YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

December 2010

VOL XVIII, Issue 12, Number 212

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



Leigh Herrick
   in the pantry of illusion


Leigh Herrick
   logy with torpidity
   with reality,…

Jayne Lyn Stahl
   step out
   The Balcony
   In the market
   A Symphony

Chris G. Vaillancourt
   Sandman Calling Lepers 
   The Zero I Need To Be 
   Sky Stained with Tones of Red 

Roberta Burnett
   Blue Flash at Creekside   
   from the backstroke, in water’s sound
   In Breughel’s Icarus . . .

Felino A. Soriano
   Approbations 734
   Approbations 735
   Approbations 736
   Approbations 746
   Approbations 747
   Approbations 748
   Approbations 749
   Approbations 750


Felino A. Soriano
   Approbations 751


Leigh Herrick

in the pantry of illusion

           [an]t[arc[h]t[ic] d.eat.h roll
glacie[red]-fac]e[t]ed] surface
                                     perimeter being
today's feature : monkey-less comparative 
in disproportional countenance monetaried to daylight's extreme 
for the totalitarian question marked in a phrase like
this down dimmed dumb made numbly sublime word: false : 
which explains
counterfeit transcendence
forged upon green blades
a blown trajectory of    
                          mathematician's poet's scientist's musician's
the bomb of it made into neighbors
the bomb of it handed to foreignism
the mouth of it made into al[l]ie[d]
its fricative glottal thrust moving beyond friction fusion fission 
a final frontier 
turned past
moon watering       birth of star
the uni-move 
the wave of it       forgotten
your electric heart

Leigh Herrick

logy with torpidity
            (Hinging to heller levinson)
centurial effects breeding cerebellum excision timed 
                                    to hemispheric derision non-
grata-fication in homosapienic font bipedalic scent auroric shimmering ionic 
                                                at mos[t] spheric bent 
                                      o green!
o orphic non-acrimonious wave!  streaming lachrymosity proved posit 
             dawned corrosion
a sky-lined pigmentation   horizontally canvassing orb   perfunctorily 
as opposed is to attain 
is as chain is to monotony of Capital Haze
this reply:
Whatever will remain?

Split When there is no one left to read my poems to I will read them to the walls I will read them to time's ineffable expeditiousness that calls to the rabbits who come and go each year from beneath the shed I will read them to the horrendous breath of daring filling my lungs with the languid courageousness of air propelled by the innoucuos action: in out, in out From the other side of the alveoli I will direct the cells: Be poems like spores And in the final hours In the hours of presumption against which I have always leaned toward morning I will spit into the sky if for no other reason than to paint its night with another meaning
with reality,… television psycho-electric glare numb-bubbling screen fade gray to fizz dots of nothing dots of the mined I pupiled eye the ill legitimately prime -timed to changelingly brain-chaining aim of the changed eye the watching scanning watching scanning scanning watching feeling nothing I in \ am stereotactically operationally buzz-organized a feeling curvature : bloodshed making meteoric metaphor and these days of the word Just and this is Just that as Just as merely is realistically really theatre simply echoing the world
maybe maybe we won't maybe the stooled words of incrementality forging comfort will provide maybe the haunting voices of unnoticed children missing in polite poems will remain unobserved and maybe like the mountain whose name had always been beyond vitriol maybe the indignant mountain called Untamable Uprising will grasp at the Sky maybe it will just as maybe that romantic futurism of the triple-rainbowed event will prove itself One Way or Another and maybe grass will bow to it unhidden from secrecy's green desire maybe clouds will lift their skirts egging the mountain on and there will be only a calamity of joy or maybe there will be Nothing At All maybe the fused streaks of ancient graphics loping toward this day's fabrication of Act as Eradication not asking Where are the bones of the Mother will blend into Word Art frozen to monitors waiting in the depths of the Stilled But if we do and let's Pretend then we can say there will be No one Else to have to
:August Today tonight a star the planet cut worm rebirth a generation black soil hope the pit & sound the goat-skinned head the smoke-of-lamb green-tomatoed days and one fly biting at big ankles biting still against the grayly swayed clouds of bent thought the flickering chill of sun the unloved are given to burrowing for would-be progeny as the single rabbit now so young hides within the little there is left to say
Jayne Lyn Stahl step out step out of your cloud and dance rain will come but it won’t hear us leaves will fall yet the tree remains mountains rise above magnetic green fields still we step past the deafening light onto the edge of daybreak a couple of old souls none the worse for wear.
The Balcony The balcony is filled with fruit and dead men’s bones. The balcony is filled with the cries of young warriors come home and the slow, sudden dance of a child where frost forms on the windows We are robbed of each other like a couple of old sailors waving goodbye for the last time.
In the market In the market you are walking around with ghosts in your pocket convinced they can talk still they defy you. In the market you are reading a spider web your address book is filled with dead people who learned how to talk like glass. how is it you remember the day you were born.
BETWEEN SHEETS OF RAIN There is nothing like getting naked between sheets of rain the tickle of thunder on the back of your neck. There is nothing like the whisper of night on top of a lake a quiet storm the kind that melts even daybreak.
A Symphony a symphony is a place where time stands still and waits for music.
Chris G. Vaillancourt Sandman Calling Lepers Sandman calling lepers in the middle of the afternoon. He wants them to leap and dance in thorough mobile phone fashion. Drop the act. Drop the act. Be the member of the hive you're supposed to be. And let the smell of marihuana drift like gravel through the incense soaked necklace. Be the yes. Be the yes. Be the midnight sun blinking on and off like an underwater city being bombed by the propaganda. There are always flies in the house. Always ants underfoot. Always skin toned dyed hair littering the black pants left at the back of a chair. We can break the mould of desperation. First though, we must break the mould of an "ism" type of living.
The Zero I Need To Be I've emptied myself of all the surrealistic garbage imposed on me by the boggled society we've let grow like a stone around us. With images of brushing hair and applying oils into my hair, I've become the antithesis of corporate bullsh*it. I won't wear your name on my chest. Company logos do not define me. I won't eat your advertised food. Instead I eat the filth of truth. The groveling of reality as it flickers into thought. Just let me be the zero I need to be.
Sky Stained with Tones of Red Sky stained with tones of red dripping faucets correct the marching soldiers as they blossom towards their murder Screaming cries of patriotic nonsense in souvenirs of flags and medals that they'll be presented with either on chests or graves Breath tinted with lust war drums pounding in the celestial sanctuary of the broken hearted puzzle which demands to be reconciled with its own sense of disaster green dressed robots parading in their endless lines of death Heart caressed by hate speeches offered by suit and tied gremlins that stay at home under their beds while the young men travel far bringing their disease like a plague moronic images of courage driven into their underdeveloped minds someone has declared a police action once again someone will die
Roberta Burnett Blue Flash at Creekside two-second plunderer kingfisher for hearts: your azure plunge, unerring, brings up membrane memory translucent, savory, at two-foot, confident depths, at hundreds, still in thrust. burials open from your plummetings–– the dangerous moments of no veils. underwater, three feet: under ledges, slitting through reeds, only safety, lulling. go as I please.
from the backstroke, in water’s sound all the dark birds’ skittering eurhythmics sans sound under the X-ray sky in the unsunset of this night’s overcast. felt melodies, endlessly, in this I live.
In Breughel’s Icarus . . . “. . . the splash, the forsaken cry.” ––W. H. Auden Sure, we phone on the wrong day, look in a direction where, it’s true, nothing much happens, mis-hear or misspeak the line that could seal love in. The perfect day for walking in gardens is when we must squander time on paying bills, write resumes for jobs. The day we really should marry gets put by; instead that’s when someone’s child, maybe you, signs into the military, a tour, say, for Afghanistan, 2010. Mostly we run on intuition when logic or facts need plugging in (or when a solid circumstance needs a feel for things), and so we choose a passing play or a vault skyward––something daring––while we trust the pole and hope the soaring heel won’t nick the bar or, for heaven’s sake, that the tip of the tulip bulb, planted point down when the land line rings ––I run in to answer, thinking too of rain––will, like the core of hope, right itself on its inevitable course to the sun.
Felino A. Soriano Approbations 734 —after Marco Benevento’s Greenpoint Fulcrum ideology spa ced momentum )honored( by which a supplied symptom recreates antiquated versions of now in the ideal form marked mirrored mentioned on basis-mathematics tremble-pointing fingers realigning realizations with refreshed renewed passions of an outlook’s ornamental existence.
Approbations 735 —after Vijay Iyer’s Threnody Paused life, a death among living reactions, of tears crawling descending contoured windows opened sections broken among delineated passions. The life, gone. Broken within hallowed constructs programmatic illusions broken within halved constellations through foggy fleece of dusk’s warming addendum: distance draws face of the recent articulation eyes’ closed continuance: memory, thus: orchestrated findings of a life’s habitual nearness.
Approbations 736 —after Jaga Jazzist’s For All You Happy People The skeptic is watching observant dissection teem on skin logical antagonist. Few stumble caricature dimension of a self’s verdant anticipated newness. Emotional fathoms proclaims unexpected virtue, expose contaminated views exploring dimensional algorithms depicting fundamental paradigms illustrating bipolar renditions of a feeling’s exploratory function.
Approbations 746 —after Ketil Bjørnstad’s & David Darling’s The River V Splayed barren dust-cliché canopied delirium present passive asymmetry presumed fabricated violence, ensued spirals of interrupted physiological dilemma. Opened mouth rarity of softened dew near your emaciated jawline reeds portend entrancing dialect of danceable appraisal: soon and here your waist shall refill: approaching apparitional reforms a storm-momentary birthing panged abbreviation birth deluge orchestra of need.
Approbations 747 —after Vassilis Tsabropoulos’ Reading from a sacred book eye lit pageantry oracle, ailments uncover dissipated method carving flesh-white deliberated moments bouquet unraveling verbatim silences deem persuasive locking unholding intentional meaning entrancing the body’s paralleling virtue untying emblems from stagnant consideration renewing accolades but of abstract findings amid maze’s underlining features.
Approbations 748 —after Tord Gustavsen Ensemble’s Left Over Lullaby No. 1 - O Stand, Stand At The Window Child unspoken amid restful posture, lean interpretation hankering specific his mother’s over watching riddles. Of meaning seen by esoteric corneas kaleidoscope of mirrors echo-syllables tracing origami silhouettes looking inward emotional premise revisiting this night’s version of causational intensified sopor.
Approbations 749 —after Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s Fingers In The Wind rotate fold compress reconfigure collate various rhythms’ anecdotal existence maturated emblems of the constructed method held and supine revealing comfortable aspects of reinvented forms hearsay combined revelation textures unfolding aspects of vocal manipulation
Approbations 750 —after Pharoah Sanders’ Naima Arpeggio broken halved a bouquet fractioned alive though incessant stylized your name a purpose a pronounced expanse of sound tumbling and among the spoken autumn appearing behind haze of curtained rain the hand of your method rotates modes of excessive interpretation gilding and prominent, experimental reaction.


Felino A. Soriano

Approbations 751

—after Toru Takemitsu's I - The Night


You – The Morning


               we – The Noon 


                              winged verbs

               anticipating angled 




                 distance absolute then us

                                                working context mimesis wildlife


unremitting density     togetherness, origami. 


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