YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

November 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



      From the trial of Goodwives Basset (Executed), Knapp (Executed), and
      Mary Staples, Fairfield, Connecticut (1654)

         Barefoot in the Dark

         The Bathroom Scale
         Condoms & Condolences
         Waxed Floors & More
         Clogs on Cobblestones
         The Morphine Cloud
         Unexpected Stones
         Why's & Ways
         Manhattan Night
         Autumn Inside Me
         My Vision
         A Walk Down Main Street
         Heart of a Rose
         The Comet of Desire
         The Questioner
         Destitute Woman
         The Way Ahead
         In Deep
         Domestic Science
         Gone Isn't Always Absolute
         Odd Consolation
         Weird Gladys
         But Now
         Segment of a Chronicle

	     Fragment of an Uncompleted Nemesis

         We All Escape From Wounded Soldiers


   From the trial of Goodwives Basset (Executed), Knapp (Executed), and
   Mary Staples, Fairfield, Connecticut (1654)
   "Susan Lockwood on the disputed teats:
   "Susan Lockwood, wife of Robert Lockwood, being sworn and examined saith 
   "as followeth, that she was at the execution of Goodwife Knapp that was 
   "hanged for a witch, and after the said Knapp was cut down and brought 
   "to the grave Goodwife Staples, with other women, looked after the teats 
   "that the women spake of appointed by the magistrates, and the said 
   "Goodwife Staples was handling of her where the teats were, and the said 
   "Staples stood up and called three of four times and bid me come look at 
   "them, and asked her whether she would say they were teats or no; if 
   "these be teats, and she made this answer, no matter there were teats or 
   "no, she had teats and confessed she was a witch, that was sufficient; 
   "if these be teats, here are no more teats than I myself have, or any 
   "other woman, or you either if you would search your body; this 
   "despondant saith she said, I know not what you have, but for herself, 
   "if any find any such things about me, I deserve to be hanged as she 
   "was, and yet afterward she, the said Staples, stooped down again and 
   "handled her, the said Knapp, very much, about the place where the 
   "teats were, and several of the women cried her down, and said they 
   "were teats, and then she, the said Staples, yielded, and said like 
   "they might be teats."
   "In the name of 'Justice'" knows no bounds...


   Father oh father
   it is now
   when time has changed every memory
   that I remember
   that a picture of you reminds me
   you were my father
   was I ever your son
   son of my mother
   father oh father
   it is now
   days before my son's barmizvah
   reminding me
   how much
   have I become like you
   trying to appease the mother
   of my children
   but not succeeding
   and ultimately
   leaving them to her
   father oh father
   just like you
   never there
   to give a hand when
   most needed
   but always there
   to show me
   something is wrong
   with these screams
   these ever changing laws
   imposed by mother
   never could understand what were the laws
   what was the logic
   only the screams and the strokes
   and your silence
   your voice of thick silence
   because there is no silence in this world
   father oh father
   dying from day to day
   imprisoned in a house
   arriving to a country you never understood
   and too old for that
   I am 38 yrs old now
   always counting years
   always numbers
   and at this same age
   you got married
   me I am already married
   oh poor pitiful me
   for fifteen years and have 3 children
   not wanting another one
   maybe because my ill brother my dead brother
   was the forth
   trying to save a ship before the shipwreck
   and drowning himself to save the others
   maladies are no coincidence
   sometimes they save families
   from the ultimate autodestruction
   Father oh father
   it is your grandson's bar mitzvah
   your grandson
   who bears your name
   you would have been proud of him
   maybe of me too
   though you were proud of me in your life
   not like mother always saying negative things
   and with any success "we'll see..."
   I remember how you said
   if you persist like you do you will make it
   I may be making it now though I feel no difference
   still feel underdogish as always
   as a jew between arabs
   as in the big family
   as in the small family
   and in Israel
   as a sephardi between ashkenazim
   father oh father
   farther oh farther
   did you take me with your silence
   more than mother pushing me?
   with your absence
   it was your way not agree
   it was your noble way
   to accept
   it was the way of a spoiled child
   only child to a mother
   who had 10 abortions after birthing you
   father oh father
   from being rich to dying half-poor
   but you had at least a kiss-death
   dying in your bed
   in your sleep feom a stroke
   and not in an hospital you always hated
   the Talmud counts 913 different deaths
   so even at that moment we are not equal
   still you suffered your emphysema
   for 5 years
   unable to walk for ten minutes
   and then the natural treatments
   and the fasts the improvement
   then you died when you were feeling better
   I called you the night before
   and you said that mother wasn't feeling too good
   she wasn't feeling too good
   and you were going to die that same night
   then when I arrived home I went to embrace mother
   and she pushed  me away
   she always pushes me away when I try to show her my love
   and strangles me with hers when I try to keep some distance
   there you were in bed fifteen years ago
   covered and I didn't kiss you
   I couldn't see you I was afraid
   though you always had jokes about dying
   you always had jokes about everything
   but this was not a joke
   death is never a joke
   father oh father
   it was just two weeks later
   that I knew my wife was pregnant
   those were the days of love
   from then on
   we have not surmounted anything
   just accumulating problems
   as if marriage was a bank
   never lending money
   you would have liked that image
   and immediately say something
   about it and Maimonides
   or Ortega Y Gasset
   something not related at all
   just to show how much you loved
   them or that jewish german writer
   Stephan Zweig
   you admired so much
   I haven't read it yet
   some pages from a book
   at a friend's house coming
   to Israel and being treated
   like an eastern nobody
   and still being silent and noble
   and still traveling to Venezuela
   for three years trying to take us there
   exactly what I am thinking of doing
   then I don't do those things
   I can't believe I am finding
   the same solution
   were you running away from Israel
   your family life or your wife
   probably all of them
   father oh father
   I was there in Madrid
   on my way to Caracas
   and I was pushed to and fro
   mother from one side
   telling me to come back to Israel
   and go to the army
   and you telling me
   there'll be no problem
   to get a visa to Venezuela
   how close I was to be with you then
   and how far
   because I didn't believe you
   I didn't believe what you were saying about the visa
   now thinking of leaving Israel
   to save my son from the army
   and he telling me he wants to be a combatant
   for me the army was something inconceivable
   until I was there
   but truly I was never there
   these were three years in which
   I learned how not to be
   where I was
   maybe you taught me some about this too
   and three years later when you came back
   you were ill and broken by life
   by the decisions you took
   by the illness of your son
   and by your marriage
   you were sixty
   and you had no more will to live
   though still you remembered that some medium
   told you you would get rich at an old age
   no you didn't
   trying to sell some shoes
   the days you could work
   in a market whose laws you never understood
   whose language was strange to you
   you were nice where only force was admired
   honest where honesty doesn't mean anything
   and I helped you a bit then
   but it was too late
   still I caught you once or twice
   when the lungs were better
   smoking a cigarette
   just like that Shabbatt in Tetuan
   when I came to the bar looking for you
   and you quickly threw the cigarette
   and asked 'what are you doing here?'
   hoping I didn't see the cigarette
   knowing I did
   but I didn't say anything
   Father oh father
   farther and closer
   each day I live
   you were more human in my eyes that shabbatt
   you were my loving father
   although all the caresses seemed to come from mother
   and all your caresses seemed to go to sister
   father oh father
   excuse me for I have sinned
   I was too young to see all this
   insanity all this family illness
   all this pushing me pushing me
   toward places I never wanted to go
   I have learned all the ways to escape now
   from everything
   but I have not learned how to stop escaping
   how to be in the place I want to be
   so I don't have to escape
   I haven't learned yet
   to go my own way at my own pace
   with my own shoes at my own time
   still mother is there pushing me
   and my wife showing her discontent
   from one woman to another
   as if I should act in relation to them
   either agreeing or reacting
   will I ever find my own way
   did you ever?...

WILL CLARK Barefoot in the Dark ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lookout. Lookout as hard as you can ahead Bend a stout line of lead weight forward and drag it abeam. Keep a steady lookout forward into this somber night. Begin each step into darkness with a pre-pictured result Contemplate each interval of fruit deferred to the Harpy's tooth... YOU... are the being on the threshold of an introduction to an unseen visitor and his unseen world... Do not be lured into the dark too fast Go slow and tarry not on any of your anguishing The fact behind your fascination is Locked in the secret code of your own mutability it hurts to know what is there, ahead in the dark, Death Row for a Cosmos Devotee denounced... Galileo put to death by a cocktail so grim as Hemlock! It is A Simple Play without a plot, Absurd at best and yet We plot and plot; and presuppose not and strain all posterior constructs of intent, and the unimplemented prototype of civilization is lost. crushed and broken under the foot of a dragon twisting and turning down main street; the death-throws of a reptile in agony The poison Lies are in the monster's imprint, unseen yet intimated.. While looking ahead in the dark and Walking barefoot. Walking barefoot in the dark 4 August 1998
JANET BUCK The Bathroom Scale ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ For years, your eyes have been my bathroom scale-- I weigh too much. We both know that. Afraid that I'll bring the world down a step, rather than take it up a fraction of an inch, I have not told you the truth or shared my ghosts. My stump is a clenched fist with the wiggle of worms. Clover's poise is beards shaved that do not grow back when I stumble and fall. My gait is a prick in velvet flesh. I speak too loud. I sober trite. Crutches, chairs, and metal parts are trappings of my destiny, moved around with care and dread. To you, they're logs that scratch white paint. To me, just pretzels rolled in salt in a brown-bag lunch I didn't choose. In me, you see the zap of limits like a lobster plunged in a boiling pot. My body parts are cracked crab backs-- wash down shores and leave distress. Stitches and scars are giant weeds, cattails stranded in a ditch. I reach for wreaths of motion's gift despite the tics of thorns on blessed.
JANET BUCK Condoms & Condolences ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My plastic leg is a radar check for deformity's wise. A condom of condolences that doesn't quite cut it when it comes to grace. When I limp in a room, I feel like a 747 landing on the runway of a kitchen table. Ignore broken plates in favor of discussing with will exactly where to plant a foot. Testing trust each time one goes down in a fall. Smiles are my second layer of insulation. Fake rubber here is a sheath that I borrowed from my father and bathroom scales of approval's eyes. A duffel bag packed with silent socks that have bitter dirt but work if they aren't wool washed "OOPS" shrunk by truth. I bake the dark like Toll House cookies. A private raven in a homemade cage. Brands of stubborn pain are gorillas with knuckles that drag the floor. I fluff fur; you buff nails.
JANET BUCK Waxed Floors & More ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She wasn't the sort of woman who had booze on tap, took drugs to leave life, drove too fast, got crazy with men. She was Catholic, a nurse, and well behaved. Practiced rolling rosaries until their walnuts turned to smooth pecans, wondered, she did, why God gave her a miscarriage. When she spit that out, he handed her a little girl in the radar lock of pity-- lined up with a pile of bones deformed like gutted pumpkins long since knifed by Halloween. Infancy was a body cast that trapped them all. Pain bled universal here. She learned to swear in private times. Wished to cry but couldn't quite, like incense hanging in the air. Add to this, the fact she left. Just died. Cancer kicked her out of reach. Locked her out from loving away the pain her womb had coughed on counters of her husband's heart. What reason for this slice of fate? To buff and wax what does exist; pour concrete grateful every night and catch a flower in its sand. >From way, way up above the clouds, the answer writes itself in dirt with popped and flying word grenades from faucets of determined hands.
JANET BUCK Clogs on Cobblestones ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My life and limbs, the missing parts, have always creaked and screamed alone. Laughter's siren--a diversion for a river's meat in regard to damming wrecks of fate, capsized dreams which all the stares are fixed upon. In airport halls, I'm set on fire. That metal wand slams private shame, catches fear, hooks it to a catheter. The mitigating circumstance that fed this writing satellite is how you hand my words umbrellas. Sunny skies of "matter" suns. Orbits of your eyes and ways confirm the justice of my path. Make agony a growing tree and tears an apple to be picked. Tonight in bed, I'll read you pain. We'll empty out the swollen bag. If a little girl once upon a midnight dreary barbecues her Barbie Dolls, she has that right, but she'll need help. The lotion you apply to sores is smooth like sliding bars of soap. I never knew, until we met, I had this license in my genes. If I'd known then what I know now (post-dumping ghosts upon the page) and had your love to see me through, I would have learned that clogs can kiss a cobblestone and water-ski on faithless bones.
JANET BUCK The Morphine Cloud ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Zoom lens eyes move in and out as Slinkies on a countertop. Morphine clouds I can't ignore. Nausea's raisin and reason both stink bad. I wake removed. A year or more I think has slipped like dimes through pockets of will. This hospital gown is a brown-paper bag. I wad it up. Make plans to leave. They draw my blood through slats of scars that hang like shingles on a burning roof. Crutches are crucial. Metal spokes of nails in a cross of mortal proof no one in this world is a perennial shrub or a flower that drinks water without the roots of someone's love. Poetry and hospital meals at times like these taste the same as oatmeal puke, but I can't without tearing stitches that split from the inside out. The walker, I know, is a stepping stone; a bull's horn demanded by the burden of the fight; its bars, however, multiply. Brackets that I hate to use, reminding me of urgency. I turn my food tray upside-down, ostensibly by accident. The only way I see to scream. I write all day to stab the night.
JANET BUCK Unexpected Stones ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The jewelry box you left held unexpected stones: lapis, brass, and muted jade. You were white, impressively so. I am yellow and moan too much. One plain gold band in silver subtle. The sparkle of rubies in a circle of pearls. Old age was always there like algae on a rock at sea. Cancer cells and tumors of time stole your outward, but the inner remained like the pink, pink watermelon it always was. Faith stayed put--a sonnet transcending death's green slug. "A funeral IS OUT!" you always said. As if you could change its fact at that stage of lifeless, so we laughed until our stomachs ached. Even then, you got your way. The money you left would lead a logical mind to assume you'd hoard a cave of diamonds and its corners could be traded in for a Noah's flood of cash. It made me happy you drove a jalopy, spoiled your cats 'til they whined in a chorus, preferred a park bench to snare drums and tubas and grand parades.
JANET BUCK Why's & Ways ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Before clouds and hurricanes-- self dissected on slides of paper pertinence-- I'd have called you crazy if you'd told me there were ways and why's to thank an amputated leg. But lesson bricks are lava beds without a choice. Missing parts, like radio's Rap, catch eye and ear--thunder spinning mortal silly in manners hard to finger with knowledge and reason. Headdress difference dancing around curious flames; human is afraid to touch but feels the grave like thick, thick air. I've never believed in signs from God, but this a.m. I sat at a stoplight in the cleaving rain. On the stripe between lanes lay a Barbie Doll: face down and removed from some girl's life. Pink pink wax in rinds that tires had pounded hard and left. She wore nothing but jet black hair: two arms, two legs, in tact but dead. My dragon, my symbol slayed-- a myth emerging from its homemade dark. I, on the other hand, was alive and sensed my mission to box with lies.
DOUG TANOURY Manhattan Night ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Manhattan skyline rises With gun-barrel grayness Above hard streets of dull Pavement and sidewalk where Glittering crystalline sparkles Speckle the concrete surface On a summer night it wears Blue neon like a sequin dress And walks slowly on porcelain legs That balance in stiletto heels and Carry a form without softness Through the cold white moonlight
DOUG TANOURY Gloria ~~~~~~ Voice bunched and mixed Together like cut flowers In Spring And I am awed by what Comes forth from Gloria What life Is born what thoughts Arise from a word of praise That echoes Now in my chest and Pulses through my veins The light Reflected in my eyes A gesture and spoken Word And the soft sound of one Mountain moving toward The hills.
DOUG TANOURY Autumn Inside Me ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I pick a pear from a branch Hanging low And take a small bite Just to test the taste It is sweet So the second And all subsequent bites Are larger It is cool after sunset I no longer walk Barefoot on the blacktop In comfort It is a marble floor Against my soles I eat the pear Seeds and all And only the stem is left To twirl between thumb And forefinger As I wish I had plucked two From the tree With branches Hanging so low I walk in darkness Just after sunset Without A remnant of light On the horizon Black Is the color Of fall nights I have tasted the season On my lips Across my tongue And there is no doubt It is autumn Inside me
DOUG TANOURY My Vision ~~~~~~~~~ In my vision of the future I have shed denial And offer no more explanations with open palms No more accountings and questions and the voice Of suspicion and interrogation are no longer Whispered in a dreamer's ear for I am reborn In new freedom I am acquitted of crimes Imagined where I sneak off to fornicate Before dinner and each shopping trip becomes Torrid interlude with strange women with breast That taste like salt and smell of sweat Confronted with fantasy facts and the dark Physics of a world imagined a shadow me Lives alternate lives never enjoyed and Grows weary in a universe of infinite lies And laws of science too complex to grasp With relationships the fabrics of which are Confusing and enigmatic to a reasonable man So let me be undisturbed and unbothered And escape the duplicity and the onus Of innumerable oaths and overlooked proofs To awaken now enlightened to the point Where I can drive all night in August moonlight And smoke unfiltered cigarettes in a chili-pepper-red Convertible where the tachometer ticks off RPM's And the odometer runs backwards
DOUG TANOURY A Walk Down Main Street ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's Sunday morning, And I'm walking Down Main Street Between East Third And East Fourth. The sky is clear and The sun is 30 degrees On the eastern horizon Between the two and Three o'clock positions. The light is bright With shadows deep and And streets quiet And mostly empty Like a Hopper painting. I walk on the sunny side, Which is the western, Washed in light and Cast a long shadow with Lanky arms that sway.
HAZEL KING Heart of the Rose ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dark red velvety petals Curling slowly backwards Towards the outside edge As though stretching As the day dawns awakening new life. Dew dripping slowly downwards A few drops glistening in the morning sun Like priceless jewels twinkling With each breath of air whispering across the rose. The fragrance of this flower beyond compare - Man has sought to copy it, but cannot, No matter how hard he tries. The touch of the leaves silky smooth To sensitive fingertips, Like a lover's skin fresh from a warming shower And glowing under her partner's caress. And nestled in the centre Hiding beneath the petals As though acting as a protector, A soft bed of pollen laden fingers Waiting for industrious bees to touch down, To carry on the life of this glorious flower. One can become lost in it's depths, Forgetting time, Bathed in it's aroma, Pondering on the beauty In the heart of this rose.
FARZANA MOON The Comet of Desire ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The dust of perdition I have tasted in my thoughts Many a moons When abysmal days And bright nights Journey forth like wildfire Inside the delirium of my existence When stars burn low In eyes adorable Slashed with burning commands To banish Psyche From the hearth of Muse The comet of my desire Torn and bleeding Vanishes itself Self-exile, banishment The island of torment One ether thought Thunders still Desire is sin Love is not
GERALD ENGLAND The Questioner ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He questioned all the time, sought the source of sustenance It was not that he had none, although he had none They could have driven him away but they did not, because of his questioning, because they were willing to be generous They all answered him - if you are short of food, take, share ours - It was not that they had it to spare It was not that they were being generous It was rather they wished to fill his mouth with food to put a stop to his questioning
GERALD ENGLAND Destitute Woman ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ After Pablo Picasso (Art Gallery of Ontario) The woman is seated leaning almost against the blankness of the wall She is covered entirely in her cloak Her eyes are closed in sleep her pale face tilted From the closeknitted brow runs her sharp bone nose to a tight mouth that is not smiling Her hands are closed beneath her cloak She remains here nearly sleeping Her tiredness is what binds her to the world which itself is closed in tiredness to her
Gerald England The Way Ahead ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (for Vivienne) For him the dance is done despite continued clattering of guns What matters now is not the point nor mode of death - only the life that went before You have to feel your grief And you have to live beyond to keep the memory but loose the sense of loss Even in your solitary time you are not alone, my love He and I and we, we all are one The mystery will remain unsolved for we who have yet more to live All endings are but a passing on First Published Leeds & Harrogate Graphic (1980)
GERALD ENGLAND Poppies ~~~~~~~ (for Edward Thomas) Unrisen the early mower only the all night lit windows hint of humanity in gardens where an indolent owl flies sleepwalking in the misty joy past the church by the green to the highporched barn of a deserted farm It alone gives life to the doorless stables and cumbered stalls The weathervane fox is rusted south never telling of the hateful east the rainy west or crude north wind Luxuriant nettles, tall tansy fleabane, dandelions, hawkweeds testify to anxious labourers leaning on plough or scythe or hoe to watch the hounds or a carriage go by Not fifty yards away beyond a shadowy corner seen in the broad halflight before sunrise the crimson of uncountable poppies enmeshed with thoughts of mist pearl desirable as an Italian illusion having the serene strange beauty of a woman born of summer air Yet half an hour would have seen them reaped To have come thus far and know the distance less to be less than the equal of a poppy - how else retain the courage still to voyage on ? The poppies still shine and from his tower of ivory yet does the blackbird sing First Published: East & West Literary Qtly (USA)
GERALD ENGLAND In Deep ~~~~~~~ there were several entrances indeed there were several holes some holes were inside other holes possible exits were only ends with little room for turning or else they led to other holes there were ways out but only for the slim and fit or the very fat and strong
WALT PHILLIPS Domestic Science ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ you should never have been a family man she said i did a few dance steps reminiscent of a pow-wow i had seen in 1990 you're such a baby she said i did cute goo goo sounds she tried not to smile at that point things can really turn testy so i decided once more never never again would i ever ever again complain aloud about having to accommodate this whole world less me
WALT PHILLIPS Gone Isn't Always Absolute ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ he died and i found it not easy to believe the influence hung around and hung around to some degree like a bully i'd grown to admire
WALT PHILLIPS Odd Consolation ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ chance plays favorites but obliteration doesn't
WALT PHILLIPS Weird Gladys ~~~~~~~~~~~~ around and around the senior complex she walks staying in shape for some reason
WALT PHILLIPS But Now ~~~~~~~ a war happened here but now it is quiet the evening shadows play about the face of time ma kelly never knew this ground her charlie's once a year at this spot certain of the old salute the young they might have stayed
WALT PHILLIPS Segment of a Chronicle ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ it is suddenly eighteen-fifty in years a man in a tall hat steps off a train in the midwest "something historical will happen today" he declares whereupon the townspeople pack him off by buckboard to the looney bin at the state capitol and in the confusion fail to see the evangelists cavorting naked in the skies
WALT PHILLIPS Away ~~~~ the bus came and she got on and it went away moving moving and the planet kept moving and the years kept moving and suddenly absolutely everything okay was gone forever except in his going going head
KLAUS J. GERKEN A Fragment of an Uncompleted Nemesis ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The great affair is over But where did it begin If silence must be golden Then speaking was the sin He could not separate himself From what the past had wrought She could not reconcile herself To the battles that he fought These lovers somehow never knew How they destroyed themselves With passion on their fingertips And commitment on the shelf Each one thought they tried so hard And each refused to bend Ultimately neither held The future in their hands. 1986


   We All Escape From Wounded Soldiers
   We all escape from wounded soldiers
   from their scabs and jagged knives
   from their misspent intrusions,
                      broken dreams and
                            watery eyes.
   We rest when we reach the woods,
                      count our nylons,
                            Hershey bars
                                   and lies.


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
  . 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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