YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

October 1998

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

ISSN 1480-6401



      Tomorrow the Nazis Come..................Eva Heydrich & Amanda Storm

         * 1. La Nina
         * 2. Titan Arum
         * 3. Lev   
         * El orchestrating the hats--
         * she became a young woman overnight
         * looks-like chrome table-legs welded-together
         * recall significant
         * medicated A-sexual
         * destroyed by envy
         * Time thinking
         * PORT AUTHORITY NYC, 1974
         * RTE1 AND RTE 202
         * Drunk in the Afternoon
      WIL CLARK 
         * High Water
         * Passchendaele (Ypres 1917)*
      C.E. CHAFFIN
         * Demon Melancholy
         * Off Lithium
         * News from the Front
         * Vomiting Poetry
         * On the Left Brain
         * pop a pill
         * Private Lives I the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois
         * Private lives II Chicago, Illinois
         * Private Lives III the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois
         * Private Lives IV  the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois
         * Calling
         * Genera
         * Hybrid Husky


      C. P. CAVAFY
         * Waiting For The Barbarians


   Tomorrow the Nazis Come 
   by Eva Heydrich & Amanda Storm
      "Let justice be done, though the heavens fall."
                                          -- William Watson
   It is a crisp autumn day, a space of time that lulls a man into 
   believing, if just for a moment, that Adam is still in his
   paradise and all is right with the world.  But today, as
   yesterday, a line of refugees stream through our village like 
   filthy heralds of destruction.  They tell me that the Nazis are
   coming.  I am amazed at how little these people ask for.
   They simply shake their heads at my starched, white shirt
   and my little house, with its fresh thatch, and my beautiful
   vegetables. I see only darkness and the hints of a barren,
   hopeless nostalgia in their faded eyes.

      I have prayed for a miracle, but my final hopes were dashed
   when I saw that our soldiers had thrown their weapons away and 
   joined in the exodus.  I could follow their example, but to what 
   safe haven would I flee?  East, towards the Russians?  Them or the 
   Germans, it will amount to the same thing in the end.  

      I am a God-fearing man of course, despite what the bored old 
   women say about my never remarrying.  The new priest told us that 
   the Devil is the prince of this world, where he will hold sway
   until Armageddon.  (At first I thought that I was a witness to
   the final confrontation but this cannot be, for where marshal
   the armies of Light?) 

      Before he died, my father told me that he survived the Great
   War without a scratch because of something a one-armed man told him 
   in a dream.  He told Pater to tattoo certain symbols on this body, 
   which would completely protect him from mines, bullets or anything 
   Fate might wish to throw his way during that war.  Now my father was 
   the sort of man who took his dreams more seriously than most men, so 
   he did as the cripple told him and sure enough, he came through many 
   a bloody battle without so much as a hangnail.  At least to hear him 
   tell it.  Pater made me write down the formulae and symbols, which 
   had served him so well.  I did what I was told, even though I thought 
   it heresy, because he was my father and had seen something of how 
   things stand in the world.  Now more than ever I respect his wisdom 
   and his memory. 

      Like most of the men in our town, I have spent many hours
   at the altar, beseeching the Lord for help or at least understanding, 
   but He is as silent as a frozen mausoleum in the grips of a pagan 
   December.  I told the elders that someone has to do something.  Someone 
   has to stand up to those bastards, but they just say there is nothing 
   to be done but to put our trust in God, submit to the Germans when they 
   come and hope for the best.  I pointed out that "God helps them who 
   help themselves," but the so-called wise men of our village just bow 
   their heads and walk away.  Merciful God and the Saints!  Those 
   wretches have already given up.  They are already dead!

     Fortunately I know what steps need to be taken.  I will paint the 
   wards on my body.  Then I will go out and confront the huns before 
   they reach my doorstep.  I was doubtful at first, because I drew the 
   prescribed symbols on a bit of paper, then while chanting the words 
   my father made my memorize, I threw the scrap into my cooking fire 
   as a test.  The flames consumed that paper before my eyes, reducing 
   it to so much ash.

     But last night the one-armed man came into my dreams and
   reassured me that everything was just as my father had told
   me.  My remembrance of the dream is all shadows and dark edges, but 
   I learned that the symbols would only protect human flesh - and then 
   only during time of war!  Plus I must have absolute faith in their 
   efficacy.  He told me that both the Devil and God are cut from much 
   the same cloth - they both demand a quite bit of faith, only the 
   former gives freely of his bounty in this life and not just in the 
   next.  I am confident that the apparition speaks the truth because 
   my father had this dream and he survived the "war to end all wars."

     Tonight I will adorn my body with my father's mystical protections 
   and at dawn I will chant the words of power to the rising sun.  Then 
   tomorrow the Nazis will come and I will be ready to fight them, 
   despite their tanks and flamethrowers.  Verily, I do not fear for my 
   body, but may the Lord have mercy when he weighs my soul.


   Eva Heydrich's Note: The original manuscript was two pages, in 
   Polish, burned around the edges and apparently torn out of a
   book - a diary perhaps - which I came upon shortly after my
   grandfather's death in April 1995, when I was sifting
   through some memorabilia he had collected while assigned to the 
   Wehrmacht, from 1938 to 1945. "September, 1939" had been scrawled 
   in the left margin, apparently in my late grandfather's hand.  The 
   title is my own.

   1. La Nina
   Extreme dryness fades and paves way
   Extreme dry tears, pour down the bay
   Sea apples' mammon
   Drips on persimmon
   Drenched lemon
   The Lord's way
   Note: La Nina usually occurs at the end of the drastic El Nino 
   weather phenomenon. It brings excessive amounts of rainfall to tropical 
   countries from Peru to the Philippines.
   2. Titan Arum
   Peak breaks through eretz and gets bold
   Goliath's tongue tosses, grinds gold
   Wings that flee, poses
   Away, neighbour's noses
   Dead cap roses
   Safety sold
   Note: Titan Arum, or the "corpse flower" or devil's tongue, is the 
   smelliest flower in the world. It is a native of the Sumatran jungles in 
   Indonesia. The stalk of the corpse flower looks like a giant tongue 
   sticking out of soil. On the stalk is a cluster of a thousand flowers 
   that germinate from pollen scattered by insects as they fly away from 
   the flora's stench.
   (Both poems La Nina and Titan Arum are clogyrnachs. Clogyrnachs are 
   English poems whose composition technique is derived from Welsh poetry. 
   A clogyrnach rhymes in the sequence AABBBA on six lines with syllabic 
   structure 8-8-5-5-3-3.)
   3. Lev   
   Leaves fall when rain falls
   as the wind blows, the grounds in awe
   to witness the miracles of God
   waking up every soul with His shofar
   His blood flows like His merciful ahava
   as spring rain becomes downpour
   as latter rain becomes gold pour
   the inner soul yearns for a harvest
   of pomegranates in a new season
   to share and to succour
   after El Nino
   in the tevet of ahava
   Rain falls on sacred day of God
   His cherabims echo
   He looks down with His hands at His folks
   Knocking on each other's doors
   His heart of gold, towards every poor soul
   Note: Lev- Hebrew for "spiritual heart"; ahava- Hebrew for "love", 
   tevet- Hebrew for December; shofar- Hebrew for "sacred horn".

MARIE A. KAZALIA El orchestrating the hats-- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ all a pretense---money spent on the wedding the reason for the wedding so the older sister could design the color-scheme-- The bride and bride maids all wear wide-brimmed-hats match their dresses-- My mother showed me a picture one attractive shot of the bride wearing her hat rather than a veil-- caught in a broad smile--how unusual My mother scoops up pictures like that one to show visitors her beautiful daughters Hoping for a compliment how they take after their mother-- Older sis in the background handling wedding details hovering white cloud refracting sun beams into rainbow colors each bean on a bride's maid in the wedding procession so many hats alike wide brims could not get close to each other to hug 5/6/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA she became a young woman overnight ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ recalled one of my earliest pleasures going to my father----then my mother--- Or my mother would say--go ask your father to blow up a balloon for me or if I managed to inflate one myself could not tie it so have either one them put a knot in the end to keep the air in the long kind pink, red, blue reciting her list-- Most exciting moments in her life-- Expecting more to come her way seeking always lesbian sex and love Occasionally men when she needed to GET BACK AT her woman When she needed a man, broke destroying herself outside in inside out how could one year go by so fast without loving sex but nothing meaningful Thinks she can find someone just by looking in the lesbian personal columns 5/5/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA looks-like chrome table-legs welded-together ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ pretends to live like a big man, a man's man larger than life a dick in his pants so he needs sex everynight Makes a point of revealing that aspect-about-himself No date for the evening calls an escort service from yellow page listings Woman delivered to his door in an hour all this he tells as a story to the woman he's after But with a twist, Says, something wrong with the condom too small-couldn't get it--ON MY DICK it broke so just gave up Paid her--dropped her off in his truck Who knows what really happened--who cares Men always confess an inability to sex another feme--to prove sensitivity or desire for that special someone putting water in my gas tank car jerking up to a stop the man who drags a leg walking across the street to my old Opel starts it up says he'll take it didn't have change from 60 dollars so said: SODAS FOR THE KIDS? meanwhile the cowboy has my tools one day recognized them on his workbench in his sculpture studio Told him wanted them back WANT ME TO MAKE-UP A LITTLE TOOL-KIT FOR YOU? he offers his generosity NO, I told him, I want MY tools back That very sick loony woman in Washington Apartment stole one of my sculptures from the patio Stuck it up in a tree day she moved out Told someone she'd like to smash it but maybe it's worth something when all they had were tricks & deceptions 5/5/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA recall significant ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ often I do recall that afternoon this one in my heart & mind Something merges in Mandarin class reason not talking with other students in all their social silliness Hurried back to the train station ---dreamy arrived at my stop That time stays in my memory climbing concrete stairs 5 flights tiny apartment across from Kai Tak airport jets gliding down heavy past my windows to land on the runway a continuation of the street I live on Lost myself into computer files alone at a table paging through first 60 pages combing/editing out bumps brain & screen I became a writer that day I felt it, So satisfied-- Alan Sargent told me a couple months later when I met him I became a writer, from that page on the moment that day both days significant 5/6/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA medicated A-sexual ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (A-sexual meds) the medication made me A-sexual STINGY from every aspect my decisions have made sense to me at the time but to no one else Years later But in the end works-out just fine He had tattoos on his hands telling me THE MORE CONSERVATIVELY YOU DRESS THE MORE BIZARRE(BEHAVIOR) YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH always in a suit Now I don't know if that's true or not - or if my rad clothes allow rad-er behavior a heavy open mouth sleep the sticky stuff plaque on my front teeth slightly drying--my clue how I slept last night 5/7/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA destroyed by envy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I've had a couple of different boyfriends try to sabotage my art Afraid--they confessed--I'd become successful and leave and forget about them-- I WISH I HAD THAT MUCH CONFIDENCE IN MY WORK-- So I left each anyway for trying to destroy my writing which I equated as trying to destroy ME Never believed one word of their envy stated-- just an excuse men taught to belittle destroy damage all things that come from a woman 5/7/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA Time thinking ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I need so much time to think not just heavy thoughts left hanging in the air-- as my father has done for decades Occasionally transferring his ideas into wood construction & paint---- I ricochet with thoughts pinging around inside my skin confusing--- Blurring my vision I write them in ink to see what I've been thinking of--- 5/8/96
DAVE GITOMER PORT AUTHORITY NYC, 1974 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ this bus pulled out, looking for future or just next depot, a slight honk, expressed the angry emotion emitted by the paisley shorted motorist who was just cut off, then flipping angry bird, drove into the sunset, blood red. this bus, this red bus, moving toward, leaving from, exiting returning in constant motion all at once, this bus, this station, this town, always looking, always looking for, leaving or arriving, sometimes simultaneously we are looking for what we already have, and never really missed, this engine got tired in the hunt, but on this bus, with sticky red leather seats, slightly torn, a tad frayed, longing for a day off. we rolled through this tunnel, luckily terrorists took this day off, it might be Sunday, no bombs, even the prostitutes were scarce, and the junkies were in a nod. the wonder of the New jersey turnpike at 4 am, neon flashes, this young sailor pukes on his lover, rough sex after effect, I see the jets landing and leaving Newark international, arriving and departing too, the trains rumble down the sides of this highway, the jets twinkle, synthetic strobe stars, just grazing mother earth, while linear train lamps, chug onward, a jet narrowly misses this roof, of this bus, I jot down a will and testament, and look outward, westward, wondering, in the rays of rising dawn, and sputtering fog, Pittsburgh in 12 hours, I nod off again.
DAVE GITOMER MIDDLETOWN WAITRESS, 2 PM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ road junction, truckers pass, the neon sign emotes, a mild begging plea. this waitress waits, staring off, aloof, dreaming. red tresses dangle on white blouse, twisting spiral asps, her sweating red face, a tad overly flush. strolls over to the a/c, the belly shows, on top of her stretch pants, sensual then, sensual now. painted over those thighs, tales of innocence lost, still the beauty speaks, entices, a tourist asks for French toast and sausage. she turns glowingly to the child, who votes for pancakes, orange juice... "Are you form around here?" its asked. the question too obvious, the gentlemen too sly. "Yep born and raised!" she replies with a coy smile. "But nothing ever happens here" a not too obvious conclusion, she continues. :Nothing ever happens in Middletown" her baby begs to differ, with a slight kick she winces and wonders about that fateful night.
DAVE GITOMER RTE1 AND RTE 202 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ exxon station blaring red complimenting passing tail lights full moon peeking over aged oaks canvass, background for traffic lights mid-america breathes. passing clouds exhale, restlessly seeking ocean's brine and breadth.
MICHAEL MCNEILLEY Drunk in the Afternoon ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Drunk in the afternoon, as the Budweiser salesman takes pictures; the room is full of suits. The last time I washed this shirt was in the bathroom sink at Alice's place -- dried it with her blowdrier. It looks pretty good I must say. Drunk in the afternoon it's 50 cent Budweiser night at Millie and Al's, door prizes stacked in a booth. The waitress has forgotten my name but remembers to ask the waitress who hates me -- she's read my poetry. Hell don't blame me, I told her, I just write the stuff. Drunk in the afternoon and all the bartenders are here -- bartenders from all shifts, it's a big promotion. Only one of them is working -- she carries herself quickly from Budweiser cooler to service bar. The rest of the bartenders are drunk, drunk and rowdy, unusual for them not unusual for me these days to be drunk in the afternoon. There's a blonde on a barstool, she looks like the rest of my life. They are passing out free tickets with each beer. They'll have a drawing later for door prizes -- I'm passing out wolf tickets: if I had a job I'd go to it but here I am, nearly five and the government workers begin to come in. Drunk in the afternoon and the blonde leaves, carrying money in her hand. The Budweiser salesman slaps backs and places napkins squarely under bottles. The bartender is doing too much walking back and forth behind the bar -- she turns up the juke to compensate for the increasing volume of noise or conversation. Drunk in the afternoon as the blonde returns -- she's done something with her money. the Budweiser salesman has met another Budweiser salesman; they deliver four free beers to a table of women, but damn it they miscounted, oops they say and deliver one beer more, five women look much like four, a palindrome of women as it works both ways. Drunk in the afternoon somewhat alone, as Alice applies for a job with some asshole over dinner. I can't even afford her dinner, much less a job. Love without money must be more precise I suppose, and Alice doesn't drink beer -- beer is bad for precision and the figure. Drunk in the afternoon I pour down my 50 cent beers collecting tickets for the door prize -- look how I've cleaned up my act, no speed no phenobarbital no smoking -- just beer beer beer and I'm drunk but straight as the drawing begins and I win two T-shirts -- I win a light-up wall sign. I give the wall sign and one of the t-shirts away. Tony's here and Ron, Barbara and Leslie but there's no one to talk to. I put on my t-shirt, it says something about Natural, and I sit here waiting for you, wishing you didn't have to see me drunk in the afternoon, knowing we will have to talk this one time more. And the lights recede, the people form a backdrop, even the bathroom seems too far away -- and if you come here now you'll get no closer than the rest. There's no solace no cure no replacement for things we know not well enough to miss. Drunk in the afternoon, our barstools sway to the rhythm of some 50s song -- cracked voices sing along, it sounds okay to drunken ears. We celebrate our various endings, drain our beers and order more. You can't beat the price -- Is it cold out? Is it cold out? Try a little antifreeze -- and we're filled with nothing but beer and beer and memories as the sun sets drunk in the afternoon.
WIL CLARK High Water ~~~~~~~~~~ High, Dry and Cold like in a mountain pass Reflecting pools in desolate surroundings No trees. This place is almost impassible Dappled sun in auguste low-ceilinged Clouds and pock marks beset the Splintered carcasses of great boulders Wedged into delicate rock sheets by water simply changing State... And riddling my understandings of high altitude. High water mark of my life, altitude nausea Higher than the canyon of the kings, Our stand-off will be felt over those stagnant pools High water pools like sounding boards listening to the sky Frozen most of the year, unattainable by most individuals At the zenith of a world condemned to silence After a quick sequence of throaty booms Some rock will hold water; some rock will not 15 July 1998
MICHELE COLLATINA ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * Passchendaele (Ypres 1917)* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Passchendaele, ti ricorderai di me dentro quel fango ed un mare che sbarrava il mio ritorno ma tante croci come me, avrai capito, non si chiedevano il perche' Passchendaele, a novembre non avevo piu' un amico solo il fango come un gelido vestito Bruciava il cielo nella notte-- sulle croci disperate e io sognavo di andare via Ma la tua pioggia cadeva lenta sciogliendo il fango sulle mie lacrime - A diciott'anni la vita e' un filo di seta - cantava all'alba il vento ancora Passchendaele, quel mattino mi mostrasti le tue lame e io vidi che erano lame di fango per tante croci come me, hai gia' capito, qui nelle Fiandre il vero re Passchendaele, ti ricorderai di me sotto quel fango e una madre che pregava il mio ritorno Bruciava il cielo nella notte sulle croci addormentate e non potevo piu' andare via Ma la tua pioggia cadeva lenta sciogliendo il sangue nelle mie lacrime - A diciott'anni la vita e' un filo di seta - cantava all'alba il vento ancora Passchendaele, please remember not to burn another sunrise in that jolly lonely place, and rest forever Now sing, sing joyfully because the tears have gone sing, sing loud if you can and think you see the mud and you see the rain while you see the words carved on my grave. * Translation: * Passchendaele (Ypres 1917) * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Passchendaele, you will remember me into that mud and a sea that barred my return but many crosses like me, you should have known, were'nt wondering the reason why. Passchendaele, in november I had no more friends, but only the mud as a icy coat. The sky was burning in the night on the hopeless crosses while I was dreaming to go away But your rain was falling slowly melting the mud on my tears - At eighteen the life is a silk thread was still singing at daybreak the wind Passchendaele, at that daybreak you showed me your blades, and I saw that they were mud blades : for many crosses like me, you have already known, here in the Flanders the absolute king Passchendaele, you will remember me under that mud and a mother who was praying my return The sky was burning in the night on the sleeping crosses and I could'nt go away any more But your rain was falling slowly melting the blood in my tears - At eighteen the life is a silk thread - was still singing at daybreak the wind Passchendaele, please remember not to burn another sunrise in that jolly lonely place, and rest forever Now sing, sing joyfully cause the tears have gone sing, sing loud if you can and think you see the mud and you see the rain while you see the words carved on my grave.
C.E. CHAFFIN Demon Melancholy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ His cold breath steams up my neck like dry ice. I never see him approach. He comes from darkness where eyes forget they are eyes, where speech has no conclusion and touch is without resistance, where music turns to noise and selves are emptied of history like milk bottles below the ninth circle of hell. I hear his wild dogs carol in the burning church of my mind. Pass the offering plate-- Is that a medicine vial, a gun? Jimmy crack corn and I don't care, the light has gone away.
C.E. CHAFFIN Off Lithium ~~~~~~~~~~~ My brain isn't kryptonite for God's sake. I'm glad I took off that lead helmet they said I needed—yeah, like a hole in the head for my original thoughts to leak out like ear wax on my pillow, stains of my dreams. Drank a twelve-pack and didn't feel it, slept three hours and woke refreshed with the marvelous idea of making shoes with living grass for insoles. I'll need seven pairs, one for each day, let them Sabbath for six-- watch out Birkenstock man was meant to walk on grass and soil not concrete and linoleum, it's the shoe companies in bed with the tile and concrete folks I'm sure a fresh idea could bust that monopoly I gotta get a patent lawyer. Sometimes the earth seems so small and overwhelmingly vulnerable to asteroids-- then so solid beneath my feet with its layers of fossils in Montana where they dig and the sky is big the stars are angels and everything is what it's supposed to be, you know, clockwork blue, my initials carved in clouds my name whispered through inaudible subatomic ether by crowds all spiritually connected where the acorn is the oak and the oak the acorn because everything that rises must converge Einstein knew but couldn't prove Hawking gets closer as his body is slowly absorbed by God-- am I talking too fast? Of course you're smart enough to follow my beechwood mind in winter jingling bells with aluminum one dollar a pound crushed by Clydesdales no one spends more on television than Auggie Busch buying slots for metaphors semaphores Texas whores and bullfrogs saw a whorehouse once in the middle of nowhere landing strip cheap trailers cowboys congressmen go there at light speed no cop could nab my camera iris nothing by jumping the barbwire immense as a thigh royal condition neutrino shield shampoo cure for cretins am I talking too fast? *"For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but principalities and powers."* --St. Paul.
C.E. CHAFFIN News from the Front ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Moloch walks the earth and Dagon and Baal while Abaddon that great worm directs the assault on the midnight docks from the abyss: evil little gunboats on dark waters, scarcely a ripple searchlights avail nothing here they come up five flights of stairs to consult the madwoman-- white dugs overstuffed, belly a doughy pannus, orifices slick with spirochetes. In a smoky cocktail voice she says "Bring me one o' them stiff righteous folk that lusts to be free of form. I'll find the serpent in a Quaker's pants, show 'em what incarnation means!" Poison mind-berries, intelligence and counterintelligence Who is that third that walks beside you? always the possibility of subversion, possession, mole or double mole but he will slay them with the sword of his mouth riddle their infantile phantasms with pure logic shred their formless wills beholden to the dark with a silver cheese grater but he is not here so it is us against the devil in us, without us always us
C.E. CHAFFIN Vomiting Poetry ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (after Mark Strand's "Eating Poetry") Half-digested chunks of metaphor fly against the wall and stick. Bile-soaked adjectives follow, modifying the putrid Rorschach. There is no surfeit like mine. I am vomiting poetry. The workshop leader is amazed: "Look - an Auden fragment, a piece of Ginsberg, a particle of Bly - Do you have a weak stomach?" I am too sick to respond. I run from the classroom to the bathroom and retch some more. All is predigested now, cliché. Acid conceits spew into the toilet, ironies sink like turds. "Are you all right?" the janitor says. "Fine," I say, flushing the evidence. "Do you ever read poetry?" I ask. "No," he says. "Why not?" "I couldn't get past the words." I lean upon his solid mop handle and my stomach settles
C.E.CHAFFIN On the Left Brain ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sometimes I think my left hemisphere swollen like some great infected testicle, necrotic, convoluted and gray. Its vein walls are thinner than the membranes lizards use to shield their eyes, and inside blood flows so slowly I consider it a miracle that a single rational thought escapes. The great vein of Galen sits at the bottom of both hemispheres like a distensible sewer line and empties through the carotids to the superior vena cava into the heart's right chamber where its effluent mixes with blood from the bowels and extremities, pools in the lungs and red with oxygen races from the left chamber back to everywhere else. I tell you this because the dream engine that pulls the body has no conception of itself, and though dependent on blood is blind as an infected testicle, as my metaphors bear witness and your brain understands.
HAZEL KING LISTENING TO THE WAVES ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Listening to the sounds of the wave's watery, froth tipped fingers Surging to and fro Washing the sand and Leaving shadowy lines in their wake. As the tide lifts the water skywards There is a momentary pause Before it crashes down, touches the shore And recedes back into the ocean once more, Drawn by some invisible hand Without the strength to hold it in place. A lone gull plundering the sand for the night's spoils Spreads it's pale grey wings as though to take flight flexing against the brisk sea breeze. Walks on short stilted legs towards the water's edge Then utters a mournful cry as though lamenting a lost love. Coarse yellow sand The grains of which in even a handful cannot be counted Flecked with shells, small sand-smoothed rocks broken coral and seaweed with its pungent smell in abundant, never ending supply. The fresh sea air brings new life into tired lungs. The sounds of the surf Echoing time and time again Peacefully drowning out the sounds of every day living Peace and tranquillity abounds a soothing sound to tired and weary souls. And then once more it is time to go..... Reality awaits Easier to face with renewed strength Both in body and soul From this precious time spent Listening to the waves. 8 March 1998
JANET KUYPERS pop a pill ~~~~~~~~~~ take with meals take three times a day take with food or milk take on an empty stomach take a half hour before eating take at the same time daily do not operate heavy machinery do not drink alcohol do not mix medications may upset stomach may cause weight gain may cause weight loss may cause dizziness may cause drowsiness may cause headaches may cause ulcers do not skip medication if problem persists consult your doctor are you in pain
JANET KUYPERS Private Lives I the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ why do these chairs have to face each other? They say Americans need their space need their privacy and here I sit briefcase in lap while he sits right across from me --staring I can't look I can't he has to see my eyes darting my tension my privacy in the edge of my vision I see his dirty clothes his dirty hair dirty mind will he watch me get off note the stop I take watch me walk too
private lives II Chicago, Illinois ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the people you see he was running his hands along the pages of his large magazine like petting his cat slowly, gently caressing the skin of the animal back and forth his eyes staring off into space was he staring at me I wasn't afraid to look at him I knew he couldn't see me his hands sliding over the braille page after page his eyes fixed in my direction I think he knew I was looking
Private Lives III the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The yuppies pile on the cars in their morning commute. It's amazing to think that just hours before now these cars were littered, scattered with an occasional bum, or a gang member, a drunk. Just a few hours before this any one of these people would be too afraid to step on this train. I see two women step on to the car, each wearing full-length fur coats. Now they have to cram into this full car with all these wool coats, I'll bet they're furious. It would be so easy to spill my coffee on them. I'll bet they don't even know what the animals they killed for this looked like. How many animals would that be? Twelve? Fifteen? Oh, no matter, that's what they're there for, just like this train, serving its function, taking me where I want to go. Next stop. More yuppies pile on to the train. Most stand without a rail to hold. I hear one yuppie girl say to her lover, "we're L-surfing," right before the train took a turn. All the yuppie suits trying to keep balance, trying not to fall. I hear a yuppie boy say, it's just like my living room, it's so spacious. You're the life of the party, friend. You're in your suit, you'll go places. I read a sign above my head that says, "Crime Stoppers pays up to $1,000 for anonymous crime tips." All the signs above our heads are for graffiti hotlines, pregnancy clinics, drug rehab centers. Signs telling people not to carry guns. I remember afternoons on the train when homeless men would walk from car to car through the train, trying to sell a newspaper to the people commuting home. In a few hours, when the yuppies are safe in their homes, with their children safe tucked into their beds, the homeless man will hide home too. One of the women with the fur steps off the train.
Private Lives IV the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ you can hear the gears speeding up slowing down I have seen into other's lives a woman with two children one sitting in a stroller one standing get on the train she pulls the scarf from around her neck the gloves off she reaches into her bag finds a square of folded tin foil carefully opens pulls out a tissue folds the tin foil puts it away wipes the children's noses the standing child sees writing on the back of her Batman doll "What does it say?" "Made in China." "Is that his name?" this was the window I was looking through
LES STOREY Calling ~~~~~~~ T'wixt twilight and the onslaught of a new moon's shadow across the nap of mountains that define the taut parameters of that world Hidden between the fall of night and birth of new stars Disguised among the black pine needles and the unseen reach of swaying boughs Between myself and the fates that call me.
LES STOREY Genera ~~~~~~ I had felt my fate became me, though, in retrospect hearing my eulogy spoken and sung by people whose reaction defined me more surely than self awareness could afford now i know in my death that my shallow life afforded opportunities missed loves lost minuscule accomplishment and only the hope of passing on the drive to surpass fate
LES STOREY Hybrid Husky ~~~~~~~~~~~~ When the mouse roars in the wee hours my hybrid husky trains for grander game She worries at the moon silently and tests a bigger bark at unseen intruders, these alerted only by weaker, neighborhood growls My hybrid husky teething anxiously improving fealty with each new lesson and, gnawing at the bounds of affection, forges her relationships with a steady adolescent pressure My hybrid husky tries patience, knowing only feeding rituals and attentions, these showered and lacking discipline but never love frustration but never blame... expectation with limits somewhat less than those suffered by real children.


   Waiting For The Barbarians
   Why is everyone gathered in the forum?
   The barbarians arrive today.
   Why is no one in the senate?
   Why are the senators idle not passing any laws?
   Because the barbarians arrive today.
   So what's the use of passing any laws?
   When the barbarians arrive they will make the laws.
   Why is the emperor up so early,
   sitting at the city gate
   on his imperial throne, crown upon his head?
   Because the barbarians arrive today.
   And the emperor is waiting to receive
   their leader. He has a scroll to give him.
   It lists many great titles and names 
   of honour.
   Why are the two consuls here, and the
   praeters with their embroidered red togas;
   why are they wearing their amethyst bracelets,
   their sparkling emerald rings, why their
   expensive cane of studded silver and of gold?
   Because the barbarians arrive today;
   and it will impress and dazzle them.
   Why do the orators not make
   their grand eloquent speeches as usual?
   Because the barbarians arrive today;
   and they are bored with eloquence and orations.
   Why this sudden unrest? (Their faces 
   have become sullen with confusion.)
   Why is everyone leaving, returning home
   with heavy thoughts?
   Because it is night and the barbarians have not
   arrived.  And Messengers have come from the border, 
   saying the barbarians have gone away.
   Now what will become of us without the barbarians?
   We were all hoping they might at least some sort of a solution.
   English version by Klaus J. Gerken 


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

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         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
  . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem 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
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