November 2005
VOL XIII Issue 11, Number 151
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson;
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch;
Contributing Editors: Pedro Sena; Michael Collings;
Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald LeWinter
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
MK Ajay
AT MALIBU PUB, KUANTAN BEACH
CONTENTS
Heller Levinson
CANTO FOR SIX STRING GUITAR
SOURING SUBURBAN CONTINGENCY FIELDS
DOWNLOADING THE AUTONOMOUS FALLACY
the road to lost road
99 CENT
David Sparenberg
SOUL GOING UNDER
THE VELVET RAPTURE OF SEPTEMBER ROSES
SHAPE OF A SPANISH GUITAR
INDIAN SPIRIT
CIRCLE OF CREATION
SUN PATH
Lynn Strongin
WE CARRY OUR LOSS FORWARD
What Keeps Me in the Wheelchair?
Apple-Bobbing
Physicians in White (lab jacket cut out of clouds)
Marie Rennard
Fall up
I'll sleep in a flower of sand
Black Home
Imagine Morocco
Picnic by the moon.
POST SCRIPTUM
Sean Howard
REFLECTIONS (NEAR TRURO, N.S.)
DAWN & SUNRISE (WINTER WAKE, CAPE BRETON)
DOUBLE SETTING (WINDOW FLOWERS, FOR LAN)
YARDSALE (SPRING CLEARANCE)
MASS FOR SHUT-INS (SUNDAY READING)
THE SEA (PRAYER FOR NANA)
MK Ajay
AT MALIBU PUB, KUANTAN BEACH
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Corona of guile
moving as restless feet,
drunk in caprice
and bleak alcohol.
Is that my fear
laid on the table
with roasted peanuts?
My other side
waiting to become?
Outside, the South China Sea
has struck the moonlight
on the white sands.
The crabs hear
the raucous whisper
of the waters,
a vulgar groan
rippling into the night.
A wound opens
in somebody's heart.
We see them dance in glee,
those festering wounds,
to loud beats
dreaming aloud.
Why do men
retreat to this womb often?
Why does a tug in the chest
increase the air's heaviness
like a trauma's recall,
like a rank cigarette puff?
A waitress drops
her hint, and a few
inches of her neckline.
Outside, a dead jellyfish
is washed ashore
from its smug comfort
and sinister home.
An entire world
twirls under the strobe lights,
everything inches
towards instinct,
towards an island
of covetousness.
The hours move
through the smokescreen
and glint of earrings,
an irresolute advance
stumbling twice
before the girls
can say `yes' or carry
men on their frail shoulders.
"Its my life", the tune blares.
I see what poets
can see and celebrate;
loneliness etched into
the worlds of smoke,
a distance from feeling,
an adamant clutch
on things precious to self,
a bridge we cannot cross
in this loudness, this heat;
a filth that makes
all virtue worthwhile for some -
an addiction of the flesh.
I remember the jellyfish
and its clotted,
translucent tissue,
and a certain nausea
that accompanied the sight,
a visual epidemic.
Then, it rained,
pelting the marigolds
on the resort's quadrangle;
the palm tree
dotting the swimming enclosure
where bare bodied tourists
made a pact with Narcissus.
We watched the rain dance
through the tinted glass,
hissing rains,
amid macho laughter,
and needy band girls.
The slug that clung to
the rock on the shore
was fat, shiny, silvery,
like an angel from
tinsel town.
"Are pubs in Bombay
like this?", they ask me,
reminded suddenly
of Bollywood -
all those trees, and songs,
and pretty heroines.
"Sure. Pubs around the world
are the same for a teetotaler".
The sea's breeze
pulls a raw nerve;
when I walked yesterday
on high tide's slender corridor
I felt the same sting,
the same sadness
one feels when sentences
become defectors of the spirit.
We laugh, three skeletons
filled up by light,
floating on bar stools.
"Cheers"...clink of
soul's mirrors, beer glass...
the seashells are attractive....
let the rains cease....
we are sure to find
jellyfish stranded on the shore.
The peace missing
from our vocabulary
was silence, sitting sullen
in a corner, sane, reproachful.
"Do introverts die
the same way as others?
Them with their fantasies
of after-life, unending
silences, enjoying every bit
of that drifting away from
the crowd, like the palm
sprout we saw, drifting away
from the shore's onlookers".
Refill for the two of them
as I watch self-consciously
at my orange juice receding away.
A sea urchin smeared with grime
is a witness to the sea's temptations.
Adjectives of the night -
gloom, isolation, longing -
are studded on a coral
lying on the sands;
they search for the right words,
careful not to breach
what their consciousness
would not permit.
Me, a curious observer
of their concealed motives.
Is that my fear
with roasted peanuts?
My other side
waiting?
The South China Sea
has struck the moonlight
as the crabs discern
the raucous whisper
of the waters,
a vulgar groaning
into the night,
receding, receding.
Heller Levinson
CANTO FOR SIX STRING GUITAR
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(for David Ferguson
wound string digit applications explode
legatos & slurs allegrias lightning tremolos
striking gypsy minorpassaswingages
the strings to drive an enclosed volume of air
[D’Addario Phosphorous Bronze La Bella 2001 Flamenco Hard Tension
Martin Marquis 80/20 Bronze Galli Genius Classic Guitar GR 60 hard tension]
spirits buried in string sarcophagus -
Django Son House Segovia Dimitri
Wes Fergie Sabicas - exhume licketysplit
harmonic scale cycling a junglegymboree of
color-travaganza slide and pounce the
pentatonic minor
moan in the asylum of blues bend
roam
the fretboard carnivorous,
stalky,
... intelligent
voice
melodic snowfalls chordally coat
the planet in acoustical luxor comp &
vamp octave prance enharmonically renounce
mixolydian stupefactions romance dislocative
geographies mobilize sentiment
strangulate sham jam man burst
& ballad reminiscence & myth
-- imagine music without fingers}]
champion fingers champion Sor & his estudios
Segovia & his Diatonic Major & Minor scales
with his admonition that the practice of scales
enables one to solve a greater number of technical
problems in a shorter time than the study
of any other exercise scales as
mortar as connective tissue as foundational block
as plasmic hurly burly tendon amplifier
galactic dailies lunar fusings cretaceous echoes
larval munchings spasming inchoate virtuosity
crunches pump solar hyperfunctional
estuarial abutment musings ...
~ ~
Fingers ... Snakes of Fire
hurl from Sky Beak [Quetzalcoatl - Geronimo) plant
slitherfluttergroundspeedstutt-er the frets
(a nickel/tin alloy) foam the ebony fretboard froth linguistic
compositional magnesiums flower
holy runic spreadsheets marinating time
hymnals in mastodonic integer lucubrations
/capacious introspections spur
solitary lopings to a voodoo culture
....
chavonne gavotte cambiatta
pas de bourree skate swing sultry
bebop-saltytango-roulade & rock n' roll
nautical fantasias mercury bells
technicolor rasguedos flash from El Cordobes
capote passes electrify hydrogen seizures
paradiddle parallelepiped hooves
a no rent topography
bandits dressage in the lowlands
mesmeric 32nd note attacks reshape
constitutional misgivings
a last ditch atonement
SPLASH
ThumbUp
STRIKE
earth throbs to percussive flamenco swipes
bathes in Soleares pathos
25.5 inch scale, nut length 1 11/16, string spacing
at the bridge 2 1/8 inches/650 millimeters scale length 52 millimeter nut length
spacing
the spirit defiant of measurement yet
constructed of measurement
compression casting
the harnessed tremor in Corot's "A Gust of Wind"
To Void The Interval
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
abandoned operettas leech to hot salsa nights
forests vibrate tonewoods
Spruce trees wail when bit by the saw
& locked in spectral pan-glottic dialogues
merciful transparencies
~~~~~
Mahogany ringing whale blubber
Alpine Spruce larking medullary rays freighting canary lung
Maple vivacity snowballs, solar nuclear explosions on the supermarket shelf
behind the Honey Graham Crackers
Brazilian Rosewood chugging low
railroad pulmonations
Pear Wood Imbuia Spanish Cypress
Cocobola Western Red Ceder
pitch & predilection
pith & purlieu
timbre
feral waves muffling the dark dresses
SOURING SUBURBAN CONTINGENCY FIELDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For it is not in giving life but in risking life that man is raised above
the animal; that is why superiority has been accorded humanity not to the sex
that brings forth but to that which
kills.
- Simone de Beauvoir
tagged to the unkempt corners
uniformed marches of domestic drill
repetitious bedbugs fabric vacuity
pour cupboards of surrendered laundry
log congressional laments
anthems of yawn carpet remote
bank accounts pillow the lawns of
the dispossessed
the pilloried
the passion-drained flesh-puddles
while
fibers of contagious slumber plague
the retinas of refusal
balloon evaporant cerebrums to decorate
banquets wobbling from rib bruise
(stalls in the cardiac birthday arrest
motor cars gown celebratory cakes log concatenous spin
(soccer practice postponed
marinating in this morbific absenteeism
stale rhythms staple the dance floor
is there a mantra: live-li-ness
dead gold fish nest in the nutmeg
scouring this land of no teeth
armies of spear
DOWNLOADING THE AUTONOMOUS FALLACY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the lone ranger wore a black patch
things come in pairs
things not in pairs seek to pair
pairing is not always beneficial, profitable, or even pleasurable
pleasure can arise from splitting from pairdom, as can pain
if pairing has this duplicitous character, can cause either pleasure or pain, willy nilly, what is the
adhesive of pairing
that is the subject for another poem
Coupling's Adhesive Plumb-Works
a treatise may emerge, or an eight volume exegesis
complex negotiations with Knopf or Simon & Schuster will ensue
time enough to diddle with commerce
spots are spots and skill's needed to turn them to the point of practicality
a recurring dream about a childhood friend I didn't like. Benjamin Winter now erupts as a
contemptuous icon, as the shadow weasel dressed in hiss
approaching our subject carefully, reverentially, -- stealthily (if you will), we consult ancient
wisdom:
in Plato's Symposium Aristophanes explains how originally man, woman, and hermaphrodite,
were fused into one globular energetic arrogant shape aspiring to godhead. To dilute their
ambitions and power Zeus split them in half, and, out of pity for their being unable to mate, he
finally "moved their privates round to the front." So our "innate Love for one another can be
traced back to trying to redintigrate our former
nature, to make two into one, and to bridge the gulf between one human being and another."
This jives with Ferenczi's theory that the copulative urge is based on an instinct
to return to Thalassa, to a point of greater union. These great thinkers pose reconnection-integration as a
primary explanation for the pairing urge. Now how does that account for those seeking
multiplicitious pairing, lusting for the more-the merrier; are these more advanced souls seeking
yet a higher integration? Or how to explain those desiring to dissolve the pairdom they have
spent so much effort creating. There is much to conjure.
Her name was Ruby and I had been lying naked for about five minutes before she
entered. She wasn't much to look at. (Gina's Oriental Massage on Santa Monica generally
had great lookers, quite remarkable in fact fo a walk-in Rub Factory. I had been coming to
Gina's for years.) But as she set to work on me, all my critical faculties, all my judgemental
mass, my reservations, my bile, my inhibitons, my defense mechanisms, my issues, soon
vanished - well in advance of ejaculative activity - leaving nothing but pure love.
As her finger circled my inner thigh, I did it. I couldn't help myself.
"I love you," I said.
Ruby stayed the night and over the weekend I introduced her to mom and dad. We
planned to marry in the Fall.
The pairing of socks is a custom and many people don't citing a more liberated fashion
sense or acknowledging that pairing is an illusion just as isolation is an illusion.
Bb7sus4
subsumed vegetative
gamin tuck circumambulatory
foreskins forerun the entrepeneurial
matrimonial conjunctions conspire communicative elopements
escutcheon epilepsies
synapse
nations of violet
Alterity is essential to mutual [musical] progression; the monotone possesses limited
compositional capacity
analyze the properties ennabling compositions to thrive. endnotes in MLA format
is complexity an advanced concept
why does an accumulation of years permit me unalloyed enmity toward Benjamin Winter
no bra this weightless has ever delivered so much
weightless is an advanced concept
gravity is incidental to cosmic behavior
to be kept alive with teflon and diet
Ruby came home wearing a cowboy hat. It was made of straw and sported a colored
feather in the band. She was frisky and smiley and rightly or wrongly I held the cowboy hat
responsible. That evening she cooked dinner wearing the cowboy hat along with a short red
skirt. Later, I struggled to maintain my demeanor as she slapped my ass while chirping in a
heavy Korean accent,
"ride me cowboy, ride me."
the road to lost road
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
epoxy garlic the restraints
uneasy no longer fabric sustenant
billow a cut i
n the canopy
the passing lane squirting mongoose
churlish with zoology the engines spit
metering begins with equipment
, a rough trade
Vehicular inspections on a regular basis augment counterfeit
identity speeds
the chord finds its way
99 Cent
~~~~~~~
price privilege preemptive purgatorial miasmic banter
vulvicular slide 99 cents less than
a sub-posturing bottom fishing below the dollar icon
live to Limbo-Rock-Shop
Soft `n Gentle Eternal Spring Crystal Geyser
suggestion & statement sincerity stapling
Hatch Enchilada Sauce Cool Mint Listerine Tartar Control Listerine Natural Citrus Listerine Cinnamon LISTERINE POCKETPAKS Dying Breath Listerine
a nation wobbly of axle singularly cupboarded
Shasta DT COLA SPRITE WELCHS PEPSI TAMPICO CITRUS PUNCH
freeways of product & Plato's REPUBLIC revealing the Just & Happy
man the harmonious operation of the elements
Protective Underwear Belted Undergarments Depend Underwear Disposable
Underpads Serenity Night & Day Pads Serenity DriActive Plus Pads
the Platonic Good mortars shelves of
Butterfinger Snickers PayDay Junior Mints Huggy Bears Starburst Mounds Rolo Kitkat Krunch
searching the aisles for humanitarian seasonings & mustard sauce for a complimentary shoe shine for a $2 off any car wash the ministries are crackling with longevity strategies Redbook's What Men Crave More Than Sex newscaster teeth reversible as winter coats are having a special
white & gleamy smooth & smiley
Summer is Here! Show off your skimpiest summer styles in your new body! a nation selling symmetricals 99 cents 99 thanks the news as neatly stacked edibles
the Odyssey was an oral methodology for instruction
Socrates & I stroll past the
Orange Glo Orange Clean Ultra Palmolive Ultra Dish Ultra Dawn KABOOM COMET LYSOL
discussing the Good & the idea of the Good while being offered FAST RELIEF from Pain Itching Inflammation we are closer to the Good & the idea of the Good we are below the radar of tyrannical dollars & drachmas
currency the initial dentition the dentary bone of the lower jaw that defines us as mammals
we glory in the bustle & leisure of this Agora wrapped in grave matters massaging truth into existence to be less than a dollar is to be worth more
we debate this as we discuss the Phaedrus & the proposition that the soul is self-mobilising & it is the souls progress round the whole compass of the heavens that maintains the universal order of things
Socrates halts & grabs a Quality Acne Treatment Cream & drops it in his cart to join the
toilet paper the paper towels the toothpaste & the ketchup
we round the aisle addressing Timaeus' claim that no rational "mean" can be inserted between two integers when each is the product of three prime factors and no more
Socrates' knees buckle forward he has been pummeled from behind by a cart manned by an old bent lady with a zebra head with a rubber tipped telescopic cane poking out of the front of the cart that's jabbing Socrates in the back the "mean" recedes from our discussion Socrates shape-shifts into a rainbowed serpent & slithers off between a bank of Detergent boxes
I am integer & atom I am the Sieve of Eratosthenes searching for prime I am Cowboy wrangling dustbins & brooms Crystal Geysers & boomboxes
along with John Olson I want to know the anatomy of grocery carts where grocery carts are produced is there a city known for its production of grocery carts is there a Detroit of grocery carts is the grocery cart conversely considering me an evolutionary newcomer arguing that its elemental matter preceded my elemental matter & I am a mere designate to exercise them on daily strolls as if they were exquisitely expensive race horses
is the 99 cent store a form of tectonic plate raising Himalayas of Mars Bars & Listerine an unstoppable recreation of landscape the earth at the mercy of
bargain
I am robust & stalwart in my quest
committed to troweling these merchandise-troughs picking Truth
after Truth
off the shelf
*Notes:
`Socrates halts & grabs a Quality Acne Treatment Cream' is a characterization
of Socrates that obviously employs poetic license as ancient scholarship
informs us that Socrates' often slovenly appearance denoted a distinct
disinterest in "well-grooming", that he was frequently non-punctual and in
general, wore the manner of a man consumed by abstract thought. For a satiric
view of Socrates in this mode see Aristophanes' The Frogs.
`Sieve of Eratosthenes' = "a method of finding prime numbers. To find all the
prime numbers less than a given number n, one first goes through all the
numbers from 2 to n removing all those that are multiples of 2. Then all those
after 3 are removed. One proceeds in this way with all the numbers less than or
equal to the square root of n. Only prime numbers will remain."
`John Olson...' For amplification on the mythos of grocery carts see John
Olson's poem "The Mystery of Grocery Carts" from his book FREE
STREAM VELOCITY (Black Square Editions, New York, 2003, p.25)
Editors note:
CANTO FOR SIX STRING GUITAR first appeared in HUNGER MAGAZINE issue #12 of 2005.
All other poems (including CANTO FOR SIX STRING GUITAR) except for SOURING THE SUBURBAN
CONTINGENCY FIELDS and THE ROAD TO LOST ROAD are from the recently published
ToxiCity: Poems of the Coconut Vulva from Howling Dog Press. Please see
www.howlingdogpress.com/toxicity.htm for more information.
David Sparenberg
SOUL GOING UNDER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Cover your heads
and mock not flesh and blood..."*
Black
death
black waters
black apocalyptic winds
black night
and the nightmare descending
onto the stricken
soul
over this nocturnal land
Black men, black women
black youth and black elders
black babies
abandoned and awash
in the sea of neglect
Black history
black truth
black agony
Black mud from flesh
plague-stricken ooze, a
pestilence of relentless
slavery
in the human soup, inhuman soup
of drowning death
And the tempest rising
over the stricken soul
of this third world country
We will not forget
nor can we escape
generation by generation
the shame of
this cursed hypocrasy
of race and poverty
For we are here
soaked to our bones
our skins the same,
storm-wrinkled
naked
and going down
in the darkness
of America
"Cover your heads
and mock not flesh and blood"*
14 September 2005
THE VELVET RAPTURE OF SEPTEMBER ROSES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In all of the canals of Venice
Beside the Seine
In the city of eternal Paris
Where the Rhine flows
Slow and quietly
Along the misty banks
Of River Boyne
Or London's great lassitude of Thames
Evening gathers and
Life is late.
Your face across
The twilights smiling
And my heart in kisses
Flowing always
Like the velvet rapture
Of September roses;
I let fall and float
Forever away and forever toward
The image of you.
Moons will rise
Above far distant waters;
A shadow fade
Into webs of shadows.
And love's nature
Will be revealed
Through memories that
Reach soft as dream-drops and
Sometimes silent
To touch the breathing
Tapestry of ageless beauty
Spindled-woven
Out of earth and heaven.
Because I am a solitary man
I will not last
As rivers do; but pass.
Yet here, in this moment
Tender and suffering
As it is crushed
I have all that I have.
And release a prayer in praise
To all. Mostly
Pouring out to you.
And now, my lady, my poem
My garden flower
Even as clouds blow beyond
And the autumn leaves of
Great cities rustle through
The aching souls of
Forlorn strangers
I fashion lamentation
As sorrow's song
And give up the template of joy
Into the blessed
Vault of sky.
Life is more than I am.
Now and now
My silken cat, my dove
I gather blackness about me.
The hour chimes. I shiver and
The rivers turn and wander
Far from the frost and velvet
Of my reluctant touch.
What words remain to whisper? Time.
It is time, sweetheart,
To say good-bye.
9 August 2005
SHAPE OF A SPANISH GUITAR
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the balcony of love
where night is lounging
a Spanish guitar
pours out his heart
to the summer moon
Heels of flamenco
fall like patterns of heavy rain;
heat rises up from the boulevard
In the little
kiss of wind and darkness
the black haired beauty of
a gypsy smiles, seducing his soul
Blood is hot
then cool, then hot again
And the Spanish guitar
is losing his mind
The moon sails away
on a river perfumed
by sky and roses
And he cries, Woman
the deep song and your eyes
are drowning me in loneliness
Give me your life-
saving lips to kiss!
The Spanish guitar
now imagines himself
naked before the wild
bull of passion: love and
death toss angels in the air
Confounded by all this ecstasy
a man plays
until his labor bursts into flame
Sweet Madonna
daughter of God's erotic secrets
is it true
true that night
was created to embrace
the shape of a Spanish guitar?
In the maelstrom of love
the fiery black lace
of womanhood
dances the red fruit
of her Eden
And the Spanish guitar
is weeping his blood
Inevitably
night turns toward midnight
and his fingers like
candles burn down
the church of desire
Is it true, true then
that night was made
for the sake
of the shape of a Spanish guitar
White dove of dawn could
replace thorns of this passion
But sleep is a stranger;
madness is music, and haunting
a shadow
in the shape -- of a Spanish guitar.
5 September 2005
INDIAN SPIRIT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was a time
when the wind of the desert
blew in my heart
and my name then
was in the form of a rainbow.
My other shape
was the red hawk.
And my shadow had wings
over the red rocks of
whispering canyons; over
grass and knotty pines.
But evil came
in the breath of men
and the green smile
deserted the land.
Since that time
the wind does not change
the life
of those who love it.
And my other shape
is an owl in the night
when the moon
is fallen.
No one speaks of this
loneliness: me least of all.
But the feeling
does not leave. The
earth, even before Spring,
is silent in my heart.
Yes she shudders
in the throes
of unshed tears.
Who can tell me why there is
this sadness
on the land of the sun?
CIRCLE OF CREATION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4 directions
sacred wind
speak with me
speak out of your heart
out of buffalo dreams
4 directions
sacred wind
speak from me
speak out of my heart
circle of a drum
i yearn to walk
the red path the
way of beauty the
way to becoming
a full human being
surrounded by sacredness
in every direction
mountain wind
eagle wing
move to where the sun is
spreading the song of light
that I may
go in balance honoring
all my relations
hear me when i cry
in the holy language
of the Lakota people
mitakuye oyasin
for life
in every direction even
as tunkasila
grandfather spirit
made it to be
4 directions
sacred wind
welcome me
into your breath
i dance now
facing the sun:
circle of creation
30 June 2005
SUN PATH
~~~~~~~~
When the Great Spirit
wanted to see me,
Spirit looked with the eyes
of the eagle.
And there was no place to hide.
When the Great Spirit
wanted to call me by
my name,
Spirit spoke in the plaintive
cry
of the circling hawk.
And deafness was driven
from earth and from sky.
When the Great Spirit wanted
to test me,
Spirit drummed in the wind
through the hoop of
my heart.
And ignorance was no longer possible.
Blood is a river.
And dawn ponys over
this pulse of bright water.
When the Great Spirit
wanted to feel me,
Spirit wove the warm
blanket
that colors the land.
And I walked
with the Ancient
in the path of the sun.
26 May 2005
Lynn Strongin
WE CARRY OUR LOSS FORWARD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
lyric narrative
unwritten
like cornhusk dolls from childhood
when out of sheer bliss
we traveled in circles the yard in the blue dress unsheathing of the wind
beneath our bedroom
with the white fourposter
cryptic, carved, forbearing, before the desolate, the eloquent words were penned.
What Keeps Me in the Wheelchair?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Desire to become fire
to climb the tree each polished rung:
hedges
to open my throat & heart as if by knives to the wind
to survive
arrive
At the end, arrive at a petal black morning: ebony
a wet noon rich
followed my nightfall inkblack which
drives one skyward
thru storm
clouds like a dream run backward from the burn: reversed zigzag lightning.
Apple-Bobbing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lo robber the
core is white wood,
I would be good but find
An old woman
who has been raped
is selling lemons in the market.
Old horse old dobbin
silk spun on a bobbin
fly away robin.
Hope, starting from a railway platform
waving back if not at a lover in black gloves & long coat--
at whom?
They're baffled
baffined in fire
We don't know how to leave properly to say goodbye;
Young girls, orgasm shimmering in thighs
lips like cherrybloom in Russian spring.
How can they be Core-calm?
cored in this asylum
paradise taunting at the end
of the tunnel & outcast by disability apple-boning.
Physicians in White (lab jacket cut out of clouds)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Imagine: winters flat as Poland,
Physicians rounding in blinding light: At diagnosis of leukemia turning red:
blood-iron coats
blown open at breast & throat
handsome
arm-in-arm in Europe where men still kiss.
Imagine doctors in Cobalt coats
blue for radiation.
Imagine physician
in black black like carbon
embers.
But in the main
they are stark
One turns to them up against death.
A Capella voices of childhood floating in:
Alone
alein singing for one's life: Hundreds of kilometres East of Berlin
in Lodz, Kracow
anti-Semitic from the dawn of time.
Yelka is tied at the stake screaming
hear her voice but not recognizing it:
Listening for temple bells
which have all been melted into guns.
Placed far from the fuel
it will take her a long time to burn.
Doll's Hair Catches Fire in First Morning
fresh butter yellow Alice with bangs:
copper knob
Poille de carotte.
Way to go
hospitalized twelve-year-olds
we took our color from the walls:
We took our color from our fevers:
that metal cart with thermometers.
When we went bald, we wept
like Mary:
one by one, planes peeling off from a doll heaven
lights rimming the body going on
glowsticks, blue neon.
our heads shone
anointed like saints at the revelation.
We took our color from death & threw it back to him.
Marie Rennard
Fall up
~~~~~~~
The leaves were fainting
And the wind was carrying them on his flows
Painting the air orange-yellow,
Smelling wet.
I was heating my back
To the warm cracky song of a red chimney fire.
I could feel, all along my throat,
The hoarse sugar of golden wine
And the flames were playing on the curves of crystal
Sensual, feminine.
Smooth faraway voices were whispering a tale
Of never ending stars sparkling in a cold sky
I felt calm and allayed
I could hear without fear to the clock
Hidden in the shadow
Strike a tic strike a tac,
Telling me
That days that were coming
Would sing for us the song
Of the times of sorrow.
I'll sleep in a flower of sand
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll sleep in a flower of sand
Golden, came from the sun
I'll hear the violin of the deep inner peace
Continuous and sensual
And caressing my skin without telling a lie
I'll sleep in a whirl of water
Damp, sweet and swarm deep blue
I'll hear the song of words
Singing nonsense so beautiful
Irregular
To dive I deep drowned
To live I felt left
To smile I heart hurt
I'll sleep in a feather mattress
So insidiously soft
Smelling half a cent of sugar
And ninety hell
Pure scent.
I'll sleep just in between the time
In a fourth position
Strictly ranking after the first three ones
Standing, falling or lying on the ground
Generally face down
Or up
There's no rule but of exception
I'll sleep
With all the weight on the pillow
Of old and ancient dreams
One thousand and one nights
Coming out through ages
Till it's time to wake up.
Black Home
~~~~~~~~~~
I'd like to spell one day
On the curved lines of a rainbow
Unsteady half vanishing words,
Evanescent and coloured thoughts.
Paint an idea of chaos
The waves of hearts
The stabs of souls
Here staggering and here hollow,
Melting stratums above, below.
Try to draw in between the lines
Complete forests of oaks and pines
To hide behind the scents of leaves
The foul smelling of death lurking
Prowling creeping and arising
In tight circles around the throats
When rainbows slide back to chaos.
Imagine Morocco
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm too old now to fartravel
I will never know Morocco.
But the real things are in my mind
I still ever can imagine.
The melting pot of scents
In the deep reds of dying sun
The dark and white shadows of those men
Who shelter the secrets of their eyes
In the mighty sands of deserts.
The small boy
Fallen from his minor planet
And the lines of asses
Offered to the voices promising paradise.
Picnic by the moon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We'll need a knife
And fresh bread still smelling the cook
And a hammer
To get rid of ants
And we'll need golden wine
Dancing in fragile round glasses
To give an echo to the moon
We'll need a snake
Whistling in the bush nearby
To remember of death creeping
And enjoy each drop of the wine
Rushing through our veins alive
We'll need a tube of green toothpaste
To paint out blue red tiny birds
A tiny spoon and a spyglass
To throw peas at daring Martians
And wine again.
Sean Howard
REFLECTIONS (NEAR TRURO, N.S.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
exit 13,
'indian
handcrafts'; ghosts
in the window,
cars pass-
ing
through
DAWN & SUNRISE (WINTER WAKE, CAPE BRETON)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
slow
snow, the
white build-
ing, light-
ing up
the
sky
***
village
buried,
day approach-
ing, throw-
ing roses
on the
snow
DOUBLE SETTING (WINDOW FLOWERS, FOR LAN)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dy-
ing
tulips,
sun melt-
ing, pur-
ple into
gold
***
light fail-
ing, crimson
glow, dried
blood in
the
sky
YARDSALE (SPRING CLEARANCE)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
go-
ing
fast, crows sort-
ing, ice dia-
monds in
the
grass
MASS FOR SHUT-INS (SUNDAY READING)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
child-
ren's
voices, sun
through cloud,
stream-
ing in the
room
THE SEA (PRAYER FOR NANA)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
all
the
dead,
mother-
tongue,
murmurs
on the
shore
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 - 2005 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.
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* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
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