YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

July 1998

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch
Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla & Rita Stilli

ISSN 1480-6401


The Immigrant's Lament

A Poem by

Moshe Benarroch

INTRODUCTION..........................................Moshe Benarroch The Immigrant's Lament.............................Moshe Benarroch POST SCRIPTUM Copyright information and author's Internet address.


     In the beginning of this century Mississippi was considered a
   "culturally-deprived" area by the Western-oriented intellects of 
   the United States. Only 50 years later word spread that this was 
   where the music of America would be defined  and develop.  This 
   "culturally-deprived" area gave birth to the blues, and later to 
   In Israel today, half the population comes from Arab countries.  They
   are considered an uncultured people, that is lacking culture. The 
   story goes that in the early fifties before the big emigration from 
   Morocco, now the first or second largest ethnic group in Israel, Golda 
   Meir (prime minister of Israel in the 70's) said: "bring them here and 
   we will educate them". The answer she received was: "Do you want to 
   educate a man who knows all the writings of Maimonides by heart?".
   (Maimonides is one the most important thinkers and law makers of
   middle-age Spain Judaism).  There are plenty of quotations from 
   politicians as well as thinkers from those dark ages, from Ben Gurion 
   to Bialik, truly embarrassing,  not that different from ethnic racism 
   in other countries.
   These Jews were quickly defined as Orientals,  sent to the worst parts
   of the countries, depriving them from the right to decide for themselves, 
   condemning them to a life where attaining food was their main goals. 
   After fifty years they became culturally deprived.

   In literature we find a large group of writers from Iraq, many born in
   the twenties, however some in the thirties (for example: Shimon Balass, 
   Sami Michael, Eli Amir), and then none born in the forties and fifties. 
   The sixties don't seem to fare better, but it may be too early to decide. 
   Those Iraqis born in the 20's received their education in a
   culturally-embroiled Baghdad, were already writing in Arabic before they
   came to Israel.  Most of them switched to Hebrew in the fifties and 
   sixties. This fact didn't change their situation.  In a country where 
   the Arab-Jewish population is around fifty per cent of the population 
   this literature is considered an "ethnic" literature as if written
   by a people living on another planet. A parallel situation  happened to
   the Jews coming from the other Arab countries. In spite of them being 
   put in the same basket each Arab country has a different story, and the 
   Jews within it have a different story to tell. At the other side of the 
   rope are the Ashkenazi Jews, most of whom came from Eastern Europe, 
   from one of the most culturally deprived countries, Poland. The level
   of illiteracy there was higher than in any Arab country. Here in Israel
   they became the Western culture, the others being the Eastern (while 
   they were considered East-Europeans). They established and built all 
   the institutions in Israel. Since then they have told their story. This 
   is the story of Zionism, a movement that could see everything but what 
   it was directly in front of his eyes. First they didn't see the Arabs 
   ("we didn't know there were Arabs"), later they didn't see that those 
   Arab were becoming a people.  They didn't see the Sephardim (the Jews 
   who came from Arab countries), and now they are not able to see that 
   these Jews have a past, a culture, and a literature, mostly that these 
   Jews and Arabs have a different story to tell, a different narrative, 
   as to what happened in the past, specially in the last one hundred
   Israel is a democratic country so nobody can silence a writer, but they
   can shut their ears, not hear what we are saying. The major publishing
   houses have only Ashkenazi (Jews from Europe) as editors, even 
   well-known Sephardic writers receive strange rejection letters stating 
   that the reason for not accepting their books for publication is not 
   literary but a different reason.  I have received a few of these 
   letters. You can enter this race if your book tells the story of
   the Ashkenazi over the Sephardi, or if it can be read that way, that 
   is a book in which you criticize the primitivism of these Arab-Jews. 
   If fifty years ago some of your readers agreed with the basis of your 
   narrative,    second and third generation Sephardim today are convinced
   that in Iraq, Morocco or Libya the Jews had no culture at all.
   I emigrated to Israel from northern Morocco in 1972. I was 13 years old
   then and I was already way into this situation. In the beginning I 
   considered myself an European coming to the East, with all the arrogance 
   of this attitude.  I didn't quite understand the joke or compliment: 
   "you don't look like a Moroccan", while I looked around and didn't see 
   any tennis courts, saw that Tel Aviv was a smaller city than Tangier. 
   My brother died a year later, one month after the beginning of the Yom
   Kippur war, and we went to live in a big house with my grandmother who
   was not an easy person.
   This is when I lost myself for years. Probably, in the process,  I
   became a poet. I couldn't remember anything that happened to me before 
   the age of 12. It was like being taken out from a movie after the first 
   fifteen minutes, being transported to another hall, but not really 
   knowing it. I couldn't make a sense of the first part and couldn't
   understand the second part.
   When I was 30, in 1990 I was having hearing problems, needed an
   operation.   I didn't want to through this operation, so I decided on 
   treatment through imagery.  This is a series of exercises in which 
   you are asked to visualize different events, real or imaginary. Like, 
   for example, being in a calm sea and watching the algae move. The
   important thing is what you see.  In this exercise it may be a dog
   trying to castrate you (I saw some of those), then the therapist will 
   do more exercises to try and understand who this dog is and why. These 
   treatments opened the door to my childhood, starting to revive memories. 
   However, even today, I have only momentary flashes of my childhood.  
   Even after making a trip back to my hometown in 1996, I cannot
   reconstruct a whole day in my life in Tetuan.
     In my previous long poem published in Ygdrasil (March 1998) "Self
   Portrait Of The Poet In A Family Mirror", written in 1990, I began 
   to understand something was wrong with Western culture in Israel and 
   with the Sephardim.  It was only when I wrote "The Immigrant's Lament", 
   in 1992, in tears during the entire writing, that I touched my soul. 
   The movie started to make sense, my life started to make sense, I
   could embrace myself, I could tell myself that I may not be that
   successful but that I could love myself. I could also tell the story, 
   I could be angry, I could love the world again, I could forgive. I 
   think that after more than fifteen years of writing I received the
   real prize  - that is writing something that can make sense of the
   puzzle of the writer's own life.
   The same prejudices still reign in cultural circles in Israel.  I have
   not been able to make any changes here. It was only this year that a 
   publishing house in Israel (Bimat Kedem) was established to publish 
   the books of the Sephardim.  They will publish my first novel next 
   year. This, I think, is a tragedy within itself, although it is a 
   necessity and I hope it works.
   This long poem has become the most well-known of my works, parts it
   published six or seven times, parts read many times on Israeli 
   television.  I even heard that it has been given to cancer patients 
   who seem calmed by it. Russian immigrants have identified with my 
   experience, and people from everywhere, even Israeli-born have
   been able to understand their parents better after reading it. The
   institutions have not shown interest,  but this seems only logical.
   The word 'immigrant', itself, is a threat to Israeli culture.  This
   word is only used for people immigrating from one country to another, 
   not for Jews coming to Israel. There is a special word for immigrant 
   in Hebrew:  'oleh',  meaning a person who goes up, who ascends.  Even 
   if someone leaves Israel he is called a 'yored' - someone who goes
   down, descends.
   This is the first time "The Immigrant's Lament" is being presented to
   the English speaking reader (part has previously been published in 
   Spanish).  It is presented in almost entire form (a portion refuses 
   I want to than Klaus J. Gerken for giving me this opportunity.
   I would also like to thank Rochelle Mass for helping me with the
   I can be contacted at moben@internet-zahav.net
   thank you all
   Moshe Benarroch


   In Morocco I was the center
   of all the parties
   a social phenomenon
   always surrounded by friends
   until I came to Israel
   and ended up in a corner
   the corner of all the parties
   I stopped going
   always on the outside
   the outsider
   When I came
   I became a poet.

   I can see you
   I can see you my friend Moshe
   a twelve and a half year old boy
   sensitive and lazy
   I love you Moshe
   I see you after the Bar Mitzvah
   your mother announcing that
   tonight we are leaving
   I see you with the suitcases
   always looking for something secure
   suddenly nothing is secure
   I see you in Ceuta
   waiting for your father to sell the buildings
   for peanuts
   the Arab took out a knife
   before he finally paid in Spain
   I see you on the ship
   on the way to Algeciras
   I see you dreaming
   dreaming of the land of Israel
   dreaming a dream
   a wonderful dream
   with a temple
   a dream full of light
   I see you full of joy
   traveling through Spain
   in Valencia, in Barcelona
   see you full of happiness and full of hope
   that the land of Israel will heal
   your brother Ari who is dying
   see you in a rented taxi
   you are wonderful Moshe
   trying to be loved by everybody
   tired and lazy
   but always nice
   I see you arriving at Marseille
   entering  the bus there
   your father is angry
   at the manager of the transit  hotel
   the sewer is stuck
   shit is flowing everywhere
   everything is wonderful
   but there is shit everywhere
   you cannot know what is awaiting you
   I see you Moshe
   landing in the land of Israel
   half-drunk in the airport
   you don't understand what is happening
   but you don't kiss the land
   or more precisely the asphalt
   I see you
   a week in the boarding school
   of Aliyat Hanoar
   a week you cried without stopping
   I see the nice tutor
   coming from the boy scouts
   saying you you are too big to cry
   and you cry even more
   that it's going to pass
   and you cry even more
   I see you Moshe
   and my heart goes out to you
   I love you Moshe
   and suffer with you there
   in Zichron-Yaacov
   when will you forget Moshe
   when will forgive
   a week later you mother came to save you
   took you to the secondary school in Pardes-Hanna
   they didn't want you in 9th grade
   in spite of skipping a class
   because of your age
   and your mother "why should he lose a year?"
   insisting and insisting
   till you finished the final exams
   at sixteen and a half
   and then waited a year
   studying physics and mathematics at the Hebrew University
   she pushed you to this too
   always pushing
   you wanted to walk slowly
   It took you so long to learn to go slow
   my heart goes out to you Moshe
   Moshe the immigrant
   Moshe looking for redemption
   Moshe disappointed
   Moshe crying
   Moshe becoming religious
   Moshe a half-year atheist
   Moshe who doesn't get along with girls
   Moshe believing in reincarnation
   Moshe studying mathematics
   Moshe studying literature
   Moshe wanting to be a poet
   Moshe running after literary editors
   Moshe editing a literary review
   Moshe writing a novel in 3 weeks
   Moshe writing thousands of poems
   Moshe writing ten novels nobody publishes
   Moshe always trying to be loved by people
   Moshe after people who don't understand his sensitivity
   Moshe who wants to be loved for his poems
   Moshe my heart goes out to you truly
   Moshe I love you
   in all your searching
   in all your impossible searching
   Moshe who knows
   everything will have an explanation
   one day.

   Two things always
   writing and listening to music
   especially after you visited your cousin in Madrid
   arrived religious and returned a heretic
   there you bought your first Van Morrison record
   since then you bought  them all
   and thousands more
   always music and writing
   to save yourself
   from going insane
   in this crazy world
   my heart goes out to you
   Moshe the poet
   Moshe the true poet
   I love you at last
   with all your travels
   with all your suffering
   I would caress you
   in every step of your life
   caress and kiss you
   me who hated you so much
   who suffered so much from you
   now I love you
   all the you's
   you ever were.

   Twenty years twenty
   passed since those two weeks
   that changed your life
   the last week of august
   and the first week of September
   nineteen seventy two
   everyday changed your life
   making you a poet
   writing in Hebrew
   in your land
   and not a writer
   writing in a foreign language
   in a foreign land
   twenty years
   in which you tried so hard to escape
   not loving yourself
   not wanting to be like the others
   writing about suicide
   angry at God
   with asthma and without asthma
   with allergies and skin sores
   angina and digestive pain
   crazy eating, women problems
   trying to escape reality
   trying to escape Israeli society
   traveling abroad as much as possible
   and coming back
   to Paris, specially to Paris
   dreaming about living there
   marrying a French woman
   emigrating to France, what else,
   but she, what else,
   just not to go back to France,
   each one his own escape
   always weak in front of women
   and difficult to make changes
   you are still here
   with all the oximorons and all the morons
   possible inside your head
   feeling the most here and most there that is possible
   so close to the land of Israel
   and so far away from the State of Israel

   I love you Moshe
   and I enjoy writing it
   at last I love you
   with all that you did
   and all that you failed
   and all that you fucked up
   and all that you are ridiculous
   and with all your running
   away from here and escaping again
   and again escaping
   and still, staying here
   I love you
   Moroccan, Spanish, Sephardi,
   European, looks Ashkenazi,
   Western, Eastern, Mediterranean,
   Middle-eastern, Palestinian, African, French
   with all the things you are and aren't
   I love you crazy and insane and most logical
   but then it is you
   it is all the you that made me
   and I love you.


   I embrace you
   go to the world
   love it
   give it all you have to give
   even what it can't accept
   give the world all your love
   all you have learned
   and your experience
   in all your previous lives
   it won't accept
   but it needs you
   the world needs you
   it needs your love
   give it
   but don't expect any reward
   go to the world
   go to god
   don't be afraid anymore
   I caress you goodbye
   go your way
   I kiss you goodbye


   This land in which I was not born
   said the immigrant
   this land in which my children were born
   now I leave it
   like a man leaves his lover
   who cheated on him
   like a man  leaves the mother of his children
   in pain in joy in suffocation in liberation
   that's the way I leave this land
   in which I did not plant a tree
   in which I did not seek revenge
   and if you say this is a descent
   I will tell you, said that same immigrant,
   it is a descent meant to go up
   and if this is your face
   I am an ass
   and if these are your legs
   I am a wheelchair
   everyday in my land is suffocation
   and everyday abroad is oxygen
   I travel twice a year abroad
   to have enough oxygen to breath here
   and not suffocate
   in this ghetto, in this mellah,
   this land in which I was not born
   my children were born here
   this land
   didn't rejoice toward me
   and didn't give me joy
   nor did I rejoice toward her
   in spite of not having another land
   beside her
   not having
   but, said the man angry with tears in his eyes,
   It is impossible for things
   to be done infinitely
   just for lack
   of alternatives.


   My childhood,
   a black flower I did not pick
   Tetuan mountains around her
   Arab children shouting
   "awadel yahoud"
   and throwing stones at us
   on the way to school
   hugging the girls in class
   the old Arab who touched my chin
   the Arab beggar to
   whom I always gave a coin
   my mother always knowing what's good for me
   the smacks I got from her when I lit matches
   and almost burnt the house
   hugging the son of the Rabbi at ten
   Saturday night at grandma and grandpa's home
   and shouting and noise the whole family
   my cousin getting on my nerves
   I beat my cousins
   the vacation house in Restinga and tennis
   the motorcyclist who broke his hand
   the toy store my daddy had
   dad brings me a red Mercedes
   me and my brother breaking it with a screwdriver
   my sick brother who died at 8
   the scissors I threw at my sister
   my brother Levi disappears
   and we're looking for him again
   the recurrent dream of the falling lamps
   private lessons in Arabic
   the giant house made of granite
   Levi and me climbing the walls
   Levi and me not going to the solfege class
   and going to play soccer
   the cakes we bought after the Shabbat prayer
   my uncle hitting me when I touched a moving car
   the beating stick of the teacher
   breaking the stick after class
   the three constant friends of the class
   the club I started with my cousin Levi
   mama and dad travel to the U.S.
   to take care of my brother
   I am left with grandma and grandpa
   in the vacation home playing and swimming
   the one handed French tourist

   my childhood
   a black flower I did not pick
   a black flower I did not smell
   I did not remember
   I did not forget
   I did not love
   I did not appreciate
   I did not hate
   I did not understand

   my childhood
   I don't miss you
   nor your smells
   nor your wealth
   everything was asphyxiating
   my childhood
   I don't miss the famous Alliance school
   maker of students in the universities
   of Strassbourg, Madrid, Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv
   I don't miss the Jewish community
   nor the family always knowing what's best for the others
   nor the feeling of superiority for being true Sephardim
   nor the smell of Ladino nor the ballooning wealth
   nor the imagined honor of the family
   nor the synagogue I was always forced to go
   my childhood my lost childhood
   my insensitive childhood
   where are you, where did you go
   if you ever came.


   Every Friday evening
   all the grandchildren
   gathered on the steps
   of Papa Levi's giant store
   and waited to be called one by one
   to receive money for Shabbat
   He used to call first
   the grandchildren bearing his name
   sons of his sons
   then the grandchildren bearing his name
   sons of his daughters
   who received less
   and then the others, me among them,
   and he called me Mosselito,
   who received even less,
   and we all went and compared
   how much we received
   and I always was jealous of the others
   who received more then me
   and the same day I wasted everything,
   they said
   I had holes in my hands.


   On Shabbats my grandfather used to sit
   in the middle of the living room
   his thumb on his mouth
   every few hours going to the bathroom
   to smoke a cigarette
   they called it Shabbat diarrhea.


   My grandfather was very rich
   every five years he traded his Plymouth
   but not the chauffeur
   who stayed with him
   his whole life
   Just before he emigrated to Israel
   he caught emphysema and died
   didn't do what I did
   died staked to machines
   physician's machines
   who keep the angel of death unemployed.


   Out of four who came to Israel from Tetuan
   three left
   all the cousins now
   in Paris, Madrid and New York
   one by one they left
   married abroaders
   and left
   they understood
   this was not for them
   where everyone categorizes them
   as something they are not
   forced to defend something
   they couldn't identify with

   when they say

   you are a Moroccan
   or an oriental
   and you have to defend the Moroccans
   to whom you can't feel affiliated
   you have no choice but to become arrogant
   with the Ashkenazi especially
   for their arrogance and their cultural ignorance
   to the eastern Jews and their customs
   and they always repeat that same sentence
   half funny half sad
   but you don't look Moroccan!

   I once said to someone
   after this sentence
   "yeah, that's true, I had an operation
   I took of the tail
   and now I don't look Moroccan."


   In front of my house
   with the granite walls
   there was a mountain
   full of trees
   in front of my house
   the police stood
   called consul Murphy street
   in front of my house
   my only home
   where I drown the years
   that made me
   till I arrived in Israel
   to the years that broke me

   since the third of September
   nineteen seventy two
   I collect the pieces

   I try to find some logic
   to the puzzle
   with my words
   I try to find warmth
   human warmth that always scares me

   I collect the pieces
   and stay an orphan
   in my words.


   I had everything in Morocco
   I had everything
   my grandfather was
   the richest man in town
   but I was always anxious
   a sensitive boy
   in a pressure-cooker family
   I had everything in Morocco
   except what I needed
   air to breathe time to think
   time to create
   to be myself
   to be a child
   and dream.


   What's going to happen with you
   Moroccan prince
   what's going to happen to you
   spoiled child
   who never made his bed
   what's going to happen with you
   in the land of Israel
   when you won't be able to shout
   Fatima bring me a glass of water
   Fatima I am hungry
   what's going to become out of you
   Moroccan prince
   here in the land of Israel
   where everyone has to work.


   The father of my grandfather Maimon
   used to ask my father everyday
   when, when is it happening
   (the State of Israel)
   and he answered
   it is coming
   just coming
   he died in 1946
   he had a grocery store
   before dawn
   he used to put bags of food
   near the houses of the poor
   so they wouldn't know
   and wouldn't be ashamed
   he never made any money
   like my grandfather Moshe
   but thanks to him
   and to his deeds
   I live today in Jerusalem.


   My grandfather died of diabetes
   when I was four or five
   I remember his baldness
   covering his head
   like a dream
   he walks in the house
   he is ill in bed
   after his death
   my father grew a beard
   my grandfather
   made a lot of money
   and lost a lot of money
   he willed me a building
   so I'd have the money to study
   because I was named after him.
   I was the grandson of my grandfather.
   They say I am like him.


   My Grandfather Moshe
   stood with suitcases
   ready to travel to Argentina
   to head a milk company.
   He was going for six months
   then the family would

   My grandmother and her mother
   stood in front of him and
   wo wo he is going and won't be back
   wo wo
   he is going forever.
   They stood and cried

   my grandfather dropped the suitcases
   and said
   I stay here

   and that's how I wasn't born in Argentina.


   Where is my house now
   where are the walls where I grew up now
   who is in my house now
   the house my grandfather built
   built every stone in it
   the house in which I played with my brother
   and run in its corridors
   who lives in my house now
   Arabs live in my home now

   and I
   live in an Arab house
   the immigrant who lived here
   may be writing poems now.


   Years you didn't remember your childhood
   and after you
   you didn't want to write about it
   you didn't want to write
   what everyone expects
   from a Moroccan poet
   you knew every poem
   about Tetuan and about the couscous
   will be published
   and that's why
   you didn't write the poems
   inside of you

   years you walk
   with a tree that has no roots
   the roots
   are in the sky.


   I went to three meetings of the Bnei Akiva boy scouts
   and heard many time
   hebraya hebraya hebraya
   and didn't understand
   all the aya aya aya
   I never understood the togetherness
   of the sabras
   not in the scouts
   nor in the school
   nor in the army

   a lone wolf
   in the company of snakes.


   the name of my grandmother is Mercedes
   her son the doctor
   always buys Mercedes
   He was the gynecologists of
   some of the king's wives.
   In the early seventies
   a Zionist minister
   of Morocco
   told him it was time to leave
   He went to Madrid
   then to Nice,
   tried a few times to get a job
   in an Israeli hospital
   and failed.
   He didn't make his Aliyah
   didn't leave
   and wasn't disappointed.


   My father never made it here
   he didn't want to come either
   he wanted Canada, Spain, Venezuela
   but my mother said that from Morocco
   she would only leave to the land of Israel
   he always said this won't suit him
   and he was right.

   I saw him
   failing from business to business
   until he got emphysema
   asphyxiated from the neglect
   of the Ashkenazi bureaucracy
   and died.


   The head of the absorption center
   at the time of the government of
   the Yiddishe mama
   and this was in 1973
   and not in the fifties
   said to my parents
   that we don't have a high enough
   cultural level
   to live in Jerusalem
   my parents
   went back enraged
   to the small apartment
   and decided to leave the country
   it happened every two months
   for four years
   the winds blew to the immigrating direction
   I think this caused a genetic change in me
   and it happens twice a day.
   I would like to meet the little principal
   the son of a bitch
   and spit on him.


   For years I used to walk and discuss
   in my head
   I am religious I am not religious
   I am secular I am not secular
   discuss with imaginary Rabbis
   and with atheists in my head
   for years without concluding
   my head was a theological soccer camp.


   Every Yom Kippur eve
   I redeemed all my sins
   when the Rabbi came
   to slaughter the chickens
   we raised a few days earlier
   me and my brothers
   and we cried trying to escape
   and the Rabbi says
   ze kaparateja
   this is your redemption
   and beats the chicken
   and says again ze kaparateja
   and blood is everywhere
   and sand on the floor to dry the blood
   and this way
   a chicken per person
   he slaughters
   and this way every Yom Kippur
   in every slaughter
   I redeem all my sins.


   I shout my right
   to be different
   to be Sephardi
   to be traditional
   in the Israeli society
   not right and not left

   I demand my right
   to stop feeling
   strange and detached
   I the Israeli.

   Translated from the hebrew by Moshe Benarroch and Rochelle Mass.


   Poem and translation copyright (c) 1998 Moshe Benarroch

   Moshe Benarroch can be contacted at moben@internet-zahav.net


A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda

       Come one, come all! Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established 
       just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A 
       place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and 
       learn from all.  A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies. 
       Even a chance to be published in a magazine.

       The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993. 
       Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such 
       an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon 
       started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin 
       Board Systems.

       We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
       specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
       Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
       are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
       writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
       can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since 
       the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means 
       that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative 
       user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.

       Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede


  Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the
  Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all
  of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find
  Ygdrasil on the Internet at: 

    * WEB: http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken/ 

    * FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/

    * USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines and

    * EMAIL: send email to kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version 
         and method you'd like. We have two versions, an uncompressed 
         7-bit universal ASCII and an 8-bit MS-DOS lineart-enchanced 
         version.  These can be sent plaintext, uuencoded, or as a 


  . REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings

  . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
  . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
  . THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken
  . THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
  . FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
  . POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
  . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
  . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken 
  . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken

  . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp

  . MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
  . BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy

  . THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
  . THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
  . THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
  . INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena

  . POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

  All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each. Checks should be made out to
  the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press.
  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an
  issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM
  or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery.
  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site at http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.


  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
  these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is

  YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995,
  1996, 1997 & 1998 by Klaus J. Gerken.

  The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.  No other 
  version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. 
  Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS


    * Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
    submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
    contents: kgerken@synapse.net

    * Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything
    that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored
    files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on
    Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access:

    We'd love to hear from you!
    Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: