YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts


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



      Doug Tanoury
         Earliest Memory


      Michael Knox
         Night Noises
         From the Porch
      Michael Collings
         Cleaning the Garage
         Mountain Hike
         Crow Cotillion
         Along the Back Roads-Journeying Home
         To Mason-On a Display Of Swordsmanship
         Without a newyork
         Something about the curve of lip
         Thoughts upon Unexplained Delays in Pre-Op
      David Fraser 
         Children of the Ice
         Blackberry Picking
         A Practical Life
      Jack R. Wesdorp
         Punta Rojos
      Christopher Barnes


      Christopher Barnes



   Doug Tanoury

   Earliest Memory

   My grandfather 
   Worked nights in a steel mill in Detroit,
   And as a young child, it was always my goal 
   To stay up just long enough to see him
   When he came home.
   Most of the time I failed and fell asleep waiting,
   But sometimes I was successful
   And was waiting for him wide eyed and awake
   At the front door as he entered.
   It is always his boots that I remember most
   And only incidentally his black metal lunch pail.
   It seems I was always on the floor at his feet
   On which he wore big black work boots
   Their toes gray smudged with soot and ash 
   A swirling mixture of light and dark
   That somehow now seems to me to be like
   Moonlight shining across the clouds
   On a November night.

   Michael Knox

   Night Noises
   These things are not to meant to be worried about. 
   So we cease to trundle in the lanes in the dwindling of day, 
   light candles against panes between us and the inky waded fields. 
   Still echoes reach our ears, first in the hushed hints of shades 
   then in muted yowlings that shiver our wits 
   and joust our skepticism. 
   Our ears strain on the dusty lane, 
   night's cloak taut against it like a drum, 
   humming or breathless. 
   The wide vault above us flitted with velvet shots 
   and our teeth come alive 
   with all the knowledge of our ancestors 
   who knew not even that there is nothing to fear
   in the opaque air of the forest, 
   in the rustles in the faint field, 
   in the shivers we mistake for intuition. 

From the Porch ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The fifty some-odd year old garbage man who looks like he could bite a chunk out of Lucifer's face with his grizzled maw, spit it back at him and then finish a joke, is telling the young guy that he'll get used to the smell. But his girlfriend wonít. The heavy air of Chinatown wafts here on the south wind off the crystal spread of Lake Ontario, though here it is a hint and not a blanket as it hangs in the Spadina throngs. The sun bounces harshly off car windows, sliding from one car to the next in impudent retinal assault. An old man with whiskey-sapped eyes careens between sidewalk and the bare patch that could only ironically be called the front lawn, he looks up and gutters at me, wavering where he's paused, feet planted tentatively, body resisting, and I raise open palms in apologetic shrug. He wobbles on with his weight. Two girls follow, warily distant, speaking softly, eyeing me suspiciously at my perch. Some never will get used to the smell, or the present. They're racing, grating against the visceral aesthetic. The absurdity of the anxieties here are what puzzle me. That's why I love the smell. Immediacy.
Frosh ~~~~~ The unsullied faces come wide-eyed from Cornwall or Kincardin, these ghosts of places in the immediacy these streets lay on us. They become tribal, inclusive, timidly defined. We'll down the worst beers in the world in faux dives together, flirt alone with shades in these rooms and fuck emptily because we're supposed to, then grow out of it all like defiant ivy. But for now we'll laugh at it, whatever it is, but ask and Socratic spiel will last two hours. though we're terrified at how lost we all are. That is why I love them, because I was born for lostness and I adore it in others, and so I drift among them, reminding myself of myself in their meekly steeled eyes.
Michael R. Collings Regrets ~~~~~~~ some words whisper darkness- thirsty shades drink wayward sounds barely reach bare porches of thin lips cannot touch sleeping ears will not enter an unwilling edifice some poems write stark silence- chill fingers cramped word-hoard stilled by glacial hearts dead beneath cruel heat of light-sound-sight some loves suffer innocent of life- a hand twists back damp wispy hair restores a kicked-off coverlet unutters words that die upon a cheek
Amputation ~~~~~~~~~~ Is this how it begins? A curious tightness- A silken ligature Taut against stiff skin- Warmth and throbbing Mocking elsewhere Coldnesses. Then-waking-to a swollen Heat-painful pressure Snaking blood and bone- Finger-touch-and welcome Pleasure-pain that catches Ragged breath and Flings it back to me.
Cleaning the Garage ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An evanescent spider filigrees barren stucco walls to crumbling concrete footings..., laces twelve-year-faded apricots crammed curved-shell-up in cloud-crazed mayonnaise jars..., laces water-clotted Clorox bottles that disintegrate and with Small Bangs flood the fruit room..., laces Great-Grandpa's bentwood bucksaw, black elm-dust plaque caked along dull rust-red teeth..., laces inch-thick dusty memories and musted shades of death and change....
Mountain Hike ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Alone. Embedded in layered chaparral- A willing fly in living gray-green amber- I walk. The sun tints brick-red shale to white, Ripples seeming-solid stone. I walk, disturbing dust thick-scored With twisted serpent marks, Skittered quail tracks, clean-drawn lines Of lizards' tails heavy in oppressing heat. Alone. I stop...foot nudged querulous Against sand-soft spoor of a mountain cat. I stand alone in gray-green chaparral-intent On sounds of wild pursuit that does not come.
Crow Cotillion ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two-by-two-I saw-they hopped A wobbled line along the walk; Black toenails clicked, black feathers flopped, As they performed before the flock. Two led the way, heads ducked and bobbed; Two followed, mimicking the dance; Two trailed behind, with shadows daubed; A sextet preened to primp and prance. Surprised that they did not take flight, I hid behind the stone pavilion- Self-conscious witness to the sight, Sole guest allowed at the Crows' Cotillion.
Fog ~~~ Fog softens every Angle-mutes each curve And cornice-bids dreams Invade stark black-top Consciousness-folds heart- Warmth upon itself. It convolutes simple Arcs of branches-invites Pent breath to exhale in Ghostly clouds-confuses Dim horizon points-caps Nearness with obscurity. Fog captures stillborn Fears-births horrors yet (and ever) never Seen-collapses sharp Futurity in- To the possible.
Along the Back Roads-Journeying Home ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AND thus the Past proceeds past me, One by one by lonely one, Ragged fence posts mark the potholed tracks- And thus unfold its convolutions: A redwing blackbird clutches its narrow rush- Cattails blown and frowzy, Reeds brown in July heat, Marsh receded to barely moistened pad- And still the redwing balances wind and wing; Or a meadowlark, now mute but waiting To release its song- Phantom notes echo Through time-faded bedroom windows- And it waits and faces to the east; And-how's this for sheer simplicity-a robin, Rusty-throated, on its fence post. I cannot hear its song for the rush Of air against sleek fenders and hiss Of blackened asphalt on black tires...but yet I can- Or think I can.... I watch each one proceeding And wait upon new memories Being born.
Covet ~~~~~ Joey Kattenhorn (hawk-thin at thirteen) disappears into the john, blocks the door with his shoulder, changes denims for red cotton trunks- ridges of stomach bared and tan and rippling like ceramic tiles Maybe I can sneak into the john-and watch him strip and wish I dared
To Mason-On a Display Of Swordsmanship ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Barefoot-toes flat-tensed On drab commercial-grade Celedon (or somesuch weave)- In jeans and T you Swing your steel and hook Sharp fingers as if to Claw raw eyes from night Itself and send blighted stars Ricketing in pain- Forearms taut to Hedgerow tendons-flails To harvest unwilling Grain and flash from field To grave between a Heartbreath beat But no- The silver weaves its artifice of light-conjures Babylon and Ur Egypt and its dust-hagged Magic-warriors' arms Quivering beneath The weight of brass and Iron and electrum Silver-gold brash against Heat-rising suns. Or heaving Hack-hewn lungs That battle sweat and Fear and pummel Dust to everlasting Dust-subdue the naked Glory Beneath the swell of Undulating Harmony.
Without a newyork ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ without a newyork where to fine the sour anonymity of sweatbond streets and alleyways that hunk- er darkness thru long casement bricks where to see to touch to taste ill/licit darkness (as they all do eloquently in autobios and reviews before they write) without a newyork where among stark panhard emptiness widestreets bright lit eternal sunbaked nothing of bakersfield in lowslung backshelf dimness beyond unending rows of greeting cards and diet aids and glinting porcelains where artbooks lurk and on the lowest range they were in moments gasp-grasped between the storm in stolen frag- ments convertible-plymouth top- down-nude parked ill-legally beneath a violated half- moon sun in side- longing glints of b/w half-tones slick and porous papered substitutes for newyorks poorchild
Something about the curve of lip ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Something about the curve of lip the fem- inine almost or at the least the am- biguity that signals startle/shock com- pels attention and a farrowed brow- or twist of fingertip outreached and over- reached crookhook/stiff celluloidal arc to signify both trans-/port and -/for- mation emboded in geologic greys-or worse and more some turn of thought/em- pulse fivedactyldrive-focus on the mas- culine not-with-knowing beneath blueden- im cord/duroy caught in shadows from the past
IceStorm ~~~~~~~~ At Christmas, IceStorm lightning does not Streak Or shriek Stark jagged jets across pitch sky Through thunderheads that lie Like shaggy bundles piled on an agate Sheet- With heat And violence to twist the night And put calm dreams to flight. No, lightning does not burn at Christmas-time, Burn Or churn Or wrench awry .... In honor of The Infant Child of Love The lightning does not slice in zagging cuts but Swirls Encurls Encloses snow-draped vales and crests With silver-gleaming, silver-sheening rest.
Chrysocolla ~~~~~~~~~~~ Pale-washed blue-in-black Until the rock Being struck- Shatters And sharp fragments Cluster Lazur-like Microscopic Pock-scapes: Knolly meadows brightly drused with snow Secret caverns lipped in rippled blue Glassy moss-crusts crumbling to grit Each spiralled twist of wrist Or jittered lens-each flensing glint Of light Reveals one Small intense spin- Glittered crystalled Omniverse.
Thoughts upon Unexplained Delays in Pre-Op ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Seven hours connected by tube and needletip To a sluggish drip of nothing-more or less-than Fluid the content of my own. Connected by tube, and needle, And steel shaft to a wheeled pad barely broader Than my shoulders-an inch on either side And hands would hang like white unripened Sheaves beneath yet-whiter sheets. Seven hours-part dreaming tumultuous Dreams of pain and loss-of-pain; Part weightless under almost self-hypnosis that threatens Each instant to transport me-spirit wandering- To the mottled ceiling where I might stare down At myself as if entombed; part wry and angry, Feigning humor as gown-swathed patients Enter, endure the same arcane processes that I have, And leave, trundled on squeaking wheels by Tiny, dark-haired nurses chattering sotto voce To themselves. Seven hours. One short trip, with Judi holding Carefully the drip-bag...and I empty as quickly/slowly as I Fill, a simultaneity rarely so achieved. Then bed, and sleep, and dream, and doze, and wait, And wait, and wait. Elsewhere, three hundred-thirty minutes, Nearly twenty-thousand seconds tick onerously- Too fast, too mortally slow-and in any one The unknown, unnamed, briefly mentioned She or He might well have died. Seven hours wait. Not too high a price.
David Fraser Children of the Ice ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We are the children of the ice, Hunting for our souls, Gathering up our baubles and our dust. Digging through the ruins Of past plundering, We go about our ego-centric Business of the news, All stars in reference to where we are, Each surface named and named again The squashed up rugged peaks we conquer, The fertile valleys, the deep long rivers Winding to the sea, The ragged headlands formed in ancient times, We name and harness all these things. But we are merely passing through, Scratching groping fingers in the dust, Unaware that time and ice again Will change up everything, Will leave us fossil figures In some future piece of stone.
Blackberry Picking ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ These sharp, honed razor stalks Sprouted up and mixed with broom Coat the scars of land disturbed. Their stalks reach up and cling to trees, Stretch in tangled barbed islands, A refuge for quail and rabbit, Snakes and mice. I wade into the thorny waters To pick those plump rich berries Just a stretch away, A scratch away, a curled hand, Two subtle fingers reaching up beneath a leaf, The juice of picked berries staining Them, rich and red, purple in the shade. The canes move and grip my hat, Claw at the cotton shoulders of my shirt. I pick with either hand, Held in a cocoon of time, Lost in picking, Lost in all the tangles of a life. I eat a few; the juice exploding on my tongue. The dogs, tired of chasing rabbits Sit in the long dry grass beside me. I feed them berries And they, too, begin to pick from the lower stalks. We gather together, The hot sun of a blue sky and a breeze Much a part of us Berries, dogs and me.
A Practical Life ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So much relies on My mother's practicality. Floors obsessed with being clean, Dust afraid to settle on the mantelpiece, Time spent worrying Over pennies in a jar, A life revolving round The clean, clear light Of a freshly washed window, All things kept and cared for, Looking as if new, Spotless porcelain toilet bowls, A streakless shower stall. And in that universe Of places and their place, Repetitive routes and routines, A life of dull frugality Evolves, A life of atrophy, A life of eat and sleep And serve and clean To sweep and vac And dust and mop And wash and iron But never dream Past the tiny Quiet Sad Moments that are "nice".
Jack Wesdorp Punta Rojos ~~~~~~~~~~~ Being marooned wasn't all that bad. I found some nice hole in the cliff pad, sterling scenery with the lagoon, and a hidden back door to the dunes up serpent winding tunnels and stairs, with dry storage rooms and secret lairs cut into the stone by unknown hands, my own sentinel Casa Grande out on the edge of forever Wild. A few weeks for the shock to subside, something about a raft and hot sun, if it weren't for west wind and tides Iíd not be here, so I think a lot about it but can't get a fair grasp on when it was or where I'm heading, or did I hear someone-some promise, it was all very confusing dead I remember but blotted that Out. When you live alone you start talking. It don't matter that there's no one there- -pretty nice beach- just walking along mama nature showing off her wares, and you talk to yourself probably like you-re really plugged in with big stuff, grabbed hold of nuclear knobs and feel endless horizons lightning enough to strike at the heart of where it's At. Oh, easy enough for you to say; so tell me, how would you go about getting straight with a life's worth playing Shakespeare's all the world's a stage shouting so the great gods can hear what you've done? And supposing you want to get back, what's the deal with getting born again? I mulled all that stuff real fine and tracked my feet up and down all over When. Try to get with the girl of your dreams says this inner voice quiet that seems more like a choir of demon lust than angel fire unconscious wust, whatever castaway tenor starts to shore up the semblance that you're part of the human condition and skein, plainly to keep from going insane on the utter of deepwater Waste. The lagoon teems with eatable stuff and I'd salvage the wreck of enough to keep me going at least a year; I figured to get the drop on fear and go on with the rest of my life. I retrieved a box of kitchen knives, a spool of nylon parachute cord, the binnacle lens and a fine hoard of red wine that I drank without End. The glass I used to start a fire, I thought perhaps a signal wire off to some nebulous murky place; then I got down with the cord and grace, learned to weave a zillion knotted net and cast it wide from my parapet; the steak knives turned out to be exact what I needed for my feral act on the bare shore of burgundy Beach. Life was pretty good there on the edge, I did my cave man and private ledge, sometimes I met the sun coming east with all god's fishes and flying beasts, and sometimes I did it from the west where wishes burned at my own behest; but no matter where I turned my gaze the horizon flickered in a haze I couldn't quite grasp off where it's Fierce. You know how thereís feral things out there, long legged beastie boomp in the night? Part of the baggage you're carrying is laced up with vanity and fright, some of you wants to compare strange styles, a little is into getting home, but mostly it's about waiting while the record keeping is going on. Then you focus down real close on Time. Time wears a red robe, did you know that? Thatís because we see only a part of everything there is that's hidden. Apparently that's most of the chart, so it follows that to get past clocks you need to do some serious time in the hourglass; oh, look at those rocks each with a chiseled name by the door and some dates that explain Everything. I think I must have been there thirteen I don't know what but I guess it seems long enough to get in solid with the lore of deserted island myth, like footprints on a beach where there ain't and the whisper of holograph plaint; our mind holds marvelous harbor lands when time slows down to a grain of sand in the hourglass throat of Rojos Wild. So here's the scene: I made a chalice, I found a hollow shell on the strand and set it on my palace table; big whoop de do place of honor grand brouharija with all the fable and magick I could muster damn right. Busted a whole bottle of dago to consecrate my altar with hope and a first rate bender on the Brim. Drunk dead guys donít get hung over sick, they just get stinking absentminded; I remember drinking something thick with what the hell I'm sorta blinded, big twisted hexing trip fills you up with who you really wanna meet most, like the ocean swirling in your cup take me now my mother holy ghostÖ and then you're on the Promontory. By morning my cup had filled with rain; thatís by which I thought you will forget. And indeed I lost all sense of pain nor remembered where my feet had stepped or the very name I had been known. It became a timeless place I dwelt of water, sand, of air, glass, and stone, kind of like that Dali melted clock that hangs from a bare branch just Waiting. Ainít no doubt I went far round the bend, a drooling idjut booby hatchling, there's a door somewhere I'm sure to wend if I just keep watching for my face, that was it, itís all self image wyst; but fools donít look in mirrors often and it took me another delving mother during sleep I think and soft listing to larboard deep in the Red. There was a week of hurricane storm, of dragon bellow and wither worm; I went fossicking off right goodly my head screwed on tight understoodly along the beach unto tidal pools transparent enough to mirror fools; I sat me by such opaline glass and finally came to the passage between here and now and Wherewithal. Glimmer casement and window pane quest, I can remember the moment best like where I started asking questions gazing full at my own reflection in a simple basin by the sea between a point and infinity, and all my surroundings burned scarlet out there at high tide beyond the bar where all dead sailors dare Profundis. So it must I remember thinking the odor of dust, fairly drinking of a ruby goblet offered me by a careful hand I couldnít see, but her intent was obvious plain and then there was that first sense of pain you get when you fall southward to earth as a red pointed resolute birth from the mouth we call Punta Rojos.
Christopher Barnes CLAP ~~~~ As the Monarch Butterflies heave, tipping black and powder-red wings, the milkweed anticipates the glop of their eggs with an overspill of nectar. There's an inexpressible conjour trick dreaming its prompt. The sunrise harmonizes in elemental fuses. Because every performance woos a conductor we await the white-bar baton. It follows... there is no mystery in lightning.
THE SPACE SHUTTLE SHOW ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She's in the newsroom, he's in cosmic dust. Deflecting digital white he takes her mind on a spacewalk. In a flash, converging lenses shimmer, she I-spies the space-time continuum and falls in love long-distance. Feather-felt her heart flutters over shaded bafflements, infinity, where the level of a mirror holds him in the telecamera. Then as it may happen a telltale point-blank concentration, an enter-orbit proposition. As he looses earth connections in a husk, a nonbeing rocket, he is mere kernel stuff. She becomes self-conscious looking at the full moon of the rolled-into-one universe. This lull softens the audience, the unhinging of network immortality has just begun and the mind-boggle of enormous moments spread across the tv.
GABBY, GODDESS OF TOUCH ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She's loquacious with Braille has pimple-speak across loud-to-the-feel jewelry, 'the real thing' chortles buds on her blacked out tiara and as we pat her we acquire wandering eyes. That all-along downcurve is contour to spell at any pace. A stud through the eyelid pronounces 'squint' but let us dream beyond that into day-blind pupils, suspended pools. Ambidestruous pearls are a paste-croon to summer and the ingot bones through each double vision nipple. But in her belly's bull's-eye we have 'saturn' from whose flames all her bodypops flail. 'Enter at your own risk' domed on pudenda and then the anklet's bright idea, 'walk with me'. And on her toe a gypsum bow rivets the attention, bumps of 'this is where the touching ends, the place where you begin'.
QUENTIN CRISP DAYDREAMS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Brocade in ivory and foam-flecked cream, your robe-de-chambre has arrived. Many-sidedly turned out (by hand). The smocking at T.G. Jakobowicz's is The Biz for the hob-nobility. Assume the cutter's scruples with lace for the floppy bodice, pique at the ruffle, two square yards of netting under cute queenly ormshells. Trip-up velvet skirting, angelhooded, flight-skein sleeves. As if narcotics yoked a driven ecstacy, a translation of shadows, a butterfly's insight lands a plum-pitch 'parcel for you milday' Snowflakes avalanche from mother's turban. In sun headlocked by thick-bodied privet she's an earth-shaking black owl perched at tge coal-spitting hearth. The tea-things pitch on embroidered linen. Gas lamps hum to the full-lenght mahogany looking glass, softened by dust. The tight-light haze splashes a nymph back: Mr. Crisp seductively fingering a padded underwired bra.


   Christopher Barnes

   'I learned to act by watching Martha Graham dance,
   and I learned to dance by watching Charlie Chaplin act.'
        - Louise Brooks
   And I am self-taught
   in being habitually drunk
      - I dot the sun in puddles,
     dancing attendance on the ambrosia beetle
     where it sidestrokes in the trough.
     Clashing hot spot waves
     until high summer dusts the ground.
     An insect scuttles.
     Humidity dissolves to cloud.
     On thundercloud nine
     of slurred speech and hypnotic pills
     there are menacing flare-ups.  The sun's outpouring
     walls up, in a twinkling, the dark.
     I dream of the shocking-pink incircle
     of an eclipse,
     an eardrum to the solar wind
     wheezing to emptiness.
     Einstein said,
     'energy equals mass
     times the speed of light, times the speed of light.'
     Hydrogen, tail-chasing electrons
     and helium trickles the afternoon.
     Superdense like this wine,
     gas fizzes to the curved surface.
     I act my way through prompt box theatrics
     under limelight - infra-red, x-rays
     and osmotic ultraviolet,
     for my public to stare at
     in night-blind cinemas.
     A quaff douses the sizzling cauldron
     that lies at the heart of a star.


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 - 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
    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: