YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

September 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


      The Hunters of the Midnight Aire 



      11 Chinese Poems 
      Of A Feather





           The Hunters of the
		   Midnight Aire

   ...the dark mysterious wail of the night of the night train
   passes through the bleak, blackened abyss.
   The squeal of ancient battered steel,
   crunches against another slab of cold rolled steel,
   	    scythes through the post-midnight air.

   The darkened moon standing at attention across the blackened
   hills, the dark valleys, the sleeping suburbs.
   Lighting the sky around it, creating a small oasis of light,
        the rest is dark and cold.

   The air frigid against the frail blades of grass.
    The face (of the moon) scared and wrenched into utter distortion.

   Across the black shadows creep silently, quickly upon the
        night's wings.
   The colours now are so simple just black and white, just the
        way they wanted it. The dark shapes,
          the ever changing monstrosities,
   they fly through the skies.

   The carriages rumble silently, yet loudly, unheard, unseen,
        down into the bowels of the night.

    The night's things, yes things,
         grey and black throughout.
    Eat and bite viscously at the old rusted steel, it has given
	      up to them long ago.

    And off they fly leaving it in its rusting peace,
         off again.

    They circle the skies above, searching for more victims,
          more targets, more souls to claim as theirs.
	The sparsely lit shadow before them shows a simple
	      arrangement of boxes of dead wood, all together, for
	Then with a beat of wings,
	      a crane of neck,
	   		they descend to drag the paint off,
	warp the boards into grotesque shapes,
	to pull and nuzzle at the insides,
	to pull the curtains,
	      to drag them behind.

    Their strength immense,
          their numbers great,
	        their thoughts are fierce.
	             The hunters of the midnight air scatter and
	        regroup to attack more things,
	      the mildew covered post,
	the rusting nails,
	     the old battered cars,
		   the dying weeds at the foothills.

    These old rails have seen so much,
         yet soon they will be gone,
	       their thoughts and wisdom soon to perish,
		        and new rails will come and soon be gone.

    Yet they'll never win.
        There is no way to beat
	       the hunters of the midnight aire
		        at what they just do best.

                                            -Igal Koshevoy;  October 1st, 1990
	                                                       CRAMPS  19:1 - 20:4
					                                       DARKNESS  5:2 - 6:4

   From STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (c) 1993 Igal Koshevoy
   Available in Ygdrasil's Book Rack.

   My name is Sorana-Lucia Salomeia and I am 17 years old. I was born on the 
   13th of March 1985 in Iasi, Romania. I am a student at the Fine Arts 
   Highschool "Octav Bancila" in Iasi, Romania, my specialty is the piano 
   which I've been studying ever since I was four years old. It is my favourite 
   musical instrument. Another great passion of mine is English, of course. My
   teachers consider that I have a special talent in this field. I enjoy 
   reading original English literature, some of my favourite writers being 
   James Joyce, Thomas Hardy, Charlotte Bronte, Charles Dickens and George 
   Eliot. I am also very keen on reading Shakespeare. I am sending you two of 
   my literary works(which are, in fact, prose poems), hoping that you will 
   enjoy reading them and tell me your opinion about them.

SORANA SALOMEIA MEDITATION ON A RAINY DAY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The long awaited darkness falls casting grey shadows on the walls of this gloomy and weary room and I am sitting here, alone, near the fireplace, in the twilight hour, watching the joyful dance of the red flames of the fire and the dying embers fading and warming up my face. In this peaceful solitude my mind is like an open window. I can hear images and hear songs that no poet has ever painted. So strange -- Half awake and half in dreams, I can hear voices calling out to me, calling straight to my heart, urging me -- and I let them carry my soul away, lead me gently into another world where the brilliance of beauty will defeat the darkness of the day. These wistful sounds awake me from my shallow sleep, sweetly seduce me and I let them take me, play games within my mind. Now I find myself in the middle of an ancient valley. I can see the dry, pale-colored autumn leaves falling to the ground and rustling down the alley. The air gets cold and I hear the high, chilly winds blow through the trees. The rain falls softly on my face and I watch the black clouds in the sky thronging as if fighting one against the other. The whole world seems to be touched with mortality. Life seems to be a blown-out candle. Still, there is no pain, no suffering, not a sigh, just some kind of melancholy feeling. Nature's soul is enchained by its own sorrow. Life is a discouraged bird of passage moving its wings faintly, flying instinctively and aimlessly. The icy kisses of the rain drops touch the dead leaves on the ground and make them glitter, in spite of their rusty colors. Hundreds of souls seem to be dancing in the moonlight, trying to defeat the depression of the darkness. The rustle of the leaves changes into an odd, incomprehensible song; their millions of voices blend into a single voice. The air is vibrant and there is a constant, steady rhythm of a heart that beats -- The whole world is a prison one could never escape from. Looking into the shadows, I have the feeling I'm forever trapped in here. The sounds are growing louder, building fright shudders into my heart. I'm waiting numb and frozen for the sunrise. I'm caught in the landscape of emotion and feel the warmth of all devotions. Is it a dream or is it all real ? I wonder: Could it all be just an illusion? Are they all just illusive feelings?
SORONA SALOMEIA THRENODY ~~~~~~~~ The moon retreats behind a silver cloud as darkness throws its cloak towards the earth and mystery replaces what we thought we knew. The one dimension only shows one side, but do we see the same through different eyes as we peer into life's kaleidoscope? Eternal sands of time shift endlessly behind a veil of motionless disguise and all it seems to need is an eyelid flash. There's a star up above the horizon and it's shining for us. Do you feel it like a dance in the moonlight? Are all hearts beating crazy, like mine? If there's something burning bright , it shouldn't be kept locked inside. The peaceful waters shine underneath the winter's moon and village bells will always chime as the piper plays its tuneful song. Wheels are turning , fires burn and seasons come and go like the morning light. The hours pass slowly, now that he's left one day is like another, but they move on. Somehow I have returned to the land of the living, but badly burned. So sad… I never had the chance of keeping him close to me; the song of sirens was too strong in his ear. I can still recall the day when he slipped into my life as smug as a cat and then walked away with my heart in his hand. He took a temporary home in my flat, telling innocent lies and throwing dust in my eyes. As though he'd only stopped a while for a chat, he learned all my secrets and left no stone unturned. And when the day is new and the sun's in the sky, who needs the confrontation, who needs that kind of strain, when you're born with an instinct to shun such suffering? Fire and ice, he came like a flame and then turned a cold shoulder. We are a rock revolving around a golden sun, a billion children rolled into an angel; and when I hear about the hole in the sky , about how forests are dying , saltwater wells in my eyes. And when I think of times when we climbed the highest mountain and made the desert bloom , that I once lived for love and now that's not enough, for the world I love is fading and I'm crying. Time is not a friend because we're out of time and it's slowly passing by right before our eyes. Could it be a cherish dream, could it be the way that it seems? I leave all the troubles behind and open my heart; I can fly like the eagle on the wings of the sunlight under the sky, from dawn to sunset, till the moonlight, under a clear blue sky. I've been where the mountains are high and I've floated on the passing clouds, being close to the sky. Summer is the time for romance and winter gives young lovers a chance. The seasons are the reason for me to fly forever towards the sky. Now we've descended on a world with innocent hopes and we've travelled a criss - crossed highway. It's time to look at who we are and leave the past behind now and grow. I've listened to endless voices and proceeded with endless tasks. Now I've come too far and the time is right. The devil's made his pact; it's time to stop pretending, at last. Don't try to predict tomorrow because tomorrow is out of sight. Now I turn the world around and change the things that need changing; don't try to predict tomorrow because tomorrow is out of sight. Love was a shadow in the wave on night, taking shape and body in the pale light of the morning. I was sure this could have never happened before; just once and no more. Following an ancient voice, souls and bodies were keen to know a thousand delights. I felt as if I were a loser then, but I'm a winner now and I'd do it all again because now I know the pattern. Until that day my life had been a river following a safe predestinated course, suddenly detouring so unexpectedly with uncompromising power and my strongholds broke down all too easily. And once again the river's flowing slowly, following its safe and uneventful course. Now the tears have dried and it's become a pleasant break; I recall everything without remorse. How everything in life comes down to this at last, surviving and living , determined not to give in. I'm still alive, my life is rolling on, gently from day to day and all the sad memories will fade into the unknown. Yes, I'm still alive and the agony has gone; my mind is slowly waking and my heart has ceased its pain. I took so many blows and cried a sea of tears and only heaven knows how I could stand the pain, fear and disillusion and I think of all the nights I lay alone scared, all shattered and crying -- But I'm still alive! Yes, I've learned to laugh through teardrops. Lilac's blossom is just as sweet and now my heart is shattered and they say that lips that taste of tears are the best for kissing. Eyes that watch the morning star seem a little brighter and arms held out to darkness are now whiter than ever. And when a heart falls twinkling down, never think it ceases , because grieving for it will be in vain as the heart will rise again in a golden hope.
KLAUS J.GERKEN 11 Chinese Poems I Unable to sleep, I get up and play A song upon my dulcimer. Through the thin thin courtains the bright moon shines... A light breeze tugs at my lapel. In the wilderness a solitary wild goose cries. North of the woods, birds scatter. Pacing to and fro, what should I see, Sorrow, longing, wounded heart! but me? -Rwan Ji c. 250 A.D. Trsl (c) Gerken 12/03/91
II Ask me what idea roosts on green mountain? Smile and don't reply... the heart's another matter. Peach blossoms... flowing water... pass away... Somewhere there's a heaven and another earth devoid of this. - Li Bai c. 730 A.D. trsl (c) gerken 12/03/91
III Fine grass Soft wind Sea shore. Towering mast solitary boat midnight... Stars suspended broad flat wilderness. The moon leaps across great rivers flowing... How are all these names and poems written? Old and ill It's time to quit this office... Floating floating what's it all resemble? Heaven, Earth... one solitary Sand Seagull circling. - Du Fu 765 A.D. trsl (c) Gerken 120391 .PG
IV East wind blows rain vexes traveller New road fine dust turns muddy Flowers sleep willows drowse Spring itself is lazy Who'd have guessed that only I am lazier! - Lu You c. 1200 A.D. trsl (c) Gerken 13/03/91
V old friend leaves yellow crane tower in the west mist flowers third month disperses yang jou lonely sail distant shadow the blue emptiness appears all i see is the long river flowing towards heaven's edge... - Li Bai c 730 A.D. trsl (c) gerken 1303/91
VI face to face with wine the night was not aware of me fallen flowers overflowed my clothes drunk i arose walking by the stream motioned to the moon... the birds returned my greeting... few if any people dared... - Li Bai c. 750 trsl (c) gerken 13/03/91
VII The sea ghost came. Departed. Left an evil swirling wind. Rough waves assulted gates of heaven, Stone wall cracked. Je river. Eight month. What does this resemble? Huge connected mountain waves, Spitting snow, appear. - Li Bai c. 750 A.D. trsl (c) gerken 14/03/91
VIII Empty mountain No one there Yet I hear a voice As if a dream Sun returns Cuts through deep forest Illuminates Green moss... trsl (c) Gerken 14/03/91
IX Evening Green mountains Far away Cold sky Thatched hut Poverty Brushwood gate Dog barks In the dark Wind and snow Night. Who is that Returning? - Bai Jyu-Yi c. 800 A.D. trsl (c) Gerken 14/03/91
X Green ant Raw wine Red clay Small wood stove Evening comes Soon snow Should I drink another cup? Why not! - Bai Jyu-Yi 817 A.D. trsl (c) Gerken 14/03/91
XI spring sleeps doesn't know the sun has risen everywhere heart-felt twittering of birds night came. lot's of wind and sound and rain. flowers fall. know how many? trsl (c) Gerken 140391
BARBARA PHILLIPS Lily ~~~~ down in the lily in the lips of the lily furry tongues glow lick-happy lollipops yellow sunspun slurp goodness oozes oozes up from fullness at the bottom richness rises rises goo thick quickens to snatch golden locks linger linger along the skein fine as line from comet time slip to lip along petals rub around fine edges soft soft skin thinnest thin rim
BARBARA PHILLIPS Beetle ~~~~~~ he is a fine specimen stag horn beetle he creeps to sqaush leaves that rot the crack of his marauding rises up in tunes of hissing cackles around stalks hydrangeas writhe unkempt heads irises cringe along shadowed edges yet still he comes a horde unto himself beneath his feet earth trembles as earthworms scatter in tunnel frenzies black as eyes in night blind as coal upon dead hearths abandoned when soils trembled under beetle rumbles among damp night mists so fine the bat hung on vapour wires to strain to faintly hear loud onslaughts fan swishes in the dark beads along dry robes the clatter of puff balls' ghostly fall before the glitter in the eye the warrior in armour oil slick hard as tears in marble thrones
BARBARA PHILLIPS Of A Feather ~~~~~~~~~~~~ starlings shimmer gold russet brown on black in circles heavy with wings drumming afternoon sun beaks glow orange flames pointed earthwards skywards soundlessly they beat light over stalks bleached in dry fields haunted by memories of grains and legumes hidden still in soil muddy brown dressed with manure nectar black and swift they veer in searches above the highway we wonder about the windshield,whether it will be marked by some purpose we don't want to fathom now on this journey homeward from the woods and lake where we hovered drank of solitude, smelled wood smoke, disturbed leaves in the company of birds,we scattered riddles beyond clouds in the city haze, we let the starlings go their circles murmur restlessly, we hear them behind us in distances we have shed like unneeded skin yet beneath the flesh, rhythms ripple in the bone behind our eyes, pine held hills wait in mist from our shoulders, feathers stretch to touch the wind
BARBARA PHILLIPS Phoenix ~~~~~~~ when you speak you are a billion light years away who is to say who is right who is wrong who is weak who is strong minds don't love is not always
BARBARA PHILLIPS Subtitles ~~~~~~~~~ words in mouths move faces beyond musk mellow traces in matter caught twitching in fevered itch to reach scraps in heart protected zones breath quiet slides tipped to trip syllables' balance as lips dance in trances measured in rounds unravelled off tongues' tumble headlong through mind pulse spatters hot as comets launching into fire sped arcs splintered over universe's grids spilled down black voids tearing silent rages through pages in the space before my eyes as the words move across the serene screen set to soothe and offset brooding lying restless as the hound tuned to a scent just beyond the door locked for the night shut out from the quiet within that settles into featherbed contentment beneath sleep while I sit gnawed in fretful lulls as regret replays itself along waves that sound and sound--- if only life had subtitles
DUANE LOCKE MONTE SACRO ~~~~~~~~~~~ A cliff hollow, church Squeezed in between black rocks. It is said a miracle A long time ago Happened on the spot where the church was built. The rumor was that on a winter afternoon When snowflakes spotted the blackness outside That the Madonna changed the color of her complexion, From a bright Teutonic pink To an olive Italian hue And her blue eyes changed to brown and glowed. Now, this place of the miracle Is only visited by old women With wrinkled faces wearing black dresses, Although the brown eyes still glow And if behind the pupils were candlelight. The entrance between black rocks is a small aperture, Only those of sparse appetites can comfortably squeeze through. On the cliff before the entrance Was an albergo and ristorante Primarily built for the old women Who visited the sacred spot. A Slavic-Teutonic blonde and I Were here together, and it was the last time We ever were together, For tomorrow we would fly from Malpensa To New York and part forever. We ate trout and from a green bottle drank aqua minerale. We ate slowly, for our hands touched often. We tried to be Stoic, Accept the inevitable. We noticed that one of the old woman in black Who had come to visit the spot of the miracle Sat in a shadowed corner and cried.
DUANE LOCKE AN ABANDONED VILLA IN ITALY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A cotton tree had dropped its rain to soak The yard in a thick covering of whiteness We walked around to observe the old villa; It was like walking on clouds. The villa had alabaster windows. The former owner, a wine farmer, Had aspired to imitate the alabaster windows Of St. Paul's in Rome. We stood in whiteness, watching The shadows of swallows cross the windows. As the swallows flew inside By this finely grained gypsum, The alabaster enlarged their shadows. The shadows made the swallows Seem as large as albatrosses. Perhaps, it was our forbidden love That made us see in the darkness Crossing alabaster Coleridge's bird. We both felt we had a burden, Something dead, hanging from our necks, A burden that impeded our happiness, Although we had never shot an albatross, Even arationally as the Ancient Mariner.
DUANE LOCKE BIRCHES ~~~~~~~ The smirch of birches is not a sully, But the sooty color interrupting the white Is a savior from bright, false human words That stain and erase the wind and the world. Dew on the dark part of birches Gives excesses that are saviors and sorceresses. The dampness on darkness and its fingers Saves from the fidgets of false mystics. While the human races rots in false reverence, Let us, my love, flourish By not bending birches to our wills, But letting the birches and their dark parts Stand upright and receive our reverence.
DUANE LOCKE PONERING PRECONCEPTIONS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ghosts on ramparts was a literary construction Handed down to aid in the explanation Of the voices we hear when no one is present To be speaking. Also, we project our intimacies To be so important that to hear their wonder There is always an eavesdropper behind the arras, And we suppose this listener has the rank of king, And is not just one of the king’s hirelings. Our present, my dear, and our present beliefs About our present was handed down from unread literature So we could destroy our happiness in the present By something not present or something mistook. Perhaps, someday we will arrive At an exalted state of insight That should be called, "The Dark Night of the Body," And have a vision of reality. Perhaps, someday we will receive the revelation or epiphany That the highway does not know it is going South, Or the day does not know that is five o'clock in the afternoon. This day of high knowledge And salvation from the language of lies The world has spoken and we believed Will be the day when we have decentered ourselves To play and become ludic. My dear, I made no prognostications about the future, For in the present I am listening to Berg's Lulu. But I was thinking, considering our present love condition, Next valentine day, I will mail candy In a heart-shaped box to myself, But I will write on the wrong address So the candy in the heart-shaped box won't come back.
DUANE LOCKE LEANING ON A STONE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The elbow has worn through gray silk threads To become a white net without the function Of capturing a mystery that is flying and twirling. It has arrived another forlorn and forsaken afternoon When a sleeve is placed on the jagged, rough surface Of a public park lichened stone. I gaze at the antics of a raspberry colored bird Doing a tightrope walk on the branch of a winter maple. It was as if the bird had seen the act at a circus. I breathe in a preview of the snow that is on its way. A child alone by an empty swing Is jumping up and down and making much noise Shouting nonsense. The lack of meaning Of his utterances makes the child hilarious. A gull flies over, and I recall when a child in Georgia How men in overalls, tin eagles for clasp, Took a pocket knife to cut sacks of guano, And sprinkle the fertilizer over the red ground. I wondered what I was doing in Paris, Listening to a child yell nonsense in French And gazing at the hopping of a finch.





   Can life be a blessing,
   Or worth the possessing,
   Can life be a blessing if love were away?
   Ah no! though our love all night kep us waking,
   And though he torment us with cares all the day,
   Yet he sweetens he sweetens our pains in the taking,
   There's an hour at the last, there's an hour to repay.


   In every possessing,
   The ravishing blessing,
   In every possessing the fruit of our pain,
   Poor lovers forget long ages of aguish,
   Whate're they have suffer'd and done to obtain;
   'Tis a pleasure, a pleasure to sigh and to languish,
   When we hope, when we hope to be happy again.

   (From Troilus and Cressida, Act III, scene ii -- 1679)


A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda

       Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established 
       just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A 
       place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and 
       learn from all.  A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies. 
       Even a chance to be published in a magazine.

       The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993. 
       Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such 
       an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon 
       started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin 
       Board Systems.

       We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
       specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
       Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
       are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
       writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
       can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since 
       the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means 
       that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative 
       user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

  . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
  . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
  . THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken
  . THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
  . FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
  . POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
  . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
  . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken 
  . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken

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

  . MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
  . BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy

  . THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
  . THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
  . THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
  . INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena

  . POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

  All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each. Checks should be made out to
  the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press.
  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an
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  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site at http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.


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

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

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

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS


    * Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
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