YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

January 2005

VOL XIII Issue 1, Number 141

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Pedro Sena; Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Heather Ferguson; Oswald LeWinter

ISSN 1480-6401



   Del Corey

   Jesse Ferguson
         I. Fishing Trip, 1992.
        II. On the Highway, 2002.
       III. Trophy, Yesterday.
      Goldfinches Near Cooper Marsh
      After the Fact
      Silence in December
      On the Rocks
      Dogs Smell
      Tin Whistle
      String Section
   Laura Stamps
   Richard Fein                                  
   Trevor Landers 
      1. In love with Beth Orton (again)
      2. My unqualified opinion
      3. Masseuse at Nikau Street
      4. On why New Zealanders travel
      5.  Singapore
   Roberta Swetlow
      1.  A Different Interpretation of a Familiar Word
      2.   Waiting for Mordechai
      3.   First Snow
      4.Season of Discontent
   rex swihart
      Nottiteln #90   
      Nottiteln #94
   Josef Lesser 
      Man rounded into a ball naked rolling
      We the voyeurs can only speculate
      Camp of Lost People
      devoid of space for extra baggage
      Hokusai ---- who raised from the crib of the sea
      Letter to Mr. Chagall


   Del Corey
      Divining II 
      Divining III 


Del Corey


For years I've been hiding in dark bars,
sipping cabernets to set insanity aflow,
reaching for just the right glow, to write
without letting the pen trip, fall over the edge,
where Oblivion waits, tapping his foot,
and yet I must let it stumble a few times,
to the point of being outside the civilized
world, for that's really close to the point of it,
isn't it, to un-blinder ourselves?

Then's when this writing stick becomes
a dowser, a divining rod, that I hold
while it walks across the page, waiting
for some exterior force to dip it, point it
downward, vibrating, the way a compass
needle does, when excited finding true north.

Jesse Ferguson Moose ~~~~~ I. Fishing Trip, 1992. It was hard to tell his size from far down the dirt road but as we approached I found him smaller than I would have guessed antlerless, young. He looked almost black punctuating a line of maples and I wondered if he felt what I did- nausea mine from the bumpy motion of our van his from our noisy intrusion. II. On the Highway, 2002. A carload of close friends colliding with a sudden black mass steel crumpling, safety glass crazed antlers through the windshield thunder without lightning. III. Trophy, Yesterday. A slumped and sleek mound dangling a limp tongue over the tailgate of a rusted pickup lying in his own blood and waste barreling down the highway towards butchery and debasement. And me, of a sudden, wishing that his hulking frame were smashed to pieces on that truck's grill rather than be gutted and mastered by irreverent knives. Nov. 13th 2004.
Nightclub ~~~~~~~~~ dense wall of writhing flesh, hits you a hot tsunami the reptilian brain licks itself into power creeps from out its ancient burrow beneath the cerebellum grips the mind with keen claws of pent up instinct you drown in images of perfect limbs curves destined for limbo faces you won't even remember wanting to Nov. 09, 2004.
Goldfinches Near Cooper Marsh ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ dozens of saffron projectiles erupting above a sunflower field skybound bubbles swerving effervescent trajectories carbonating a champagne sky Nov. 16th 2004.
After the Fact ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She went down to work every day sometimes walking, sometimes running. The wind would trip her up on the way. Sidewalks pounding under her worn shoes. The sky would cloud dark above her head. And no matter the route she took, always her son would be waiting there for her: thin boy's legs stretched out cold on the pavement. Nov. 9th 2004.
Silence in December ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ stopped alone under street light yellow and gray falling shadowed snow perfectly isolates thought
On the Rocks ~~~~~~~~~~~~ nightclub hopes of hot touch and Grand Marnier both dashed both on the rocks
Dogs Smell ~~~~~~~~~~ nosing whole and completely glorious worlds painted in bright scents on the steel hydrant
Tin Whistle ~~~~~~~~~~~ bright sweetness of tone, fingers and sunlight leaping skillfully on the chromed music created
String Section ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ from the gallery outside the window cricket cellists chirp nocturnal symphonies into the cool August 23rd 2004.
Laura Stamps I'LL NEVER FORGET ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ that balmy day in August, only an hour after sunrise, when I opened the curtains in the kitchen to watch a cat rolling the black raft of her body in wild grass, and suddenly the skitter of four tiny paws dashed out from beneath the porch, and then four more, both kittens tumbling over their mother like tawny leaves surfing an autumn breeze, each a calico tabby, mirror images of a feral male lingering in the neighborhood since last winter, and it was there, while standing beside the stove, the sun painting the pinewoods with a dandelion glaze, that I realized I'd been adopted by a new family of strays.
NO MATTER ~~~~~~~~~ what tumbles along the frantic raceway of each day, no matter what problems or pressures might bloom or fester, whenever I look out the window at the forest, time rolls as slowly as a warm September breeze ruffling the leaves of the oak, sunlight emptying its pockets to fling buckets of gold coins across milkweed and clover, trout lilies swaying against switchgrass on an afternoon when the wind steers a clouded catamaran through a plotless sky, and the dragonfly spins twenty- three rainbows within the metal zipper of its body. A stray kitten halts her daily patrol to nibble food from a bowl perched on crabgrass, a calico tabby, her coat spackled with mottled dabs of burnt sienna and slate gray. She turns as if sensing my gaze from behind the drapes, as if she might know the answer to the soul's quest for the harmony of being, the perfect answer to any frazzled question I would ask.
LADIES IN WAITING ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mid-September, and a flash of goldenrod in my neighbor's backyard trembles, cooled by tendrils of blueweed wrapping its sapphire maze around meaty stems, while the spiked blossoms of staghorn sumac fades. Today, the sky welcomes everyone, yet it waits for no one, especially this time of year, when hurricanes thrash in the Atlantic, and my energetic cat loops her paw under the door of the bathroom (her tiled cage for the moment) to rattle it, creating a booming noise that sounds more like an earthquake than just an impatient, twelve- pound whirlwind dressed in blackberry fur. Meanwhile, the gray cat waits for dinner on the porch, sprawled by the sliding glass door, arms and legs extended like a cliff diver. I wave to her, as I move back and forth, mopping the kitchen floor, until her head drops to her paws, exasperated as any cat with the need for patience and the importance of domestic chores.
TWO BOWLS OF CAT FOOD ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ By now a routine unrolls as easily as a cat's tongue lapping splattered sunshine from its coat. Two bowls gleam at the edge of the pinewoods that I fill twice a day, morning and evening, with dry food. And a new cat joins the troupe, always hungry, gray and wooly as a foggy morning, she frightens the kittens, but slips beneath the leaves of the linden whenever their mother and father appear. Almost a year old, no more than a kitten herself, she's as bold as this choir of crows bickering over crunchy manna in the bowls, or a blue jay that gobbled nineteen pieces yesterday. Switchgrass fans the setting sun, while a calico tabby flops beside fresh food, patiently allowing his kittens to dine first: two silken fists of fur, chewing a few bites, then skipping over to chase their father's waving tail.
HURRICANE SEASON ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When I awaken this morning, Tropical Storm Gaston grazes the marsh north of Charleston at the Isle of Palms, winds churning over seventy miles per hour. Its outer bands snake toward us on the weather map like verdant serpents, determined to soak the city within minutes. I tuck my night- gown in sweat pants, grab the yogurt and cat food, and dash out to the pinewoods to feed the kittens before the thick fur of the morning mats with moisture. Poppy and her father call to me from chickweed and wild strawberries, delighted with my arrival, but no sign of the other cats shivers the underbrush, as I fill the bowls and scamper back to the house to await the clanging footfalls of tropical rain.
Richard Fein BAGEL MEMORIES ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Do you want some butter for the royal slice of bread?" Then the little king slid down the bannister. And so I slid, but across the stage while holding a photo of buttered toast and with a paper crown on my head. Mommies watched, especially mine. Miss Fran pounded the piano. How I loved sliding from curtain to curtain. But the CEO, that Merlin, breaks the spell by chanting, "Well, we're all waiting!" My crown vanishes, my scepter shrinks to a ballpoint pen, my parchment with its kingly decrees becomes a requisition memo to that impatient CEO, my court dissolves into the monthly working-breakfast meeting, my throne becomes the last chair down the long conference table, and the smiling mommies morph into coworkers, with smiles as wide as the ones the Roman senators gave to Caesar. But someone is sliding, and there is butter for the royal slice of bread, for the center of the bagel I'm gripping is a black hole, a space-time continuum, through which my memory just hurtled back decades to the buttered toast I was holding, to P.S. 216, to Miss Fran's class, to an audience of two-dozen mommies, to a cast of lilliputian players, most of whom barely remembered their lines. But some-like me-gravitated to center stage and jockeyed for the spotlight by stepping in front of one another, moving closer and closer to the edge, until one wanna-be star fell off, fell off, and kept falling.
IMPLODING WORLDS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Imploding world, three sets of eyeglasses by a pillow, water and orange juice on the night table, crumbs in the sheets pharmaceuticals on the dresser, and a TV remote hiding in the blankets, old lady weary of mornings awakens to a shrunken world as dad did twenty years ago when she stood watch over him. Lifetimes whittled down to sickbeds. Orphan: a child deprived by death of one or usually both parents. But I'm a child at this moment, standing here keeping vigil. Soon I'll truly be an orphan. And when someday my son keeps vigil over me-
ABOUT EMILY ~~~~~~~~~~~ She didn't go to the graduation, and no one missed her, and she didn't appear at the class reunion. The old clique reunited at the punch bowl. One alumnus called her a two-faced actress, who put on a thespian tragic/comic mask and every face in between. And a now middle-aged woman, once a cheerleader with her, called her a an overly made-up manipulator and a bitch. And another accuser called her a psychopath. After all, the rumor was that she was the cause of that poor boy's (what's-his-name) suicide? No one really knows. She was absent the day of the school memorial, and someone said they saw her that day standing by the river on the very spot. Then the punch bowl party chatter stopped and all eyes turned to the one who might have answers. Long ago he built castles in the sandbox with Emily. They were childhood neighbors and like brother and sister, so if anyone saw through her day-to-day deceptions. . .. But at the punch bowl, he just filled his glass and quietly walked away. Once he also hated her. Even when she was five she would knock the sand castles down and make him cry. And the day after graduation they passed each other on the street as strangers. But whenever he walks on the beach and puts a seashell to his ear there's a roaring he alone can hear. And there must have been a roaring that haunted her ears, a roaring she alone heard, in that childhood sandbox and through all that came after. Emily, ultimately a hermit, scurrying like a hermit crab along the sand from one discarded carapace to another, dodging hungry jaws from which there was no real escape and seeking hardness for her papier-mâché‚ skin. He recalled there were times he could clearly see into her eyes. But when he'd come too close she'd dart away, and like the hermit crab seek comfort in a borrowed shell.
BIRTHDAY JETTISONING ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Finally down to serious discarding, I go deep into the closet and find everyone's threadbare overcoat, older than my memory of buying it. In a pocket, a paper with writing faded almost to illegibility. Something once was noted, and I've never been known to throw something important away. I try on the coat. It no longer fits. Now I'm trapped within a hoary skin. And I clutch a memento that's as yellowed and wrinkled as a jaundiced old man. It's time to pitch this rag heap. As for the paper, my very unfolding tore it apart.
HEISENBERG'S UNCERTAINTY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "In quantum physics the observer alters the observed. Reality is a fast choreography of photons." In human light, I observe a quarreling couple; they see me. Voices lower, they back away into shadows. I observe lovers. They see me; she puts her blouse in proper order. Does bearing witness reveal a truth seen, or a truth created? While I'm standing on a street corner, what cosmic events are changed by my meddling eyes? Do I end a tryst, or begin one, prevent a crime or cause one somewhere else? Do feet standing on a crossroad detour the path of an ant? Even the truth-seeking hermit needs to be watched by curious eyes. Why else does he bother avoiding them? How long can I gaze into a mirror and resist fixing even an out of place hair? How long can I accept what I see, when what faces me grows older, and slowly, slowly, decays?
GUEST LIST ~~~~~~~~~~ That one in ten doctor who prescribes brand X, the 0.0001% of the American electorate who vote to restore prohibition, the premier interior decorator for trailer park denizens, the heavy metal electric guitarist who plays Mozart softly, a pork eating Chassid, and the Moslem who makes a haj from Mecca, the diner who when offered either red or white wine with his truffles chooses beer, the pasta abhorring Italian and all Englishmen with a distaste for tea, the rebel Zen monk who resolves a koan single-handedly by answering it depends, the one who never farts in a crowded room and his bean-eating cousin who always trumpets a stampede, and speaking of crowds, the one who faces the rear in a packed elevator or never steps to the back a jam-packed bus, and to add flaming forbidden spice to the gala, the culattone gangster who kisses his fairy godfather's anal sphincter, all of them are invited and so are you, for you share a common, quite a common denominator with the above invitees. All of you who have nothing better to do than listen to this drivel have been added to the list, just give your name to the doorman and he'll click his heels, salute, and open doors for you- you who sample words as hors d'oeuvres, who tongue sentences for their texture, who self-stimulate orally by mouthing stanzas, who gargle in ink while both devouring and spitting out poetry.
NOT GOING POSTAL ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the post office, in any office, two-way mirrors mask snooping eyes. But you know not to go before one and cry, for there are watching eyes behind your own watching eyes. If a million senders mail a million missives but none are meant for you except first class bills and third class ads or if you believe that out there every letter sent, every human connection made is a dark conspiracy against you, then you need a place for secret lachrymose lamentation, some private place to retreat to between lunch hour and quitting, where only your reflection sees you weep, a place and time to confront yourself and bawl to hysteria, to cry until your nose drips, to wail until exhaustion, an exhaustion so thorough you couldn't go home to fetch your mail-order rifle, even if you had one.
Trevor Landers 1. In love with Beth Orton (again) into the gleam and glitter of stellar-star night little act of Samaritan loves done good deed to balance the ledger (still in overdraft) past the inlet, bliss-trancing, spirit-dancing & I am elevation, happy as I ever want to be today, today, will mean what i want it to mean your voice through the starlit coast rises like fireworks shower me in sparkles, and cloak me iridescently a light, a light, such a light as this. 2. My unqualified opinion my unqualified opinion is that you are just crying too hard to write all of the maudlin lines and lies to which only a conscientious psychiatrist could reasonably aspire & there you go again, chasing after the pitch black hearses ransacking memories from grizzled old ladies purses fanning the fires of charcoaling griefs with your very bare hands just waiting, for an ounce of real affection just longing for the greatest accelerants of the human mind: desire, indifference and baneful co-existence for a few trinkets seek: rage, arousal, stupor and desperation my unqualified opinion is that you are some sort of shellfish hard outer, inner so soft and utterly out of your depth-- so, I prescribe to you, an island with lagoons and coral reefs, & it must become you. 3. Masseuse at Nikau Street from the motorway past Kaiwharawhara the ink of night revivified on reflection emeralds, azures, ambers the snake road bayward to Eastbourne where the masseuse and her magical fingers lurk the leafy lane, anticipation rising across the spine, an incompetent manager dissolves down the flanks, three speeding tickets disappear the mercurial elements of life fall naked to the floor dissipated; unrealized dreams and long-cherished unwelcome enmities unglued, fall from the gurney helplessly the knots and knurls of unfathomable lovers & discontented allies loose their grip fall away into the black ether like departing valkyries and pixie hands mesmerise stress from the body. 4. On why New Zealanders travel Helsinki, 2001 a friend once asked me this in the Kauppatori as we waited for the ferry to Suomenlinna and the most plausible response is simple: distemper. disdain for the creeping insularity of my mother's country as if the ardent beauty of primitive mountains found a nation at a state of seismic unease sensing it in the visage of the people, the veneer of politeness it would allow comfort, or unheralded difference I don't buy displacement and transference theories I as much an autochthnous clod there as in Ireland, a son of two craggy islands and still from here I can hear the totara and kauri falling the toetoe spears on the wind lamenting the sad shrill of the sea wailing the uncomfortability of the people which makes the godwits fly. 5. Singapore From Bencoolen Road the spiny heat spikes the day and through a window, storm-brooding clouds wrestle a dozen sweltering gods, providence pours through. On a sidewalk, a man's fever unquenched a unembarassed rainlover, the sun singes his eyes and all around, the salty smell of rain evaporating, cools briny brow.
Roberta Swetlow 1. A Different Interpretation of a Familiar Word When I heard about the serial killer - Amoral - who tried to eradicate eunuchs - Asexual - I realized that I need not babble my gratitude that you found me when I was mired in a morass of muddled misconceptions, lost in a labyrinth of incongruities; that you plucked me beyond barriers of lies, bathed me in truth until I became crystal. I will simply say that you Amazed me. 2. Waiting for Mordechai Faint sunbeams banish messengers with a multiplicity of paired wings, guides to places she dare not enter. They unveiled scenes from the battlefields of playgrounds, alleys, busses, markets, kitchens, waiting rooms; then vanished in the summer dawn. She stretches archaic bones, arises from her loveless bed, trembles with trepidation - will today, at last, matter? Should she expect a modern Mordechai, a summons to employ an unsuspected gift, a secret power? Perhaps she should fix her hair, but did Esther alter her routine before her cousin's fateful visit? She endures the day as always: dines on precisely-peeled fruit, examines every key, tests every lock, vacuums invisible dust, wipes the sparkling mirror framing her haggard face. When will the call arrive to return the sparkle to her eyes? She sits in front of the window motionless like a puppet unable to pull its own strings who has tripped over its heavy wooden feet and sprawls, neglected numb even to the tears of angels. 3. First Snow Morning arrives in a white shroud that hides crumbled leaves, wilted blooms; let the dead lie in peace. 4.Season of Discontent The snow-filled gusts of winter shriek dark mirth like cries of banshees, piercing to the bone. Whatever's not set firmly in the earth is blown away; exposed skin turns to stone. With frost-shut eyes I stumble through the door; my frozen toes and ears begin to burn. Icy eons will torture me before delicious sultry summer days return. But am I daring fortune's face to shine? Will summer please me in her gentle rain? Or must I always curse the lot that's mine, compelled, in any weather, to complain? This gloomy point of view has stained my eyes. I'll search out glints of joy and azure skies.
rex swihart Condemned ~~~~~~~~~ A seed planted Attentive wet eyes cued by adult voices A curious young hand tracing the curve of speech *** At what point begins the inaudible Bolero gradually crescendoing throughout a life to an alarming still-soundless blare *** Wintering in words you'll taste but not see the spring
Nottiteln #90*** ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Distance and light conjoin to sculpt styrofoam fragments into gulls catching a current seaward In the interstices of rock shards of glass are scales of lizards reflecting sunlight An oil slick purls into a rainbow Froth of a wave outschwitters Schwitters on the sand Anachronistic the End of the World begins today
Nottiteln #94 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The dog is the alarm You'll wake to his yelping with the thick tongue of an assassin You'll unbutton the house You'll trot rote through coffee You'll troll for breakfast The kids will require your assistance She's 9 to 5 The cobwebs are back *** Obeisant to another clock the old bachelor Degas lives in the same house A revolving door emits a blurring file of dancers His elusive mistress Couleur whirls beyond the brush ***Nottiteln translates as "Wanting or Needing a Title."
In the evening?...We will take again the white Road which winds, Wandering in every direction, Like a grazing flock... --Rimbaud
Josef Lesser Man rounded into a ball naked rolling ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Consider this man; Once a sigh between lips a whisper suspended an aerial acrobat caught in the net by tongues of desire maybe a match warming the pupils of innocent eyes an innocent by-stander glued in the glare of a sun spot delivered naked like an unwrapped gift at the feet of us we the past gifts having discovered the protocol for toes aim the new ball with a subtle kick to hit the line dividing out and in, Consider this man; Once a word slipped between cards three and raise good news or bad ten pink or blue devonshire tea for two tricks can be won by women or men scratch the score on the wall ink blood the colour of red has died great news down a beer in the pen bet you a diamond king or queen born from the whisper by tongues of desire naked at the feet of us a new ball waiting for the team. Consider this; Man carved from a sigh rounded into a ball untried naked rolling to the drain tricks of the cards down or pass another hand is against the rules. Consider;
We the voyeurs can only speculate ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (from a painting by Bergur Thorberg) Consider this man; a twin brother to the girl sharing the same pigment coffee complexion a mirror image jaw eyes dark as a midnight movie, only her sight is short corrected by wire thin glasses, yet in the world of twinning they are fraternal suspended in this moment cold as the land of their birth. We the voyeurs can only speculate what dreams will be diverted after this cafe meeting where two cups steam as yet untouched. Is it her wedding to-morrow? Is the young man leaving maybe to serve his country? Could the twins be contemplating their mother’s fate on life support or their own life soon parentless. Consider this man; a twin exposed with his twin sister in a millisecond of time within their aromatic world of coffee beans, a world frozen for two.
Camp of Lost People ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Consider this man; A parcel delivered to the wrong address activating a conference circumnavigating the kitchen table, words drift nonchalent as language with no conscience; forward to ----- hand back to post open for curiosity discard for fear return to sender? Return to interlocking tongues where thoughts trip on the cracked pavements producing ideas with broken ribs, and a mortgage on breathing is afforded to the circumnavigators round the table. Consider this man; A parcel tied with twine of tales brought back with the souvenir spoon the toy kangaroo the second cousin’s name on the voting roll addressed franked sealed, life on the scales weighing the cost in some lost property corner of a lost peoples’ camp. Consider; when that next corner appears out of the nowhere of nothing reflecting in the wire of mesh your geraniums in flower -----, the pleading eye on the inside is a parcel of man marking time.
devoid of space for extra baggage ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ oh for a phone to ring up the dead just one last call to say what never was said.......... “you left your baggage on the stairs i tripped exploring time” i bruise i bleed i suffocate within this place devoid of space to reconcile both yours and mine.
Hokusai ---- who raised from the crib of the sea ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I can only guess dots on the dice tricks in the palm the numbers play, how many survived how many limped remaining days voiceless in confession unable to utter the magic Hokusai who raised from the crib of the sea one thousand conjoined water rats eyeing the fishermen with greed. I play the counting game survivors and others in the comfort square outside the frame inside the sanctity of art, or the zoo where we stare as the guide gesticulates how many from the group would limp voiceless through their remaining days without the comforting square of steel where tigers pace anticipating time. Dots on the dice on the evening news the numbers play a seismic Hokusai trick, top on the richter chart in a foreign place one thousand names conjoined forever, forever ghosts confessing in silence, so easy this counting game inside some comfort zone outside the event.
Letter to Mr. Chagall ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (for Edith ) dear mr. Chagall, I am writing to ask you to be the master of ceremony at my weding to my sweet natasha you did this work for her sister do you remember her sister anna who maried the boy who milks the cows his name is leo and anna said you are so good you made them feel like they were flyng in the sky with the moon and stars my name is yury and i am not good at words or speling i had to leave scool when ten to help with the pigs my uncle has do you remeber uncle hyme he told me you were master of ceremony when he had a big sixty party and your talk made him feel he was flyng with his fiddle over the houses in our town and all the streets had a color like he has not seen before and my other friend nikolay who marrid katya told me a secret that your words made them like lovers in blue at night when they kissed they saw the world in blue my mother says you are an artist not like a painter but maybe better you make peeple feel good and see dreams and colors and they dance and sing and make love like i will with my natasha you are the greate greate master of ceremony leo told me a red angel touched them on the head and our rabbi of vitebsk remembers when you were a litle boy and you made storys and pictures of profets moses and isiah do you still make pictures like my other uncle grigory he knew you in school and said you made nice pictures of a magic flute and a bird on the moon do you think of school sometime and my uncle if i finished school i mite be good like you and everybody wood ask me to make them fly and paint dreams and sing and love and laugh and cry and make cows jump on stars and fidles play in the sky but i only look after pigs mother says everybody has to look after somthing and she told me you look after hearts and souls and spirits i do not know what she means i have to finish now i am going to the circus with natasha and nikolay and katya we are sad that you are not the mc tonite rabbi shmuel said i can say mc insted of the full word for your work he told us when he went to the circus you were the mc and you made all the people of vitebsk see colors of life and a boy flew on a chicken the cow played with the sun flowers waltsed and he said even the goat had fun yes you do bring color and hapinnes to peeple that is why natasha and me want you to be our mc please say you will do the work i have saved money from the pigs your friend yury


Del Corey



The pen point down, not at water,
but at mental yellow nuggets,
chipped, perhaps, by ancients in caves,
then trundled down in old streams,
destined to be found by a descendant,
like me, right here, at this moment,
ores ripe with perspective, truths beyond
the pettinesses of history, the ant-like wars
we creatures obsess over, our acceptance
of over-simple answers large groups embrace,
all surface, yet which shine brightly,
for a while, then crumble like fool's gold.



The pen points deeper, to reveal the ores
of value, those that lie buried in mental
tunnels, truths like the fact that I'm dying,
and I must accept it, not fight it
as so many do, and let this ore 
be assayed and weighed, so that 
the Owner of the Scale can send  
a True North, an epiphany that penetrates,
that our value is in the long line of humanity,
and, therefore, a piece of immortality,
the Divine, and we must use our mortal part
to add our little golden pebbles, humble
as they may be, to buff, protect, and present,
at last, ourselves as gifts to the earth,
to be welcomed by the open arms of the universe.


  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 - 2005 by 
  Klaus J. Gerken.

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