+======== January 1995 ==================== Volume Volume, Number 3 ========+ | | | | | *** *** ******** ******** ******** ******* ******* ***** *** | | * * * * * ****** ** *** * * **** * * *** * * ***** ** ** * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * *** * * * **** * * * * * **** * * *** * * ***** * * * * | | ***** * * * ** * * * * * * *** ** * *** * ***** * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | ***** * * **** * ** *** * * * * ** * * * * ***** * ** ** * ***** | | ******* ******** ******** *** **** *** *** ******* ***** ******* | | | | | | ************************************************************************* | | | | | | [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] | | | | | | Editor: Klaus J. Gerken | | Associate Editors: Paul Lauda | | : Pedro Sena | | Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy | | European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch | | | | | +===========================================================================+ *************************************************************************** [ TABLE OF CONTENTS ] *************************************************************************** INTRODUCTION..............................Klaus J. Gerken Winter....................................Klaus J. Gerken Medic'in..................................Tim Whittlemore More stuff and nonsense...................Tim Whittlemore Here it comes!............................Tim Whittlemore Dags......................................Tim Whittlemore old stuff.................................Tim Whittlemore Old stuff.................................Tim Whittlemore "Salvation"...............................Tim Whittlemore Even as...................................Tim Whittlemore dark musings..............................Tim Whittlemore A question................................Tim Whittlemore Old wedding rings.........................Tim Whittlemore remembrances..............................Tim Whittlemore Clock.....................................Jim Yagmin setting suns..............................Jim Yagmin Her face is water, clear and cool-........Jim Yagmin 110994, in part...........................Jennifer Mulcahy & Gay Bost Sweet November's.........................Gay Bost I Want, My Friend, I Want.................Gay Bost English teacher anthem....................Michael Kelly Personal Statement........................Michael Kelly requiem to my southern belle..............Evan Light riding out the storm......................Igal Koshevoy When I upon my deathbed lie...............David Cariddi Drip......................................David Cariddi Rust......................................David Cariddi The Fence.................................David Cariddi Journeys..................................Earnest Russell POST SCRIPTUM.............................Gay Bost ************************************************************************** [ INTRODUCTION ] ************************************************************************** The heavy January consumes my thoughts like the musty smell of dry wood in a shed. The shed is like our shelter from the elements. Cozy, warm and intimate. Venturing outside we find ourselves confronted with an expanse of zinc white and cerulean blue and vastly different reaction than what the safety of the shelter will provide. Here, outside, we see ourselves, not as a personal entity, but as an entity evolved from other entities. Yet knowing that we are a part of a greater vaster entity, we also feel more vulnerable, and most of all, we feel alone. The safety of the shelter provides a comfort, where we merge with others within ourselves: we become part of our comfortable surrounding. The shelter becomes us. Outside of the shelter we confront ourselves, not as beings internal to ourselves, but beings internal to our environment. The shaman knows this and creates a "comfort zone" through which the outer can be integrated with the inner. The Poet likewise must confront this when dealing with "reality"; a reality built from observations and theoretical and mathematical formulae, but still a reality which we inhabit. As the shaman heals through comforting and integrating all the elements, the poet explains by integration all these elements into one clear assault upon the senses. A Zen monk claps to startle potential initiates, and says this startling must not startle, but must be understood as the illusion of the startling, thus the poet uses words and expressions to do much the same, yet it is the potential "initiate", the reader who must conform his or her own reality. One cannot be outside looking in. One must be involved with one's whole being: body and brain. The shaman, the poet and the zen monk each confront reality and introduce others to its potential. Yet those who would not be healed cannot be healed, and those who would not be startled, cannot be enlightened, and thus also those who do not have an open mind cannot read and gain from the expression of poetry. These are the people who rely on others to tell them something. And they refuse to listen when they are told something which does not conform to what they have been taught. Let us hope each one realize their own ability through others. Words and thought is a process of communication, it is not aloneness. Poetry shares; and through poetry, let others share also. -- KJ Gerken ============================================================================ riding out the storm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the city passes through glass reflection thousand pointed lights suspended in vacuum stasis each faint glimmer of transparent mystery an opportunity not taken hesitation on the outskirts of the glowing city and mind redefines the distance between us: on the outskirts - because i don't want to enter on the edge - because i don't want to leave staring face-to-face into countless emerald eyes blinking embers malnourished into disagreed acceptance starving under dim illumination one from lack of misunderstanding and the other from too much with neither knowing who they are nor who they should be -Igal Koshevoy (m) March 18, 1994; 10:24pm ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Winter ~~~~~~ Incense burns deep sandlewood, cedar, pine. Civilisation turns upon its axis. Poets prose inadequate things more meaningful thereof. Outside ice forms on roads and squirrels argue amongst each other for peanuts and sunflower seeds strewn around the yard. Trees perform a pantomime against the backdrop of the cabalistic sky Powder puffs of clouds create themselves anew. (Who says they have no entity?) A Van Goth lithograph hangs on the wall - flowers in a vase -. The yellow blinds the eyes, glowing like the Auvers' sun which so much the earless painter loved. A chessboard stands on a side table in the corner: pieces strewn asunder. Books of sullen moods are piled haphazardly on the shelves. A canvas propped against the wall: empty now of images. The expectation of the new... Old and dusty manuscripts lie dormant and untyped, hidden in a clothes closet: Memories of long ago. Thoughts consumed in confidence. Shattered dreams; the monuments of hope. And old and broken down typewriter on the desk: scratched with marks of nervousness. Empty pens; scattered words... Exhausted themes like Masks that are no longer Masks. Silence which we might yet come to her hear... The incense burns sharp, like the shadows on the snow. Can we really know what we have known? Or is it that to us poor souls the truth is never shown? -- Klaus J. Gerken ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Medic'in ~~~~~~~~ I am a professional. The stains are gone from my jacket, the glass brushed from my pants. The cut on my hand will heal, given time. I want to forget.... Crushed car seats, ...and scattered toys. Why? Why am I surprised and cry at a blood-spattered teddybear? I suppose the cuts that don't show, hurt the worst. -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ More stuff and nonsense... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Silhouetted against the sunset, and purple low clouds; I pace another candle in the holder. I wait for morning, as the house slides into the dusk. Violets, She gave to me this morning.... I will never be lost enough to forget her, Our love lasts. -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Here it comes! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Make yourself beautiful with laughter, under a cloud-swept sky. With a full heart, ignore the storm's warnings... For a rain soaked, passionate kiss. You make me tremble. We never guessed this would happen, as my hand soothes away your dress, to the sparkling grass. -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Dags.. ~~~~ I am tired. And your beauty is more than I can bear. I must look away to the stars. Even as you do, and hold my hand. Your kiss comes, as silently as the descent of a tear. Until my strength returns within your trembling arms; and then, there is no reason to stop. -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ old stuff ~~~~~~~~~ How could I know you were sunshine, until the rainclouds came? How could I know things were different, till they couldn't be the same? How could I know you were laughter, Till it wouldn't come today? How could I know you were love, till you went away? -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Old stuff ~~~~~~~~~ You came to me like summer storm, white lightening in the sky. A potent warning in the stillness of a love that cannot die. The stifling heat, the silence await with hope and dread. The thunderclouds of passion, the pain of things unsaid. You came with wind and thunder to sweep away all else. An all-enveloping deluge, warm as sand, and death. Like summer storm you went away and left me shaken, still. Yearning for the summer rain, the lips that kiss or kill. What remnant of our love is left? Memories that will not die. The warmth, and smell of summer rain... and white lightening in the sky. -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ "Salvation" ~~~~~~~~~ Shrouded, in the temple of unreason; the old priests in television clownface, have you on their list, son. Even though you pretend to believe in the priests of confusion, and the polyester singers... seeking fame--- Unless you run without looking back, their manicured, lacquered, talons will hook you-- and you'll love them even more from beneath your decaying mask of "Salvation." -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Even as ~~~~~~~ Even as Bronze wind chimes play in the wind; your fantasy lovers, know exactly what you want. They never tire, they have no morals, and no remorse. The nights are brighter than the days, while you dream. -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ dark musings ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lightening flashes, illuminating my face. Within the glass I hold, in this empty, cold place. I cannot sleep. I close my eyes and you are there. I hold my sanity in an icy, clenched fist... Were I to open it, I would scatter like the autumn leaves in this storm. The thunder echo's my soul's dark rumblings, now that you are not here to balance me... Why do I remember so well? Let me sleep. Oh let me sleep forever... -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ A question... ~~~~~~~~~~ Dream fantasy, landscape of ombre shadows, unreal light. Illume the philosophic question: Can self and soul be so divisible? Among the fallen idols roams the mindless flesh, carrying the skin of a soul. -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Old wedding rings ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What can you do with old wedding rings? Too precious to throw out in anger-- Too painful to wear in remembrance or honor. So they sit in odd places in your drawer, to surprise you at odd moments, with memories that shoot arrows into odd places in your heart. -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ remembrances ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Even now, I peer out the window and expect to see you running through the fields, coming home. At night, I listen for you. All the sounds so loud outside my window. But you never come running to me, and my nights are awesomely silent; your chair sits waiting, empty. And a part of me sits waiting more empty than the chair... -- Tim Whittlemore ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Clock ~~~~~ His bitter sway- arcs- clocking the pendulum -dignified- pennilessly, he alone- counting the seconds- our lives- An occasional glance from All, that is his purpose. a Wise Man- follows his swing, meditates the antique wood, swallows the bitter note of his clocking pendulum- Then moves on, Never looking to him- never again- -- Jim Yagmin ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ setting suns ~~~~~~~~~~~~ and i forgot just why i'm here- once again i've gone searching- nothing new my train of thought- no destination that i sought endless nameless living on- walking miles- setting suns- endless ocean ridden waves to the shore on land- the slaves. -- Jim Yagmin ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Her face is water, clear and cool- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Her face is water, clear and cool- Body- A lithe birch, bending With wind from all directions, Holding her straight, white As the moon on the darkest eve- Dark eyes- a pool of shimmering light, Reflecting all kindness Absorbing all wrong, Lips- red as death, Transparent; showing her warm blood Swirling endless within her realm. Her hair is fire, warm and wild- Curling-waving-cascading down, Wind feeds her flame, whisking Her soul and aura above- As I wait below: Love- -- Jim Yagmin ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ 110994, in part ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Steel blue sky and tumultuous sea, Hardened fast but so near free Withheld long, no longer still- From liquid thunder: ravenous will. -- Jennifer Mulcahy . . . Three sided wonder in the neon night. Caress of the spirit in fleshed delight. A tired snowflake on the lips of love Cloud scattered passion; a winged dove. Endless mystery, eternal flight Tortured innocence, myth's dark fright. We three We three Come walking through winter's mist Rabid age, sweet mother, and maid unkissed Wrapped in arms of a misplaced love Wilted in spring by abandoned love The words don't come easy, nor do they rhyme When there's naught but the knight to outfit time. Coaxer, lover's wraith, a misspent heart. Gone in the twilight, world's apart. Endless mystery, at the peak of time. Succumb to the comfort of the unpainted mime. There's a word, there's a play, there's an open house There's a sweet beribboned ... unhurried ... mouse. -- Gay Bost November 9, 1994 ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Sweet November's ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lost little wanderer Passionate child Woman past innocence Rationality gone wild. Touched at the dawning reborn in the past living the answers the fools have cast. Old stone and old bones crying out to been known loveless and loving seeking her home. See where the wind speaks Hear the sun cry Touch the moon's sorrow for you and I -- Gay Bost November 9, 1994 ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ I Want, My Friend, I Want ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I want to run through thistle's blooming blush and dance atop the firefly's wing where laughter welcomes morning's kisses and no one wonders why I sing. I want to sink with summer's thickening sap and sleep uncovered in the loam where mushrooms sprout in secret shadows and cobwebs flutter far from home. I want to drift upon the long wave home and sail beneath the silver sea where ancient mariners yet wander and there is truly shelter in the lee. I want to fly behind the glowing landscape and glide upon the silken shroud where dewdrops whisper silent prayers and "Love" is spoken right out loud. I want to ride the northwind's rushing howl and step into the snowflake's eyes where crystal memories fade in flurries and color floods the endless skies. I want to touch the sun with dawn's first tremble and wake into the glowing day where wildflowers visions come to tarry and moonlit seasons illume their way. I want all that I've ever dreamt I've had, and so much more than is my due where windows open wide upon the world and I want these things for you. -- Gay Bost November 1994 ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ English teacher anthem. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Your english language can go to hell. Mounting words like butterflies, a pin through the chest behind a pane of glass. You conduct yourself grammatically, a pin through your chest, behind a pane of glass. You read the world in a set of quotations, and speak in a paraphrase. Shakespeare can go to hell, he's nothing more than a snotty-nosed bastard in your arms. Your a meticulous reader, but you never could write, can you live? Living with a red pen and magnifying glass, circling and underlining. Contriving; thesaurus wings can't make you fly, your thoughts are to thin to soar upon. Your vocabulary extends past what you own inside. Coleridge can go to hell, he's nothing more than a pretentious bastard in your arms. Underline and read between the lines, the passion passes you by every time. Swept up in the moment, over taken by the momentum. What comes out is what comes out. Your saying that my words came out too quick. My emotions flowed too fluently, too easily. Diagram and pick it apart. My expository was never an expository, your expositories can go to hell, I let my ink bleed not bend to the boundaries of those caught up in their educations. Your english language can go to hell, I don't take well to bondage, neither did Chaucer. -- Michael Kelly ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Personal Statement ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is the sum of my life; the swells and the declines. I'm the cynic, without a working pen. I found the truth under a rock (the smut) before I was even ten. Knee deep in a world of obsolete and useless dreams, I'm the child that refuses to keep clean. This is the sum of my life- The long haul home, this road is a joke. Reel around my head, muttering pictures that beg me to tell (their useless stories); the beat goes on.. half-witted and cross-eyed- I was a child with lice and training wheels- My grandparents owned a house in the country, and had a dog named mindy; they shot her in a corn-field, to save her from the pain. I remember the chalk-like powder they laid down at my grammar school whenever someone threw-up their last meal, and the moments in my sandbox with the pincher-bugs and dirty finger-nails... The weary paths, with dust that malingers, and pot-holes that make young boys shiver. This is the sum of my life (yes, reduced to a whisper). The rhyme is laid, the words are golden, and I just cannot fallow. Dogs and men chase the same truth- the same rear-end. Again and again, I haven't read, yet talk as if I did. Sophistication from a pin prick, and sophistication from a thesaurus. Eight grade essays on the same old allegory, and the eight-five is for not answering the question. Faint from knowing, that no one else is knowing- that they are just a period at the end of a big nothing. Fields and fields of what I do not believe in- oh so cultivated. The oxen around the mill, and the surveyor with the whip, and the sun that teeters and tips.. but never falls. The soft moon will never win back the day, the pain may go but the ulcer will stay, this is the sum of my life this is the sum of my life- -- Michael Kelly ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ requiem to my southern belle ~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ a bleeding spine staining your bed baptizing you pure impure everyone seems tainted but now who else is pure but the anglo-white virgin in transparent dress makeupmasked face faux dimples of love all draining your spine all seeking faith that manifest invention of elderly men with limited edition glockenschpiel collections your sins are alphabetized for a swifter forgiveness cigars burn with a limburg taste tobacco for the ageless the pure -- Evan Light ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ [truth] i know you. i've tasted your soul. i've been to your home. i've crawled on your floor. i've looked in your eyes. i've seen your stare. i've taken your soul. i've eaten your share. i drink from your chalice. i lay with your wife. i've scorned and destroyed you. i've ruined your life. i am but a man. too simple, too true. i am but a man. i am but you. -- David A. Cariddi ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ When I upon my deathbed lie ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When I upon my deathbed lie, I invite the rain to fall from sky, To drop upon my withered face, And soothe like Nature's cold embrace, Wash away my blackened fears, Cleanse me of the guilt of years, While silver streams run from my hands, To drip in beauty to the land, So silently I'll watch the rain, While it rinses clean my pain, For in my heart I'll ne'er be clear, Until the rain removes my tears. -- David Cariddi November 17, 1994 ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Drip ~~~~ Where DID you come from, pretty little one? Ah, so joyous and angry, so sombre and sad! Why have you come here? What is your name? But I don't care, it doesn't matter... I'll take you anyway. -- David Cariddi November 14, 1994 ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Rust ~~~~ Solemnly, I wait among the Rust. Someday, the Rust and I will be one. Never look at the Rust. Oh no! That would be bad, so very bad. -- David Cariddi November 14, 1994 ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ The Fence ~~~~~~~~~ I As I looked down on you, I could see that you were scared. "Fear not, sweet," I said, and stroked your cheek. Then, silently, I raise the sword. II Oh, and I thought I could TRUST! How wrong I was! How very, very, wrong. III Hate me. Hate me, I am here for you to despise. IV Ah, twist the knife! How bloody, how black. Yet, strangely comforting... V Do you understand what it is that you do? Can you comprehend? VI I often think of you as my daemon. Almost as often as I think of you as my angel... VII Did you EVER know me? Did you ever REALLY care? I hope... I hope... VIII Oh, dear sweet one! How can you speak? How can I cry? What can I do? IX Once I loved, and once I cried, but I'll always hurt, and I've already died. X Once there was a maiden faire, Flowing streams of perfect hair, The beauty looked me in the eye, She struck me down, and there I died. XI What's that scar across my chest, you ask? Why, good sir, that is the place where my heart was. XII Oh my... Is that my soul sinking in the mud? XIII You must think I'm rock. Not moving. Not moving. XIV Interesting. I have never heard the sound of my heart smashed on the ground before. -- David Cariddi ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝΝ Journeys ~~~~~~~~ All journeys begin When we step out our door. The scene there one we've known many a time before. Old friends, are the Oak and I. It spans majestically reaching for the sky. As if wanting to tickle clouds as they flutter by. Verdant and lush, No king ever able to obtain, a carpet as luxurious as the earths. No decorator able to rival the hands blending shades as those who designed earth and sky. Even the people all have a face, a name, a tale to tell. Yet wanderlust runs deep. Causing to leave even such as this for the many paths we seek. Some joyous and gay. Some morose and full of pain. A few, remembered thru the years. Most forgotten the moment our foot ceases to trod. We all know the steps we've taken, the memories they bring. In so doing Realization: We can only move onward. Like all journey's eventually do we find ourselves in a place we've been before. The scene we left remains. Appearing yet friendly, all the while, subtle differences play across the sky. All appears the same. Our senses say it just isn't so. Just before the point we break, a still, small voice is heard, "Look again upon that before you and know My work stands as before. It is still the same as yesterday, today, and forever. That which sees thru your eyes, this has changed. You began your journey with an empty palette. each step and path adding shades, shapes and texture with which you color my world." For this I thanked the still, small voice and went to look again, in wonder and awe out my front door. -- Earnest Russell October 1988 ============================================================================ ************************************************************************** [ POST SCRIPTUM ] ************************************************************************** It's shift work or shovel cookies.... A time, disjointed, when she sat upon a stool, her bare feet hooked through the rungs, a brightly beribboned basket upon her lap and a cheery smile upon her weathered face. From this vantage she could see for several...miles, she supposed one might call them, if one were forced to lay units of measure upon the immeasurable. Anyway, she could see when the dreamers approached, walking through the knee high swirling mists, bringing their various colors along with them, wrapped about their shoulders like shawls or dragging through vapours behind like childhood's security blankets. "Well come!" she would say, speaking directly to their colors, passing faded blue eyes over the wondering faces presented, unseeing piercing gazes and worried frowns. "Here's your dance card. The step diagrams are part of your foundation. And have a karma cookie, luv. You might need to nibble once in a while until you're rid of that fleshy thing you've brought along to weigh you down." She ignored perplexed frowns and watched as scattered bits of themselves scurried through the mist and caught up, attaching to the main body of color or colors with possessive fervor. "You must remember, the nightmares are only reflections from within cast upon the great screen without, whispers from the inner ear roaring through the cosmos of the overmind." They would go through, seeing lights and hearing sounds beyond her perch, tossing uncertainties at her in silent screams and unheard laughter. "Shift's over," and a well known voice would be followed by the familiar footfall. Regal came her relief, walking slow and sure through the clouds of otherworld, carrying her own basket, her needlework, which she draped over her arm, and smiling brightly as she looked through the portals at those who had so recently passed through. "Got some forever dreamers, this day, I see." "And asking for you, too." "Well, then, off to your own dreams, my dear. I've patterns to complete and ..." she looked into the basket balanced precariously on the older woman's lap. "You've been giving out extra karma cookies, again, I see. You'll never advance up the ladder of success giving out extra karma cookies. You know the Lords of Karma take that extra from *your* supply." The older woman shrugged her shoulders and smiled, misbehaving child shining through wrinkles and grey, cotton candy beneath the leather. "Tough shit." "Bad! " said the other, mock reprimand and concern on her face. "Fuck the Lords of karma if they can't loosen up a little in the dream planes, anyway. Old Plots!" "And that's why you've got this job, you know...fucking around with the lords of karma." "Well, I'm not sure they put enough nutrients in the damned cookies to start with! MoM's recipe was much better. I think I'll dream honey into the cookies and then they can watch the blessed bees and dream about their own sweet tooth." "Tsk tsk tsk." "Hm." The older woman hopped down for her stool, blew a kiss through the air at her friend and skipped off, bandied old legs still holding her up, despite the wrath of the lords of karma and honeyless cookies. "A tisket a tasket, a green and yellow basket, " she sang, trying her best to come up with irreverent obscenities for the next line. "I wrote a letter to my love and he used it as a gasket." "Pfft!" (continued) -- Gay Bost, 1994 ============================================================================ +=====================================================================+ | 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 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. Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area, an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and speculated history & publishing. In all of the ten conferences, anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends. For that is what CentNet is here for: for you. Ever wonder how to accent a poem at the right meter? Well, come join our PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out. Have any problems in deciphering your dreams? Select The Dreams echo, and you're questions shall be solved. The Network was created on May 16, 1993. I created this 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 Bulletin Board Systems. I 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 download the whole network, 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. If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences. You'll not be disappointed! Or, check out the latest info packet being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE]. ============================================================================ ** ** ****** ** ** ** [ YGDRASIL INTERNET ] **** ** ** ** ** ****** ************************************************************************** RESOURCES The collection of Ygdrasil Press is now available on Internet through the World-Wide Web, accessible as "http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil". This site contains the collections as: 8-bit MS-DOS ASCII text, universal 7-bit ASCII, ANSI color graphics, GIF pictures, word-processor laid-out files and other goodies. The entire collection can also be found accessed by FTP as "ftp://ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil". Each month, the Ygdrasil Magazine is posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.arts.poems. We hope this will give readers a break from having to dial long distance and figure out which BBS has Ygdrasil available for them; provide a more intimate link to the world outside our beloved Centipede; and increase & broaden the audience & coverage of Ygdrasil to better serve the readers. E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL Any person that can access Internet e-mail (ie. FidoNet, Prodigy, AOL) can access Ygdrasil's online resources. To get a E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL GUIDE, send e-mail to the Internet address "listproc@www0.cern.ch" (if you don't know how to send Internet e-mail, please ask your system administrator for instructions). In the message, leave the subject line blank, and in the body enter two lines into the message: "www http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil/wwwmail.html" and on the second line "quit". The Guide will be waiting in your e-mailbox within a day. NOTE: CASE IS SIGNIFICANT - "www" is not the same as "WWW"; if you don't type it the exactly same way, your request will fail. COMMENTS Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its contents: Internet: klaus.gerken@bbs.synapse.net Fidonet: Klaus Gerken, 1:266/56 Igal Koshevoy, Production Editor and Web Coordinator - for submissions of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored files) in any standard Unix & MS-DOS way, and Web specific messages. Use Igal's e-mail address for commentary on Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access; or you may send files via FTP to "ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil/uploads". Igal's PGP key is available on request to ensure privacy of transaction. Internet: igal@agora.rdrop.com Fidonet: Igal Koshevoy, 1:105/290 We'd love to hear from you! ============================================================================ ************************************************************************** [ YGDRASIL PUBLICATIONS LIST ] ************************************************************************** THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ 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 THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken 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 $5.00 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: $2.50 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 Revision Systems BBS (1-609-896-3256) or any other participating BBS. Revisions, though, holds the official version of Ygdrasil. ============================================================================ ************************************************************************** [ COPYRIGHT INFORMATION ] ************************************************************************** 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, 1994 and 1995 by Klaus J. Gerken. The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS: No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or anything else appropriate should be addressed, with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: +----------------------------+ | YGDRASIL PRESS *** | | 1001-257 LISGAR ST. | | OTTAWA, ONTARIO | | CANADA, K2P 0C7 | +----------------------------+ ============================================================================