INTRODUCTION Klaus J. Gerken CONTENTS Michael Collings 10 Sonets Jack R. Wesdorp Knight Station POST SCRIPTUM Jack R. Wesdorp The Traveller
Somehow it doesn't seem relevant anymore: listening to "Love Me Do" by the Beatles (for those post 60's generation) on stereo speakers attached to a computer. I remember just a desk, a book shelf and a majestic portable radio with great mono sound. That's what these records were created for. No, not even nostalgia, I can't quite get into it. I know all he words, all the tunes, but it somehow isn't revenant to this commuter generated fast food society. The guitar rifts aren't in sync with the beeps on my computer; although jolly (and yes I mean 30 years ago they were relevant and important...now they are just jolly...) they just don't seem to relate. TV was young then, and without TV the Beatles and (even) The Rolling Stones would have worn out in a year or two. These were the first mass produced groups. Elvis spread mostly newsreel-wise (post WWII newsreels), but the Beatles were immediate. Sputnik created them. There was no looking back. Youth couldn't "hide" as they wrote in "I Wanna Hold Your Hand"...and they never did again. It changed the world. But how much was it the Beatles or the Rolling Stone or any of the other 60's groups out there? The Beatles rough Hamburg leather clad thugs were presented as clean cut kids and George Martin made certain their music would sound the way it did. The Rolling Stones on the other hand were the clean cut suit wearing art students who were presented as an "alternative life style" and to the disdain of every parent (even though they had educational cedentials--the Beatles did not)...but that is the beginning of mass communication, mass advertising, mass deception. And to this day we hold on to that image. I find today's groups much more visible and accessible (though less interesting)..now the groups and entertainers are commercials. In the 60s they still were individual even though mass marketed. But it was their individuality and relevance which was mass marketed, and not their 60 second viability. It's a different world for sure. The internet has made everything accessible and nothing left mysterious. The 60s still had the mystery of radio and black and white tv where viewers had to use their imagination to fill in all the blanks: and we could concentrate on the music. Today MTV has given us all the images, everything we can't imagine. This is how it is. This is what the music is. Accept it. No room for compromise. And we still think we are free. Those who think to differ are vilified. And those who agree socialized. Socialized...recall that term? It use to be used by us to describe communism. Now it describes our "democratized" youth...The youth who is given everything. The youth who cannot think without being told what to think. Can't do math? Use a calculator. And if you want to be a diva; why, just yodel, screech or exercise those vocal cords...and if that doesn't work shake that perfect plastic surgery engineered belly button and you'll do ok...and we wonder why those Arabs hold us in disdain. John Lennon is still right when he screamed "Help Me Help Me Help Me please"....it was lost at the time...but it describes us perfectly almost 40 years on and we haven't learned a thing. I guess to not forget the only prophet the United States ever had, Bob Dylan, "The times they are a changin'". Unfortunately no one changed with them, except maybe the technology no one has found the wisdom yet to handle. Klaus J Gerken 26 Mar 2003
MICHAEL COLLINGS Nobbled as an Eagle's Claw ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So Butch and I bunked our gear into The Bomb--Dad's faded turquoise '53-- Stowed packs and bedrolls beneath the ragtop And drove to the Sacramento River. Tire-treads nobbled as eagle-claws crunched River rock--we stopped--hauled gear to the beach-- Cleared a likely spot to settle in--pitched Our tent--arced a fire pit into reach. That day--the next--we talked, ate fire-roasted Hotdogs--hiked bare-chested through chest-high weeds Clogged with webs--swam naked in icy waist- High ripples--talked through twilight's gravid fade-- The car--now rusted shadow--the shore-- Tamed and condoed--and Butch, no more--no more.
Grandmother Collings' Church-house in Jerome ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Grandmother Collings' church-house in Jerome-- Angular, imposing, brittle, cold-- Harsh walls of rough-cut iron-gray stone Swallowed light. One window soared, winter-gold.... That's all I remember, fifty years Long since--no words, no music from organ Or choir, no hidden rustle as chairs Shifted. Nothing but one dark wall-span, One translucent window vault...and tiny Glass communion cups nestled in long Silver trays--glass so thin, so clarified It seemed one brash thoughtless breath, one wrong- Ways glance could shatter it...pierce my palm With blessŠd water that else would be balm.
In Elba the chapel was light ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In Elba the chapel was light. Great swatches As textured as grosgrain ribbons fell On honey-grained pews, draped rough-stone patches, Layered pale organ-keys with a warm pall That softened the breath of pipes. Latches Gleamed mute reverence; ceiling and rails Glowed golden-arced eternity. Sachets Breathed glory to and from embosomed walls. Grandmother Hurd watched over us, saw all: Whispered impatience as the hour dredged past, Scuffled mutters of Sunday shoes on wood, Muscles tensing for closing-prayer pell-mell And voracious urge to break our fast-- Young souls o'erfilled, young bodies faint for food.
On a Display of Swordsmanship ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Toes flat-tensed on drab commercial-grade Celedon, in jeans and T you swing blue steel--hook sharp fingers as if to rape raw blighted stars ricketing in pain-- forearm hedgerow-tendons flail to harvest rebel blood--flash from field to grave between heartbreath beats. Silent silver weaves its artifice of light, conjures Babylon, Ur, Egypt's dust-hagged Magic--warriors' arms quivering beneath dead weight--brass, iron, electrum's silver-gold brash against far- rising suns--heaving, brittle, hack-hewn lungs-- pummel naked everlasting Glory beneath the dust of frigid Harmony.
Portraits of the Poet in random Raw-Canvas words ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Scarred, age-blunted strangers' hands creep--silent--. Father's, grandfathers'--short, blocky farmers' Hands that wielded pump, plow, axe, and scythe--scraped Broad knuckles, arthritis-warped--. Planes of face Become my sons'; glints of eyes, deep-dyed Umber, gleam when my daughters smile.-- Nose, ear, Subtle flick of lip--these surface in my children's children to startle breath and heart. Double-, triple-, quad-exposures -- quints--- Aging, curling photographs, some faded Back to gray; others fragment glints Digital/Potential, as yet unformed-- Pixels radiating from my mystery--. My life transformed into a Stranger's History.
After First Blooding: In the Fragile Mind, Where Vampires Bloom ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In vacances of years bleak shadows spawn; In blackened voids beneath raw, ancient eaves Dust rustles dead mind-spectres in dead tarns-- She moves--thin, ghastly self--and moving breathes Isolation's voiceless lust. My lantern Slices with unsubtle gleam, pinions shades, Slays and--enlightening--passes. Then Rafters heavy-hung with harmless webs Echo crooked-fingered light...no mystery. For that brief flash, no blood; mute peace and rest. But edges crisp to possibility..., And lamplight fades, and vision's sharpness gasps Again--to gods--she hovers at my throat, In vacances of years, where shadows gloat.
Mountain Hike ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Alone. Embedded in densely layered chaparral--scrub oak, black sage, chamise, yucca, ceanothus--trapped in ambered shadows, gray-green-not-gold, fringed with cerise manzanita, I stride. The sun tints brick- red shale to white, ripples solid-seeming stone. Disturbing thick-scored dust, I stalk thin-twisted serpent markings, scan teeming skittered quail tracks, ponder clean-drawn lines of lizards' tails in oppressing heat. Alone. I stop--foot nudged--, questioning--, against the sand-soft spoor of a mountain cat. I stand alone in gray-green chaparral--consumed By sounds of wild pursuit that does not come.
Fence Posts--. And Thus the Past Proceeds ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A redwing blackbird ornaments narrow Cattail blades, heat-blown and frowzy brown in August sweat; cool marshes shrink to fallow Pads—the redwing balances wing and wind. A meadowlark stretches for its moment To release a phantom song that kissed Soft twilights decades past--still its descant Conjures--.It waits and faces crimson east. And--simplicity--a rusty-throated Robin on its fence post. I should not hear Its song for cries of tire-tread On asphalt--but I do--and think I dare To watch each cedar road-line cut its forms, And pause for each new memory to be born.
Dance of the Post-Millennial Hours ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ some taunt, scratch, absently scrawl blue-bled lines. some—red-rimed eyed--shift sandaled, curled feet, thrust telepathic earthquake jitter-tines, convulse sublunary worlds in magma-heat. some grin and greet fear-distant silent spheres, those left before and those behind. but some intimidate --. not threat--not dare--not sneer-- but twist--hint--turn corroded khaki bone at crotch distended by a searching hand-- stripe white then slump--then crude image-thought irresolute, shun/stunned, devolve to furtive shadow-echo-words-- deeper, wider, darker vortices where loom passions to pattern, swallow, and consume.
A Stalker's Sonet ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Now I have seen your calmness. Shake and crack As you might wish me to, I have seen. I promised yesterday I would come back To visit you--to give you what you lack--. I've watched. I've seen your calmness shake and crack Like cliff-slides after torrent-squalls. I've been Where passion engulfs all in muddy black-- I promised yesterday I would come back--. Yes, I will come--I know the subtle knack In the no-s you speak and the yes-es you mean, Sense better than yourself can know your wrack And heat. I've seen your calmness shake and crack--.. I will return--engulf you as my Queen In Blood, in caustic fragrance copper-keen. All Poems copyright 2003 (c) Michael Collings
JACK WESDORP Knight Station ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Becky Knight was younger than her class mates, and, no, she didn't go on dates like them, (fat girls don't get asked), loved tectonic plates, dig?, kept her nose in physics, math, and chem, got volcanic fire banked deep inside, graduated magna cum up stage-front, scary-smart, that's her, got her bonafides, whacked out a massive tome of thesis grunt, until finally someone took notice. While wintering over at McMurdo she got grade, a raise, grant money, new toys, treated the crew to lobster and sirloin, got into working her butt off, (no boys), kinda suspicious how it all happened at once, like Pentagon presence, reports in-triplicate, wire she thought tapping for sure, strange how her cargo came up short in the radionics graphs department. "Someone's printing out core oscillations?" (That's classified.) "Oh." Up at the crater new stuff's going in under seals, station's got more brass than grunts, heard from a waiter in the skipper's mess they're looking at stars, too bad there ain't no bars at Erebus. "Telemetery's some days kinda sparse ain't it, Beck?" Got leery broken cables, got terse new neighbors, got trouble for sure. "They're laying a low frequency array, iron pylons set into quartz outcrops, huge nuke generator down by the bay, Becky, dear, down here they's the stone cold cops, don't do anything crazy." Yeah, quiet, let's put all this together: lotta oomph, dielectric ins, they lie about it, so enough wattage to drive a typhoon spent underground, what else?, got satellite scintillator data, let's call up HAARP, "We're not supposed to-what's up, Doctor Knight?" Geez, those spiral antennae spikes, look sharp now, Becky, bet they can send and receive. Hmm, flux gates show lots of oscillation, can I get a line of sight?, Moire weave, gotta prove it, work up some equations, make sure I've hidden backups the Wazoo. God what a slimy stew they're cooking down dry in that valley, who're they gonna screw, who's to make out?--and me, I feel spell-bound. Checked in with Nelia at the Museum, she says all that stuff adds up to real bad, reduced to skulking screw-me no-see-um in my own lab, someone's riffled my pad, goddammit, get me that bastard brass hat: "You boys are jerking the core, ain't that right?" "Just basic ionosphere research, ma'am, see the MPs if you think you've been robbed, just fundamental geo stuff-" (click)-"damn," (I know when I'm being boy blow-off jobbed), "that frigid bitch gonna make us trouble, better do something terminal up there.." And so Becky Knight's life turned to rubble; they (whoa!) somehow set fire to her hair, they laced cyanide in her granola, there was a chlorine leak never explained, brucine spiked bottle of Coca Cola, galloping belly and painful migraines. Yeh, ain't no doubt they looking to off her. Good thing she's a smart and resourceful girl, got her backpack with survivalist tools, white-out knee-length parka, got her claws curled, got her charts, CDs, data link, and spools, a little red poly toboggan sled stacked with food, dry socks, ready to bug out, real solid in body and in her head, had her hidey-holes scoped, kept them dug out, up there in the cracks of Erebus rim. One winter-over night she has a dream. A black man is beckoning her to come, "Rebecca Knight!", three times, red fire gleam off his eyes, feral wolf glint, she is numb, cannot move, but wants to run it with him, first-time daemon mine, help me in my need she cries out silent, up there on the rim of forever. She a mare, he a steed on the plain of chaos, or they are stars in the firmament, or human beings subtle of stature, driving brazen cars across the zodiac, ever fleeing silver and orange, red and black divine two as one coursing the ends of heaven drinking immortal waters, fiery wine, sharing salt, and blood, and breaking leaven as the poets chant aeld that gods are wont. An hour later, had you the wit to see, two midnight hands thrust from a roiling cloud, slam a hammer with great good gravity and finesse, spattering a flaming shroud of magma around his basalt anvil that is Erebus mountain's crater lake, and slowly, measured out, it starts to fill with boiling iron, coiled as dragon snakes do around the rim of our universe. And if you had the means to hear a god's quiet voice, you would hear his curse cast onto the deeps, precise, very clear, a trinity of nesting orbs broken with one stroke. And if you keep the true heart, you would know the oath-bind that is spoken before all witness stars, with all his art laid out grave on the table between them. We believe that shared dreams are the real thing; she's just had one together with a god. Certain, beyond doubt, her heart's sprouted wings, and she knows the way where no men have trod. As the lava worm rises inside slow, she's skiing downslope outside world-class fast, pushing the sled's poles, it's thirty below, she's not beholden to cold. Nor hourglassed is that time about to be, a clear slate outside mortal meandering, stasis within the great dragon's coil, and the date on her calendar says: Right Now. Glasses dropped somewhere, don't need them; got her boots close, find a parallel track, let the sled lead. At Amundsen they try to diagnose the sudden loss of all-channel trace, "No f.f.feed f.f.from the top," a myopic tech stammers, and just about that time a mother storm hits the coast with a god's maul and hammers everyone into hiding at their dorms. The wind's a howler, now forty below. That first run gets her to Nausea Point, holed up in a snorkel tent next a cliff getting in tune with being anointed as a spirit's consort, being hieroglyph and symbol and tree, being a channel from body to soul, being met halfway for the first and only time, a candle and a star, fire, water, wind, and clay, all these brooding, how they work, all as one, how stone and spirit intersect in time. That's her: Time. Empress. Shekinah. Moon and Sun. Wisdom. Purpose. Art. Dance. Music. Writ. Rhyme. It is an in-between no-place all-now. She examines her knot in a great skein, grains of sand on a slate beach. Makes a vow to haunt her thread however it's twisted by greed, lust, power, more!, faster!, and yea I can rightly say she's royally pissed. Yeah, that don't bode well for the ones who jerk. Then, in three-inches per hour, she moves on, heading for the fumarole field, her tracks broomed away in minutes, and she grooves on one vent only she knows of, on the cracks of blown-out doom, unto the gate of Hell. There she camps a second dream-time, and cooks a turkey in twin colanders hung well to the slip-stream's side, comfortable, with spooks hovering on guard, tending to her hearth, at her call, while she eats part of the bird and dries the frugal rest, contains her wrath in its bones, as witches do, casts a word into her hand-maiden ghosts set to weave tapestry fit for a god's own table, in gold thread as it has been done of old, as cast in stone and written in fable, embroidered with wit and guile, hard and bold. Packed up close that morning she gains the cleft, pulls up the sled, finds the right stream's runnel and sets to follow it into the depth. To plumb the volcano's esker tunnels, its bore holes, steaming grotto lakes, step-ways, flow-stone chambers set with carnelian spheres, following how her earthly body plays, how a crystal knows sight, how a stone hears, and in her regency she plucks an orb, invests it with this chronicle you read, full fore-knowing stepping up to a door bound with intricate brass and silver screed, a moon underground and she's arrived home. Up on top the crater is ready filled, four feet of new snow obscure its coursing, quietly Erebus station is killed, swept away by the magma that's forcing its way up from the core, flowing steady, finding its flotsam-burn way to the sea. "There's some remotes sending, kinda thready, damn, looks like a major eruption, sir." Just enough to bug out quick, dump the nuke, and its boss-man gets a permanent burr under his saddle with the bureaucrats. Amazing how the lava only hit those barracks that accumulated rats, those parts of McMurdo that serviced shit, how the steel containment dome got encased up to its ass hole in government gum, in molten barium ore and lead laced iron sand and feldspar quartz amalgam. They managed a news copout for some months. So it's, "Roight, that frigid bitch is a stiff. Why waste man-hours, wait six months, she'll turn up." It only takes a moon, then there's this riff across the worldwide news: Nuke Plant Burns Up! "Goddammit, where's that coming from, shut down the presses, or we're cooked." (Yes, you turkey, exactly, that's how your butt gets whacked down, that's how a goddess deals with core-jerky guys who're into scoring blackmail bigtime.) More byte flows forth: graphs, maps, charts, spools of stuff, proving the planning of a monstrous crime, pointing at heads, bank-books, and bonds; enough to enrage the worldwide blue-collar salt. For this: sea ports drowned by tsunami waves, hurricane winds, polar shift, axial tilt, plate blow-outs, bombs, and mass bulldozer graves. By these: accountants, insurance jockeys, real estate companies on every coast, their home offices safe in the Rockies, winding up fat when your apartment's toast. A pointed finger, all pinned and snoopered: five lawyers, two colonels, a congressman, and a bunch of hapless goons too stupid. what they are planning and how it is done. The president barely keeps his own balls by washing his dirt live on-camera telling it baldly to a sold out hall pious babble amidst the clamoring, how they'd have induced the core to wobble, maybe even changed our orbital swoop, Lady Earth on a crutch, hobbling along.. The salt of the world don't like getting duped, it don't wait for no cops, it's never wrong, and it takes care of that business right off. So. After the mess and the killing's done, (makes kindly uncle Adolf look real nice) the world of salt settles into a stunned repose, what it's paid, wondering at the price. Becky Knight shows up on Easter Island much changed. She keeps herself aloof and free, to save her charge, raise her daughter, silent about where she's been, how that came to be. Naught about the wyrm round our universe, intersection of body and spirit, love of god and girl, nor of spell and curse, her heart serpent-girt, her purpose in it, until she dies a grandmotherly way. And there it would have quietly ended bent kneeling low on a beach silver grey curling hair blendt unto sand and splendid, content next great stone staring statue heads who know that mortal like stone also ends, watching their sun set round orange and reds. .except for her vulcanologist friends who, when they'd heard of the eruption, grieved; who didn't stop looking , nor gave up hope; who, hence, just a few trusted ones, believed; hear and see, who can read a horoscope, and who recognize their friend's fiery glint. I have seen the child. She looks like them both: silver halo mane, eyes of flaring flint, carob skin, his hands, her face, nothing loath to take on the world on its chosen field. That the new lab would be named Knight Station was obvious, nary expense was spared; it became a school, that installation under a vitrine dome, and it has fared very well (director's name is Vesta) these past thirty-three years of sacrifice. Of silence. They said, "a testament, ja? Something fitting, lasting, we'll pay the price." They found a sculptor to do it up right and he knew a way to make her deathless struck from black core block basalt diorite gorgeous enough to catch guys breathless set on a pedestal up on the rim gazing pensive not quite yet satisfied. If you approach and look close at the slim naked figure you will see the black bride of Erebus, in her left arm a book from whose pages protrudes a raven quill, in her right hand a sphere, her eyes the look of one old who understands about Will, gazing into the caldera unveiled casting ghost-weft over a lake aflame off her statue set up on the rim trail. So, a book, the quill, globe, form, and a name that goes on long, very long: Vulcan's Wife. Copyright (c) 2003 Jack R. Wesdorp
JACK WESDORP The Traveler ~~~~~~~~~~~~ He drove a Ford rattletrap, tires with hardly some tread, frayed jeans, brand new John Deere cap like green light around his head. Must've been long on the road, I took a peek through his door, empty but hauling a load the size of this world and more, I could tell by his shoulders. "Fill 'er up, kid, how's the food? Don't worry, I pay in gold." I bit my tongue, "pretty good, solid farmer fare we say..." He ate what we had, and then counted out twelve coins to pay, "hope that's enough, just say when." Never seen any like those sparkling on the counter top, shekels from a frozen time many handed to our shop. Mom whispered, "stop, that's enough." He tipped his cap and drove on, we bought ten years worth of stuff, we never heard where he'd gone. "Loaves and fishes," my mom said, and now we know that he ain't dead. Copyright (c) 2003 Jack R. Wesdorp
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 alt.centipede * EMAIL: send email to email@example.com 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 MIME-attachment.
. 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 prohibited. YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2001 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 COMMENTS * Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its contents: firstname.lastname@example.org * Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access: email@example.com We'd love to hear from you! Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: