YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

August 1998

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

ISSN 1480-6401


Remembery II

Sightings over Vistas to Remembery


Michael R. Collings

INTRODUCTION..........................................Michael R. Collings

   Remembery II - Sightings over Vistas to Remembery..Michael R. Collings


   Copyright information and author's Internet address.


   Author's Note:
   These poems are intended to mesh with the first Remembery sequence, 
   published as the April 1995 online-issue of Ygdrasil, as did the first 
   poems, these simultaneously explore the twining of past and present, 
   image and imagination, public and private, self and society. These 
   poems also explore manifestations/permutations of the sonnet as form 
   and as metaphor, ranging from the strictly metrical to loosely, almost 
   haphazardly syllabic, from close-to-perfect rhyme to consciously 
   distanced slant rhyme and analytical rhyme.
   As do all poems, the Remembery sequences originate in the mind and 
   memory of the poet; this is not to suggest, however, that the poems 
   are the poet, nor that any of the memories herein contained have not 
   been subjected to various changes--one hopes, to improve them as poetry 
   while distancing them as history or autobiography. Still, the emotional 
   and psychological journey suggested here has resulted in the poet--in 
   this person, at this point in a particular life.
   If any aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, one-time neighbors, 
   long-lost school-chums, or other participant and/or peripheral 
   characters in the ongoing odyssey of the poet's life recognize 
   themselves and take umbrage at my distortion of strict fact, my 
   apologies; this poetry is meant to heal and strengthen, not to hurt. 
   But along the way to health, there may be sometimes a necessary pain. 
   Michael R. Collings

   Michael R. Collings

   Sightings over Vistas to Remembery

   Sightings: Seagulls
   Yesterday I heard a distant seagull
   Cry and, glancing skyward, saw dream-white
   Touched with charcoal-ash arc above [ ..., ] small,
   Deft sounds of feathers ruffled air. Too late
   I focused--by then it had diminished
   To a fluted cry, brief echo against
   Unbroken blue.  [        ...         ] Too late, it flashed
   Once more, so far removed it seemed to test
   Remembery--a flash, a moment's grace
   Urging plaintively beyond a linen
   World.  [ ...and gone..... ]  It carried into time, space,
   Eternity a single fading glint
   That I shall now encase in brittle glass,
   Immure in beds of browning, bitter moss.
   Sightings: Pelicans
   From shore, the rock hunched white and sodden, drowned
   By whorls of spray, softened to mottled greys--
   After-sunset-pearls. Something moved. Down
   They dropped, black kernels knotting darkness, day's
   Tears--dark-on-white--plashing against bone-rock,
   Skull-rock craning up, around, enticing 
   Waves. They dropped, spiraled, settled on the back
   Of that single white-washed promontory
   Half-a-hundred yards beyond dull cliffs. One,
   Then two, then four--they singly stroked the wind
   To find each place of settlement--alone,
   Disparate on the rock's rutched arc, they dined
   On half-digested fish. This year, four eggs,
   Bone-china-thin, lay shattered in stick nests.

   Sightings: Swallows
   I watched them whirl--an indeterminate rout--
   Beyond the lintel, flared feathers flashing
   Silver-and-grey, seeming-black beneath clouds
   Piled up offshore before invading
   The Coastal Range. I watched them swirl and hurl
   Themselves on invisible currents--twist, 
   Arc, pivot, rise, and fall in immeasur-
   Able rhythms that avoided close-massed
   Bodies of fellows diving for similar blobs
   Of mud to build quaint nests. I watched them hook
   Against rough stucco, press minute daubs
   Into their growing shells, then wing back
   Down--their numbers swallowed half the sky.
   I did not watch this single swallow die.

   Our Birth is not a Sleep or a Forgetting,
   As Wordsworth said, but more...and less--not Sleep
   But deep unConsciousness preluding
   Dreams and Visions in the darkened Deep
   We now transgress. Nor Forgetting (which
   Implies Remembery in this mortal 
   State) but strict Amnesia--'not-Remembery'--
   Extended through long, dark, and lonely years;
   Amnesiac unConsciousness more clearly 
   Satisfies parameters of this earthly
   Life--more so than mere sleep or merely
   Forgetting. We do not know who, or why,
   Or how, or when we became of Earth--  
   Remembery begins its painful Birth.

   In the Old House on the Farm
   I've never seen the place where I was born,
   Do not remember ever seeing it,
   Though vague images of woodwork, brick, and stone
   Persist. A Maternity Home, she called
   It on the few times that I asked. She wouldn't
   Volunteer. So I have appropriated
   A new birthplace: logs hand-hewn, chipped gray grout,
   Age-softened splinters bearding warped door jambs.
   Inside: smells of cobwebs mingled with untouched
   Dust and threat of spiders--two cast-off wicker
   Funeral-baskets--an old crank telephone
   That sputtered random sparks--a Maytag washer
   Wringer-less, chipped and gray--a memory-maze
   Still echoing my mother's new-born cries.

   From the Porch
                   we watched, she says, school children
   trudge rough-graveled roads (not paved, not yet--
   our subdivision still too new), clutching
   books and bags and Howdy-Doody lunch-kits-- 
   waving as they passed, she and I, who would
   remain at home until raw afternoon
   returned empty kits, and books, and children wild
   for play. Each morning we watched wave on
   wave of children pass, she says, smiled and waved
   until their last departing feet transgressed
   the corner lawn and disappeared. We rose,
   she says, and dusted off the concrete dust
   and went inside, where she deferred her daily chores
   until she'd dressed me for the day in male attire.  

   Stringing Buttons
   Stringing buttons--hunched on the worn pine floor,
       Its planks velvet smooth from half-century
   Of hands scrubbing, polishing--musty air
       Warm with subtle gossip, whispered words we
   Youngsters ignored.... We strung buttons on hanks
       Of time-greyed cotton-thread and squabbled for
   Favorites: foil-backed glass; glossy jet, ink-
       Black-deep; mock turquoise; hand-cut bone, smooth, clear--
   While hour on hour grandmothers stitched staid quilts,
       Wove intricate lines with white cotton strands
   Through patterns pieced from scraps--old aprons, shirts
       Sunday dresses faded and worn breath-thin;
   Our cotton threads coiled in the button box--
   We never cared that none had end-thread knots.
   Fascinated and amazed, we watched white puffs
   Of popcorn spring from husk-dried yellow kernels
   Skittering in oil at the bottom of
   Grandma's popper--watched with lust almost carnal,
   Hot-intense, for savory soft flesh
   Exploding its sparse hardness. With a quick laugh
   I leaned further forward--closer--felt a flash
   Of flame--there, gone--and saw a yellow-edged, rough
   Leaf lying dead on my wrist. I plucked at it....
   Even yet, the forty-year-old pain's enough
   To burst Remembery and overwhelm; but
   Now the wrinkled scar beneath my stiff-white cuff
   Fades under crosshatched marks from intervening
   Years...scars over scars...measurements of meaning.

   Three months of my sixth summer sleep below
   Sage stones that clatter slopes from Chimney Rock,
   Sweep into shallow fields where, summer-slow,
   Wheat carpet-spears await fall's winnow-rake—
   Three months of my sixth summer lie with her.
   Dead, she laughs no more, nor weeps, nor sets
   Aside the ripest tart-sweet berries in their
   Stone crocks, or ice-chilled cream, or stream-crisp cress.
   Three months of my sixth summer died when she,
   Too, slept. I missed her. Tears that threatened storms
   Have dried, aches smoothed. And only years have eased
   The loss--as spring still thaws, or summer warms.
   Three months of my sixth summer sagely rest--
   An apple's brown-bossed core returns to dust. 

   Cutting the Tree
   Dad cut the fir and bound it, that late October,
   Limb-tight and stiff against the northern wall
   Where strait Montana sunlight could not seer
   Thin needles, crust bright greens to dust-brown hulls--
   Then set it in a dinted, rusted pail,
   With moistened sand to feed its sap, and left 
   It there. The first snowfall threatened, fell--
   Shrouded limbs and trunk and tin--and cleft
   Green with ever-shrouding white. On Christmas
   Eve, he brought the tree inside and snipped
   Hemp-twine. We breathed our disappointment as
   The fir stood, limb-tight and stiff, narrow-topped;
   But--oh! The wonder that next Christmas morn--
   Exquisite breadth of branches, light adorned--

   After Spring Rains
   Billings, Montana--1958
   Malibu, California--1998

   Back then...when roadbeds crested concrete
   Banks--and flood-tides asphalt-black invaded
   Clipped, pruned lawns--and wooden rowboats swept
   Inundated four-way stops to rest embedded
   Against tall five-foot stoops--and sluicing mud
   Remained behind to tantalize young steps
   As we slipped back two for every yard we made--
   Back then...cascading rains meant school would stop,
   Grass gleam unmowed, weeds tower proud, unpulled--
   And nowhere in Remembery reside
   Black-bitter images of faces paled
   At damp-drowned cellars, foundation walls awade
   With weeping cracks--at threatened dissolution 
   As sudden as a cliff-slide's deathward motion. 
   Bluebottle Flies
   Sentinel in Grandma's Attic
   With grey and heavy hmmmmms, a fly again
   attacks the window's dust-baked pane; its wings,
   two gyrous blades, distress stale air to feign
   a rush of breath. "Tik-thump!"  Glossy weight 
   bows rippled glass, and ancient apple trees
   abrading splintered sills curve shadows, cut  
   thin fracture lines distorting buds and leaves
   to knit-purl death. I slip the ancient lock  
   to jamb, tiptoe backward down dust-graven 
   stairs. That grey-toned hmmmm becomes a sudden 
   pain-pent breath. I wait. Unslip the lock. Shiver 
   past the door. The fly--a scrawl of dust in 
   Dust. Along the ledge, bluebottles crust--
   Black filings flung to time's magnetic lust.
   Peach Jam
   That day our peaches ripened all at once,
   Sheening gold in woven bushel baskets;
   "An ox-in-the-mire Sabbath," Dad announced
   And we pitched in with juvenile racket,
   Stuffing quarter slices into wide-mouth
   Mason jars because whole halves seemed too vast
   To fit; pouring syrup--boiling, frothy
   Gold; giving rings a sturdy final twist;
   Then mashing bruised peach tags and broken bits 
   Into the work-worn grinder Mom brought out
   Each summer just for jellying; licking
   Fingers stained peach-gold, unspeakably sweet....
   We passed on church that day--a rarity--
   And yet the hours seem draped in purity.

   From the Porch
                    she watches silently
   as I wobble down our block--ten houses 
   per side, each house replete with its ante 
   of DNA reserved for future decades
   to proliferate--she watches, I wobble
   side to side, slowly, far too slowly for
   a twelve-year-old returning from his first
   (and though she doesn't know it yet, his last)
   stint as catcher for the Little League. She
   watches, arms folded, face turned slightly,
   as she has watched (will watch) in photographs--
   detached, unfocused, there but not a part;
   she watches but does not see red blood
   crusted on my face, harsh pain-filled eyes

   Counting to a million, stomach-sprawled, he
   scritched number after number on his roll
   Of butcher paper spread across our floor.
   Night by night, the paper's essence increased
   by hundreds...thousands.
                         Smiling patiently,
   Indulgently, she glances down at him, arms
   knotted at her breast. His eraser mars
   a misplaced number--scowling at the beast 
   he scritches on and on.
                         Kitchen-bound, we
   three scrub ragged rings from plates, wash pans, drop
   milk-glazed glasses into hot water, prod
   wrinkled fingers across smooth flatware, grease-
   encrusted. We work.
                         He scritches numbers.
   We work, clean up, endure silent hours to slumber.
   Sparkle-sparkle--gutter-light flashes once, twice.
   I crouch above a thick inch-layer of dirt
   raw from spring thaws, focus two excited eyes
   on glistening stones, calculating their worth--
   sparkle-sparkle-sparkle--not in coin or cash
   but in sheer loveliness as slick root-beer glints
   wink at me, beg a home. I pick them up, crush
   them in my palm, quite overcome by their glanc-
   ing sparkle-sparkle-sparkle--and rush to soothe
   angular facets with soft cloths and polish.
   The parents see, watch, take the bracelet with smooth,
   practiced grasp--Don't waste precious time so foolish-
   ly--and let me know, down through the depths of soul,
   this is not a bauble boys should wish to own.

   Sleeping Out
   Beneath box-elders that by day rose striped
       And mottled under thick umbrella-crowns...,
   That wove stark summer's heat through leaf and twig
       And dropped cool shadow to the waiting ground;
   By night...by night rhapsodic melodies
       Of all imagined trysting-songs breathed warmth
   And whispered from the trees like memories
       Not wholly understood that triggered mirth
   And subtle fear as I, cocoon-tight wrapped
       Against pre-dawn dew, prayed for solemn sleep
   To wrest me into dreams of iced, sweet grapes
       That burst their bitter skins against my thirst.... 
   Vagrant winds caught ripe dandelion heads,
   Dispersed in random darkness lonely seeds.

   Because Your Sister
                      shows no love for notes,
   the organ will be yours when you grow up.
   By right it goes--always has--to the old-
   est daughter; but in your case you may step
   into her place because you love music," 
   she said, and did she know the forty-year-
   long breach she would create and did she reck-
   on in the damage done to him when she
   equated him with her, son's love with 
   daughter's heritage, let him know without 
   words how valueless his soul, how beneath
   contempt she held his heart and did she doubt
   an instant that she spoke but simple truth, 
   gave him a gift...destroyed him at the root

   Two walking baths. Two weeping motions;
    Portable and compendious Oceans...."  
   --Richard Crashaw

   Home breathed silence. Kitchen walls strained to hold
   stale breath. I burst in. I could barely keep
   my heart controlled. I heard my mother weep
   a stifled, roiling groan that shattered cold
   across my spine. Her grating weeping tolled
   Death--father, perhaps, or husband--some pain deep
   as darkness, cutting dark. But how could she weep--
   weep for Dag Hammarskj”ld?* Dag Hammarskj”ld,
   for pity sake!  This woman who neither spoke
   of politics nor Congan tyranny,
   nor drew a piteous, quavering breath
   for any's loss, nor trembled in a cloak 
   of tears before or after that long day--
   not even as she stood before my father's death.
       [*Dag Hammarskj”ld: Swedish diplomat and Secretary-General 
       of the United Nations, killed in a 1961 airplane crash while 
       on a peace-keeping mission to the Congo.]

   To Eat a Peach
   O'Halloran--fat, red-neck wrinkled like 
   a gross of Montana winter scarves--reeks 
   his laughter, stands, and punches at his class
   with an unlit cigar. Three o'clock recess.  
   Joey Kattenhorn (hawk-thin at thirteen) 
   disappears into the john, blocks the door 
   with one shoulder, changes jeans for red gym trunks--
   first to imitate brash high-school football hunks 
   who jeer through the diamond-paned cyclone fence.  
   He dares to change and play baseball in shorts, 
   sharp ridges of his stomach bared and tan.
   I escape O'Halloran--escape and run...
   Maybe I can sneak into the John before
   Joey, watch him strip, wish that I could dare.

   I do not know its cause, its time or place,
   Beyond a faint apprehension in old
   Photographs and slides. I see in her face--
   Half-turned away from us--something lost, cold,
   Severed from her own throbbing flesh. It grows
   From photograph to photograph, hardens,
   Congeals lines of criticism, flows
   Unspoken through tight lips. Iris gardens
   Reflect its presence...absence...distance. She
   Stares outward and beyond, locked in herself,
   Locked out beyond herself, enclosed, no key
   Remaining that can call her back. The shelf
   On which she stores her core lies dead and dark;
   It has consumed her--harsh and cold and stark.

   First Job
   Molestation rings harshly in Remembery--
   frightens even now, rusty and obscured;
   back then, the word did not yet ring with pain.
   and no, it was not quite ... but something close.
   I remember new white jeans, tight, stiffer
   than seemed comfortable--my sleek red bike
   pumping toward a row of shops--storeroom shelves
   where I stood stacking boxes of new shoes.
   He showed it. I did not know what it was. 
   He called it a dance-belt, explained its use.
   "Try it on." I glanced toward a screened-in 
   alcove behind the silent racks of shoes.
   I might have taken it if some hand unseen, 
   had not rung the hidden entry-bell.
   * * * * * 
   When he returned, I was hard at work
   stacking boxes--empty, full, I did not care,
   the job was mine. Later, he came back. 
   He did not try again. Instead, he talked 
   of nervousness, tense muscles ... relaxation. 
   He rolled the small machine across my shoulders, 
   down my sides, along child-thin ribs, murmured 
   as he worked. He touched, and smiled a secret smile.
   The hidden bell rang again. He left. I 
   stacked boxes, numb and shaking, until he closed.
   "It won't work out," he said, stripping a handful 
   of dollars from his wallet. "It just won't work."
   White pants. Bicycle awkward against thin thighs. 
   I struggled home. I never spoke the ugly word. 

   Because the Father
                       was not home the task
   fell to her that hot July afternoon
   with triple-digit temperatures to blast
   heat-ebbs and -flows      She stepped outside to find
   him grubbing in rank weed-beds by the fence
   hands flickering in and out among stems
   segregating weed from soil with danc-
   ing fingertips      He stood      She stared at him
   allowed her eyes to drop      His followed hers
   She did not see hot flame-beneath-tan spot
   his shoulders neck and cheek but mother-sure
   spoke on     You have no business wearing shorts-
   that-short-that-thin-transparent when you sweat
   The heat within surpassed the sun's own heat

   Just Like Beethoven
                      , they said (at least all
   but one were right to that degree--the one
   referred to 'Mozart,' but I will give full
   credit for coming close)--as if to shame
   mute agonies for deafness--as if mere
   comparison of me to Beethoven
   would suffice to...somehow...help recover
   equilibrium and pride in playing
   an instrument that I will never hear
   completely--dead upper ranks of flutes,
   diapasons, trumpets--as if to share
   my skill with his and find the vaster truth
   that while we may divide deafness and loss,
   his talent was of gold--but mine, slick gloss.

   After Diagnosis
   and I remember her at eighty-five,
   wiry, white-haired (...no surprise, since she
   had turned from starling-black to startled white
   before she had seen twenty-four...)--that day,
   though, all thoughts of dark-haired, smooth-eyed youth
   had long since died into the oblivion
   of white-, and vague-, and gentle-slide to death
   (...still nine bland years away...)--but that day--then--
   she huddled close to her yellowed page, one hand,
   age-spotted, vaguely trembling over one 
   smudged lens, obscuring froth-white eye. She strained
   to cipher hieroglyphic scrawls. She moaned
   one time, bewailing cataracts and years.
   At fifty, I now understand her fears.
   Gardening Taken as an Act Of Compassionate Service
   Seventy-five--but more by several 
   Decades now of lassitude, of wasted
   Energy dispersed in weaving webs well
   Girded against strains by iron-fisted
   Time--seventy-five, she holds tenacious
   Grasp on her small plot, her one-fifth acre,
   Overlooking in-laws, grandchildren gracious
   Enough to work, root out weeds from ochre
   Soil--seventy-five, she haunts strong hands
   That tidy edges, hawks at prey on knees
   Crusted with mud, her words descend, turn, wind
   Silk-strong filaments intended to freeze
   Forever matriarchal bonds intact--
   Each blade of grass meticulous and correct.
   Lying Hand-Crossed in Her Satin Box
   Lying hand-crossed in her satin box
   She falls mock-peacefully asleep at last.
   Her hair, pincurled and stiffly white (bleached phlox--
   Crystal crushed in her winter-storm’s least blast),
   Glows albino in our silent, muted glare.
   Her cheeks lie sunken, dark-dry-wrinkled clefts,
   Dead earth twisted at an earthquake’s core--
   Her fingers, useless dust for Time to sift.
   She lays in wait for Eternity. And we
   Dry tears, sigh fears, retrain long-pented joy
   To solemn reminiscences until
   Guilt-haggard, we bury her in the lee
   Of a box-elder bole and--suddenly, shyly coy--
   Separate, to follow out her will.

   My Eyes Stayed Closed
   An Essay on the  Fine Art of Poetry Sublimating Life
   I woke this morning several times--each time
   a surfacing from tether-dreams to taut
   realities. My eyes stayed closed--my soul
   engrossed in silence, vividness, and light.
   The first time, I heard silence--no jitterings,
   no ringing singing clattering--just silent dreams
   beyond the reach of random sound. My eyes 
   stayed closed--I chose the dream again.
   The second time, I saw colors--clear forms,
   smooth shapes, sounds and sights combined
   to cradle me in reassurances. 
   My eyes stayed closed--embracing dreams.
   I face the world half-deafened, -blinded, -aged--
   and wish myself again into Remembery.

   Michael R. Collings


   All Poems copyright (c) 1998 Michael R. Collings

   Michael R. Collings can be contacted at:


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
  . POEMS TO A GOD WITH SWOLLEN FEET (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

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  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.

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