September 2005
VOL XIII Issue 9, Number 149
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
Heather Ferguson
Asps
CONTENTS
Trevor Landers
1. Neverne hry (Faithless Games)
2. Soliloquy on the entrapment of lusts
3. New Land Morning
4. A wedding Poem
5. Tents of Kedar
6. Reading religious history
7. Thora
An Ottawa Quartet
Seymour Mayne
OVERHEARD
New Word Sonnets
OVERHEARD AT THE BARBER
GIN'S JUNIPER
SUBSTANCE ABUSE
READER
BLOOD PRESSURE
PRAISE
"SIGNIFICANT" BIRTHDAY
VAULT
COOL AUGUST
ANTI-SEMITISM
AT THE AMIA BUILDING, BUENOS AIRES
SAW
DIURNAL
THE ODDS
Asoka Weerasinghe
Glebe Love Poems
1 Your body is my wailing wall
2 Last night at dinner
3 I have missed
4 Under the shower
5 Like a twinkling courtesan
6 The morning light bleeds into me
7 The moon over the balcony
8 You are the woman for all seasons
Robert Watson
Black Cuban Woman
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Kamakura
Jesse Ferguson
Drive to Toronto
Haggis
Fridge
Snared
The Game
Josef Lesser
This day the first of Summer
He knew the word for Water
We the voyeurs can only speculate
Camp of Lost People
Man rounded into a ball naked rolling
Riding back on a Star
Inside a station of the underground
Borders
POST SCRIPTUM
Prasenjit Maiti
So
Heather Ferguson
Asps
~~~~
The asp is the snake that guards the balm.
Water closes over me. Darkness slithers past shorelines. Tongues of light
flicker round rocks, eddies gurgle in past tenses. The moon befriends liquid
sorrow.
And when you want some balm, you lull the asp to sleep with instruments.
The treacherous sparkle of sheep bells on a mountain path. Winds play in icy
ravines, low moans roam the hillsides, inconsolable.
And take some.
Phosphorus coats my frozen fingers, teeth chatter against the rim of a bottle;
the elixir burns all the way down.
When she finds she's deceived, she covers one ear with her tail.
Scales rub over scales: discordant scraping. The first loop of a knot is
silence. The second is tears.
And rubs the other on the ground until it is completely closed.
The asp encircles my wrist. Memory tightens its grip. My cramped fingers
loosen.
So she won't hear the instruments.
Beauty burns, gives birth to itself, knows no mother. The wail of the
newborn in a desolate place.
And keeps vigil.
Trevor Landers
1.
Neverne hry (Faithless Games)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
--bon voyage Rita and Andrew
'eminently watchable',
Zuzana Stivinova in the ripeness and fullness of life
like an orchard of voluptuous peaches
at the height of summer's splendour
Praha, like an architectural gem: gleaming iridescently
playing the cameo part, the role of the seducer
inveigler of hearts; Pavlatova etches discordant emotions
into this idyllic setting, the arcadian
asylum of Sturovo
(a fading stamp in my old Irish passport,
stencilled memories)
temptations opening themselves up in the metropole
a story, subtle, enriching and perceptive: exactly like
both of you
2.
Soliloquy on the entrapment of lusts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O untrammelled spirits
lead me knowingly into thy
soft fleshy portal
taste there nectar of woman
& pronounce myself giddy on
drunkenness of flesh
Unconsciously I seek divination
in your tender appointments
harbour in the ampleness of breast
covetous of pleasures deeply delicious
to wade through the upper reaches
with a supplicant mouth
and compliant tongue,
make your eyes coruscate
with Cyprian joys!
3.
New Land Morning
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the dew dripped striations striped window panes
& the morning sun-kiss was a tremulous heart-flutter
awoke with weary-eyed wonder
enamoured with the transformation of longing and impatiences
her voice, like a poultice to febrile brow
sweet and tender tiredness eclipsing the embrace of an eiderdown
coquettish suns streaming sublime; ray of comfort
I swear the hills are more vivid hue of green,
a new land discovered, this morning.
4.
A wedding Poem
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
----for Cristina and Gers, on the occasion of their wedding.
A departure from convention
to write a poem under my own commission
to wish you salutations, lustrous lives
& the beneficence of moonbeams in a Norwegian sky
how modern to follow your relationship
like a frankincensed priest, garlanded with photographs from Budapest
her smiling, evanescent face, and his steadying fingers
on the camera
taking photographs, developing memories, forging a future
from the dazzlement of an antipodean day dawning,
I rise to you both, the glint of
congratulation having illuminated your eyes.
5.
Tents of Kedar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Make me the amorous wife of assertion,
set up as sovereign, legal, named as an unguilty love
let me a hymn to the love of faithfully married couples
let me be Shulamitic; lyrical and violent of passions manifold
limpid, intense, sufferant for passions
a daughter of Old Jerusalem, a pavilion of Salmah
a pinnacle of religious sentiment, the postulate of God's
irrepresentativeness
the secrets of esthetics, morality and love: the
legitimation of impossibility.
6.
Reading religious history
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a slight solemnic pause from reverence
after all, it is a Sunday, a day of rest and atonement
and penances are all around
writing pellucid prose, calling a dispirited conversatorium student
on her way back to Kiev, more ebullient now
justifying an affectionate embrace
a clarion call for a snatch of tenderness
while supping Chamomile tea and swimming in The Phoenix Foundation
speaking to my chimeric Chilean mujacha
listening the way how Spanish and English glistens iridescently on the
telephone;
calling to the one whose absence is felt like a levelled mountain
so close & faraway, stitched into the ambivalences of polyvalent times
outside, the wind is thrustling hushed messages euphoniously
I do understand them, but they comfort a satisfying grin.
7.
Thora
~~~~~
I will be a cairn of finest obsidian
and wedge it on a promontary, a sun-scarped headland
as remembrance, lasting and everliving
like you in the lugubrious hearts and perceptive minds
of those who knew you once; and became inveigled
who felt the kindness in skin smoothed by the passage of time
& were emboldened, listened to wisdoms and walked
away newly enlightened
I salute and grieve your passing, the descend of the corporal,
giving rise to the ascendancy of the ethereal, the
immemorial
until we can talk in your garden once more.
An Ottawa Quartet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seymour Mayne
OVERHEARD
New Word Sonnets
OVERHEARD AT THE BARBER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If
a
man
could
only
be
born
aged
and
die
as
a
young
boy!
Bukharian Quarter
Jerusalem
GIN'S JUNIPER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What
is
it
about
this
curious
scented
berry,
it
pickles
and
preserves
the
Royals?
SUBSTANCE ABUSE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Literature
is
one
of
the
least
damaging
human
toxins--
try
some
poetry,
will
you?
READER
~~~~~~
Do
I
want
you
so
close
you
swear
it's
not
me
but
yourself
speaking?
BLOOD PRESSURE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Form
and
content:
take
the
systolic
over
the
diastolic,
then
read
the
syntactic
pulse.
PRAISE
~~~~~~
Crystal
clear,
the
cascade
of
morning
prayer
cleanses
the
ears
for
the
tongue's
praise.
"SIGNIFICANT" BIRTHDAY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even
the
flesh
coloured
marble
floor
quarried
from
distant
Tuscany
betrays
purple
varicose
veins!
Abasto Plaza Hotel
Buenos Aires
VAULT
~~~~~
You
picked
the
coldest
winter
week
to
be
safely
deposited
in
earth's
thick
vault.
COOL AUGUST
~~~~~~~~~~~
Summer
the
soft
bird
has
packed
it
in
and
left
the
front
door
ajar.
ANTI-SEMITISM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What
is
it
about
Europeans
that
they
succumb
regularly
to
this
recurrent
vicious
virus?
AT THE AMIA BUILDING,
BUENOS AIRES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For David Mibashan
How
fast
we
rebuild
the
foundations
of
our
sanctuaries
and
then
memorialize
the
dead.
May 19, 2004
Jerusalem Day
SAW
~~~
The
white
birches
lean
westward
up
from
roots
oblivious
to
speech
or
shrieking
saw.
DIURNAL
~~~~~~~
Half
of
us
sleep,
napping
into
eternity
then
rise
with
the
doomed
floating
sun.
THE ODDS
for Janet Blatter
As
our
good
friend
puts
it:
Nobody
but
nobody
gets
out
of
here
alive!
Asoka Weerasinghe
Glebe Love Poems
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1
Your body is my wailing wall
that I touch for the softness
to heal my loneliness.
The solitary pink rose
above your tall window
sways gently blown
by the early morning wind
the hour of my euphoria
of touching your face,
yoga and meditation.
Your shadow on my bed
I hold tight in my thoughts
to share this peculiar sorrow.
2
Last night at dinner
one red rose in a vase
lit the space between
your empty chair and me.
It set up images
of maturity, a satisfaction
of a rose tattooed
on a shaven skin.
The taste of mango-butter
on my tongue after I ate
rare red meat from a pink
oval shaped porcelain dish,
the sight of the morning
swash of batik-silk pinkness
between your thighs
and the naked body
I wanted to touch.
3
I have missed
the morning 6 o’clock
songs the Glebe air sings.
A kitchen light
the beacon of love
that separates the night
from the heat of the dawn
and the warm bare loin
from the snow outside.
I have missed
the batik-pink body balancing
in the dark tossed onto
a black stake which spins
with the desire to feel
the warm flood through the skin.
I have missed
the abstracts in the dark,
the padding of voluptuous flesh
in the autumn-pool of my memory
of the warmth of our kisses
that propel our flesh
into the eye of the hurricane
grafting us for the next eight hours.
All of it I have missed.
All of you I have missed.
4
Under the shower
you unfold like an origami
flower, folding in and then out
stretching when you
bend over polishing every
dimple like a convex mass
of a polished wet marble.
I watch in awe
the origami folds
before the whipping begins
for you to count
the drops of water
cascading between your eyes
of the moving torso.
5
Like a twinkling courtesan
your body twitches, shuddering
as if pulsed by an earthquake.
We often wonder whether
there are more like you
body on body along your street
assaulting the morning sleep.
The swallows on the windowsill
flap their wings in amazement
noticing your feet stranded
high above my shoulders
in the middle of a flight.
6
The morning light bleeds into me
through the window shades
filled with darting swallows,
screeching disturbing the neighbours
with every thud-plunge I make
to the tune of the ticking clock.
You smile in your aubergine
coloured dressing-gown, watching
me work hard for the bait of a glass
of breakfast orange juice,
dripping into your throat
which is me, and occasional
honeyed jasmine-tea
spilling through a long bronzed
teapot spout deep into your throat.
7
The moon over the balcony
was cradled upon the shoulder
of a Tony Onley mountain.
And the lilt of the morning raga
you played on my flute
drowned the champagne
before our feast of kisses.
Deep with the fleshy
mango flower
I heard you sweetly sighing.
8
You are the woman for all seasons
the very reason I enjoy
the seasonal shades
of the morning light
filtering through the window-blinds
like woken-up purple butterflies
to shape the laser tones
that unfold the different shades
of warm pink contours
over my brown body.
(from Butterfly Poems)
Robert Watson
Black Cuban Woman
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The eye is an organ bereft of all feeling,
but the muscles thereabout
carry all the burdens of life,
and I shall remember her eyes.
Black dress and shoes,
and hair held back
by a ribbon black like her skin.
What else was she to do,
than linger by the stairs down to the beach?
Cuban woman on the stairs to the beach,
no longer young,
with no thing to hold back,
with no thing to offer other than her black grace,
black Cuban woman on the beach,
with no thing to offer but slender grace,
robed in dignity,
what else was she to do?
Untitled
~~~~~~~~
Our eyes met for just a moment,
The time it takes to go out a door
And glance as you pass.
He could not have been more than nine years old;
But then, I am not a father,
And then, in a wheelchair, you may look younger.
His skin was so white.
Our eyes met for just a moment.
The small legs, wasted away, useless things,
Folded together, to the right,
And white running shoes that would never wear.
Still, he looked right up at me,
With wide-open eyes in an open face,
With interest, and unafraid,
Looking up,
But not from a lesser place.
I was ashamed of my own legs.
Why did I look back?
Why does one ever look back?
There was no thing to be gained.
I was glad to see the oblique light of late afternoon,
Glad to feel the mild spring air.
Our eyes met for just a moment.
Untitled
~~~~~~~~
May we look at water the giver, which flows,
Always flows, even in stillness flows,
For to give is to flow,
To move towards life, even as the Ganges
Bears away the dead
And leaves limpid flow behind.
Untitled
~~~~~~~~
Immobility perceived from immobility
And yet the sun moves up from the line of hills,
Holy majesty golden disc divinity origin of all yellow and warmth,
Ra.
Kamakura
~~~~~~~~
Sweat in the peplum.
Cypress wood smooth and dark,
Imbued with temple gravitas,
Incense and holy hush.
Still, the pillars are tree.
Cedar and cypress bracket in the god.
Evening shadows gather in the face of the Buddha.
Jesse Ferguson
Drive to Toronto
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
out in the middle
of Lake Ontario
the same snow
is falling
we drive slower
playing it safe
turn the radio
off listen
instead to the snow
that brushes
white the windshield
and becomes
peripheral
you answer
the shiver
of our chill
little engine
as we inch
alongside
the bank
of that deep
silent water
Haggis
~~~~~~
Too
many
Scotch
toasts
to
Burns,
and
your
guts
are
boiled
in
your
belly.
Jan. 25th 2005.
Fridge
~~~~~~
Pray
you,
poem,
merit
magneting
to
the
fridge,
that
coveted
receptacle
of
venerable
victuals.
September 19th 2004.
Snared
~~~~~~
quick bite into fur
wince of glassy eyes
thrashing rabbit snatched
in a snare
lashing at nothing
claws biting the air
face puckered and clenched
like some impotent fist
twitching this death
by a bright copper wire
silenced and plush
as my love
Jan. 21st 2005.
The Game
~~~~~~~~
from his snug blind high
up in the maple branches
he hadn't seen
the young cub close
behind its mother
hadn't realized the pair
were come to stream's edge
for a fishing lesson
and so his molten slug
pierced three hearts-
the hulking mother roaring
with less and less ferocity
the cub whimpering
for hours by
her cooling snout
and a sportsman's
who never again
had the stomach for game
January 27th 2005.
Josef Lesser
This day the first of Summer
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Consider this man;
roused from a dreamless sleep
by the gender free voice of control
by the mantra song of trained wrens
by the architect plan wording his day
To-day your mind will journey
beyond the square into the unknown
where every to-morrow is created
born from the union of to-day and yesterday
Consider this man;
a worker in the slippers of routine
breakfasting on multi-coloured pills
exercising body mind senses,
meditating on matter outside the square
travelling inside the system
where time is each man's religion
and the common bible cleaved
into portions of work, play, love
sleep rest work. While trained wrens chant.
Consider this man;
roused from a dreamless sleep
To-day is the first day of sixteen
days and nights for your holiday
in the sun.
As found in the bible you will dream
in the warm air
play in the waves
love on the sand.
All thoughts of squares will vanish
work and routine will not enter,
only allocated guests of peace
silence and pleasure.
To-day you start your holiday in the sun
meeting your co-holidayers in transit.
Remember this day the first of summer
in the year of our divine star 2104.
He knew the word for Water
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(from the series "Consider this man")
Consider this man;
who once knew the word for water
knew how it wiped clean the pores of sin
how it scrubbed sandpaper off the tongue
and how it accelerates down the hill collecting,
collecting ancient coins and throwaway thoughts
Spinoza's mind eyes of Monet
Archimedes mumbling in his bath
arriving at the equation;
water = life
life = death
water = death
Consider this man;
who once knew the word for water
could decipher Plato's target shoot
the years Mandela ticked upon the wall
why Gabriel and Chet just had to blow,
and once he understood the silent breathing
of a novice nun beside the crown of thorns
and why a cloud never arrives as a lodger
only ever as a visitor.
He found all this in the granules
where we all kick-off moving
downhill inside the hourglass,
Consider;
do you know this man
We the voyeurs can only speculate
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(from a painting by Bergur Thorberg)
Consider this man;
a twin
brother to the girl
sharing the same pigment
coffee complexion
a mirror image jaw
eyes dark as a midnight movie,
only her sight is short
corrected by wire thin glasses,
yet in the world of twinning
they are fraternal
suspended in this moment
cold as the land of their birth.
We the voyeurs can only speculate
what dreams will be diverted
after this cafe meeting where two
cups steam as yet untouched.
Is it her wedding to-morrow?
Is the young man leaving
maybe to serve his country?
Could the twins be contemplating
their mother's fate on life support
or their own life soon parentless.
Consider this man;
a twin
exposed with his twin sister
in a millisecond of time
within their aromatic world
of coffee beans, a world
frozen for two.
Camp of Lost People
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Consider this man;
A parcel delivered to the wrong address
activating a conference circumnavigating
the kitchen table, words drift
nonchalant as language with no conscience;
forward to -----
hand back to post
open for curiosity
discard for fear
return to sender?
Return to interlocking tongues
where thoughts trip on the cracked pavements
producing ideas with broken ribs,
and a mortgage on breathing is afforded
to the circumnavigators round the table.
Consider this man;
A parcel tied with twine of tales
brought back with the souvenir spoon
the toy kangaroo
the second cousin's name
on the voting roll
addressed franked sealed,
life on the scales
weighing the cost
in some lost
property corner
of a lost peoples' camp.
Consider;
when that next corner appears
out of the nowhere of nothing
reflecting in the wire of mesh
your geraniums in flower -----,
the pleading eye on the inside
is a parcel of man marking time.
Man rounded into a ball naked rolling
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(from the series "consider this man")
Consider this man;
Once a sigh between lips a whisper
suspended an aerial acrobat caught
in the net by tongues of desire
maybe a match warming the pupils
of innocent eyes an innocent by-stander
glued in the glare of a sun spot
delivered naked like an unwrapped gift
at the feet of us we the past gifts
having discovered the protocol for toes
aim the new ball with a subtle kick
to hit the line dividing out and in,
Consider this man;
Once a word slipped between cards
three and raise good news or bad ten
pink or blue devonshire tea for two
tricks can be won by women or men
scratch the score on the wall ink
blood the colour of red has died
great news down a beer in the pen
bet you a diamond king or queen
born from the whisper by tongues
of desire naked at the feet of us
a new ball waiting for the team.
Consider this;
Man carved from a sigh
rounded into a ball untried
naked rolling to the drain
tricks of the cards
down or pass
another hand is against
the rules. Consider.
Riding back on a Star
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(from the series "Consider this man")
Consider this;
Man riding a star through the pages
of his own story galloping through
the galaxy of his scrapbook,
wrestling with Taurus
like his first father fighting
dry earth weeping the kiss
of life into each seed of grain
standing sentry over the apple
the hand of rice the grape,
then one day
between the rows of turnips
that final glint of sky.
Consider this man;
astride his star of David
his Harley David zooming back
along the Zodiac highway
over tar of guilt with the gale of grief
forever on his shoulder,
blowing the singed swallow to life
from the oven door and the odor
of wax out to all the seas and
songs, the soprano chant of the wind
replaying always from the torn leaves
of the book the voices of his tribe
seeking the trail to the mountain top.
Consider;
This man, that man, that man
standing in the queue see
this man tapping the brothel door
that man kissing his wife this
man dying in the turnip field
this other man watching see,
the swallow transform into
see into a full-stop in the sky.
Consider this;
hitch a ride
on the next
passing star.
Inside a station of the underground
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(from the series "Consider this man")
Consider this man;
considering that man
considering the old lady
considering the priest,
by the way the old lady has the glory that was Greece
etched in the furrows of her face where ancient gods
still play at summer games and a thrower of the discus
superimposes the priest
considering the child
considering nothing
but his autistic forest
where each tree by accident planted at his birth
is numbered counted and re-numbered on the hour.
Consider;
this man one-eyed
considering the mother
considering the beggar
unaware her faith lies buried beneath the autumn leaves
inside her son's forest proclaims the healing power of God,
by the way the beggar also plays superimposition
considering the banker
considering a client
considering a prostitute
considering the priest
all stitched together by unspoken thread, a mirage
carpet the colour of fantasy flying across the desert
oasis inside a station of the underground.
Consider the beggar
considering the banker
the prostitute
considering the priest
the mother
considering her son.
Borders
~~~~~~~
(from the series "Consider this man")
Consider this man;
smelling the morning ritual roses bordering
his secrets his dreams and nightmares
hues of yellow pink mauve and blood the colour
of red, petals and the zen of existence
breathe inside the borders of this everyman,
come travel with him this day 7 Jan. 2005
an everyday kinda day a day when Elvis
once again was sighted washing chopsticks
in a chinese cafe when dogs were romping
on a Coffs Harbour beach and the market
was declared volatile for stocks and shares
a day Leopold Bloom would have sauntered along
the streets of Dublin James Joyce the boulevards
of Paris, maybe Sylvia Plath tripping through
splintered borders in her mind, a blank page
kinda day for some an abbreviated diary day
for an ethnic Albanian youth shot dead
where Macedonia borders the Presevo valley,
Consider;
this boy will never meet the man looking back
from the mirror or walk the road as everyman,
the zen of existence has seeped into the earth
tinting green and grey shadows of landscape
with blood the colour of red this day 7 Jan. 2005.
Prasenjit Maiti
So
I know the road winds here as if in ignominy as I dream yet another fantasy
and try to cling on to you my rebel words do not leave me alone in ecstasy
or defeat walking jostled among markets people memories do not show me your
smirk again or sound your cymbals of insanity...I recall the music ends
here when I die and listen to the strains of yet another road not walked body
not blessed woman not scripted when benedictions shower from above in
agelessness in inanity
No
Word can stay with me today as I prepare for lines that have to be encountered
such as never before like being a writer in residence talking to students
around a fire that is white like the bleak meaning of sentences hanging loose
in corners sharp and indifferent for what they are worth and their treachery
that is rabid like their edges and hangs and gutters and your spaces rampant
that hardly make up my keyboard
And
I sit before you today and yesterday and sip tea without sugar to make life
easier and cheaper without strings attached and rephrase apologies for what I
do not know as the garden somehow blurs around the edges and smudges like
mascara that is without vanity
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.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions: kgerken@synapse.net
Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:
