ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ November 2001 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Volume 9, Number 11 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º º º º º º º º º º º ÛßÛ ÛßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßÛ ÛßßßÛ ÛßÛ º º Û Û Û Û Û Ûßßßßß ßÛ ÛßÛ Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û Ûßßßß ßÛ Ûß Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û ßßß Û Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û Û Û Û ßßßß Û Û ßßßß Û Û ßßßßÛ Û Û Û Û º º ßßßßÛ Û Û Û ßÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û ÛßÛ Ûß Û ÛßßÛ Û ßßßßÛ Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Ûßßßß Û Û ßßßß Û Ûß ßßß Û Û Û Û ßÛ Û Û Û Û Ûßßßß Û Ûß ßÛ Û ßßßßÛ º º ßßßßßßß ßßßßßßßß ßßßßßßßß ßßß ßßßß ßßß ßßß ßßßßßßß ßßßßß ßßßßßßß º º º º º º ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ º º º º º º º º º º º º ÖÄÄ¿ ÄÂÄ ÖÄÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄ·  ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ º º ÇÄÄ´ ³ º ³ º ³ ÇÄÂÙ º º ³ ÇÄÄ´ º º ³ ÇÄ º º Ð Á ÓÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ Ð ÓÄÙ Ð Á ÐÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð º º º º ÖÄÒÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ º º º ÇÄÄ´ ÇÄ ÇÄÄÙ º ³ ÇÄ º º º ÇÄÄ´ ÇÄÂÙ º ÓÄÄ¿ º º Ð Ð Á ÐÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ ÐÄÄÙ Ð ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð Á Ð ÁÄ Ð ÓÄÄÙ º º º º º º º º º º º º Editor and Founder: Klaus J. Gerken º º Production Editor: Pedro Sena º º European Editor: Moshe Benarroch º º Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla º º : Rita Stilli º º : Michael Collings º º : Jack R. Wesdorp º º º º º º º º º Founded: May 1993 ISSN 1480-6401 Issue: 103 º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄ· ÒÄ· Ò ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄ· ÖÄ· ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄ· º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º ÇĶ ÇĶ º ÇÄ º º ÇÄ º º º º º º ÇÄ º º º ÓÄ· º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º Ð ½ Ó ÐĽ ÓÄÄ ÓÄÄ ÓĽ Ð ÓĽ ÓĽ Ð Ó Ð ÓÄÄ Ð Ó Ð ÓĽ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß INTRODUCTION AVERIL BONES COUNTING REPTILES CONTENTS HEATHER FERGUSON THE SHIP OF FLOWERS WHEN FLOWERS HURT ME GENESIS LAMENT FOR TOM AUTUMN CAT HOW THE MOON GREW UP TRICK PHOTOGRAPHY LOOKING FOR SIGNS Credits KAREN ALKALEY-GUT TOWERS MOSHE BENARROH A world without me The black man from the back room The new Bukowski My promised land of unfulfilled promises I have seen your black eye POST SCRIPTUM HEATHER FERGUSON Credits ßÛß ÛßÛ Û ßßÛßß ÛßßÛ ÛßßÛ ßÛßßÛ Û Û Ûßßß ßßÛßß ßÛß ÛßßÛ ÛßÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û ÛßÛß Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û ßßß ß ßßß ß ß ßß ßßßß ßßßßß ßßßß ßßßß ß ßßß ßßßß ß ßßß ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß AVERIL BONES COUNTING REPTILES I I was out in the Australian bush, burned bronze, blackened a deep carciginess colour, blistering the deep chocolate brown of a bandy bandy's snakescale skin all-sort striped Lindt dark and creamy like a winter thigh. Caught in a dark rustle of undergrowth, humus slippery with the highways of slugs and sticking with a fruity fairy smell to the palms of my hands, a bandy bandy in the glare of an Eveready beam. II There are places in Australia like Wagga Wagga, where you can tell the locals by what they call the town, "Yeah mate, Wagga's that way," so holding the torch I wasn't sure if I should say just bandy into the leprechaun ear of this smokey dreamtime spectre, whose humus hands held up a serpent. Or meet the quick bright smile showing white through the ginger of his beard. See, we were out counting reptiles. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HEATHER FERGUSON THE SHIP OF FLOWERS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ for Jim and Darlene Alone in the drizzle, a farmer surveys the newly-ploughed field behind the house where his wife is. You are the sea, furrows of earth white with gulls. I plot my course over you by the stars. The smell of coffee and wet hair. Lilacs spilling out from a glass jar. The children leave. You are a ship of flowers, stays and mast rich with clematis, your hold full of smooth white eggs. In all my delighted plunder, I broke not one. She hangs out the dripping sheets, fighting sudden gusts of wind. You are the well-trimmed sail, perfect curves under the bedclothes. The thin white surface that moves the vessel. A knock at the door. A neighbour. You are port and harbour, reckoning and shelter. I give my all and receive. Your ropes hold me to the shore. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HEATHER FERGUSON WHEN FLOWERS HURT ME ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is a day when flowers hurt me when birds fall to earth transfixed with song when the moon ploughs serenely backwards through the sky. Clouds cross the sun The moon lights your face The wind whispers tales of love Across the land. This is a day when beasts converse when lemmings fling themselves in seas of wine when the famished lion retracts its claws and frees its prey. Deer browse in the alders Cats come to my door The wind whispers tales of love Across the land. This is a day when deserts bloom When fire-swept lands flood with green When evening sets the harbour all aflame. The brook follows its course The sea receives its own The wind whispers tales of love Across the land. Your unwritten letter rests in my hands like a Chinese scroll unfathomable brushstrokes, yet beautiful... the sweetest rose has fewer secrets than this. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HEATHER FERGUSON GENESIS ~~~~~~~ 1. I was sleeping profoundly as you passed. You left your footprints on the void. Cedar and cinnamon, rosewood and clove announced another world. Your heel bore down and compressed my darkness, leaving an imprint of light; your sleeve brushed my face. A whisper of song filled my room. Echoes perfumed the night. The house swaddled me close about; the hours swirled around me. Before you came darkness covered the earth. 2. The mists cleared. In the moonless night I lost my way. The ground gave underfoot and I fell through the void. 3. Let tears be my witness: your melodies swept me away. I tumbled into the night as a diver leaves the boat. The sultry air grew heavy; I plunged into tidal waters. The delta spread its fingers out towards me. Here currents found their balance, warm and cold. Salt water and sweet water left their taste on my lips. Then a rock appeared in the stream and an island rose from the sea. My blind fingers explored the rock, played in sand, I clumped loam in my fist. Most fortunate castaway! In a dream you stroked my thighs and the earth ran rampant with vines. Pear and cardamom, apple and allspice, your saffron smile kissed my eyes. I dreamed of grasses and rushes, where water and earth join. 4. You emptied your pockets and sun, moon and stars spilled out! You scorned these riches; you tossed them into the air like doves and they found their place. I curled into the crook of your arm. Light filled my heart. Warmth flowed in my veins. I opened my eyes. At last I knew my age and could speak. 5. We were rich in angelfish and eels. Shoals of sardine brightened our slow-moving days. The corals blossomed and grew. Amid these leisurely gardens we loved. Gulls stitched heaven and sea together. Great rookeries whitened the isles and cliffs. We clambered over the rocks and reckoned our wealth. 6. Wherever I turned, placid beasts came to my side. Antelope cropped the grass; horses rolled in the dust. Lions slept in the dry savanna shade. We took names. 7. Now at dusk night is welcome; dreams bless its course. Day inhabits the night like a friend and our daily works borrow freely from dream. The dark is shot through with light. We sleep and wake fulfilled. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HEATHER FERGUSON LAMENT FOR TOM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You curl up on your hospital bed and struggle with nightmares. Laboured breath and heaving ribs are your whole world. You cry out in fear at the sound of your name. You wake to face a strange woman across a no man's land. Subtle speaker deprived of language, you eye me coldly. I turn my head and walk away ashamed. You have planted your mind's seed in my heart. My womb grows heavy with black flowers. Patches of night form within and I am filled with stars. But see how they slip out of my body in hot tears. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HEATHER FERGUSON AUTUMN CAT ~~~~~~~~~~ A cat slides across open lawn, belly low, shorn of shadow, glancing sideways naked under enemy fire. The dizzying space yawns and rolls; distant shrubs loom like banks of fog snipers, perhaps ... No fish here and certainly no mice, none daring the antiseptic, frost-white stage; a ruler rules but briefly in this tiny realm. This chessboard, with space dissected into quarters, into eighths, into hundreds hundredths stretching into quarters ... The cat clears one mark, slowing clears another... yet another... freezes Ah death, you have such clean hands! ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HEATHER FERGUSON HOW THE MOON GREW UP ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When the moon came crashing out of the sky it was not yet ripe; indeed, was very young. So a peasant woman piled her wash on the shore and rocked the wailing crescent just like a child. It cried for blood so she used its cutting edge on wheat, on straw, and her man scythed his enemies in the moonless night. A winged thing now, a boomerang to kill birds, to test the thickness of the wind, to cut lethal tracks across the fenceless sky. Till a careless throw returned it to the stars, a moon half-grown and slightly red. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HEATHER FERGUSON TRICK PHOTOGRAPHY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A full moon rises at sunset. Floats between walls of fire, perfectly contained. Its face strangely magnified in the mauve sky. A woman stands on the broad steps of a stone church. Open me, she cries, and gathers light to her breast like roses. The moon pauses over a spire. The photographer adjusts his lens. The woman parts heavy doors, and enters into perpetual dusk. She lights a candle. The photographer reaches into her chest. He is not surprised by the pomegranates, the startled song of sleepy birds under her ribs, the blood of waiting seeds. Open me, she cries. The candle flickers. The moon rises fast. A full breast brushing past clouds. A harvest belly praising autumn fields. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HEATHER FERGUSON LOOKING FOR SIGNS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We stopped the car to observe and wonder. The sky had turned on its side. The solid and steady plateaux of clouds had jack-knifed, nose-dived and rested on the nearby hills. The banks of clouds were stacked up like torn papers, obscure standards - heaven laying a hand on distant earth. When the sky no longer covers us, where shall we turn? The stars will flood us every night, a battery of beauty deadly and insistent. In the gathering twilight we looked for signs: lightning or a roar of rain. Then left unsatisfied, unsafe for home. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ KAREN ALKALEY-GUT TOWERS ~~~~~~ 10-2001 I Too soon after the terrible disaster we flee from Israel to Ireland when nobody is in the air except those more fearful on earth looking for atmosphere Men are dying hot and coldly give every man a flask my boy and a farlock on his shoulder II The airport isn't empty. I thought every one would be home far from the ongoing terrors of last week watching the sifting of remains, the self-stimulation for the sacrifice of war. I thought everyone would be there, or at the beach casting the sins of the year into the waters of oblivion. But everyone here seems to behave as if nothing had happened. Here at Duty-Free in Ben Gurion only the Arabs are absent. from the usual bustle. I miss the sound and sight of people part of my life but am sadly relieved. And instead of a holiday I am hunkering for an argument. Like the exiled Syrian poet, Mohammed Al Maghut, I hear the horses of war thundering towards me and am looking for someone anyone to punch in the nose. Once on emerald soil the rage within me dies. Between the rocks on the Burren, crowded fern grow with milkwort and moss excitedly but in peace. III The ruined towers peeking everywhere from the magical verdure call out to us of the news we flee, the vain need for a safe place. Again and again I see the second plane circling into the World Trade Center. Yeats knew how to do it, restored his tower and wrote on its stone of it transience: may these characters remain when all is ruin once again IV OUR LADY OF KNOCK We drive to Sligo looking for the supernatural, letting our spirit guide the way. Toward night, with no place to stay, the dim neon of the Belmont Hotel invites us to shelter - its cozy lobby with a group of ancient ladies sitting out the evening, rousing at the arrival of two scruffy strangers. Vaguely I note the door signs in the hall to our room - Shihatsu, Clay Baths, Yoga - what kind of place is this - the cross on the wall, the elegant dinner in an empty dining hall. The brochure makes it all clear - we are near a shrine where Mary appeared over a hundred years ago - and now there are holy, healing waters and prayer for healing. In the morning we visit the shrine, fill the plastic bottles we bought that say "I prayed for you at Knock," close our eyes and entreat for sanity to be restored to the world. V Why do I rage at being erased from history? Why should an Irish museum trace the Holy Book to a Hebrew source? Yet tears stream from me at a whole exhibit devoted to books of great religions that has not even one letter in Hebrew to a timeline of civilization that does not mention the Holocaust VI Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. In this remote Glebe House Ben Ladin will never find me or Saddam or Hamas- even the fairies do not come near. We close the heavy shutters before the walled garden that borders the deep forest and sleep at last the sleep of the protected. In the morning Irish dew glistens over the vegetables, the wall, the forest. And our radio picks up only music. VII When you walk through a storm Hold your head up high Dingle in the rain - We all look down or hide in a scarf. Sure the aquarium will be dingy and sad we are tired of the wind weary of the damp that pervades like the obscenities of the news And we elect to visit the fish. There in the Touch Tank are forms I recognize from various dinners. On the floor, covered with sand, round shapes with eyes regard my motion, my silence. I lean over and watch the mackerel circle obsessively in their round space as if their schoolmaster had punished them with endless parades- But I am projecting humanity out of loneliness onto fish furcrissake Until a bream reaches out to me at first tentatively, swimming up for a look. Next he calls his friends I swear, and I am the object of gossip I am sure. One by one they come and raise their heads from the water and speak with me. Please believe me, we really spoke. I think they even changed my life. It does me no good to tell this to people in the city. Even the Irish look at me as if I was a poet. VIII The friends that have I do it wrong Whenever I remake a song Should know what issue is at stake: it is myself that I remake -- Yeats Now here's a bard who remade a whole nation, gave it myth, meaning. All we need is to see beyond the falling roofs. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ MOSHE BENARROH A world without me ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I imagine a world without me but I can't A world without me is a world where people read my poems my books I can't imagine a world where people don't read my poems. In my absence people read more of me. Maybe I should learn. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ MOSHE BENARROH The black man from the back room ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ No one had the the time to see the face of the black man in the black suite from the back room. He handed an envelope to the clerk and disappeared before he was seen. Later people said his eyes were black his skin was black "and not brown" said the little child. In the envelope his request: 100,000 dead children. His merchandise: two more years of oxygen. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ MOSHE BENARROH The new Bukowski ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ browsing through the poems it all makes sense the rejections, my wife's screams my children driving me crazy in a few lines he makes sense of it all 7 years after Buk's dead John Martin promises more volumes of poetry this is his fourth posthumous 352 pages, for many poets this is the collected poems book I have this idea that Buk was not only a great poet he was the greatest computer man on earth and set up a program that when pushing enter gives you a complete poetry book we have the Fante poems, the races poems the women, and the flies, the 3 A.M. poems the father the mother poems all his books like a novel from childhood till death I read a review of Bukowski in which the reviewer attacked the readers, I read it twice to be sure I hadn't got it wrong. Her thesis was that since Buk was in a fascist group in college (and yes he was for a few months just, as he says, because he hated the left) everyone who likes his poetry should ask himself why he likes it (meaning he may be a hidden fascist too). You fooled them all, you mad bastard you are still fooling them they are angry that people, real people read your poems instead of reading their university stuff and there will be more and more books after your death to keep them mad at you, they will say these are recycled poems you like a Cezanne painting again and again the same mountain but some of us know you were and you are poetry's only hope, poetry's only way of not being lies in beautiful words in complex lines and in frozen books. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ MOSHE BENARROH My promised land of unfulfilled promises ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ First there was God a deceiver of human beings he should have saved my brother who died one year after we came to Jerusalem. I was young then, I didn't know, that's what god does best. Then the people they deceive me every day they promise, they propose and they never deliver and I almost 30 years later still don't understand what they want. The land of milk and honey is hot in the summer so hot my kidneys can't handle it and 3 months a year I am a desperate man unable to do anything. I was a man of mild weather. The sea is too hot all summer long I can only dream of my cold water and there are the wars, the killings the discrimination in every step I swallow and behind it always people screaming, cars and buses making too much noise just way too much noise. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ MOSHE BENARROH I have seen your black eyes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I don't know your name it scares me but I know you woman you are the birth of the worst killers and you have a name I don't know your name but your are after me you look for me in desert streets and in crowded buildings you haunt me in my sleep and when I wake up you follow me I don't know your name but I have seen your face calm as the sea in its calmest day before the storm always before the storm I have seen your hands full of little dead children I have seen your nose smelling dead human meat you never have enough of it, don't you? I know you are there hiding behind universities explaining why you don't exist I know you were once a child as innocent as the moon in a romantic poem just before it causes the big storm I know you, I have seen your eyes and you don't scare me if I die in your hands there will still be my poems to follow you wherever you go to haunt you and destroy you day by day as you do to us yes, my poems, my little poems said to be useless my poems will follow you you unnamed destiny of our souls for we will not be slaves in our poems anymore even if it is for a second in thousands of years you will know that we were not slaves if only for a second and you know don't you you know and how you know that sooner or later that little poem will be your end. I don't know your name but I have see your eyes lady I have seen your black eyes and you you couldn't really look straight into my green eyes. Could you?! ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ÑÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍÑ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÑÍ͸ ÍÑÍ ÑÍ͸ ÕÍÑ͸ Ñ Ñ ÕÍÑ͸ ÆÍ; ³ ³ ÔÍ͸ ³ -ps- ÔÍ͸ ³ ÆÍѾ ³ ÆÍ; ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ Ï ÔÍ; ÔÍ; Ï ÔÍ; ÔÍ; Ï ÏÍ ÍÏÍ Ï Ï ÔÍ; Ï Ï Ï ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ HEATHER FERGUSON Credits: The Ship of Flowers - Symbiosis (anthology), Girol Books, ed. Luciano Diaz, 1992; Carpe Diem, 2000 When Flowers Hurt Me - Remembered Earth (chapbook anthology), Bywords, eds. M. , Scala and G. Guth, 1997; Carpe Diem, 2000 Genesis - Remembered Earth (chapbook anthology), Bywords, eds. M. , Scala and G. Guth, 1997 Lament for Tom - unpublished Autumn Cat - Sounds New (anthology), The Muses Co., ed. Peter van Toorn, 1990; A Mouse in a Top Hat (chapbook), Rideau Review Press, 1987 How the Moon Grew Up - Twenty Ooems for Twenty years: A Tribute to Juan O'Neill, 2001 Trick Photography - unpublished Looking for Signs - Bywords magazine, date unknown ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310] º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º (C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ 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 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ßß ßß ßßßßßß ßß ßß ßß [ YGDRASIL INTERNET ] ßßßß ßß ßß ßß ßß ßßßßßß ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß 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://www.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 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 MIME-attachment. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ °±²Û Ü Ü ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ Ü °±²Û ÛÜÜÛ Û ÜÜ Û Û ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÜ Û Û °±²Û ÜÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÜÛÜÜÛ Û ÛÜ Û Û ÜÜÜÛ ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÜ °±²Û ÜÜÜÜ Ü Ü ÜÜÜ Ü ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ Ü °±²Û ÛÜÜÛ Û Û ÛÜÛÜ Û Û Û ÛÜÜÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û Û °±²Û Û ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÜ ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÜ Û Û Û ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÛ Û ÛÜÛ °±²Û Ü ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ °±²Û Û Û ÛÜÜÜ Û °±²Û ÛÜÜÜ ÜÛÜ ÜÜÜÛ Û °±²Û . REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken . ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken . THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken . THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken . FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken . POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . POEMS TO A GOD WITH SWOLLEN FEET (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . 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://www.synapse.net/~kgerken. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄÄ Ò Â ÖÄÒÄ¿ º º ³ ÇÄÄÙ ÓÄÄ´ ÇÄÂÙ º º Ú¿ ÇÄÄ´ º ÓÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð Á Ð ÄÒÄ ÖÄ·  ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄ·  º º º ³ ÇÄ º ³ ÇÄÂÙ º º ³ ÇÄÄ´ º º º ³ º º ³ ÄÐÄ Ð ÓÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ Ð Ð Á Ð Á Ð ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÙ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ 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. 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