Ygdrasil: A Journal of the Poetic Arts -- June 2002

YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

June 2002

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla; Rita Stilli; Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp

ISSN 1480-6401


         On Insomnia and Poetry and Other Things


         IF YOU BE MEEK,
         A Schoolboy's Dream: Rochelle in the Common Room, HHS
         From the Cable Library, Helsinki
         At Twelve in Kabul (2002)
         Overlooking Dunedin
         Puketapu Road
         The Strain of Sleeping Continents
         Dialogue with Ancient World
         By the River Hari
         Under the Bamboo Arch
         afternoon rain
         initiation into the occult
         THE ENIGMA
         WHAT WE HAVE
         THE WINGS






   5 June 2002
   Hi Heather,
   4 a.m.. Up since midnight with bad panic attack; you know, when you wake up 
   in a cold sweat (I get dull aches and pain in my arms and joints) and your 
   mind dwells on everything that could go wrong in your life. Still shaking. 
   Advil for the pain. Lots of coffee (which I suppose brought on the shakes). 
   Very hyper. Decided to work on issue 110 of Ygdrasil (June). Got all the 
   poems done. Going to include our 1st Haiku sequence as a Post Scriptum. 
   Think I'll write the intro myself for the first time in years. There's 
   something I want to say, but don't know what it is yet. I'll have it by 
   Sunday when I post the issue. No short story, but all poems. Up again. 
   Have to pace. Nerves. Made myself some Mushroom soup. Settled me a bit. 
   Course at 8. Gonna feel a mess on that. Shoulders ache from being at the 
   computer too long. More soup. More pacing. Stick my head out he window. 
   Slight drizzle. Foggy. Heavy air. Last year I would have gone for a long 
   walk. This year I just want to stay home. Hide among the disarray and books.
   Suppose to bring two id cards with me to course. Can only find one. I'd 
   have to get rid of all the junk to find the others. Light bulb died. Dark 
   expet for the computer screen. TV on but not watching. The sound keeps my 
   mind occupied. Ears ringing. Left ear. Joint of my left arm aches. Aware 
   of every muscle in my body. Just can't relax. More pacing. Look in the 
   fridge. Go out on balcony. Smell the air: So thick, a spatula could scoop 
   it up.  Rub my arm. Go into the bedroom. Rub my shoulder. 4:18 a.m.. On 
   the balcony. Streetlamps glow a diffused yellow in the mist. Great photo 
   opportunity. But with hand shaking couldn't hold the camera steady. 
   There's so much I have to do. There's so much I want to do. I do nothing. 
   Look out the window. Hollow streets. I feel the older I get, the more I 
   have to map my future. I hate mapping out my future. My life has always 
   been a spontenaity. Even at it's dullest and most contrived moments. I 
   believe a poet needs this spontenaity. Knowing precisely where you are 
   going to be a year from now might be fine for most. But for a poet it 
   spells the end. A poet needs vision...and surprise!  Have some more soup. 
   Pick the scab on your leg. Shiver in the damp evolving mist. All 
   encompassing. Melt into the heavy black grey clouds. Let the silence 
   beckon you. Breathe the osmotic gods and flare your nostrals like a 
   stallion in a swelling field of tall green grass. It is now no longer 
   night but a crest of dawning. I am so restless!  My head swims in an 
   ocean of plankton. I am no longer part of my reality; nor yours. I am 
   yet another but the same. I am a plastic entity in a concrete shell. 
   Obsidian that is not obsidian. Lava that is neither hot nor cold. Even 
   solids merge with gas.  And reality exists only in the past. This is how 
   we know ourselves. I am slowly waking up. I am very tired. I am yet 
   a-dream. I am bubbles in a coffee cup. A reflection in blacked-out mirror. 
   Shadow dancing on the moon. Janus faced. Broken lance. Windmills. Auvernge. 
   Boken-eared and haunted. Always howling. Mistral without end. Not the 
   resolution, but the quest. Master and apprentice merge.

RICHARD FEIN HONOR THY MOTHER ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On the T.V. news yet another kwashiorkor-bloated infant cries with surprising strength, all the way from some failed nation. Electromagnetic waves send the desperate sobs across the seas to light the phosphorescent screen on the shelf above the beer bottles stacked high over my head, as I sit nursing a stein of foreign brew. Like every hunched-over patron here, I stuff a buck into the donation box on the bar counter. But the name on the box is Little League. That child looming on the T.V. screen will die of protein starvation before any greenback could put meat in his mouth. A complimentary buffet is on the counter. I lift one small sausage and raise it toward the distant child to offer a toast, not to him but to my mother, whose long ago scolding still haunts me, whose long ago scolding still taunts me, "Eat, you're too skinny. Children in other countries are starving."
RICHARD FEIN IF YOU BE MEEK, ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~` as lambs among wolves, then be neither old nor young and always nudge toward the middle. Don't lower or raise your head too much. Beware the slightest trace of nonconformity. When the wolves finally lunge, and your companions make their liquid turns around rocks and grass tufts, turn as sharply as the others but not too sharply. Keep the pace, for there must be only one cadence of feet. When a herd brother or sister gets a fang in the throat, stop only when the others stop. Stop, but never mourn. Your kind has been diminished by one, but that is your good fortune. Graze and regain your strength, for after the buzzards have picked clean the leftovers the stalking hour will come again. But don't worry. Just keep moving. Never rest. And above all, always lose yourself within the herd.
RICHARD FEIN THE METAPHYSICAL DOUBLE SESSION ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There is no idle time for the world's schoolhouses. The night hours are not wasted, the chairs are not empty, and spectral elbows rest on desks. The classroom lights only seem to be out, but in each room every chalkboard has its aim and motivational questions written on it, even though those boards were all erased by the day-session, elementary school teachers. Hours before breakfast, the cafeterias are full of incoming, night-session students. The forever harried school secretaries rush them through registration, for all buildings must be vacated before the day-session children continue with their almost endless rounds of tests. Night school is open for all those who received F's as end term grades. The ghostly student body is more than just fallen Hindus or Buddhists. Each prom queen who did nothing else but relive her one glorious evening, each bully who kept extorting lunch money even after he outgrew school, each shy boy who never asked for a date and let himself die alone, every murderer, thief, reckless gambler, drunk, and those class clowns who made jokes out of the rest of their lives, are all packed together in stuffy night-session classrooms after the custodians sweep the floors clean of day-session litter. The evening teachers are all Bodhisattvas who've renounced their salaries. In this schoolhouse netherworld, the students learn lessons they should have already learned. But not every night student seeks promotion, or is bothered about being left back. Some of them stubbornly still play poker in the back seats, or blackmail lunch money from any timid soul. Others compulsively wisecrack, while mirror-gazing girls see themselves only in prom dresses. And sitting next to these inattentive ladies are boys wearing thick glasses and pocket protectors, who can only dream of asking these girls to the prom. A few, a very few of these repeating students take notes and ask meaningful questions. Only they might be prepared for the upcoming exams. The first one of which is called birth.
RICHARD FEIN THE LAST SCAPEGOAT ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Like the others before him, he had pure white fleece. And between the slats of the pen, he saw them being led away, one by one, to an altar under the shadow of a huge stone statue. Songs were sung there, and men in white robes and tall hats held up blades that gleamed in the sun. Then they swooshed those blades down, across the throats of the ones who lay on the altar. He heard their final bleatings and sniffed the odor of their wafting blood. He was the last one left in the cage. That night there were terrible sounds. The men in white robes and tall hats had their throats cut, by other men with long blades that couldn't gleam in moonlight. Only screams were heard, and chants of false god, false god. No one sang. The great stone statue was torn down and smashed and the altar covered with the blood of the white-robed men. His cage was also smashed and eager hands held him. Frightened, he bit the hands that freed him, then fled. In the morning he returned. Smoke was everywhere and all was quiet, except for the crackling of flames. The men in white robes and tall hats lay motionless. His white fleece stained red with their spilt blood. He waited by the altar for his turn to follow the others. He licked the blood from his fleece and made it pure white again, while by the altar the redolence of stale blood mixed with the pungent stench of fresh blood. But the men in white robes and tall hats still would not sing or look up to the great stone statue, or hold their gleaming blades high. Alone, he grew afraid and wandered away, traveling in every and no direction, for he could no longer follow the others who had gone before him so directly and calmly to the altar.
RICHARD FEIN RELAXING THE GRAMMATICAL RULES OF A DYING LANGUAGE* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Truth is a grammatical necessity in one South American native tongue In the syntax of this language liars speak poorly, for footnotes flow within the speech and must name the direct source for each quote. So when a stranger entered the village and said that the shaman of the Whites told him about how Great Chief Jesus commanded us to love thy neighbor, that stranger's sentence was grammatically incomplete. When great chief Jesus spoke to the Shaman was He actually there to look into his eyes, and when the shaman then spoke to the stranger, did he look into that stranger's eyesE28093 between first speaker and last listener how many stood eye to eye? In that remote village nearest to truth, the verb tenses imply more than just time. Have neighbors really learned to love their neighbors or did the Great Chief speak in vain? The outcome of each verb is also part of its conjugation. There are a half-dozen ways to qualify the infinitive "to hope" and a dozen ways to modify "to despair," but in their vocabulary of truths the verb "to love" as we use it has too many meanings, for it's like a wide palm leaf that blocks the sun and darkens everything it covers. Instead of "to love," they use many verbs to shed bands of light across the spectrum of human affinities. One must speak this venerable language slowly, for hearsay is defined, lies exposed, and truths heard in the myriad nuances of inflections, adjectives and adverbs. But gasoline generators, radio, and TV have invaded the village, so the children now hear many fast-talking strangers. When their grandparents slowly speak ancient truths, the children still claim to listen to them, but they speak that claim too quickly and skip the words "in vain," which now has become grammatically required in the present tense of their elders' speech. * The language is pronounced as trio. The spelling is uncertain. The village is in Suriname.
RICHARD FEIN PRELUDE AND CODA ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Comes a minute in a given year when memory overwhelms anticipation, and it's not age, but what ages us that fixes that moment. For a teen-aged murderer condemned for life, it's the clang of the cell door closing. For the middle-aged muddler it could be when the twenty-five-year marriage dissolves, and the last grown child closes the front door. For the spouse of fifty years it might be when the till-death-do-us-part vow is fulfilled followed by a burial under a smothering of old photos. Or it might be none of these moments, for there are also those whose memories spark only more anticipation right up to the last shuffleboard or bingo game, or the last crusade for a downtrodden cause, or the last book read, the last essay written, the last lesson taught or learned, or even one last graceful dance. For those plucky ones it will have been a life of anticipation up to the last and greatest anticipation, when they'll accept that final moment rather than beg for a minute or year more to relive old memories or to alter them.
TREVOR LANDER A Schoolboy's Dream: Rochelle in the Common Room, HHS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I went down on my knees and begged Miss Buxom, for one little treat out of the folds Of her loose blouse short and buttoned negligently A lick at the cross between her breasts, fondling in my hands, breathing heavily while she dangles allure, coming out in short gasps.
TREVOR LANDER From the Cable Library, Helsinki ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sunday beams like a satiated mistress a radiant sun, strokes cars and cobbles along Mannerheimintie, like a sensual lover the air, laden with portent & the busy street outside, bursting with skin and bodies, alluringly cloaked. this is where I write , and watch, like an anthropologist in a new village, each anew, metaphorisising day, in this wondrous city.
TREVOR LANDER At Twelve in Kabul (2002) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You still want to hear a bedtime story, with open eyes, and taste all the flavors from the world's kitchen, but outside the door, a bomb goes off, grazing you, and you hide from the sky, fear floods your body, you don't want to be disfigured, not today, with the cameras watching
TREVOR LANDER ON MY LAST DAY IN POLAND ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On the last day in Poland, with time and film to spare, I'm walking through these six glass chimneys, each one etched with the numbers of a million snapped connections. Scratched out of the light-swallowing black of this memorial stone is the story of one man, newly liberated, who watched the Allied soldiers turning over a lime pit only to find himself the chief witness at his family's disinterment. Whenever I think of that man it's as a tourist in Berlin, taking some last-minute pictures to show them all at home.
TREVOR LANDER Overlooking Dunedin ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A broken balcony, an armless chair, her shoulders bare, his glass of gin, the usual constellations giving unusual consolation. an album on repeat as if certain words need confirmation. Nobody could say why any of it happened. Not her purple kisses, the kinds of hurt you can't help touching not the promises, broken like bad bread; nor why re-enactments of what aren't quite crimes can't lead to their solutions. No, nobody could say except there was a specific setting, her naked skin, drinks slipping over tall glass rims, the star tracked sky spinning in their heads to the lyric of certain words they were sure someone had said
TREVOR LANDER Puketapu Road ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ah, vastly fool sea, I clasp your briny love holding her hand pointing to the horizon away over an albatross to Punta Arenas, the land of Neruda and bitterly complaint, sand in your emerald knickers from a dalliance down Puketapu Road.
TREVOR LANDER AND CHRISTINA GALEATA The Strain of Sleeping Continents ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ late, in the darkening hours I cannot sleep, I smile at you in the bay, streetlights orangeswimming smile a storm brooding on the horizon, awakening in the sky and clouds as big as aeroplanes dart over the roof I need you close. I wait for you to read my mind thoughts fluttering on the wind, flying away raising hands shut the window and a body, wearily back to bed in the bondage of doubt, flightless, like a plane tarmacked at Otopeni waiting for unseen things waiting, everwaiting, to soar. This poem was co-written by Christina Galeata and Trevor Landers via email after swapping poems they had written to each other. Christina Galeata is a social work student at the Universitatei de Vest in Timisoara, Romania and has never been published before but has been writing since Ceaucescu state-funded her pencil. Trevor Landers lectured at the Universitatei de Vest in Timisoara, and has been widely published.
TOMOR BAHJA Pain ~~~~ In the paradise blind’ eyes, dew-drop slide down on the putrefied eye-lid, by the weight of pain, that migrate, looking for solace, shake the whole bag of encouragement, in a fight with the troubled sea-waves, while spiritual’ bricklayer of hesitation, risk to sunk itself, in a little speckle of water. It swims under waves, into polluted spaces by the mud of misunderstanding, as a boat-life appear on limited landscape of coast-line, to save the face of natural law. Nails of pain stuck on broken finger of light, slow-moving to the frozen grey hair of verdune, cracks in the head of reson, whose noise was percepted by the vigilant ears of quitness, and sound run away onto the emptiness of speech. This severe season, in mystery of tears, get pregnant by a virus of pain, in a pregnancy, which gave birth to: a new-born baby, suffering, melanchly, wore in the tattered shirt of Spring, needled under the wet cloak of Winter. The frozen Sky, spoke and spelt out wellcome words, dapple-winged, it honors the wounds of time, reflected by the pain of a long-life fighting with: the invicible heroes, and unwritten’ legends, unforgoten in dust. Time itself, wore a sober suit in black, dyed its pen in heroes' blood, and wrote on the pedestal, the name of pain: the pain, that wells up from deep in the soul, yet doesn't have a grave, to rest, like the all accidental onlookers in this World. Deep as a life tied in shackles, deep as the darkness' age, in billion years of light.
TOMOR BAHJA Icons ~~~~~ The great icon, uncovered under forgotten pedestals, at the icy feelings, dead river, illuminate dark caves, which try to speak out, stones jump up, leaves of grass give up lives, whose yellow faces, say good-by to existence, bitter tracks of sadness underneath earth ramble, grate one's teeth, move away from the pictures of horror, pieces of rocks inside the walls of yell, keep fighting on, spread throughout the Ancient World complains, cry. Covered by the dust of long-waiting period, stored in an archeological sediment, stifle at the roots of years, flooded by the rivers of time, placed in an uncomfortable way, at the heart of land, frost like a knife slaughter the embryo of life, in deep years of the dark age, while the icons wants to get away, to escape punishment. Rusted hinges of years, hanged on the iron balustrade of the ancient time, in doors that never open its leafs, but blocked the moving roads of flood, to punish icons, and warned the man no to search for icons, the age of life. The black tongue of the man, dance inside the mouth, his face has not been impressed by threats, anger of dark, which fly off at the man's head, like the sword of peace, waiting for revenge. Unconcerned, the man, put his hands, into the deep of earth, dug in the productive field of Nature, hear inside the sound, a cry, moan and save the icons' lives. Archeologist dug in the caves of miracles, reason like a rock's crystal in a glass water, brocks its being, the noise woke up villagers, in a field of search for gold, the golden dream of reach wasted time, was the only window to see the World with the blind eyes, converted in a thirst for challenge. Through eyes contacts, in a collided course between the light and darkness, the stupid villagers met the great archeologist of time, punched and wounded his face, and dragged his body like an icon into the streets of their fantasy, turned him to an alive icon, in a piece of jungle glory, convinced that search for gold and search for icons was not the same thing.
TOMOR BAHJA Dialogue with Ancient World ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Naked breast of a female, amble to the boundary of the Mythic World, in terms of rape, disgrace, turned into birds, rivers, trees. Secret links, in an invisible world, projected underneath laurel wreath, with its open leaflets of desire, seduce as a butterfly went to a white-crested of silence, which speaks without worlds. Agression and pornographic versions, as a wild creature with its tooth of sexual assault, infiltrate powerful emotion, reflected in absence of self-controll, erosion in emptyness. Surrounded by a rank of enigmas, mysteries, and mythic stories, born since the oldest time, I was engaged in a dialogue to the Ancient World. At that time it was not present, so I decide to speak to divane caves, meadows, seashores, river banks, but failed to understand the legacy of Universe, the World itself, the life does not came to an end.
SONNY VILLAFANIA By the River Hari ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ last i saw the minion house of my sires crowned with nipa leaves robed with bamboo grass though humble it was a kingdom to me a glance away a crystal river once filled with laughters of naked children feasting on its sandy banks when summer sweeps away the dark clouds of rainy days oh i could still hear the feast of laughters down the river but where are the children? did i hear a kundiman's sunset song or just an unfamiliar gust of wind? on the dark brown waters looking long i stood there remembering how was it then these calm waters were once clear as the sky reflecting the broad altars of heaven O what have they done with this narrow ea? alas! 't would never reach the sapphire sea
SONNY VILLAFANIA Under the Bamboo Arch ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The field is vast in the sight of a child The dark distant mountain range lies beyond The warm west wind blowing sweet and mild Before my eyes the westerring sun The farmers tread the dike first thing in the morn To finish half of their unfinished toil In their heart and soul what a joy is borne While they plough the fields, while they fold the soil Each ricestalk in the field is gold Gain through patient labour on Adam's breast How their sickles yield with happiness untold When seasons favour the time for harvest Here hymns and words of God I learned by heart And to nature I made myself a slave Her cool arbour the refuge of my heart Early in the morn or late in the eve Fain would I meet the simple summer fair When April rains the eyes with buds and blumes When feast of laughters fleeting on the air And cloth buntings hanging on envied homes
SONNY VILLAFANIA afternoon rain ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the rain falls hard in crystal droplets the streets rugged like an Augean stable a glance away a child knocks his little fists on the window of a car the gods inside merely stared with icy eyes my pity is uttered in silence as if I have not seen before a very common scene the green light flashed and I drove on weighing my thoughts between christian dogmas and karma catwalk she catwalks searching for a certain sky living her ninthhood on the streets and alleyways that never sleep at night the hours only moments & in her catness she slips slily longing to be free wordlessly . . . leaving only the poems she has written on my body softly the sound of a closing door
SONNY VILLAFANIA initiation into the occult ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the nipa hut on the hillock like a solitary chapel coppered against the sea of grass where beasts of burden a-grazing it is no panoramic scene or a haunting place for rituals but the sound of the rushing winds seems to echo the pagan litanies and latin orisons my heart is trembling like a leaf as i come nearer and nearer the woodhenge the fountainhead facing the cerulean skies arms raised softly speaking softly reading from an empty book perhaps praying to the anitos or the hideous Bathala i am become a sand in a dune a point in a circle i am a shell a vessel in my thirst for secret knowledge i am born and born again in a Sanskrit dawn only to find myself alone like the old hermit who taught me that the name of God is the first cry of a newborn child that very first cry is his covenant with his creator
HOOMAN SHAHKAR THE ENIGMA ~~~~~~~~~~ Worm said God is apple. Canary said God is the hand full of seeds. Goldfish called God the water in aquarium. Lion said God is jungle. Human was quiet with eyes wet.
HOOMAN SHAHKAR WHAT WE HAVE ~~~~~~~~~~~~ If there is no rain my tears are. If there is no dawn the beauty of dusk is. And if we can't wash moments we can wash the hands of mind in the river of time. If there is no spring there is autumn with colorful leaves.
HOOMAN SHAHKAR CROWS ~~~~~ Crows are alike. They sew light to darkness. Crows are plaguy. They blacken the horizon but crows don't know that the life will go on with them or without.
HOOMAN SHAHKAR LOVE ~~~~ You light the fire. The fire evaporates my heart. The cloud rains. The rain mixes with my blood goes to my eyes falls on soil. Soil gives it to sun. Sun puts it in clouds. My lips taste the rain. The rain travels through my veins to my heart putting off the fire for a while.
HOOMAN SHAHKAR THE WINGS ~~~~~~~~~ When silkworm must die a pair of wings is given to her. She flies toward a flame and burns.


   Waking is the moment
   No one ever knew
   Was there...
   . . . .
   alone on a bench 
   a man strokes a white cat 
   in the snowy dawn 
   The snow falls doubl'y
   White hand melts into white cat
   Both man and cat are one
   spring meltwater
   rushes round a rock:
   two streams merge
   Why does water twist
   So much? -- The white cat purrs
   Beneith my hand.
   a lock of grey hair 
   twisted round my finger:
   Beneith the rushing    
   waters - a rusted anchor:
   Home so far away!
   smoke curls
   from a distant hearth     I stir
   and the dream fades
   Drunk drunk - Li Po
   Touches a liquid moon:
   dream explodes reality
   I observe the sun
   through a glass of red wine
   the blood rages
   Drinking buddies only
   accompany each other
   where the anchor melts...
   A white cat, no, two!
   Three...? Pass the whiskey, friend!
   I smell a rat!
   Broken silences and time
   Beg a raft as a dispersal
   Rats do not do sinking ships! 
   I drank water
   from a mirage  ah, so cool!
   and dreamed of Lethe
   Jan/Feb 2002


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

       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://www.synapse.net/~kgerken/ 

    * FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/

    * USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines and

    * EMAIL: send email to kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version 
         and method you'd like. We have two versions, an uncompressed 
         7-bit universal ASCII and an 8-bit MS-DOS lineart-enchanced 
         version.  These can be sent plaintext, uuencoded, or as a 


  . REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings

  . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
  . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
  . THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken
  . THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
  . FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
  . POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
  . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
  . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken 
  . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken

  . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp

  . MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
  . BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy

  . THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
  . THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
  . THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
  . INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena

  . POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

  All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each. Checks should be made out to
  the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press.
  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an
  issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM
  or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery.
  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site at http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken.


  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
  these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is

  YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2001 by 
  Klaus J. Gerken.

  The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken.  No other 
  version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. 
  Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS


    * Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
    submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
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    * Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything
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