intellectuals are feared so I remain anonymous power resides in knowledge and action intelligence in a blend of eastern and western so I flew to Japan and lived there India, after sixteen months of cool inner conflict I let go and allow some Eastern ways to seep into me only now begun to be able to appreciate that which is Asian
MARIE KAZALIA (#28)real life ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Life was never so real as now that I've begun to write fiction I wrote my first page of verisimilitude the previous struggles mere preludes to this prelude everyone who knows me sees it in my eyes think I'm in love ask little prying questions Oh, is that a new pen? was it a gift? Very nice earrings, did someone give them to you? A man, I say and they shoot glances across to one another, faces tilted downward eyes stretched up in their sockets It's not a man I'm emptying out a poisonous fluid trapped inside me like filthy water it's draining release valve finally discovered my eyes are clear a different kind of powerful new health and happiness exudes bouncy and joyous disciplining myself--it's finally taking hold after one year of art studio discipline ashram discipline self discipline supreme
MARIE KAZALIA (#29)experiment ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ some people would believe and understand if I tried to explain that my entire life had been one big experiment of gathering experiences not consciously say but rather in a driven groping sort of way that once sufficient ground had been covered it was only inevitable that I find my self at this place I didn't know when I had arrived here only that now here I am and I feel a marching coming on strong relentlessly unstoppable some instinctive drive toward...
MARIE KAZALIA (#30)Wed July 27 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I'm a strange creature haunting the cracks in the system in a long black dress another all night computer session at dawn I drink coffee looking out as joggers pass suspicion in a man's eyes I need new clothes or will bring too much attention upon myself
MARIE KAZALIA (#32)He was the man she was with when ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ she'd changed had become tired of changes experiments and discoveries it was time to do something with all that data and stop seeking newer wilder experiences He's the one she ended up with or so she thought that's what might happen could never be sure of anything for she lead a rich fantasy life often fooled and indulged herself one thing certain, she had aged men didn't look at her quite so much as before and the ones who do are middle-aged
MARIE KAZALIA (#33)Tangible thing ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ never learned how to give in the conventional sense tangible things don't know how to please other people with offers of food gifts for important occasions or little things except flowers, I love to give the ephemeral but physically inflicting some object upon another being to be liked or disposed or cause guilt in the ridding of, embarrasses me yet I'm overly generous in the giving of other non-tangible things my genuine thoughts ideas love making to certain souls now I'm giving my writing to the world
MARIE KAZALIA (#34)Amrit Vela (means early morning nectar) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ dreamlike vision immediately after sitting riding a beautiful bicycle through a bright cloudy sky flying along so fast passing others who's bicycles constructed incorrectly strangely or non-sensically the wheels of my bike spinning fast I flew along
MARIE KAZALIA (#35)But the world ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the earth like a big greasy glass ball too long squinted into looking for a future greasy noses and acidic finger tips pressing the glass fogging with heavy breath this crystal ball it's hope for redemption through cleaning pick it up wash it in warm soapy water polish with a clean soft cloth a future will emerge
MARIE KAZALIA (#36)she lives in a museum in Paris ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ it sounds so romantic but not Paris the city but Parry's the district in Madras, India the museum not art, but Raja Yoga dolls dressed in costume ornate, Indian style now it seems even more romantic
MARIE KAZALIA (#37)India sucks the moisture out of me ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ through the soles of my feet so dry and hostile here as I walk I lose something from inside me that's drawn out and swallowed up my arrogance who could be arrogant in a land like this I watch my feet line and crease become a thick hide heels crack and crevasse nothing much here dust dirt people in constant motion walking bicycle scooters pedal-rickshaws a few old cars never ceases so it seems day into night there's nothing much to do here the people in constant motion just going to school, work, out for food that's about it the real movement in India not seen an emotional tide the rapid flow swept me away the moment I arrived has never let up only finally have I learned to step back from it see the people have few things to own few places to go in their over abundance of pride, love, honor social pressures to apply
MARIE KAZALIA (#38)Charabo ~~~~~~~~~~~~ lay awake in thoughts of you as the black sky turns gray to white and the dawn of my love of you arose in my hearts awareness
MARIE KAZALIA (#39)Sleepwork ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ there is another come forward in and out of darkness I don't know what to expect it can't be rushed must let it be born so much so I must trust allow myself to be taught look forward to my nights as if the days are sleep each evening brings so much feared at first no point avoiding it knew it was what I wanted good for me
MARIE KAZALIA (#41)Hong Kong Short story ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Fifth floor. No elevator. Shit. She stood at the lower landing looking up, not willing to release the loaded shopping bags that dragged down her arms and shoulders to wipe the beads of perspiration from her face.
MARIE KAZALIA (#42)Double-bend ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Listen. If people, someone, anyone tells you something one time. You should probably listen. It will be important. If someone nags you repeatedly, it's about a minor dissatisfaction that has more to do with themselves, than with you-- Have you ever lived with someone who frequently lost their keys? Isn't that the question they ask you most? where are your keys?
MARIE KAZALIA (#43)Unsent letter ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ you crept and crept into my consciousness overpowered my obstenence so that one day in July I woke up and you were there undeniably your black eyes forever in my mind all else melted away from my memory except a few clear bright pictures of some moments spent with that young man who's powers I cannot evade behind those deep black eyes
MARIE KAZALIA (#44)A beautiful fragment ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ who will listen for long to the intelligence of the wise speaking deep truths in a simple way even the poet in time drifts off lusts and illusions in mind
MARIE KAZALIA (#45)Dark soul ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ my soul has listened long in a dark wall-less room to deep simple truths shuffles toward the light stares outward watching through misty moist still air roar back and forth figure pace in antechamber light two years passing open double doors moving glancing nervously inward relaxed soul shuffles near peering out over threshold slips time allowed to begin from within lifetimes moments centuries years
MARIE KAZALIA (#46)the egg shell orb ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ moist condensation of possessions clear wiped
MARIE KAZALIA (#47)Remembered meditations and dreads ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ when I was a young slip of a girl ten or less and lay on the oh so soft grass under the weeping willow tree in my neighbors back yard my hands behind my head, bare legs stretched before me gazing up at the twinkling glitter of light green glow leaves, breeze washing me with cool on a hot summer running tag day and in autumn dressed in long pants and warm sweater on my back on red brown leaves listening to the towering maple shuffle paper parchment leaves under a golden white sun At those moments I half suspected in profound intuitious doubts and wonderment, that these moments may be the happiest I would ever know in this life and fearing if that be so what suffering and sorrows lay in the future I never wanted to grow up and meet
MARIE KAZALIA (#48)after the yogi was gone ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I flew up toward Nirvana onto Brahma's silent cloud he was alone seated cross-legged and smiled at my soul's presence before him a wave of silenced passed over me and next a throng of yogis filled the endless cloud seated cross-legged white clad as far as I could see behind Brahma's back in ceremony smiles from the heart upon blank faces a white table before baba Brahma appeared and a cup his pure hand raised the cup Drink, he told me telepathically, Drink the cup of knowledge I was honored to take the cup held up and drank the tasteless, temperature-less invisible brew down filled and blossomed through my soul my smile returned me down to earth cross-legged sitting dressed in white my soul flew up to Brahma babas presence twice again each time in his face he knew my purpose my last visit to his cloud This is as far as you go, He told me telepathically yogi no more, you have other work to do my soul no longer a point fills my brain with light in a once dark room
SCOTT MALBY The Great Ones ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I had a premonition Of this forest, That the great trees Were leaving us, Slipping past in pieces On the long trek Through the gate Of tomorrow's tomorrow, I saw the jaws Of desolation open. Through its mouth A ship was sailing Leaving our seasons In darkness. Gaunt gatherer, There is never time enough. Loose the fire of your arrows While the light of our love Leans like an immigrant Crossing the great water. Tentative, with splintering gestures, The great ones drop away from us. Fasten missile toe To this felled oak, Make fast the ivy To shroud its prow, Fill the empty hold With boughs of myrtle. Our heritage is leaving us. The great ones are leaving us. Tentative, with splintering Gestures, they slip across The great water.
SCOTT MALBY Granny Whitman ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On New World trails Constant with getting and got, You may not remember me, I passed you walking by But not without smiling. Didn't you see me laughing? Waving my encouragement? While you can't recall My face, I still expect Main things from you, I was the one singing To herself, quick to caring When it mattered most. I am that mirror reflecting You as you will be- on the move, Robust, friendly, knowing When a soul needs nurturing. Be cheerful, buoyant Even though in pain, Accepting of mistakes. Of intimacy, love, truth, These are the ingredients Of our passions' brew, The colors of a risky Metaphor; the wondrous liquor Of our essence brewing. Be in love with life, Continually on the verge, Learn to fly even as you walk, Experiment, No is the catalyst Of regret, bitterness The great spoiler. In us all the seed Of what we fear the most Spit in the palm of your hand. Roll up your sleeves. Get down to work, knowing There is nothing about you That is not bearable. You are my pot boiling. In the mirror of yourself, I see my reflection shinning. You are my hope growing. Tumultuous with promise, Deserving of praise.
SCOTT MALBY Improvisations On The Popular Vernacular. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Blackwell's Bend Just like a movie. Light on my face. Da, da, da, doobie. Da, da, da, doobie. Up in the morning. Jumpin out of bed. Da, da, da, doobie. A knock at the door, Hey girl, wazup? Feel'n sad? Let me give you a kiss. Don't wanna stand still? Da, da, da, doobie. Take you out for a ride. Da, da, da, doobie. Da, da, da, doobie. Let's shake it up bad. Who can sit back? Have one of my pills. Da, da, da, doobie. Take you out for a spin. Show you some fun. Da, da, da, doobie. Da, da, da, doobie. Don't quite fit in? Don't quite belong? Da, da, da, doobie. Take a deep breath. Kick your fear in the face. Feel the rush! What's the good of life When just try'n to survive. Let's live all we can! Da, da, da, doobie. Da, da, da, doobie. Just do'n our thing. Da, da, da, doobie. East of Eden, Blackwell's corner Around the bend. Da, da da doobie. Off and flying, Come'n around The crest of a hill. Really kickin it! Hope'n for a good ride. Hope'n for a cool ride, Hope'n for a thrill. Da, da, da, doobie. Da, da, da, doobie. Get back! Calm down! Tryin to snag some speed. Da, da, da, doobie. Da, da, da doobie. Will we survive? Da, da, da, doobie. Da, da, da, doobie. Live hard! Die young! Fight back the blood clot! What's that? Feel the spin From beginning to end! Da. da, da ,doobie. Da, da, da, doobie. Just like a movie.
DUANE LOCKE JANUARY POEMS, NO 64 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I did not hear her voice. It is because voices speaks words. I have leaned That vocabularies Only vanish into lies, So I'm deaf to vocabularies. But her Chinese black hair Rubbing Under my old age sagging chin Spoke a truth That words are helpless to speak. Tomorrow, I will buy more plum wine.
DUANE LOCKE JANUARY POEMS, NO 65 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There is nothing like the gestures That separates one from rivers. You are puzzled by what these gestures mean. The flight of wild geese in migration is more understandable Because it is biology, but her gestures come from human mythology. I think of her, and the gold twists that were her hair, And wonder why she never saw the rainbow or the old wagon wheel When we caressed by a river. Did she see a man of eighty Standing by an easel on the shore painting The syllables that form the water's words What did this lovely girl see. Did she see the vociferous hair Of Chinese girls pouring water on bonsai. Did she see a leaf spin downward To fall on a mildewed, torn silk pillow. I'll never know what she saw or feel.
DUANE LOCKE JANUARY POEMS, NO. 66 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the artic a white owl flies Through the light towards the dark Somehow, this distant bird Is the only thing near me. All that is near me Is interpreted as being parables. Her eyes are seen as fireflies. Her hair, a corn tassel. But now I have traveled To landscape of red clay And hear a red bird sing. The mind travels faster Than a super airplane. The red bird has flown. Now, the red bird's song, The only thing near me. Her freckled skin is interpreted As being a daydream.
DUANE LOCKE JANUARY POEMS, NO. 67 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In this landscape of limpets And dark, barnacled-streaked stones, I gaze through sea grass to see The red plant Called, "Sea Figs." The sea figs Are marching, Marching in vermilion red uniforms, Marching Without weapons. Marching towards me To bring peace To the dark caves inside my body, Marching to bring peace In a time of war.
DUANE LOCKE JANUARY POEMS, NO. 68 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Night sleeps beside me. Her dark hair spreads over The wrinkles left on shore sand By receding waves. I forgive night for wanting stars; I forgive night for wanting moons. I only want night and her dark hair.
DANIEL THOMAS VIVENCIAS MONUMENTALES -- Tijuana, 24/2/2001 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ rain threatens the little crowd standing on the CECUT esplanade children run through puddles the poet writes nothing - a raindrop splatters his page umbrellas appear amid the art fans awaiting their spectacle - then it begins - giant woman face blooms around omnimax dome mouth, nose, lips speak projected from the small white tent of glowing lights & silent switches she tells how her girlfriend was raped and beaten by the police spent months in a coma gringos rent earphones in English for ten dollars and your photo-I.D. to hear the great round wall a tear streaks her huge visage gleaming in the rainy night the boyfriend beaten much worse never recovered his wits beside the paseo and McDonalds
DANIEL THOMAS METICHE (Busybody) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the night of Revoluci¢n blond gringo looking for nude dancers asks the taxi drivers where can I find a naked lady bar ? Poet follows listening for germs of verse wastes his last match on a cigarette he won't smoke asks the blond countryman for a light -- "no man, sorry..." then he runs away without asking his question . Answer had been ready. There's a really classy one high above the Aztec calendar - but now poet will only shrug and go for coffee to write .
DANIEL THOMAS TOWN ~~~~ On the corner of a desert river at the end of the known world not Grande nor Bravo but sometimes flood they built a town and the city grew - Zaragoza Tijuana . The founders began at an old rancho between hot springs and the sea - shared, divided, united, apart, this first piece of border pueblo was born already splintered into battle over ownership of land until even those founders' children debate the true date of foundation or deny the existence of "Tia" Juana yet you must never doubt they love old Zaragoza de Tijuana so near the horizon of Los Angeles and so far from Mexico City . Ranchos - cattle - horses - onyx transformed the roaring 20s into "old west" & Spanish bullfights drinking & curios souvenirs La Ballena - The Whale Bar - world's longest beer hall - cowhides, boots & vanished casino the most visited city in the world soon grew into a strange metropolis drawn against the gringo line in sand . La garita mas transitada del mundo the busiest border gate in the world Tijuana Zaragoza has now become a postmodern maquiladora factory millennium megalopolis - the future breeding ground for bourgeois Marxism & binational millionaires capital plaything for chilango bureaucrats in Technocratlan yet equally a stronghold of most loyal opposition aquí empiece la patria - here the nation begins - on this farthest river frontier . for this is and will always be - Zaragoza de Tijuana, Mexico -


   For Poverty
   "We've done the dirt, we've all been had,
   And we all sound like Auden when we're bad."
   Paris Leary
   Beatnicks, flower children, are you  hungry?
   Where is you at? If you're eating mushrooms
   From the bottom up it's cuz you're dead!
   That plump whore tart called the "60's"
   Lies naked on her flower strewn bed
   Having overdosed on poetry.
   Her grandchildren write for the movies,
   Under contract for a script a week.
   Rising up, she whispers  
   To anyone who will listen:
   "It takes more then a pension,
   A college or company sinecure
   To make my poetry ring true.
   It takes a kind of hunger
   That can never be fed."


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

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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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  these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is

  YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2001 by 
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