YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

February 2008

VOL XVI, Issue 2, Number 178


Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

Production Editor: Heather Ferguson

European Editor: Mois Benarroch

Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter

Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena

ISSN 1480-6401


TABLE OF CONTENTS


INTRODUCTION

   Maria Jacketti
      Iced

CONTENTS

   Lynn Strongin
      Geography in a geode

   David Fraser
      Conversation
      The Hero He Never Had
      Conversation
      To Aging Sons and Fathers
      Conversation
      Conversation
      Distances
      Conversation
      Conversation
      Conversation
      Grieving

   Rishi Pratim Mukherjee.
      PANGS
      HUNGERFORD STREET
      DYING FALL
      THE DEATH-WISH
   
   Michael H. Brownstein
      A DRINK OF WATER WITH MY WIFE
      A HARVEST OF CROSSES
      ERRANDS AND OTHER THINGS OCCUPY MY TIME
   
   Fariel Shafee
      Serenity
      The Kaleidoscope
      To Peace
   
   Rachel Chan Suet Kay
      Germinal
      Camaraderie
      Conquistadors Kill the Vultures

   Adam Tod Leverton
      The Idea of a Smile
      Like a Sunset
      Autoportret

POST SCRIPTUM

   Klaus Gerken
      Winter Walk Down Gladstone Avenue


INTRODUCTION



Maria Jacketti


Iced
~~~~

Hazleton, 2007


This August winter came to us
in four tornadoes that never actually
touched down
but opened fire with hail,
shredded the backyard to coleslaw
only the most stubborn peppers
and tomatoes
commando blossoms
endured

an hour later
white gases rising
instantaneous snow-folk
in terminal heat

I walked through the steam
with my daughter,
gathering vegetal cadavers
raking 
floral ghosts
their memory now
brief to evaporate
green-blooded perfume
oh when 
winter wakes in August,

and ice balls fall 
from weaponized space
the Earth speaks in 
storms
reinventing mother
again of saber-tooth 
meteorology

Wed 19/09/07 8:10 PM





Lynn Strongin

Geography in a geode
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The South is a secret wedged inside its lodging like a possum in his barn
underneath a western rib                sun setting, cowgirl hatless: cashroll in pocket:
stark as cliff face     young bone:
a fall from which I cannot save myself
Gilana  Tamara
morphine always comes
cold as szylocaine.


On the West Side everything was brown: velvet or stone box or can-opener: clutching a box of flowers riding past fire escapes, boxes of blood-red geraniums a sister, taking the creaky shifty lift up to which she can picture the ropes, chains box in which a dog once bit her hand & it had to be cauterized with silver nitrate: Past carpeted landings The inebbriation of tissue-rattling boxes the sheer morphine of a dress rehearsal her name on the marquee already forming in dots on her brain screen. Perhaps in the future hangs a wedding gown borrowed finery but now she is dressed in winter brown: the ribbon round the box quite soon turns to surgical stitches in the skin which will never be undone. ward to become world, encapsulated, soon. Quite soon. Before she quits the morning.
Residue takes up residence in collections: stamps pelling like flesh from albums photographs more beautiful in the skin than the real thing: matcbooks & buttons, paperclips pastel postits clipped to cancelled checks each a map of financial surfacing or shipwreck: hatpins which could stab a doll to daeth. Doll, hold your breath, you are bleeding and nobody knows. Miniature objects a paper rose & a faded real rose petal inside a posie. But this is Lilluput after all: our northern evening, spirits heading south drive the needle further up: we forget where things are put. Icicles coat twigs radiating. Beautiful but treacherous. A photogrpah in dawn. Mouse Residue takes up residence in collections: stamps pelling like flesh from albums photographs more beautiful in the skin than the real thing: matcbooks & buttons, paperclips pastel postits clipped to cancelled checks each a map of financial surfacing or shipwreck: hatpins which could stab a doll to daeth. Doll, hold your breath, you are bleeding and nobody knows. Miniature objects a paper rose & a faded real rose petal inside a posie. But this is Lilluput after all: our northern evening, spirits heading south drive the needle further up: we forget where things are put. Icicles coat twigs radiating. Beautiful but treacherous. A photogrpah in dawn. Mouse fails to clutch the cursor. Home is filled with sailor's curses. Frost has outlined world making the drive to Rutland out of the question. You turned yourself inside-out like a glove for love but that was this morning. One tires of the vast: miniatures, even close-ups could heal. One grows fatigued from lifting & putting down metal spoons in their precise spot in the silvertray; one wearies of a secret kept deep inside one a fall from which one cannot save oneself: The surgery itself was not bad yet healed nothing; followup problems arose:
Residue takes up residence in collections: stamps pelling like flesh from albums photographs more beautiful in the skin than the real thing: matcbooks & buttons, paperclips pastel postits clipped to cancelled checks each a map of financial surfacing or shipwreck: hatpins which could stab a doll to daeth. Doll, hold your breath, you are bleeding and nobody knows. Miniature objects a paper rose & a faded real rose petal inside a posie. But this is Lilluput after all: our northern evening, spirits heading south drive the needle further up: we forget where things are put. Icicles coat twigs radiating. Beautiful but treacherous. A photogrpah in dawn. Mouse fails to clutch the cursor. Home is filled with sailor's curses. Frost has outlined world making the drive to Rutland out of the question. You turned yourself inside-out like a glove for love but that was this morning. One tires of the vast: miniatures, even close-ups could heal. One grows fatigued from lifting & putting down metal spoons in their precise spot in the silvertray; one wearies of a secret kept deep inside one a fall from which one cannot save oneself: The surgery itself was not bad yet healed nothing; followup problems arose: angry angels: this wasn't the end of the wardonly of the world. Now another issue unfolded like a legal indictuments: knuckles coming, white-knuckling it, river-rafting Wearing our renewed friendship like a wedding ring I hear the door to the bathrrom squeak a neighing horse, the sawhorse, the clothes rack corroding: Everything looms like umbre wax: threatening. Sirens rise up from streets, like stricken children climbing from a burning brownstone. Whom out there to trust? Anyone? I dig my nails in but there is blood on the tracks rust in the ruin of cathedrals insides of radios: the vast, the miscroscpic: the rim, the overhelming residue of everything.
You have written me another letter I see good they are always revelatory: Circles emerge lik a Persian rug in a brown room year's iciest night inkbloom soon warming only the tip of the hands where cold slips on a mitten the ear registers monotone: the photographic eye cream tone; snow like the ocean is rising, falling, folding frozen linen the ice its iron: Now all is silent, satin: the parishioners come in casting the long shadow of their inner history: they lean to listen, souls like saints in sarcophagi, yet above ground. white to the inner bone.
David Fraser Conversation ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Your arms that flung me in the air flying as a baby full of excited fear were the arms that held the kettle with that boiling water in told tales before the memory, as I, an impulsive child swing the door as you enter on the other side as water streams a fire upon my head. Those arms that held the two fingers that hammered upon my wrist to stop the crying embarrassment on a bus. For years I'd thought those two blood-red islands on my wrist were birthmarks, but were not. Time spent feeling like the tiny sparrow fallen from the nest above the eaves where broken-winged hed lay waiting at our door to be picked up and carried to a small cage my mother kept for nursing birds back to health, with eyedroppers of warm milk, soft fingers on the feathers and a bit of time.
The Hero He Never Had ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ That kid lacing up his skates beside the cold raw pond legs wobbly with his first attempts, a hero's phantom hand supporting his awkward strides, that arm around the shoulder sort of feel imagined only in his dreams, that older piece of guidance brimming with integrity and time to listen to some idle thoughts, cosmic questions full of wonder and the stars. That kid tracing back his steps finds an uncle with handle bars to ride upon, that person who could show him tracks of animals in snow, teach him how to swim, shout his name to the rafters of the rink when he scored a goal or wrestled in the corner for the puck, then later, much later, man to man drinking beer firelight on faces, darkness from the forest all around they can work out the pain of love and loss together until that kid is sane again. Little bits accumulated over time, not the body that he could touch but fragments sewn together to make the hero that he never had.
Conversation ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Some things come about that were not the product of a hunger forged in violence, fueled by frustration, my adversarial stubbornness to play it to the extreme; those things emerging on some distant Saturday morning where we picked out a bamboo fishing rod, or a half set of golf clubs, an early birthday gift so summer wouldn't waste away waiting, or a tennis racket when I barely understood the game, but had fallen in love with its ballet. All that hockey stuff you and mom could ill afford for me to trudge down to the rink at six am to play at chasing pucks in a hive swarm across the ice. There are all those gifts that took me toward adventures while you worked or were too tired and wrapped napping on a Sunday afternoon.
To Aging Sons and Fathers ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ How did so many lose their fathers on the way to where their fathers are? How did they lose us as they aged? So many sons and fathers trapped in a time caught in the cycle of the work to earn, provide, place the bread upon the Arborite, repair the roof, toiling through the week for weekends to catch up on repairs; such lack of time, evening's exhaustion etched on faces hungry for some sleep shifts so out of sync with sons, the filling of the roles so placed on them to deal out discipline for incidents so far removed and needing punishment, corporal justice for sons so sensitive they held their compliance at a cost, a seething in deep reservoirs a darkness where relationships are lost.
Conversation ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Do you remember early on in the west end of Toronto, when you drove the milk truck and one Saturday you asked me along, half day to deliver, half day to collect from all those who hadn't paid. You showed me the microcosm of the world, the early morning up the limestone walkways to the houses of the rich, then the back alley staircases of shabby flats full of arguments without the money to pay for milk. Remember chewing sandwiches later with a soft drink from a garage cooler, sitting in the truck jawing with mechanics dressed in greasy laughing smiles. We fit somewhere in between all this delivered milk to dainty homes and disheveled shacks across the tracks. I saw it all, how you were a man of brawn who could drive and haul stuff around the world, who never thought about how you could make it easier for yourself like your brothers could, who owned their land, played golf at country clubs. You always toughed it out, hung on for some brief reward; those sunny days you lawn bowled for trophies at club championships or sat for lunch at picnic tables beside the road, where the new used Chevy shone.
Conversation ~~~~~~~~~~~~ In Britain how we walked and walked the paths along the Thames, or through the oak forests of Richmond Park, for walking didn't cost much; the air and sunshine had no admission tied to them. We trundled through those years in a certain practical happiness with what was life, suffering the cold damp of winter waiting for a double-decker bus, home from Sunday visiting. There wasn't much of rain but many puddles in my mind on walks to school, another private world which I never really shared, but I saw your glowing face stoking fires for the tires at Firestone.
Distances ~~~~~~~~~ In hollow silences, waiting moments, distances appear. In layered memories, collected photos, I carve my heart's despair for the missingness of time, the space between the molecules of care. Within the hungry aching muscles clenched around my heart distances appear. in wounded emptiness, wordless shuffling sounds, I scribe my scarsoutcry for the times of missing tears, the gaps between the fragments of our lives. In unspoken thoughts sons and distant fathers dwell. Chasms have appeared in memories left hunting for balance in my heart for closing up that space before distances are too great.
Conversation ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nothing is ever simple in a predatory world; you had to tame the garden with its waist-high grass gone to seed, full of the webs of huge black and yellow spiders. A dead snake lying limp across your shovel seemed so natural, out of scripture yet so full of horror that I should have known. The afternoon I watched you climb the ladder to the eaves, thought you would move the starlings nest to another place, then saw your beefy hand clutch baby birds one by one, and swat them with the back of your familiar other hand; or in the basement when you crept around an octopus of furnace ducts, low-ceilings, rough dark wood, and chased a bat trapped and searching for the wide expansive sky and I was there powerless to catch its terror-stricken furry body beating wings against the incandescent light as you thwacked with broom and caught its tiny form against the white-washed wall, listened to the smallness of its screams and watched the rivulets of blood run down the wall onto a trunk that once bent across Id felt the anger unleashed on smaller things, where I internalized that bestial energy and harboured thoughts that once could have festered into death. Nothing is ever simple, not even in the telling.
Conversation ~~~~~~~~~~~~ How could you not remember this? I see my dog ruffled roughly round his neck back and forth by your strong hands, until he snaps his jaws upon your hand. But thats not all; the rising up of that anger; its explosion in the kitchen, the heavy steel-chromed chair rising high above your head, up and down, up and down across the poor dog's skull; his eyes wide in horror slipping as his legs buckle with the blows, his pee streaming uncontrolled across the floor. But much time and distance mellow out this intensity, dull the memory a bit and then one day you tell me a story that the other week while cutting grass riding on your mower, you find a dead crow lying on your path and in seconds a live crow descends and places himself between the mower and his mate. I remember waiting, pausing your story, mind racing to see the dead bird lifted up, the live one flown away, but no; your mower is relentless and even though you in the telling shoo, shoo, shoo, you keep the throttle wide and mow them down; feathers, hollow bones, a little bit of blood mingled with the grass. I knew that day no matter what could happen forever and ever in this world, I couldn't trust; I couldn't trust you ever to be more than what you are.
Conversation ~~~~~~~~~~~~ As I look back into our relationship, I see we were forced into the deep end before treading water confidence arrived. Not many pictures really of you, mostly posed; your chubby baby picture ironically more like girl, a baseball team shot, your recognizable face in a sea of ragged souls beside a schools front steps. Not many of you and mom together, proof of the joining that is me. When I enter into a more interior landscape, I wonder how I am who I am, speculate on being found wailing beneath a prickly bush, carried home to become this stubborn, rebellious child who maybe locked you out as much as you kept to yourself and toil and never had the sincere time to free yourself and embrace my world. This always living in the deep end of the pond kept us both so vulnerable, so distanced that our splashes and our cries never reached the other all these years. It takes these final moments for the water to be calm, for silences, some sense of touch still a barrier, a thin bed sheet between our two hands; some touch and a flicker of the eyes, mouth wide open as if what is all of you has just escaped.
Grieving ~~~~~~~~ Grieving creeps in unannounced ahead of time like sad blues harp players' songs, wet, dull throbbing rain taps on the roof; minds locked up with parts malfunctioning, this silent slow demise; father dying now serviced by the state; mother so relieved, released from frustrated mothering, too weary for the humouring of waiting hand and foot on a reluctant mind. So when the moment comes the music of the song is numb, the grieving has been done.
Rishi Pratim Mukherjee. PANGS ~~~~~ 1. "Have you ever seen a dry leaf,dead, Amber,crunchy to the touch,in lds of devouring flames? Lapping it up,licking it forth, Within and without,working its infernal tongue? A fatal embrace,crackling and electric Subsuming its veins;that once had life With another life,a life lived immolating to final nullity. O yes,the fire has a forked tongue, Hissing,smouldering,caressing,inviting. Like a forbidden touch to a forbidden place, A tenor of waves up the spine, Up to the brain boiling in its liquids, Passing through to scalding flesh. Flesh.Flesh that reverberates,quivers, Tongue,flesh,touch,lustily pure,absolute Defiled by nothing,all feeling and Sensation. The withering,moaning leaf In the arms of its nemesis,ripped apart, Exhumed,exhausted,ravished,ravaged. "O it is nothing",you smile and say---- "A forest fire in the Andes;a common geographical occurence". Ask the devastated vegetation,going Up in so much spiritual smoke." 2. The parched earth painfully awaits, Scarred about with cracks and fissures In arrested stillness : agonizing to the eyes. Scarcely moving,an infinity of fixity. Waiting,biding for that one drop Crystal and luscious to descend from space Charged with the force of heavens To fall and scatter its graveyard silence. Invigorate,Infiltrate the creaking crevices, The arid torpor pervading the choking stems, Chunks of clay that have clung together with morbid terror, With the nectar of life,the element of evanescence. Rushing through,reviving,replenishing, Revisiting,resusciating,regenerating. One drop,a single stellar speck To remind the earth that it is thirsty, Oh! so long,so tantalizingly thirsty. One drop,an infinitesimal dot to set The wheel in motion,Create,Impregnate. The labouring earth awaits : a puny sapling, Grand and green stretches its crumpled shoot."
HUNGERFORD STREET ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The light is red. Traffic stationary. Purring. Waiting. Tension mounting. A precipitous moment Of apprehension. Tension. A few honks, a blare, here and there. A tribe of wildebeests muted on the savannah, Making their way through the grasslands, To the next water hole. Wait. In apprehension. Tension. On the banks of the swamp with quiet breath, To the dance of hooves and cruel death. A tussle of horns, here and there, The irritation of flies in the air, Wait. To wade across the stream, Of crocodiles in a gleam, Playing hide and seek, And little bo-peep. A time for fangs and claws, And wise saws. Apprehension. Tension. Their leader emits a snort. The light turns green for the right. The rest start their engines in a diastole motion, Smooth. Like a moisturizing lotion. The glistening bodies swerve right, In a screech, like leeches slithering down A mossy beech. Like relaxing elastic, In plastic perfection, the cars strain right. And the gaping lane swallows them. In large mouthfuls, gulps and gasps. Swallows them in To the last tyre and axle, The last face peering out the window, The shopping bags at the back, The puppy on the lap, The smiles, cheers, tears and fears, Of lives lived and deaths doled, All swallowed, wallowed into the waiting road. Across the stream, their leader turns back to see His community. Of whatís left of those eyes keen, And the what-might-have-been. (11/01/08.)
DYING FALL ~~~~~~~~~~ I'm an old guitar- A tuneless invalid, Broken-stringed, Moth eaten to the core. Leaning for decades Against this destitute column In this destitute corner. Kept just for old timesí sake. Some shoddy memories attached, And the Sanctity of Music. Why don't someone just Chop me up and throw Me in for firewood? Instead, I get ritual dustings After four score years When spring-cleaning Visits the attic. I have listened to birds' songs, And the clasps of thunder, The patter of raindrops,and Felt the genial rot all around. Lizards have crept over me, Spawning in my hollow. I have withstood the birth of generations. No anger is directed towards me. I have no story. No warm-lit halls for me, Nor the cheers of performance. Wine has never trickled down My polished mien in callous mirth. No one wrecks me up in anguish. Returns me to whence I came: A mass of deadwood. I hate my artistic cut, The purpose thrust on me. I would rather the log That lies strewn and Hapless,beating rainfall and sunshine, Ant-hills and exfoliations, On the soggy forest floor. A life before a Life.
THE DEATH-WISH ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The dream that slowly rose in soft vapour Was caught up in the ceiling fan And amidst 240 rotations per minute Torn to shreds,descending fluff-like Back to the cool mosaic. But phoenix-like,it reforms and rises Up again for its slow transcendence From amidst the cluttering furniture To the rarified air of the night sky above And again the fatalistic embrace of that swirling killer. The flickering tube light groans empathy Do its neons buzz with feeling? The wheeling terrorist constantly swishes In its menacing trance; the sole overseer of this little room. The poor upholstery is crouched dumb in meek obeisance. And what of that dream,its insatiable attempts? Its torn shreds,its shards and shrapnels? O cruelty!Is it to be locked in this constant death role Of being born to be torn,of being torn to be born? Let rather tears embalm it with their liquid wreaths and follow its quiet death. If only once it could soar like Icarus And bask in the ephemeral ether of freedom Spreading its wild waxen wings to float in immensity And greet the new born sun in its eastern baths; just once. Such that its mortal wings melting,it dashed to the earth in sunlit glory.
Michael H. Brownstein A DRINK OF WATER WITH MY WIFE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yes, there is a taste to the word "water" as there is substance to fire and weight to strips of leather soaked in oil. It is possible to smell the word "tar". See a stream of cologne. Even "comprehension" has depth. And so, Deborah, I need to thank you for this seasoning of prayer, the sparkle of imagined thyme, the sound of lemon pepper on roasted salmon.
A HARVEST OF CROSSES ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We were at St. Mary's early evening (and I can barely remember the church at all nor can I recall the vast graveyard laid out against a tight tree line of Northern Pine, the stone road dividing it, or the creek of funeral flowers and discarded funeral wreaths.) We were at St. Mary's early evening and our motel overlooked a tundra flatness with purple flax in perfect rows like sunlit waves and sand lines lifting to forever. Nothing was on TV that far north, but my oldest daughter pregnant with her first born son found a radio station and fell asleep in a chair to its music. We were at St. Mary's early evening and a few stores were still open and well lit. Parking was not a problem. No one spoke to us. We were from someplace else and we were someplace else. We arrived at St. Mary's (but I only see lines of crosses and funeral flowers with plastic wreathes piled into a mess in the creek behind the graveyard not far from our motel, not far from the stone road either, but quite a distance from where we parked our car to finish one evening's shopping.)
ERRANDS AND OTHER THINGS OCCUPY MY TIME ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ and now I look through my list of poems, a silence so concise it swells into me. Is there no room for hunger or shame, the loose breath of the injured fawn leaning terribly against the injured oak, its new buds wet with the last blossoms of snow? Somewhere children are flying kites. It is spring. Somewhere children are flying kites. It is fall. The homeless man from the corner tells me water is the hardest thing to find in the city. "Can you spare fifty cents? I need a can of cola." His teeth are like mine, coated and spoiled. I give him a quarter and he buys a bag of chips.
Fariel Shafee Serenity ~~~~~~~~ Gravels and damp sand - motes of planet earth and fragments of the soil, slowly slither beneath my feet as columns of tide surge, to scatter into foam -reclaimed by the ocean before they reach the azure above. I sense the moist chill on my open cheek and neck -- the humid wind hurls and struggles to re-shape the scape of the shore that's as fickle as the thoughts of an innocent malleable child. My bare unprotected feet sunken into the sand, - slowly being deluged by the watery salty body of serenity and of greatness and of hope. I FEEL the pulse of the universe and float on nature's vibe. The wind encompasses me touches me and sculpts me into a fraction of a greatness that seems infinite instead of leaving me one tiny fragile being.
The Kaleidoscope ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You and I are standing at the extreme ends of the universe With a pair of dice to roll - and ignorant of the other's existence. My die is rolled and a number is seen on the TOP; so MY rules are made; the pieces in my kaleidoscope move around on the base and the scarlet, blue, green and yellow iridescent fragments of glass form a pattern that's splendid. The image gets reflected in the 0mirrors of my scope a million, a zillion times and more and tiles to form an infinite world that appears definite to me; so I sense a meaning and I feel I matter as I behold the exact image extending beyond my sight and the rest of the world dissolved behind my impassable walls. Later when I meet you you seem to me to have appeared with a bizarre set of rules and the idea and the conviction of an unknown world I can't fathom - so gripped by threat I am spooked and I long that you were NEVER EVER created in this universe with your VERY FLAWED die, although it is probable that you're AS innocent as I am. Your die might actually have given you a number that is co-prime to my own with no common factors at all.
To Peace ~~~~~~~~ Drenched- Bruised by the acidic showering rain that melts away the outer layer of emotions shelved in the depth of soul. Inflicted by a persistent pain as caused by bitter needles of ice. Gazing blankly at the corner street passed by dashing cars that honk and oblivious silent walkers Some confused and soaked crows fly by. Distant roars of the thunder echo blend with lasting murmurs around The memory of a long lost past No wars, no blood and no flight for life
Rachel Chan Suet Kay Germinal ~~~~~~~~ Here the sterile preside. Out of the order was chaos. And it leapt and broke you Out of your silent reverie. Seventeen inches wide and ten inches long measured the grieving air. You worked in distraction. Calendarising your words. Here and there droplets leaked from the conversation. Maybe some of them picked it up. For they saw you then, and trembled. With the vermin, there is a forgiving solidarity.
Camaraderie ~~~~~~~~~~~ And so, this leads to discovery Of the great meeting room. Faces from ages spent Congregate to jest. The dice is folly, coated with experiments that fluked. Hard earned camaraderie mask the workings behind. I ate my memories and they sunk me down to earth.
Conquistadors Kill the Vultures ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Today we're pimping jazz to the whores of condescension. The lily beasts of burden have come to conquer and be on top. They don't realise we Robin Hoods steal back. We smoke their second hand cigars and inhale all their hot air. Then we spread this filth to the city. We lazy natives. Who but we? Surely not the ma'ams who thank you after wham-bam. We're the capital managers also hooks, line and sinkers. What you can stamp with sophisticato -babble we can make here for a fraction of your wages. Silly conquistador, you ain't killed the vultures just yet.
Adam Tod Leverton The Idea of a Smile ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There's the idea of a smile lurking behind your lips. Maybe it waits for the spring the april torrents strong currents gulped up by the dirt to poke it's green spear up to the light. Or maybe it's waiting for my hand on your hip and a dip into your eyes Cool like a breeze off a field covered with snow.
Like a Sunset ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ like a sunset thrown through the window the glass lies on the pane gather it up and cut your finger tips my heart is a trip wire barbed wire high wire tight rope act and I, up there blind-folded teeth chattering and frightful hope to avoid the last, hopeless drop.
Autoportret ~~~~~~~~~~~ about six feet in stature but I stoop so really it's only about 5 ft 8 my hair currently is not sticking up at odd angles which it usually does it is very short and impossible to tell from this angle that I'm balding as for the colour it is a dull brown the lightness of the summer departing as I spend more time indoors dark blue eyes the colour of an angry sky in july a strange small nose which has been variously described as English whatever that means or bird-like, more appro-po a mouth which is a little small but not obviously so ears which are largish, but in proportion after a day of not shaving a healthy growth of stuble a few freckles which may be overlooked by the less discerning and I'm wearing a biege t-shirt that contains a dog which is forver breaking the injuctions not to eat, smoke or be a dog dark blue jeans, silver watch and black socks.

POST SCRIPTUM


Klaus Gerken


Winter Walk Down Gladstone Avenue
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
 
Arcturus looms high
above a swirling infrared sky
long empty midnight street
with only a slight chill for company
and foot prints...a reminder of 
earlier activity
  
Spent condom 
where a car had stopped
I approach an old elm
bare branches cast an arachnid shadow
on the snow
  
this is limbo
no sound penetrates
around this tree
I see a ghost car gliding past
the unreal grips my mind
and binds it to the universe
    
beyond my comprehension
	 
dark facades across the street
as if a barricade
beyond here is nothing
this is the end of the earth
this is where life stops
	  
farther down
in a doorway a huddled figure
appears whenever something moves
a headlight approaches
I walk past her
eyes meeting briefly
despairing hunger
glazed emptiness
a chill invades my bones
	   
time I tell myself
go home
warm yourself
where winter does not penetrate
and life is not a hollow log
that will not burn 
	    
20 September 2007 1:53 A.M.


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YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2008 by 
Klaus J. Gerken.

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