YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

March 2006

VOL XIV Issue 3, Number 155

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

Production Editor: Heather Ferguson;

European Editor: Moshe Benarroch;

Contributing Editors: Pedro Sena; Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald LeWinter

ISSN 1480-6401



   Jack Wesdorp


   Jack Wesdorp


         Under Construction
         Stacking Stones
         Cradle Song
         The Top
         Modern Myth
         Dov's Hand
         Saint Monas

Post Scriptum

      Reversing Entropy



Magick is the ability to change your universe according to will power;
thought is energy, hands are the direct extension of sight, and tools are the 
physical media to effect such change.  Everyone's universe is different, 
viewed from similar parallax, and yet shared; that's how soul works.  
Infinity is everywhere at once and everything is possible right now.  Ritual 
magick is dependent on repeatable praxis, consecrated props, and 
congenial setting.  Goetia addresses divine intervention, divination is 
transcendent thought (like tarot), invocation invites divinity into the self 
or the thing, evocation directs  discarnate entities for a specific service.  
Magick is first a solitary venture; when the One soul steps into the cold 
universe of stone She fragments; this is the sacrifice of autonomy; so that 
each individual may have choice, can garner experience, for the sheer 
lust of the doing.  Solitaries are the rule; group work is the stronger, not 
as liable to pitfalls, but subject to perversion by singular charismatic 
leaders.   The western magickal tradition is rooted with the Sufi and 
Egyptian ascetics, merkabah mysticism, thence to qabalah, christian and 
rosicrucian dogma, Martinist texts, with admixtures of theosophy and 
oriental practices, some teutonic and druidic magecraft, wicca (mostly 
Gardnerian), eventually via several collateral Golden Dawn temples active 
in Europe ca. 1900.  The O.T.O. is our primary exponent of sex magick in 
the West;  the Satanists are trudging their own evanescent self-serving 
A cursory Golden Dawn based ritual framework considers: purpose  
(why, with what and whom, when, and where); moral deliberation (is it in 
harmony with your true will, non-invasive of another's, and is it 
necessary); visualization of the method, action where it counts, 
confrontation of barriers, guilt, doubt; proper path, pantheon, 
correspondences, attributes; setting, tools, time; linking up and out 
(right kind and degree of force, correct manner, proper medium, to the 
exact objective); only then to the ceremonial phases (banishing the set, 
purification of tools, centering of self, grounding the circle/warding 
the triangle, invocation of divinity (first) or evocation of the menial (later); 
then the proclamation of purpose or oath of fealty, then the specifics of 
that particular work, then the descent of current and its investment into a 
specific persona, object, or act; completion of the link (which is the most 
crucial phase, requiring recirculation of force or stasis in the objective); 
closure, license to depart, and a thorough record with later commentary 
and annotation.  All this to effect substantial change of self, in space, and 
through time; not to be taken lightly nor according to cook book fashion.   
The theory and techniques are not much different from that practiced 
by any priest in the church of your religion; only the vestments and trappings 
change; and you are the priest.  The church doesn't much like that and is 
quite intolerant of competition.  Yet we are all magicians, albeit untrained; 
we wish, we pray, we ritualize our lives; sometimes we get what we want.  
That would be god listening.  Magick and science and art intertwine; any 
sufficiently advanced technology will seem magickal to a cave man; at 
some future point science and art will overlap; art is the highest form of 
creative self-expression, science is advancing applied knowledge, and 
magick is the practice of soul, binding spirit and stone via belief.  
Poets make good magicians and priests because we understand the
symbology by which the universe operates.  The universe thinks in pictures; 
also music, numbers, flux, and thought contrivances we're not well 
equipped to practice.  Poets work with the distilled iconography of our 
racial heritage; we're into the syntactical Word, and words are symbols 
attached to mental pictures.  The ancient Hebrew rabbins believed in the 
pictorial magick of specific letters; a whole qabalah of letter/word/number 
exists, with correlations to specific attributes and cross correspondence 
to other seemingly unrelated words.  To write some things down is to 
make them more real, to force them into reality, to endow the stone with 
soul via meditation.  That's what poets do---enliven the stone.  We focus 
right down on a singular moment and invest it with passion; intuitively; 
because we must.  We are compelled; we dip into a well without bottom; 
we take dictation; everything yet to be written is already so.  Enjoy.  Take 
care.  Be thou of consequence.

Jack Wesdorp



Jack Wesdorp


Out on the edge it just burns colder,
the farther I see the older I get;
better to be home warming my stones
than wander the eye of infinity.

Aquamarine ~~~~~~~~~~ We set the light to winking though there's no one there, waste of effort so you'd think and who the hell cares if some idiot goes down into the big deep where there ain't no boojum sound and frozen light sleeps. We do it for the prospect, for because we vowed that soul blossoms electric where there's nothing now. That's the way it is with me, we are devoted to none as infinity and we send our boat into places no one dares to picture or think because grace is loved and rare. That's why the light blinks.
Moire* ~~~~~ Sometimes it looks just plain weird like the lamp got spider webbed with interference patterns when god side stepped prime numbers. Usually it's beautiful of coruscating colors luminous backlit footlight through microscopic gratings. Always plangent stuff and real on the universal stage where you can feel with your eyes and smell the force of balance. *Editor's note: There is an inflection above the "e" in Moire which, unfortunately, we have not been able to restore in the HTML
Under Construction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A little dab of that, a little bit of this, cellophane, paper clips, some spit, a splat of jizz, and that's the building biz. Everything in its place, veiled space for every one, river time, rings of stuff, black sail cloth sewn with suns and no it ain't yet done.
Stacking Stones in the Dark ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Let's see. Jupiter, you go over there. And you, sweetheart, they'll be calling you Durt; they'll tear your mantle with iron plowshares and build castles with the spiff from your shirt. You're Mercury, right?---OK, you hang near, and you with the rings you can look pretty. Moon, you keep them company, that's a dear. You asteroid lot, spread out and wander, you're the ones with the nickel and gritty they'll be mining when they get outta stir. Pluto, I think you'd better be a queer, ain't no point with all you rocks run the same, Neptune, you're with this green dame, we done yet? Venus, honey, you get it on with Mars, and all you smithereens, you can be stars.
Wanagi ~~~~~~ He sleep with wendigo women suck horrible rattlesnake swill wears yellow fang bearclan glimmer coat porcupine blue kestrel quills. Make much magick with Manitou tell wind to whisper along wall all with holderol and hoodoo when hemlock grow cathedral tall. Last place he go to see sun rise is up on huckleberry ledge he sacrifice by burning eyes follow shadowbird track off edge he with you when your carcass dies.
Hoochmaneen ~~~~~~~~~~~ Whoever shows up that's who the revelry's with, then we'll hoist a cup to full barns wild oast bee fryth, uisqebaugh to toast first foot over that doorsill, where we will boast of what to spare and boar we've killed, of treasure we've brought for first pick of your daughters, for the wars we've fought that our bards declaim in verse enflamed abandon.
Artemis ~~~~~~~ She gets pissed off if you peek, guys go blind or antelope, but I saw her just last week by the Kaaterskill upslope, absolutely gorgeous ass worth chasing for a life time, didn't catch her under pass but the rest was really prime seventeen year ardent girl. I did the old genuflect, she tossed me a henna curl, a brief glimpse of intersect where divinity meets man in a mandorla sigil. I'll climb up there when I can to keep her ancient vigil and maybe she'll enchant me.
Zounds ~~~~~~ Stereo crickets down in the kitchen I must be lucky as hell. Copper clad buckets hauling my wishes up from a bottomless well.
Felis ~~~~~ The Spirit is in the least of things: a turtle on a log in a bog, the pattern on a lady bug's wings, the evanescent touch of salt fog, in the mating call of katydids, soft on the wind just before it rains, in the laughter of curious kids, frosted flowers on your window panes, and if you ever feel that you're flat in your spiritual spending account all you need do is befriend a cat, it seems they have it in good amount.
Invisible ~~~~~~~~~ May the cloak lie soft on your form, may its crafting keep you from harm, should the enemy look your way let him be spooked and creep away, should you have need for sustenance let your hand thieve with ancient wust, if you need lodging or a ride be unseen as you slip inside, though the path be twisted of stone go alone without fear or shame, blame no one nor call out a name, go quiet on the hidden sand, come thee home safe, be as I bid.
Genesis ~~~~~~~ First he bought a ring, then she brought her stuff, they made everything and that was enough.
Transformation ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ About the Golgotha thing: walking that narrow thin line but only left one footprint, turning water into wine treating common men as kings, having twelve over to dine with silver shekels and glint, for to weave belief and signs of fulsome fire and flint, winnow chaff, find what's divine despite dead demonic dint. Get thee behind me he said, go through me, share salt, break bread.
Preparations ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Willie swept the strangers' room, scrubbed the millboards on his knees. Then he fletched a willow broom taken from the tower trees. Umber from his Moorish chest, candle wax from local bees, benzoin the very best, vellum book of litanies. Then he scribed a circle round, gathered his solemnity and pronounced it sacred ground. Up the spiral stepstone wafts a soft sexual fire.
Sacrament ~~~~~~~~~ My uncle Al bought Boleskine to get him in good with god. Set his graven stone between river sand and virgin sod, traversed past Abramelin, shot his astral body wad the fastest I ever seen, henceforth bared his fangs and claw brilliant hued with brand and spleen, ate his wanton women raw lewd beholden to a fiend. That's the church bent about unc, mostly he went as a monk.
Cradle Song ~~~~~~~~~~~ I fired up the time machine and went back to the Pleistocene, set up my Steinway in a cave, installed fine stained glass architraves, brought in Calphalon kitchen stuff, made sure the pantry had enough, fitted out a thick brass bound door, mosaic tilecraft on the floor, a view over the Pacific, flaming sunsets hieroglyphic with Celtic braid embroidered weave, and then I felt ready for Eve. You know, there ain't too many girls back there wearing sandals and pearls; god, I searched the coast down and up just for to share a lovers' cup; all I could find were shambling slinks who shunned Chopin and didn't think. Until one day another door flared its eternal on the shore; she came calling and well supplied, she even brought her bonafides to hang on the wall next to mine, and...some red sparkling Dago wine. One torrid fucking session kink later I'm hook line and sinker; never underestimate sex in the racial sequencing hex. All you bald archaeologists with your Leakey and Lucy lists, I'm telling you it ain't that way. Homo sap came on in a bay on the eastern Pacific rim. I was hot and Eve's not so prim, the surf a brilliant place to screw our gene pool up and launch a race.
Chimneys ~~~~~~~~ There were wolves and big long-noses and pigs with fangs; we shared the wood with anthropoids and feral ghosts and things we never understood. Back then the trees held up the sky and the land was a lot wetter, you could smell the blue horizon and I liked its fragrance better. These days the only animals mistrust our spoor and flee our smoke, except for garbage picking gulls our bank account with god went broke. I think what it is she's really pissed about us mucking off the blue, I'd be firing up the business hire some chimney exorcist if I were her that's what I'd do...
The Top ~~~~~~~ Tenzing had been there because he loved it, being there with god above the garden, so he considered himself the warden of all that could be seen from the summit. One summer he camped up there for a week dug into an igloo on the south face, doing nothing, just staring at the place that commoners fear but holy men seek. He talked about it some when he got back, he said: "God speaks if you will listen good, she lives in everything, the stone and wood, all the most basic objects near your shack. What you need to do is make the world stop spinning and that is simple at the top."
DeJaVu ~~~~~~ I'm their youngest son, the last to leave home; when our dad died I moved back in with mom. She got pretty blind eyed towards the end and quite a ways around the head room bend. I didn't go out much those last few years, then wearied of the daughter in law tears, brought my new girlfriend in after a date; right about while I was fixing mom's plate she said, "so, girl, you're gonna marry him...?" I remember things whirling, going dim. I figure then she knew her time was up, peering shrewd across the rim of her cup. I'm struck speechless; Kate was quick, she said, "yes," I thought to jolly her along I guess. My mom made this thin little crow foot smile, and died quietly that night without guile. It's sorta spooky how I lost one so, yet gained another; that's how mothers know.
Modern Myth ~~~~~~~~~~~ All the occult treasures that we own are stored in a warehouse near Mashpee. The ark, Jack Kennedy's scarlet phone, the cup, a branch from that Boab tree, the spear, a piece of skull with a hole, a shroud, the red sea Moses bit staff, transept of a cross, Amundsen's pole, gold hammer head with a rowan haft, reputed dragon's egg, oldest book, what looks to be some meteor slag, pixie dust, eye of newt, captain's hook, all the magnificent dregs of hags, of wizard kings, uncle Al's quartz ball, all carefully catalogued and signed, banked behind pentagon seals and mined with an atom bomb.
Medea ~~~~~ Nobody tells me what to do. I'll decide who gets to fuck me. Love me and I'll be true to you; betray me, I'll pluck your eyes out. My cup is phosphorus and rue, the lout who drinks of that he dies; lest you think you can flee my curse it's Hekate who taught me lies.
Money ~~~~~ The eye of the pyramid sits in a pentagon vault mounted with fearsome fire on a cubic block of salt. Once a moon the nigh priest brass comes to make some hoodoo hex; they drink rum and blood of beasts mixed with stinking swill and sex. Usually it's hooker chicks, of late it's infidel hounds, expensive magickal books and ambergris by the pound. All for one look at what's real and twist it to their purpose with bad intended dealing and dangerous and murder. When I saw the ritual done they were ranting for a war with tanks and bombs, cannon guns, and the bunker stank of tar. After that I struck them blind so that they'd not be able to find me or my weapons nor what's set on my table. I curse you and your plotting, may your altar fall to dust, your eyeblink rot with fungus consumed by your sorcer lust.
Dov's Hand ~~~~~~~~~~ That's my hand lying in the cinders almost like a claw with curled fingers. I mean for you to gaze with disgust on this sodden mass of ashen dust. I want you to memorize the smell so you will always recognize hell. If the specter ever stalks your land with gall and lies remember my hand.
Irena ~~~~~ No one ever refused one of my kids, they all held them hidden safe through the war. I saw to the fake ID's and permits and kept the records buried in glass jars under an apple tree, the tree of truth. The best place to hide stuff is plain in sight because that depends from a sacred sooth that even Evil considers its right. Afterwards I went back and brought them forth, there were two thousand five hundred some names. I didn't tell anyone what that's worth; we're still superstitious about the flames. Many did likewise bent low in that war, nor am I content. I could have done more.
Puukai ~~~~~~ On the west end of Molokai where the precipice loves water when the moon is dressed in her pride the magicians bring their daughters. It's monsoon weather on the cliff all the fissures laugh with delight and you can spell infinity from a well hidden platform height. Her steps are narrow living vines black basalt core-block lava weft she learns the smoke divining lore while they burn copal in a cleft. If you were to stand out to sea in war craft plying secret coves you'd not admit her shrouded skill nor bow triumphant in her grove.
Alms ~~~~ I thought I saw Saint Nicholas come riding up our lane. He was attended by a child who held the horse's rein. To one side walked a sailor man, the other went a thief, and all the courtly noblemen bent low in their belief. It was a fleeting instant then when all of time stood still and in the silent way he went with goodly wile and will. That night I set a portion out for every wandering waif, and wished them welcome home at last with solemn shrift and safe.
Saint Monas ~~~~~~~~~~~ Sometimes we observe silence for to hear the universe how feral stars dance in tune under a dark chandelier why our moon takes a mistress on cathedral burning lakes what the sun does in his bed to engender planet curl where the comets get their bent amid the oort of plenty when the asteroids come home in the passage of their kin whence all things at last are done.
Vespers ~~~~~~~ Now we will sing the old songs as we did when we were young, bring your kids, all are welcome, linger soft and sing along. It matters not if you can't or fear you'll hum out of key, what counts is that we agree in harmony on our land. Let a waxen taper glint at every casement window, peace upon your foe and kin on the breast of winter snow. Let carols fill the evening whisper hill fall deep in dell, candelabra solemn bells, remember this when you leave.
Pantocrater ~~~~~~~~~~~ Frankincense and myrrh suffuse the chamber where I sleep in a warded nautilus embarked on the deep. Mandragora luminal black indigo to sheen where curvature meets fractal of the stone I ween. On a spindle obligate fine thread of bombyx weft each to her partisan until none are left.
Entropy ~~~~~~~ Apparently god was pissed. So she made a little list of stuff that wouldn't be missed like flowers, gardens, and trees, definitely bugs and bees, any one with arms or knees, in fact anything that grows, journeys, trickles, flows or blows, stars, moon, sun, you gotta go, all the weft of burning quick, hearing, feeling, smell and sight. Then, when it was done quite right, she left and flicked off the light.


Reversing Entropy

I unreeled an orange extension cord
and plugged it into a black hole socket.
Then I went after the last cinder word
and laid its head as tinder on the block.
Striking a match was a matter of guile
since I hadn't a foot to stand or lift,
so I bade all my stuff to step in file
and stitch itself into a fire drift.
After that all I had to do was make
a pinch of cubical salt with the flux,
sing that last word into the first awake
and stick all those peptides down into muck.
It didn't really take all that long much,
just eternity compressed into one,
and all of animate stone to my touch,
ah, sunday of rest as it has been done.


All Poems copyright (c) 2006 by Jack Wesdorp


  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
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