July 2005
VOL XIII Issue 7, Number 147
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
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
NESSA OMAHONY
Prayer for my daughter
CONTENTS
Ashok Niyogi
DREAMS
THE MAN AND THE SNAKE
NAKED
FRESHLY DEAD
BOOKS
BUBBLES
Cyril Dabydeen
Montreal
Conversation
The Canadianist
A Certain Attitude
Pearl & Me Walking
Quebec Separation
WHO'S NELSON MANDELA?
THE POEM WISHING ITSELF
THE DOCTOR
PEACE ACCORD
MISSIONS ABROAD
AARON MOSHER
Sanskrit Poem
Saving Souls
Craig Murray
I don't want to be like you
She beats herself
I Read
Corey Mesler
Use More Nouns
Sleeping in a Box
Huldre Vigilate
Sleepe, Angry Beauty
Deacon Bruce
MAROONED 3: THE MAZE
Karen Bayly
FALLEN
BLOOD TIES - SPIRIT
BLOOD TIES - HEART
Roger Tabor
THE POET'S SONG
AN UNKNOWN QUANITY
ASPECTS OF ILLUSION
POST SCRIPTUM
Robert D. Wilson
14 Haiku
NESSA OMAHONY
Prayer for my daughter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
after W.B. Yeats
The gentle breeze that rocks this tilting train
speeding through countryside not my own
has given time for prayer and pause for thought.
A child's cry down the carriage fractures air;
some minutes later her red-faced mother
pushes her through feet-encumbered aisles.
If I had such a child,
I would have wished for her
an easy birth, a gentle coming into light,
a calm sleep, a room innocent of shadows,
dreams untroubled by dark shapes
and devils pulling down to black caves.
I would have wished for her good friends,
a bright playtime of treasures
discovered at the end of garden paths,
the chase of white clouds,
sun like the tang of orange ice
on tongues in mid-July.
I would have wished her quiet rooms,
the mystery of books not as escape,
but a leading on to new adventures.
And I would have wished for her
the first dance and the last
and all the dances in between,
the comfort of her own space
and the grace to like her own company
until she was ready for the answering smile.
I would have wished a happy motherhood,
a table full of friends and family,
a study filled with photos, songs and books.
All this would I have wished that unknown girl.
But the tilting train runs on and on
through green and pleasant lands not my own.
Ashok Niyogi
DREAMS
THE MAN AND THE SNAKE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He stood on the huge black rock,
Married to the monolith in the rising sun,
Rock and man equally weathered
By wind and water,
Time and heat,
Gouged into each other
With a bullet from a gun.
Around the rock was a dry dusty moat
Filled with scorpions, snakes,
Centipedes, millipedes and the like,
Wriggling up the moat walls
And falling off,
Climbing over each other,
In the cauldron, a seething brew.
As the sun climbed the sky
The rock was heating up,
The man jumped from one foot to another,
Rivulets formed by beads of sweat
From his scalp,
From the creases in his forehead,
Trickled into his eyes,
They turned red.
How was the snake protected?
Scales on its torso?
Poikilothermal, as is life?
Twin headed,
On one head the logo from Honda,
On the other forked tongue
A jingle from Dell.
It had a rattle.
'When confronted by a snake
Stand absolutely still'.
It had a rattle.
The man was jumping from foot to foot,
His blisters bloated with boiling water.
The snake started to sway,
Stood up on its rattle and started to dance,
Faster in its heated frenzy,
Until it was a tornado,
A Dervish of gray
In a backdrop of yellow mustard fields,
Whirled beyond the moat,
Watered by the sweet-water well.
And then all was no more.
Reality was blisters on blighted feet,
Insatiable thirst in the midday heat.
NAKED
~~~~~
I have just rushed into the platform,
The huge clock ticks
One more minute away,
I hear the whistle,
But the train does not pull away.
I swim up the current,
Against people who had come
To see people off.
I dodge past parcel luggage
Sleeping with a lone stray dog.
Now the train starts to slide,
I am just fifty feet away,
I increase my speed,
Why do people stare at me so?
I grab at the handrail,
The train gathers speed,
Then its taillights look like eyes,
Why do they stare at me so?
Now I must catch a taxi,
Over tip him to over speed,
Preempt the train at the next station,
And carry on as if nothing happened.
Only, before that,
I must put on some clothes,
I am stark naked!
FRESHLY DEAD
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment is crowded,
Cousins, friends,
Bearded aunts,
Uncles with cataract,
Debtors and creditors
And sundry hangers on.
Even from beneath the shroud
The smell of incense is strong.
They have bathed me,
And anointed me with sandal paste,
I wish they would remove
This cotton wool
They have shoved up my nostrils,
And ease the furrow on my brow.
I bubble with hilarity,
The moustache line of an aunt quivers,
Between the mountains of her breasts
Builds an earthquake,
I know she is going to shriek.
It was no accident,
Just meticulously planned, continuous abuse,
Ultimately was it the kidneys,
Or just the massive blood loss?
I catch your eye across the room
And see that you share my mirth,
I even try to wink at you
But the eyelids don't respond.
Even though you understand,
And across a room full of mourners,
Surreptitiously wink back.
BOOKS
~~~~~
The dwarf with the hunchback
Weighs me down with heavy verse,
Sometimes I float above him
Just three feet above the earth.
The sky is already black
Instead of a friendly blue,
How do the spinster sisters know?
How does Tolstoy's Chechen feel,
In the glint of Kremlin chandeliers?
Iago merges into Cleopatra
With a scorpion's sting for canopy,
Solomon will pass judgment,
I meet a virgin close on forty,
Hug her to my chest,
Breathe alcohol into her hair.
The world is but a flattened sphere,
The dwarf has an angel face
Hidden behind the coarsest cowl.
BUBBLES
~~~~~~~
Pump out the incredible blue
Of Crater Lake,
And you will find
Lava solidified.
Cyril Dabydeen
Montreal
~~~~~~~
(for Johanna)
Confessing to a misunderstanding,
you talk of a childhood
all along the edge of the lake
as I pretend to understand
life in a sailboat that summer
Travelling the narrow
corners of your life, I watch
the trees beckon to an old promise;
later we hold hands
in old Montreal
Now telling me of your mother,
and a father ... as we climb
a familiar tower where the ancient
church brings us back
to a pious promise.
Small world, you confess.
Saintly mother, you look down
at us over the widening gap
of years, our being alone -
one with another.
Conversation
~~~~~~~~~~~
I live in a bureaucratic town--
there's so much paper work here
& people, longing for power
(so you say)
no, I'm not cynical--
dear God, help me to be close to real people
& to the things that affect my senses--
let me also continue to renew myself
this day, night--
it is my eternal
desire.
The Canadianist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Those who go to India to study Indians
become Indologists
Those who go to China to study the Chinese
become Sinologists
Now in Canada I'm studying Canadians
Being able to tell differences of people
from province to province, region to region -
Though everyone's indeed different
- from Newfoundland to BC,
Quebec to the Prairies ... as I take note
Finally I declare myself a Canadian -
no longer content on being a Canadianist.
A game of lost-and-found really,
I come to grips with, trying to be
the best Canadian there is.
A Certain Attitude
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What I remember most -
give poetry to the prisoners
Make them say
the word "bird"
And the rest
will follow -
Like being
in mid-air,
Feet firmly
planted
On the ground
while in flight.
Pearl & Me Walking
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Going to the George Lamming seminar
on the "Conquest of the Indies"
at the University of Miami
(Coral Gables, South Florida),
and inhaling the Cuban-American
air, with los exilios -
the heat swelters,
Hispanic no less.
Pearl from Washington, DC,
originally from Jamaica -
she says,
who wants to know why
I'm not perspiring.
My veins are made of ice,
I tell her (in jest),
as I'm still part
of the Americas -
but Canada no less,
protesting the US embargo
on trade to Cuba -
yet front-page news
on my return to Ottawa.
(July 10, l996)
Quebec Separation
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
- after Marc Garneau
(astronaut)
Going to the stars
and looking down
at Earth
I can't get worked
up about
nationalism.
WHO'S NELSON MANDELA?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(after my five-year-old)
An old
man
with frizzie
hair
who talks
about
Africa
THE POEM WISHING ITSELF
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's a poem wishing itself a newness,
a safe place to hide under,
to sit back and mull and then tell secrets
away from the busy Corporation
To leave the Chairman of the Board,
President and Vice-Presidents, executive
assistants, secretaries and clerks--
so it could go about its own business
The poem merely wishes to dream,
to mull over despite the frenzy of pain,
voices locked in its head for years...
from somewhere else, now returning
With a distress signal, as the poem
takes over with mellowness and talks
with itself only, echoing a strange gladness
with its hair standing on end
Like trying to make things whole,
images being all as the poem talks
in a triumphant tone, pretending
to be different in a new time.
THE DOCTOR
~~~~~~~~~~
You, almost drunk,
in these streets;
you, Doctor Tache,
insisting that I know your name;
you who've lived here long
in these narrow,
forgotten streets
in Havana.
And that famous American
(a writer) who once lived here,
too, with whom you ate
and drank
Hemingway, isn't it?
The women you both knew:
you insisting that
this story must be told
to every tourist
who comes to Cuba:
like emblems of the Spanish
past that still haunt
with your tale
of lost-and-found.
PEACE ACCORD
~~~~~~~~~~~~
My peace accord,
Promises to the East,
The West, as I travel alone,
Strident in my creative writing.
Are you a cypher clerk?
Do you express a greater longing?
Skin itches, body's wanting.
This code--
I couldn't teach you the beauty of words.
How can we live by metaphor only,
Here where it is coldest--
I hear you say.
I will make further promises,
With a submarine quest,
Thrashings of the sea--
Or sheer espionage.
Now I simply rise up
With a Gouzenko smile,
Being far from it--
Without anxiety.
MISSIONS ABROAD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Consulates,
Embassies, Missions abroad
beware--
no displays
of our country's art
I mean--
no nudes in such paces
as China
and the Middle East,
or something else
than appreciation
might result.
Let them feast their eyes
on belly dancers
and porcelain--
we will give them no hint of
our real art--
save for snowscapes
Eskimo prints
and carved wooden things.
These they're bound to appreciate
if only to understand
a diplomat's
distrust
of the power of art.
AARON MOSHER
~~~~~~~~~~~~
You sculpted, honoured
on a plaque,
having pulled the railway up its strap
and demanding higher wages
for the workers in Halifax.
Forming the Canadian Brotherhood of Railway
Employees, you fought the international
unions, established
cooperatives; later,
obtaining an OBE
for selfless work, hurrah!
I watch Dennis McDermot
on the same platform
with Minister Andre Ouellet,
both talking about your deeds,
a life of value--
there's ample testimony.
I take note as Mrs Mosher signs
my First Day Cover, then
sip wine and eat cheese,
moving around the well-dressed guests,
mostly bureaucrats--
removed from the grime and sweat
Maybe you paid us a visit then,
Mosher; this postage stamp's
reprieve, a cachet in your honour--
the sculpture attests to your timeliness,
here you stand out best!
(Stamp Launch, September 8,198l)
Sanskrit Poem
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Each today,
well-lived,
makes yesterday
a dream of happiness,
and each tomorrow
a vision of hope.
Look, therefore,
to this one day
for it, and it alone,
is life.
Saving Souls
~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I quote
the seventeenth century
Dominican priest,
Batholome de las Casas--
known as the "Apostle
of the Indians"--
to the Native Elder
in Ottawa
He replies in a calm voice,
reminding me
what de las Casas
said
about enslaving
Blacks--
instead
of Indians
Didn't de las Casas
retract that statement,
I want to know?
The Elder is grateful
for telling him
that--and the genuine wish
for all people
to be free
According to the four
celestial powers
that govern the universe
which the Spanish
conquistadores
never heard of,
or dwelled upon--
in their "Conquest of the Indies."
Craig Murray
I don't want to be like you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't want to be like you
I don't want
The shallow desires and
Empty grasping needs
I want to create
I want to breath life
Into words
And watch them fly
I don't want suits and cars
And houses and titles
I don't want
Things
And stuff
And empty friends
I don't need
The shallow trappings
Of emptiness
And tv generated lust
I don't want
Bragging rights
And peroxide wives
I don't want to be like me
She beats herself
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Self flagellation
And imposed crucifixion
She sacrifices herself
To her mother god
A litany of sorry's
A lifetime's apologies
Constantly spewed
She was made this way
Apologetic
and filled with remorse
For everything she has done
And so much she has not
Still without child
No job
No husband
A thousand answers
A million questions
And all she can do is
Repeat the mantra of sorrow
She can't be blamed
Although she will
She can't be faulted for
Failing to accomplish
All her mother
Failed to do
Twenty years old
And speaking of death
She plans her funeral
With hope
Her friends gathered
To laugh and remember
She hopes they have videos
To watch
What life is this
She is chained to?
What life will she
Always be denied
And deny to her daughter
Form up quickstep
And march in line
You are
your mother's daughter
nothing changes
I Read
~~~~~~
When I read,
I read with
the poet's voice
the rhythm lives
free from the confines
of page or ink
the words cascade
over my lips
down my chest
a pool of warm
radiant soft
a welcome glow
I know these words
like i know my hands
each line and crease
now hard and scarred
from years
of digging this clay
Corey Mesler
Use More Nouns
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We want a poem that will last like a pine bridge.
A bridge out of chaos. A poem made of lines
from older poems, a generator.
A horse, a turnpike, a rindle.
Gaia, Eldorado, Dame Nature. A procurator. A
nosegay, sandspit, believer.
And, The Seven League Boots to boot! That kind
of poem, lover, dreamer, antagonist.
Sleeping in a Box
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After the new dishwasher arrived
my seven year old daughter
began to sleep in the box.
Perhaps she is preparing for the
day when she will be homeless.
Perhaps she is about to have kittens.
In the morning, one must grasp
a socked foot and pull to extricate
her from her lair, which is plush
with blankets and toys. Her
coffee hair, a cockeyed coronet,
she enters our world, as if she had
been rescued from shipwreck.
And all day I can only look at her
and smile, her switch-thin legs
shooting out at odd angles as she
scuttles around the house, her
constant chatter a mad gib's song,
my only daughter, who sleeps in a box.
Huldre Vigilate
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The devil is hungry."
Laura Nyro
Here's a little poem about television.
There are some good things on
television. I watch them.
At night when we're alone, the two
of us, I eat a cold meal of bone
and heartmeat. The TV watches me,
for further signs of too much life.
The next day it makes me write this.
Sleepe, Angry Beauty
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let the sleep of the relentless
be mine, the sleep
of forgiving, recompense, sorrow.
My father, dead now 3 years,
my first marriage a
scurvy, my temperament that of
a roiled spado.
I have reached this part partly due
to the implacable love
of one strong woman. Let it be,
let it be just that. Let my
children understand
my last words. Let the sleep that
was my wavering mistress lead
me through the final doors, a sound
hand in mine, one final smile
for all the muck my living stirred.
Deacon Bruce
MAROONED 3: THE MAZE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My legs feel as though they are about to collapse
Beneath the weight of my fatigued body
I cannot believe that I have been in here this long
With no sense of direction and no sign of progress
The darkness is eradicating my sanity
And the loneliness is tormenting my spirit
In truth I want to end this journey where I stand
But somewhere within the still and silence
I hear a calm voice telling me to walk on
My frustration gets the better of me
With clenched fists I strike the concealed wall before me
And let out an agonizing scream that echoes in the night
Where are you?
Why won’t you show me the way?
Why won’t you lead me out of this maze?
Minutes pass without resolution and my rage subsides
Then as before I hear the gentle voice again
Closer to me and more soothing than ever
"I am standing right by your side"
It is difficult to believe that there is another soul
Anywhere within the resonance of my rave
But with strength from beyond myself
I am raised from my bruised knees to continue my trek
Never before have I more clearly realized the significance of light
Or longed for the last flicker of a dieing flame
With many doubts in my mind and fear in my heart
I stretch out my arms once again and place my sore hands on the wall
Very slowly I place one foot in front of the other
And begin to feel my way along the rough planes
Of the pitch black enclosure.
Karen Bayly
FALLEN
~~~~~~
I watched you fall,
spinning out of control,
hurtling freely through
space and time.
What did you feel?
Cold terror, blinding
and absolute, hope,
redemption.
I watched you fall.
Fascinated by mortality,
I screamed survival’s
impossibility.
I am safe, untouched,
but the thought
lingers. It could
have been me.
BLOOD TIES - SPIRIT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alone in the sunrise
I see you. Your white
heart beats. Through the
soles of my feet,
I feel you.
Away from my flat
canvas prison, its pale
bland palette, and humdrum
brush strokes,
I find you.
I am set loose
to wander. Meandering
darkly in the passage
of light,
I lose you.
I turn out experience's
pockets. The fluff of
failure, the grit of pain,
this day's jetsam,
yesterday's cargo.
You find me and
hold me close.
Be there, be near,
I will feel your white heart
beat in this body,
my red blood pump
through your filigree veins.
Spirit,
I will always know your face.
BLOOD TIES - HEART
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Land of my dreaming
I cry for believing,
long for belonging,
crave to be nearer,
red dirt heart,
my source.
Wild wiry wind
weaves willy nilly,
scoops up the red dirt,
rolls it down,
turns it round, cries,
spits it out.
And all the while, deeply,
somewhere beats this heart.
Blood of the land,
blood deceived,
blood on demand,
blood received,
blood ties
ebb and flow,
And all the while, deeply,
somewhere beats this heart.
I walk the way
of the wiry wind.
Shatter me red dirt,
six feet asunder,
chew me up, don't
spit me out.
And in a while, deeply,
somewhere beats my heart.
Roger Tabor
THE POET'S SONG
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am a Painter of Dreams,
my brush, a pen - words
all the paint available, tackling
the unassailable to bring within reach
of unquiet heart, restless soul,
images of life and love,
vision of a goal beyond perimeters
of time, space - humanity's crude
conception of grace
I am a Painter of Dreams,
bringing you mine, intruding
on yours, winging heaven's
elusive towers that flicker in a mist
of aspiration, inviting inspiration,
daring us to home in, defy
the rude mentality of a classroom
morality - humanity's crude
conception of spirituality
Look, see, hear, taste, touch, smell.
I am a Painter of Dreams, who
means well but often offends
who dare suggest I speak for all
that seek gold where the rainbow ends;
For, like Pandora's Box, our secrets
once let fly - each to their own;
Painter, dreamer, shades of light
or ships in a cruel night
Senses, falling apart at the seams
for a Painter of Dreams
AN UNKNOWN QUANITY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I answer to no one
nor keep within the confines
of certain rules as laid down
in any handbook, manual
or legislature;
no one tells me when
to come or go - nor where
exactly, or gladly seeks
my company
I may press at the edge
of a crowd yet it will not part
to let me through, though
I'll find my own way
with ease;
When people hear my name,
though a whisper in the ears,
they know to include me
in their prayers
Neither hunter nor hunted,
I wing lark skies, tread this earth
softly, no blade of grass disturb,
sail seas in pitch blackness,
no compass;
My instincts never fail,
emotions playing no part in
the final equation - or
I digress
Often mistaken for Pain, I am
Death - and mean no harm
ASPECTS OF ILLUSION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Over sea and sky, meadows green,
lands run dry with drought, famine,
where waters still rising high - and
only trees to live in, I make my way,
take my place as wild geese fly - or
thrushes sing, antelope roam, lion
after a prey pricking up its ears, ready
to run at the first sign of threat,
a rising heat
Over sandy dunes, valleys green,
raising hopes, dashing them again
watching over sailors in a storm,
soldiers unsure whether playing at
war or preparing for the real thing,
pilots armed with missiles, bombs,
wondering if making a hit can really
matter in the overall Scheme - or
more point-scoring
Faces of a chameleon, more tricks
up my sleeve than any magician,
can disappear in a puff of smoke,
clear life's stage of players all - or
bring us together at a wake-up call,
running for cover or glad to see
gone, reminding each other how
the show must go on, no matter
an audience of one
In milling, spilling, parting crowd,
a passing cloud
Robert D. Wilson
sunrise---
sleeping in a field
of tomatoes
morning shade---
sharing the quiet
with a blackbird
high noon---
a tree
grasping shadows
lunch-time---
shadows prodding me
to write haiku
early afternoon---
a blackbird
preening shadows
evening cool---
a trail of ants
on the bathroom sink
twilight dusk---
raking the garden
one grain at a time
a cow grazing
in the shadow
of giant turtles
twilight, the
silence between
night and day
a shorter night
than yesterday,
and half the moon
lowly cricket?
i cant make music
with my legs!
short breaths---
wind tests the canyon
for sound
in the fold of
darkness, a rubbing
of legs
short night
none of it wasted
by crickets
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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