YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

January 2003

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



      Dante's Inferno Canto I 


         For the One I Ex
         Hell is Here
         Reality Show
         Paternity, Terminal
         Soft Story
         The Passage
         Consummation Carnival
         Sun Spot

         Shadow Play 
         The Case For Bestiality
         To The Bat Who Ate A Lion

      Averil Bones
         CITY SKIN

      Dmitri Klisho

      Jack Donahue
         FIRST STEPS
         AUSTIN, TEXAS
         ON THE MAKE (Short Story)

      shiska holli
         My Lover Fell into the Rhine and Emerged with  Strange Rapture 


   Dante's Inferno

   Canto I

   When near the pinnacle of life
   was girdled by a dismal wood--
   went from right way, and I lost it.
   How tightly walled with thorns that forest was!
   Alas! how difficult for me to tell,
   the very recollection frightens me.
   Death itself can't be much worse.
   But to get to good that came from it
   the other things will come to word.
   How I got there, I don't know,
   bit by bit grew tired,
   till I lost the way I had.
   But as, then, I stood beneath a hill,
   where gorge in wood gave way,
   that terror-struck my heart.
   But when I saw before me, curvature
   of hills against the glowing stars,
   assuring wanderers, made way...
   At that my fear receded some,
   which before gave plaintive cramps
   to depths of heart throughout the night.
   Like one, gasping for breath,
   who saved himself from sea to beach,
   returning gaze to fearful sea,
   I transformed myself, still further fleeing
   sensibility, once more viewing gorge
   which none but me escaped, still alive.
   Thus having rested weary soul,
   up again, up the steep incline,
   propped myself on lower foot.
   Made the hill and found a slender,
   fast and cunning leopard,
   showing off his brightly coloured coat.
   He always moved before my eyes,
   disturbing, hindering my journey so,
   that once again, I almost lost my nerve.
      Was in the early morning light,
   when sun rose out among the stars
   which girdled it, as on the primal day
   when Love Divine supported it.
   That's why, had ground enough, that none deceives me,
   in this mild springtime by first daylight,
   not even beast of prey.
   Suddenly am brought to be afraid
   by lion's stare, deciding:
   Scared I was, so came he near me,
   head erect, and hungry, angered,
   such that even air about him trembled.
   And too a she-worf, undernourished,
   lean, and full of greed,
   old destroyer of unmanly souls!
   With dismal stare, her eyes
   struck heart and senses lame,
   and the hope I had to gain the heights a-fled.
   The man who's desirous after gain,
   and who's lost the lusting hour,
   when his whole thought fades and is a-pained,
   was I become, before this restless beast,
   when it came near to me, and, move by move
   forced me back into the shades.
      So, found myself brought down and fell,
   there stood a man before my eyes, who
   though, stood long without the power, speech,
   was already further cast in loneliness.
   "Pity me!" I cried, "Whoe'er thou be,
   a shadow or a living man!"
   "I am," he spoke, "no man, though once I was,
   and from Lombardy came my parents
   and their home was Mantua.
   I was born, still under Julius,
   lived in Rome beneath the rule of that good man
   Augustus in the time of Anti-Gods.
   As Poet sang Anchises' son,
   the true one, come to us from Troy,
   after Illium, the proud, was burned.
   But you, why back ye off in deepest fright
   and not press on to wondrous hill,
   where true creation brings much joy?"
   "You're Virgil then, and are the bard
   from whom rich golden words gush forth."
   I spoke it humbly, forehead bowed.
   "You, honour and light of all the poets,
   let all my work, great love, with which
   I hold onto your books, be of service!
   You're master, the creator-like,
   the only one, from whom high art
   of words I've learned, who brings me honour.--
   See that beast there, which I flee,
   which keeps staying with me, famous wise man,
   my blood trembles through my veins from it."
   "There's another way then that is yours,
   if you want to save yourself from this
   wilderness," he spoke, with which he saw me cry.
   "The She-wolf, who accentuates your fear,
   lets no one find their way in peace,
   she stalks men, then, killing them.
   She's evil and malign and greedy,
   and won't ever be appeased by lust,
   and, after feeding, rises even hungrier.
   She'll let herself be fucked by many beasts,
   and thereafter, many more--until
   the hounds of th'hunt will come and kill her.
   The hounds won't hunger after valuable metals:
   but after knowledge, love and freedom,
   and be born beneath the felts.
   He'll free this poor, dear
   land of Italy, for which Camilla, Turnus,
   Eiryalus and Nisus dies in battle.
   He'll hunt the She-wolf through all cities,
   'till she's driven into Hell's eternal night,
   and the primal touch of envy sets her free again.
   In your best interest I think it would be well
   to follow me; I'll be your guide and take you from
   this place through the eternal chambers,
   where you'll hear some puzzling screams
   and witness poor dead souls,
   who will accost you with a second death.
   And you'll see others there who willfully
   would be consumed in flames, hoping that, sooner or
   later they will find a seat among the blessed.
   If you want to press on toward this realm,
   there'll be another one to show the way
   to whom I leave you in my worthlessness,
   because, the Emperor, who rules on high,
   since I won't give him recognition,
   won't let me show the path leads to his estate.
   He rules everybody, who rules there,
   there in the godly state, and there his throne.
   O what joy, when one is chosen for that place!"
   "Now then, my poet," I spoke, "by God,
   that you don't know, I bid of you--that I
   will flee this evil thing and worse--
   lead me there, that place you spoke about,
   let me see the gate of Holy Peter and those
   oppressed by suffering--as you say!"
   Then made way: I followed him.

   FINIS Canto I
   Translation Copyright (c) 1979 Klaus J. Gerken


RICHARD SOREF Monterey ~~~~~~~~ Sea otters tumbling in the kelp-soaked waves, bright sails and the caw of gulls circling Cannery Row, sardine smells-- and onshore, Spanish stucco buildings in 1850's style with sandy courtyards where ladies in shawls laugh lightly under the trees.
RICHARD SOREF For the One I Ex ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It was refreshing, a tonic, to be away from you and to have you shrink in my mind to the size of a grain. I am an oyster, and you are a particle of sand, an irritant swept in by the ocean. Now I cover you, coat you with a hard shiny shell that dulls your intrusion and clarifies my outlook. Serenity is a pearl.
RICHARD SOREF Hell is Here ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Being dead, being out of it, makes you one lucky son-of-a-bitch Charles B, awakened from this nightmare into the blank nowhere. We are still in the smarmy somewhere pondering your poems. Our turn now to listen to the gods laugh.
RICHARD SOREF Reality Show ~~~~~~~~~~~~ You and me are Reality TV, and a camera in the sky zooms in closer as I cry. The Survivor on this show is the one who doesn't go when the session meets its end and a fella needs a friend.
RICHARD SOREF Paternity, Terminal ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The nurse wheeled Dad, alive at the shoot-me stage, into the back bedroom for a private session with me his only son. No different now in his disconnection, he talked empty-hearted and shared no secrets or love, only cardboard words. Four years ago, he gave me his business card which still sits in my wallet. He called himself "retired", a euphemism today for his death in December. If I ripped up that card, I would add my final gesture to God's own. Ripping awaits the future when the quest for remembered love subsides, when the angry echoes end.
RICHARD SOREF Soft Story ~~~~~~~~~~ It began when Adam drooped after his fall, the first recorded case of erectile dysfunction. Thereafter, this half-mast story stayed half-hidden through millennia until revealed in the glare of our therapeutic age as conspiracy of psyche and soma, anxious conjunction of narrowed arteries, enlarged prostate and hormonal sag. Oh how the glorious hydraulic hardness of youth passes into flaccidity! How redemptive then that pitchmen and practitioners now know how to sieze and pump the future!
RICHARD SOREF The Passage ~~~~~~~~~~~ Retirement is a door that opens as another creaks shut, but before the worker is released, the rites of departure must be held. Vinny's is the venue where the group conveys its love with goofy gifts and a plaque. Three speakers praise and skate on the edge of eulogy. At Bill's retirement, I stood up and hoisted a home-brew verse to herald his triumphs and uniqueness. Who will be named to declaim my life when I am piped off this ship? Will my patron gauge me fairly or simply strew inanities into the clutter of booze and desserts?
RICHARD SOREF Consummation Carnival ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Commandment number ten: Do not covet thy neighbor's wife or niece or cousin or thy neighbor's neighhbor's wife or the babe pushing her cart in the Star Market. Covet away, I say. That Niagara cannot be held back. Despite the force of desire, or because of it, the biblical lust police hover over us as if we are cursed by an angry god. The real curse is our sexuality, the coding a cynical god placed in our genes, the serio-comic carnival that plays out ceaselessly for His obscure purpose.
RICHARD SOREF Sun Spot ~~~~~~~~ Grey panthers and pantherettes swarm to this sun-warmed city, unaware of its gay-and-lesbian aura. Propped by rubber-tipped canes, listing to starboard on the dry land of a one-star restaurant, they lurch into red padded booths-- there to stare vacantly at partners or air, there to portray the declivities of age.
REBECCA LU KIERNAN Shadow Play ~~~~~~~~~~~ Scientists on Montserrat Say rain causes volcanic eruptions, My labrador has become fearful Of shadows, howling, grunting, Snapping at the air. Your silence on this day Trickles into my cupped hands, If I don't tremble soon I will overflow with your absence, I will be required to speak first And lose, I will have to blink, Sooner perhaps, Erase myself with your Vagueness. I water the window box fairy's thimble In chewed bunny slippers and feed The deadly nightshade from the pail Mixture. Stone gray clouds finger a cherry sun. I wait in my grandmother's rocking chair For the glint of your white car Through the bent cobalt willows. Sometimes it scares me too Where my shadows fall.
REBECCA LU KIERNAN The Case For Bestiality ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "My god, you're beautiful in this position!" Whimpers The Lover With no view of my face. "A goat would be stunning With your cock in it's mouth!" I accuse. "I'll come by the office" He whines, lip curling, "And you won't say a word But rise to lock the door And you'll twirl off your panties And sit on my face And bad girls get a spanking by the boss, Elbows on desk, I'll take your ass And believe me it will hurt at first And you'll say STOP and I'll keep Pounding and I'll be done and you will Beg for more And I will leave without a single word." Calmly we dress and make our exit. He stops to lock the hotel room door As if some thief might steal his semen From the cherry desk or the gold Pillow or the dice patterned carpet. At times I worship him, others I think Bestiality should be legal And some men who shall remain nameless Should be strictly limited to goats.
REBECCA LU KIERNAN To The Bat Who Ate A Lion ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Already I miss it, "Be that as it may", The 3 A.M. light under the bedroom door, Your fingers on the violin, the safety chirp of Your midlife crisis car, the longest, most Intelligent explanations of things completely Mistaken, Your tangent about advertising being Mostly voodoo, your whimpery panting against The back of my neck, your cry of "Don't move, It's too good." I miss anticipating your hands on me from across White linen and crystal, your tease-barking at The dog, your hiccup after pears, high pitched Recount of the latest speeding ticket, copper Cup of Kahlua and coffee, casual perch, ankle Of your crossed leg touching mine, the hotel Robe thrown on for room service, your Fully clothed business voice on the phone, the Darting eyes of a racing mind, the sound of your Shiny black shoes on the staticky rug, your hands Behind head for a yawn, your mock smile of Shock and amusement, the snap of your spoon Cracking the creme brulee, The lion you trained to chase me Holding its hot mouth tamely around my head, My tight French twist tickling its tonsils.
Averil Bones CITY SKIN ~~~~~~~~~ In an orange way hairy pits swung through vine thickets, left pungent streaks on recumbent timbers, rotting, writhing with creatures whose births went unlisted. Free-balling sinuous men who drop from limbs, orange-skinned, faces cocky over human eyes in the hothouse humidity of chirripping jungle climes. My baldy body sweats. In the distance orange voices shriek long grating echoes to my fearful ears, so as I reach down to pluck that long leech from my bloody city skin I see just how far I have come.
Dmitri Klisho 2:50AM ~~~~~~ Is God playing against our team? Is He a coach who can only gesticulate and shout out instructions, Standing aside? Is He a referee Or is he a fan,watching the game on TV And eating his popcorn? Writing isn't like breathing, It's more like yawning. Not so essential-but you can't help it sometimes. I have nothing to say, But want to be heard. All the people are shouting and screaming around, Think that I have to whisper to be listened to. The big clock pours out time drop by drop, The room is silent. Not that we have nothing to talk about- We just have nothing to chatter about. I keep silent and she looks at me, As if she were deaf and reading my lips. Life is a waste of time and money. Don't you think we must find a better way to spend our time? God was a poet. He was a bad poet. He failed to find the right word. Like when you can't make yourself clear,and resort to drawing. We are the bad drawing of what He must have meant.
Jack Donahue FIRST STEPS ~~~~~~~~~~~ Our eyes lift to the far tree, leaves thrown back against the wind, showing silver undersides against that force. The sun never sets but we roll toward the horizon, chasing the ball and the flame. We crawl, prehistoric things on slimy bellies, unknown, mostly to each other. We study the pond, the trees, the sky and grunt for recognition to test our language amongst other crude things, at least to make our species known.
Jack Donahue HOW OLD DO YOU THINK I AM TODAY? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Can you guess how old I am, betcha can't guess how old I am he would say and say it over and over again. I pull sewer rats off my friend; we need our sleep deep beneath the iron grate. This is our home. I steal at night and in the day I hustle the tourists whenever I can. Can you guess how old I am today? The police play us for target practice; Shoot! Shoot the little shits, the filthy little tramps and thieves. We beat each other hard and those who even knew their parents are the first to die. Can you guess how old I am today? We give ourselves to old men and then spend the change for a sniff of airplane glue. Who, who had us when we were clean and cute? Can you guess how old I am today? Hey mister, why don't you look at me? You must've played that birthday game with son or nephew and counted the candles that measured his joyous little life. Hey mister, why don't you look at me? Can you guess how old I am today? Hey mister, he said and said over and over again, I live in this street, did you come to visit me? Hey mister, turn around and look at me, I want you to guess how old I am today. Take a good guess, the little boy said I am old today.
Jack Donahue AUSTIN, TEXAS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ At the juncture of Congress and Colorado, they sell leather goods and saddle soap to help us handle the next rush of cattle. The cream curbstone and terra cotta brick obey the colors of the sun and the ivy leaves at the base of Medusa-branched trees spread one half foot across the state's reputation. The smell of gravel and sweat and tar mixes with the good earth and brown grass as new office buildings shoot for the sky. It's good to see other men work on your day off, digging ditches, pouring C-ment, hinging shutters, calling on customers who spread the bread on your table. This is blue-sky, white-cloud country where the Daughters of Texas won't leave a man alone until he tastes her Southern hospitality. People here meet by chance on artisan-chiseled corners, on high-step sidewalks, in church doorways, behind opera house balustrades. Outsiders meet down dark alleys forbidden to collar-tied dogs. They spin multi-colored yarns of brides who never show up, of fathers who fail them, of trips to countries too far to get to, of music that fills their lives with sweet emotion. It is good to hear their cries of hope and forgiveness. Tomorrow will always bring new mistakes. Austin will always be this one daughter I met on a walkin' n' talkin' tour of the strangest streets. Husband gone, boys (you know boys) gone, university students coddled, curdled, and warned, come unto me (she would always say) all ye in need of rest and the truth told to you in my ageless, tearing eyes.
Jack Donahue TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She swallows the hard, hollow dust then lets the demon rum run through her system like a draino rinse. Her hand always shakes with the day's first drink clink clink here's to the first day of the rest of her life, ended a long time ago.
Jack Donahue MY GOOD FORTUNE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Buried in a simple pine box, my fortune is loosed upon the world, and drifts on the high seas to shores I never dreamed of. When I have the time I should examine the contents of this coffin, carved and crafted into the artifice of living hope. I keep the worms away but other creatures rot the spirit of the flesh. I fill my self with myself like sand from a freshly dug cavity. Under this cover, I listen to the voice of the rain, dropping metallic syllables upon my roof. I retreat to the bath and study objects in the soft amber light: the cheap art; the dead radio; the soaps and shampoos from motels and gift shops abounding in little, useless things. As the heat rises, the borders of the visible world recede into the clenched fist of time's cruel judgement. Now, I'm past any definition of things and transport myself to that little town on route two oh two. I remember the single yellow warning light swaying with each gust, blinking and blinking and blinking way past the time any local citizen could help me sleep. Some things are still made by hand, I thought, so I will create this next part of my dream. I will force my hands to make something, to weave a carpet out of found objects: things discarded, things lost, things wanting to be found.
Jack Donahue ON THE MAKE ~~~~~~~~~~~ It is happening to me right at this very moment so I want to get it all down now so you don't miss a thing. Here I sit in the back seat of a big Lincoln Continental, trying to discreetly rub my leg against the leg of the woman sitting on my left. My wife sits directly in front of me, alongside another couple and this woman's husband is on the other side of her, staring out the window. Does anyone in this car aside from me have any idea of what I am trying to do? What I hope to accomplish? This is the first time in my life I ever met the other people in the car. The driver, Professor Bob, hired me through a classified ad to do research for him so he could get his doctorate. It did not occur to me at first that he should be doing this research himself and that is what getting a doctorate in education is all about. But I need the money and agree to meet him. He said let's get together for dinner and we'll talk about it. About half way out of the city, heading toward Yorktown Heights I realize how intrinsically unethical this whole situation is but am too embarrassed to reveal to my wife how naive I am. It's going to be a nice ride up I told her. It was. But now what do I do? Our thighs touch! Ever so slightly. I keep my leg stiff. She moves hers a little bit away. Is she thinking what I am thinking? Is there any chance for us? I don't like the looks of her husband. How could she be happy with him? Impossible! First of all, he is much older than she is. His skin is almost albino white. Freckles dot his skinny forearms, but they're not the cute kind of freckles, (they almost look like cancer spots or something) and an occasional reddish blond or wheat colored hair sticks up this way and that. I'm not sure of the exact color because I'm color blind. All I know is that everything about him is unattractive. His arms have no muscle tone. They just kind of dangle out of his shoulder sockets. And his hair, God his hair is awful. It's a toupee for sure, and a bad one at that. I can see the gauze netting at the tip of his forehead. He must put some paste on that thing every day to hold it down, like that stuff they put on dentures. I can't think of the brand name right now. Whatever color that rug is he got it to match the ugly hairs on his arms. He must have some real hair, though, in the back of his head maybe because there is dandruff all over the collar of his black shirt. And you can see the semi-circle of salty sweat under each armpit. He doesn't wear deodorant. What is this beautiful woman doing with him? She's a little older than me but can't possibly be happy with him. What is he, rich or something? I don't know if I respect her any more. I move my leg closer, all the time streams of unfamiliar scenery float by ... my eyes are fixed on the right side of the road. I can't risk making eye contact with her. Our bodies have to respond to each other silently or no deal. Professor Bob's wife has a broken arm, her left arm, the one attached to the hand she writes with. She's muttering something to my wife (they're both schoolteachers) about her two kids Tommy and Peggy and how her parents demanded she use her right hand instead of her left when she was a child and that unnatural forced behavior made her stutter for awhile. She would never do that to her own children, blah, blah, blah. Well, I hope her parents like their stuttering southpaw daughter. I'm not so crazy about her. She's not an attractive woman at all, yet Professor Bob is very good looking and has a great personality. Exactly what does he see in her? She's way overweight and has a puffy face as if she's on medication or something. Oh what a terrible youth she had. How cruel and ignorant her parents must have been. What is this, confession time? Who gives a shit, really? All I want to know is if this beautiful woman sitting next to me is feeling what I am feeling right now. Is she on the make also? What is she doing with that creep? He's some kind of business partner with Professor Bob. What do they do, sell Amway together? I don't know. I'm not sure I even care. Anyway, we arrive at the Chinese restaurant and damn, I don't even wind up sitting next to this woman. My wife seems pleased. Neither one of us is paying for this dinner and the food is pretty good. So what is this trip going to cost us? Gas money, that's it. My wife tells Professor Bob that he reminds her of her Uncle Anthony. And he does in a way, I have to admit that. But he's a corrupt son of a bitch, not Uncle Anthony, this Professor Bob who's going to pay me $1500 to go to the Teacher's College library and write up something on whatever his dissertation is. I'm thinking right then and there that I'm doing no such thing but I'm not going to tell him in the restaurant because I don't want to ruin anyone's meal. I'll wait a few days and send him a note or leave a message on his answering machine. I'll try to call when I know he's not going to be home because I want to end this relationship before it even gets started. My only concern right now is that after this meal we take the same positions in the car. I want to feel this beautiful bitch's leg to rub up against mine. Suppose she does feel the same way I do and gets excited when our legs touch? What am I going to do about it? Sure enough, we sit in the same spot on the way back to Professor Bob's house. This time I get to look out on the other side of the road but it's dark and I don't see a thing except dayglo mileposts. Man, would I like to take this woman somewhere alone for an hour or so. Every now and then I steal a glimpse of her lap. She folds her hands in such a way that her dress rides down against the inside of her legs. I see their shape and I see what every man wants to see above all else, the formation of that magic triangle between her thighs. Wow! She didn't even talk to me or look at me during dinner. Not even a hint that she finds me attractive. This could be just a onesided deal for all I know. I'm thinking she's gotta like me because of what she's married to. I'm younger, better looking. Maybe she doesn't find me interesting though. My conversation at dinner was a little stiff and conservative. I have to admit that. But who cares about that if we're just going to have a couple of hours of hot sex? Her husband didn't say anything I found interesting either. Damn, what does she see in him? Professor Bob carried the whole conversation during dinner, in the car and at his house afterwards. He's a charmer, that's for sure. In that way, he is like my wife's Uncle Anthony. But I know I'll never see him again. I could use the $1500 but I'm not getting a doctorate for anyone but myself. And I'm not even going to get it for myself. Damn, I don't know what I want. All I want is for this woman to give me some sign, any sign, that she wants me. But I get nothing. Not a thing. She doesn't even talk to me once the whole evening. She doesn't even ask what my name is. It's as if she knows that this is the first and the last time we'll ever see each other, so why bother. Of course, I could continue the relationship with Professor Bob and this way I would see her again and give it another try. Maybe I should be more direct the next time. Maybe she's the kind of woman who doesn't go for subtlety, expects the man to take the forceful lead in every situation. I don't know. But then I would have to do that bullshit research for him and I refuse to do it. It wasn't that bad an evening, all in all. The food was good. The scenery upstate is kind of nice. My wife fell asleep on the way home. She always does. I don't know what I want. But I'm still young. I'll figure it out. The End


   shiska holli

   My Lover Fell into the Rhine and Emerged with  Strange Rapture

                      ...and, raging, weave a chain of power ~ Goethe

   My lover is liquid justice, 
   bestows brushstrokes of 
   screams to Saint Marta
   on pliant canvases
   crafted by molten fire
   found in his deep corners
   filled with quiet

   My careful lover creeps
   around my psyche,
   my ecru body
   like a lost prayer
   leaves a path of unknown
   flowers with open mouths,
   their breath ripe with
   tortured confessions.
   The scent of despair
   becomes a superior
   imprisons the mind
   with unpalatable memories
   always on the tip of
   seduces the Achilles heel
   implants an unquenchable
   haunting need.

   My starry night of a lover
   is sinewy and strong
   with eyes whose color
   I can never recall,
   can never evade.
   I have never witnessed
   him take food,
   sips transparent liquor
   as he feeds me caviar.
   I have never had the
   guts to say no to the
   cigarettes he offers.

   My deep blue lover works
   through my fragile passage
   willfully with obscene
   knowledge   weaves me
   an ancient hymn is
   written on my flesh,
   against my laughable will.

   I suffer
   He becomes 
   I plead
   His eyes close
   I quake
   He calls me by my
   given name.
   I thunder  and soar
   I burst into orange flame and
   die for a while,
   the rapture on the Rhine fills him
   through me
   St. Marta's eyes
   bore into me from
   her place on the wall.

   I cry like a baby,
   with all my heart
   and with all my 
   body   I wait  for
   his chiseled face,
   hidden in gray clouds
   to reveal my 
   to me each night
   ashes in the wind.                                   

   shiska holli:  Comes alive at dusk. Fills her mind with Chopin, Wagner 
                  and Ravel. Obsessed with small boxes and Samuel Beckett.
                  Upcoming  Wilmington Blues & Purple Rose publications.


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
  issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM
  or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery.
  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site at http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.


  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 - 2003 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
    submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
    contents: kgerken@synapse.net

    * Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything
    that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored
    files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on
    Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access:

    We'd love to hear from you!
    Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: