Klaus Gerken	Klaus Gerken was born in Cuxhaven, Germany, in 1949. Came to Canada age 9, 1958. First published work, Dynasty 1968. Since then over 100 titles, Poems, Plays and Novels. Many available at http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken. Editor and Founder of Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts (1993). Residence: Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.

Poetry L & T:	When did you first begin to write poetry, Klaus, and why?
Klaus Gerken:	"Why" cannot be determined, and "when", I would like to say: I first learned to write poetry in my mother's womb. I strongly believe being a poet cannot be learned, it is instinctive. What can be learned, however, is the craft of shaping a better poem from its earliest conception. As to the physical reality of when I wrote my first poem, it would be back in 65 after listening to Bob Dylan and Phil Ochs for the first time. Before that I wrote a book on palaeontology with exquisite drawing of dinosaurs and fossils. The artist was always a strong component of my psyche. Fine arts is what I was educated in, and poetry always was a "sideline" to that activity. When the poetry took over is hard to say. I recall sitting in English class in high school and writing long epic poems rather than doing the assigned lessons. I recall in art class writing poems along with the drawings. I recall reading Browning, Rimbaud and Nietzsche and falling under the spell of being more than "just" a human being, but a "voyeur", a "seer", a "shaman", someone outside the norms of society, but still part of that social order, albeit on the fringe. I strongly believe the human race has a social order much like the ants or bees, and that our role in this social order is genetically motivated. Leaders, workers, artists: all of this is instinctive and necessary for a healthy society to evolve. We may begin as one or the other, but we eventually evolve into what we must become.
Poetry L & T:	What gave you the idea to start that first issue of Ygdrasil, back in May 1993, Klaus?
Klaus Gerken:	This is a long story. I will try and make it brief. In 1991 I became involved with several poetry conferences hosted by Inez Herrison through local and networked Bulletin Boards (This was pre-Internet). And becoming the host of one of these I immediately attracted poetry which was quality rather than the mediocre garbage that clogs up most Internet poetry newsgroups. Some of this poetry (needless to say) was anything but mild. One of these poets (who was to become Ygdrasil's first production editor) was Igal Koshevoy. His strong experimental language become too much for the "mangers" of this network and they decided in their most demented wisdom to ban both Ygal and myself. After that, I first received a phone call from Paul Lauda who offered to create the first Centipede Network, and I immediately started Ygdrasil to continue publishing the poets who had appeared on the now defunct poetry conference. To everyone's surprise the Centipede Network was carried by 25 countries and became very popular. Ygdrasil was disseminated through this network and a multitude of private BBS's. In 95 Ygal Koshevoy created the first Ygdrasil Internet page, and when he left in November 96 to further his academic persuits, I, and Pedro Sena created the new Internet pages.
Poetry L & T:	How did you meet your fellow editors?
Klaus Gerken:	Ygal, Pedro and Georges are the old guard from the BBS years. Martin Zurla contributed all of his prose writings; Rita Stilli and Moshe Benarroch, both supreme poets in their countries and languages, contributed to and furthered the distribution of Ygdrasil to other countries. Dr. Collings has used Ygdrasil in his literature classes at Pepperdine University.
Poetry L & T:	I notice that the newsgroup you mention in the July Ygdrasil - alt.centipede, was created by you (and your co-editors) at the same time as Ygdrasil. Was it difficult starting up a new newsgroup?
Klaus Gerken:	It took a lot of time, effort and money, since in those early days we had to phone long distance to establish the network. I think Pedro Sena took about a year to re-establish the forum as a newsgroup. He also currently maintains the alt.ygdrasil and alt.ygdrasil.film newsgroups.
Poetry L & T:	I enjoyed the featured poems by Dr. Michael R. Collings Phd. He goes beyond the music of words, which his poetry has, and the physical appearance of natural things, to explore the core of their structure, right down to the molecules, in a uniquely visionary way. Is he a scientist, in anything such as cosmology or geology?
Klaus Gerken:	He teaches literature at Pepperdine University. His poetry collections have been featured in Ydgrasil for a number of years.
Poetry L & T:	Who is your favourite well-known classic or modern poet?
Klaus Gerken:	Modern poet: Vladimir Holan, the Czechoslovakian poet who spent the 60's under house arrest and wrote 'A Night With Hamlet', one of the finest, most introspective poems of the century. John Berryman also, has to be counted as one of my favourites. Obviously I have been touched by many poets: Browning especially; Rimbaud in my late teens; unfortunately Ezra Pound at some early stage (which I had to unlearn); but then also, classical writers like Martial, Hoace, Sappho. These writers come to mind first and foremost. There are obviously many others, and I could write a lengthy essay on what they represent and how they influenced me.
Poetry L & T:	Are there any events in your life, or great poetic works, which have influenced your poetry?
Klaus Gerken:	IEvery moment in my life has influenced my poetry. Obviously there are those events which impact more than others. I wrote "The Blacked-Out Mirror" when I met the woman who has been with me, off and on, over 20 years; "Ladies" when my father was dying of cancer; "The Affliction" when my mother died. None but the first reflect the situation at first reading, but the more I re-read them the more I understand my own mental vulnerability at those times. Of course there are also the love poems, the sequences of involvement where love, loneliness and loss collide. As to "great poetic works", I believe everything I read or experience has an effect on what I write. A poet must be fully saturated in life. One breathes life, one perspires poetry.
Poetry L & T:	Which poetry collections would you recommend to young poets as essential reading?
Klaus Gerken:	Now having spoken of Ezra Pound as an influence I had to extract myself from, I now must also recommend his and Marcella Span's excellent anthology "From Confucius to Cummings". The Bollington Series XII "The Limits of Art" edited by Huntinton Cairns is Bible. I would also recommend (although not an anthology) the complete poems of Martial (preferably in Latin)--although not great in the literary sense, it is a breathtaking example of poetic examination of a society.
Poetry L & T:	Do you feel that there is anything in the news/magazine media or popular song culture that is a poor influence for young writers?
Klaus Gerken:	Easy writing. Poetry, while still inspiration, is perfected by craft. Too many young would-be poets confuse easy writing with poetry. Poetry is not putting your thoughts or emotions to paper. It is condensing thought into clear precise sentences. Sentences that challenge the boundaries of language. One of the main problems is that free verse is confused with dribbling thought on parchment. It is all too often forgotten that to be a poet still means to have a foundation of classical literary forms. One builds on the past, one does not destroy it.
Poetry L & T:	What qualities do you look for in the work of a potential new poetry writer for Ygdrasil?
Klaus Gerken:	Originality. Honesty. Certainty. Originality because one does not want imitations, but a poet's true voice. Honesty, because a poem should tell the truth. Certainty, because a poet must believe in him or herself. Without these qualities one cannot be a poet. A dilettante perhaps, but not a poet.
Poetry L & T:	What would be your definition of what an accomplished poet offers to the world?
Klaus Gerken:	Conciseness of thought. If poets do one thing, they extend the meaning of language, and through that society's thinking and consciousness evolves beyond what is the present. What a poet offers is the future. Without poetry thought would stagnate. Nothing would evolve.
Poetry L & T:	Finally, Klaus, do you have any advice for poets who have yet to be published?
Klaus Gerken:	Take your time. What is important is not whether you get published, but the quality and sincerity of what you write. Too many poetry magazines publish only surface. Settle for nothing less than quality, whether in your own writing or in others.
Poetry L & T:	Thank you for the interview, Klaus.

	POEMS BY KLAUS GERKEN THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR © Klaus J. Gerken 1979 Waiting's no fun...neither wanting something that perfects itself without you being there... anyway...right or wrong...even those eternal happy lovers must gather the toys of remembrance from under mouldy bedsheets once in awhile. The music stifles imbecility... even the mood can never be all preconceived... the shape of her breasts or tuft of hair that matters most (but matters really not at all) through perfect grace...that is feeling that can rarely be held so much at bay... (even wild horses couldn't drag the troops away). Insanity never recalls to mention it. The hollow dreamboat of desire always needs a master at the helm.... such is the only truth that gives us those emotions... and if anger or pain or hate or fear creep out of the casket those who hold it open are too struck by the beauty of this false eternity to ever contemplate their own security. The scream is always heard in fact, that is the only music that does not escape us. It is always that tone that we most remember from our innocence... Even the heaviness of Lear must recall absurdity. The old man like a recluse in a cave... perhaps the rain would drench the cape of our indifference lashed against the trembling of a much refused desire... so much is abuse that when we stand before that only miracle its reasoning escapes our sanity locks up the key behind the door of simple fright... and then the night...the aloneness of togetherness the passionate embrace which like a broken razor blade one's much too frightened to use right because the wound might be just deep enough that scars result from nothing there at all. But is it nothing? - Is it a refusal to acknowledge the refusal of a dream? Even madmen dream...but madmen also sleep at night. If you think you spend the night alone, you are very wrong. Each single moment of your past endeavours is always at odds with the present insurgence of a loneliness - something no one wants, yet pays to have. And why not? It's a table set for two, but still unstained. It's a candle burned much to the ground of your desire. It's a book with pages uncut, read by x-ray eyes. That is how one's loneliness uses one, not like freedom of a cause, but like the poison of an asp you've let be comforter. But really, it's a relationship you've understood, mindlessly, perhaps, but still so well, that nothing can deter your mourning for a jesters skull. Perhaps the meaning's always dear. Perhaps not more dear for the fences that it springs upon us unawares. The few words that no one understands are always those that need that understanding - and what of art? Why reason for a suffering? a curse that punches through without quite the willingness, quite the curiosity to explore farther And what of love? of, well, Ophelia and Helen? the mindless imbecility (never clear cut) that shadows each of us and all of them? Well, so much for suffering...And how about the image? What do we see, hear, smell, taste? What is the embitterment of the universal agon? God? I wouldn't have presumed...(poison's always better than bad blood). Poet! the image is incertitude! How to accept the fact that a relationship needs the faltering as a farmer needs the fences to mould and crack and fall apart. Relationship, poet, that is mending! not much good if nothing bends. They say a tiger in a cage leads a longer life than those who have their freedom to themselves...it's trying to escape that matters most not incarceration. And, poet, this relationship, it's like as if you are waiting ripe corn before you've even planted the seed. That's the surest way to trample on the root of man. That's the certain way virginity remains the virgin, that blood will challenge blood and afterlife will never be a simple reason to forget or to recall the milestone of refusal you think you've brought on to yourself. It's never that, but it always is throughout creation, do you think a chance was never missed? Even the unkindest cut of all is less an abrasion of reality, even falsified reality, in which we tightly sleep like needles in a pin cushion. Needless to say, the prisoner escapes, he always does. Society is never any better off for the loss of a few religious symbols... an idyll refrains from itself simply when the rites, those rites are never powerful enough to overcome even the simplest example of existentialism. It may not have been perfect in its conception but... Rays of freedom proliferate. The fog that gathers our eternity, as when with forceps the doctor forces the child refusing to be born (tied off at two ends - cut between) into the primal scream! If we were fed by this: passion of Ophelia - lilies on a stagnant pond, we might smell of want, but walls are still the same, shutting out what they proliferate, relegate to those fantastic nuisances that are never frozen by conception. It's a game that children often play amongst their elders. It's a universe of accepted definitions, ill defined yet very definite... Legally there is no voice. The voice one makes must be less than what acceptance writes with pointless awe... Even now, the critics sanctify the music on the radio. It's part of everything. If we hide away all our sacrifices, stealing glimpses of what might have been, we will run headstrong into a wall put there by ourselves. In our dreams we tear them down - perhaps, perhaps we still need them in reality, like the killing of an ant never matters much to us until we are ourselves an ant giving substance to obeisance. Like god laughs with thunder in his eyes and a dragon in her mouth. Of this insane laughter, can we ever find a cure? Perhaps...well, perhaps everything and nothing all at once, for all embraces silence and the void. But we can never be sure. Must certainty always be such an obscure disease? Neither doctor, nor nurse can help with that. The poet dreams inviolate amusements... and if the bed of truth doesn't creak tonight it's because the floor has melted to a perfect joke to tell a friend. They say that a praying mantis eats it's mate. When we return to that can the shadows of love ever be obscene again? And Hamlet would tell those naughty tales that will make a virgin blush red rose... But neither, in due course, needs explanation. Hamlet wasn't mad, but he was a fool. Yorik was the wisest of the lot. Yorik with his skull that Holan doesn't dare to mention. Well...perhaps he does...after all, it's the thought that counts: the simplicity of each emotion. Even Helen's skull was hardly identifiable after so many years in Hades (It wasn't even the most beautiful of the lot.. but they forget to tell us that...they take pity on the myth itself). Sadness forces us to re-direct our energy into an ecstatic pandemonium... no less for the mask we wear and take off at a masquerade - no less for the inflated raft to escape to a deserted place nearer to society than freedom is alone... And so Oedipus Rex violated this insane perfection... he couldn't have helped it - after all, the blind leading the blind get somewhere... It is only we, the sighted, who are blind... but that is nothing new... like sex with too sweet cream lost in the afternoon, one is always at one's own indiscretion. Subordinates always, (in fact, it's their right) snicker... but to take notice of the abyss when the dark conceals the fate of three white doves... that is another story, challenged by the history of volatile emotions. In fact, the too few who agree, do not so much agree, but vanquish with the whips of hate a forceful union based on principle - like the ceremony of a suicide, who reaches out, not for understanding, but to understand - No wonder the heart of the world weighs heavy on the soul of chance. The castrated do not pull away, but they attack - even the rivers laugh at them: for what cannot drown must drown in air - and it is more or less a photograph that leads the thought back to those ideals that never where. They wanted to be martyrs but didn't want to go that far... It's like old underwear, after a while the body accepts its own filth - no one cares anymore - and the garbage heap becomes another Oxyrhynchus - another archaeologist’s dream - of course the have good noses - they're like bloodhounds on the make, a piece of ash in the greatest part of a debate - a debacle of modest pride priced above the sky - and isn't much of any passion just the same? for instance, to play at waiting we must masturbate without the satisfaction of a scented holocaust - we're not so far removed that we cannot see the empty mirror that reflects our sex - we recall each single moment in a perfect harmony, like bobcats on a picket fence - which brings us back to what was won through Helen's rape... I doubt that we could ever find the curtain drawn aside, and poor old Homer "Blind as a bat", but bats have finer sonar than the right of way beneath the stars - Bats are hardly blind, they just see a whole lot better... When a child cries and the ravagement of death is near the open door to empty corridors and sutured calling cards isn't then that the game must always be all out for everything and even nothing that has so much to give beyond the triple rose is quite the hangman's game... Even Robspierre had little to say in the way of sympathy... Once the point is made the image of retreat looms near - very like the darts of melted time across Da Vinci's forehead: eagle eyes that penetrate a mole's darkness. Again Lear creeps in, sheepskin touching naked flesh - It is not much the rain that matters anyway, it's who you're with and what you do - Even solitude must need its comforted just to notice that the execution doesn't always come at dawn - Time's pre-eminence doesn't always follow human need. The foibles of the innocent are not at all concerned with this... their duty is to refusal - their duty is towards a blade of grass, an ear of corn, an unturned page, a dream come true. They are never prisoners, either of themselves or others - How could they be? - Such situations arise for those who accept the vision of their duty (which controls all nature) with the breath of purity - So, Casanova came out of the shadows and spoke very freely that he even very much surprised himself: "Well, anyway, it filters the air - everything that is not a mask must be violated - is that it? damn you - if you think that I, I this I, this flesh, this feeling, can't also feel disgust and violence... well then, tear that mask apart - I'd rather there was violence, a show of emotion than falsehood - and even when you admire all your 'conquests' a sexual imbalance results which places you far below what any man should be - If you do not feel anything, what's the use of living then? If it's a cocoon you want, then jump into the bathtub filled with lard - Anyway, don't hurt others more emotional than you - a cocoon is for those who want to be alone - for those who hate themselves so much that they force a false reality upon themselves and thinks that that could be the only truth - Your falsehood is an abomination - shape up, man, or get out of it -" In this way Casanova went back to what he was. He made no excuses - I have never heard anyone talk like that, but it must be said. In truth, he was talking to himself, his own mirror image, his own shadow (call it conscience, if you will, it doesn't matter what), he was forcing himself to feel those emotions he could never comprehend before - Even love was never part of his vocabulary. He became a librarian just to read those pornographic novels he once thought he had as life. He had come to realize that everything he had faded away because of it. He always blamed it on others...he didn't see himself... the mirror always was deceptive. But it didn't last...and I don't think it ever was himself that spoke. Perhaps I spoke; perhaps even Silence... - - - - - - - - - - You see how it is? No one cares about the poison, until they themselves are forced to put the cup there for themselves to drink from... by that time they have lost those insights that they wanted so to fathom -. Needless to say, like a roasted pig, they didn't get to see their finest hour. Their ideals were far too obstinate. And even if they've escaped the butcher's block, what have they won? What gained? Do they know themselves any better? Well, perhaps... But still, it's the walls; especially at night, quite alone a night, that each must be confronted with - there's no star to guide them anymore, and a storm is brewing from the west... How does a man stake his claim on another human being? Does one ever stake a claim, or does one just manipulate? Was the rape of Helen justified, or was Paris mad? Love is such a curious emotion; it's like balancing on a tight rope with a noose around your neck - The slightest intervention, even by the wind... the wind that brings the words...that even shakes the universe. . . . . . To gain a foothold... to gain a moment of precise fidelity, and for two days now you have brought together thunder from above and water from below: there is conflict in your life. What frozen corpses are there yet to be buried? You have learned much, all too fast and all too cruel: perhaps it's time to assimilate whatever offerings you have brought upon yourself. Gain a foothold, poet... Even Hamlet had cause to retreat - cause to vanquish himself from the influence of her who forced his recognition. But life is filled with consequences that we set in motion and cannot control. Thought before action never is that easy: to come to grips with yourself is even worse - it's easy to crush a blade of grass because we do not analyze the situation - but that still does not excuse the act. Poet, to regain yourself, to have what you want, to be certain of your actions... "Aye, there's the rub!" Hamlet out from behind the curtains, like a bold and overzealous Claudius. What else could he say? He had a fine writer of speeches to put those words in his mouth... You are still alone. There is no sympathy from any quarter of the world that you have known from insignificance. - - - - - - - And the wine is not blood. And what we believe is not all that really is. And you should know by now that "fields of ruin" never vanish with the mystic night of would-have-been... Alas now, the poet speaks, "A wedding in black can never be a mask - like a poet's only salvation is the wine he has no need to drink - It is the emptiness of an emotion felt too much - It is the emotion of a loss that is not yet a loss at all - And it is not true that beginnings are the hardest - it's the following through - the coming to grips with the reality of the situation that poisons all our hopes and even our deepest dreams - Perforce to say, that there is nothing worse than doubt that will metamorphosize to fear before your awe-struck eyes... That consumes the whole of everything...What's left? What is really left without a voice to guide one? without a hunchback for protection? without a secret love and the spiciness of an intrigue? what is left when fear robs you blind? when madness twists your mind and contorts your face with the image of a false religion? And what do you notice, here before you, here before this audience of empty chairs and swinging coat hangers that lovers never have a need to use...yes and this I, this bleeding poet opening his veins upon the sand of innocence... shaking hands with lost illusions, with the music of a pride castrated long ago... and of course this violence, this nether realm of those emotions locked away behind a painted door upon the wall...even we can enter here leaving behind the black mirror of an ancient disposition we hang on to because we cannot see the other side... Yes, and what about that love? what about the way we manipulate it through hate... yes, and even that is not uncertain in all of us. We hold just too many ill defined conceptions... and the greatest is the misconception of that desperate silence... love, so ill expressed, that we lose despite a feeling of sincerity... Yes, and even I, I cannot be trusted in the game of love! Do you understand? I will covet my neighbour's wife if given half the chance, because I am still the minotaur...What pride if left? The pride of destroying another human being for the trust they showed? Is that what all of love should be about? So see them there, why do I bother? a wall would be a better listener... And is anyone ever so naive as not to see the battered walls of chance resound with a furious ingratitude...? Perhaps I shouldn't speak at all... Lear may yet have told the truth by hiding in a cave... But it's the Space Age now and all we care about is a hollow sexuality. About the truth... I see nothing in confession... Nothing wrong that is... Why hide yourself away with dour incertitude when the air has very few poison darts...? And those there are we dodge them every day... Yes, and it is also hard to make up one's mind... very hard indeed, concerning those events that change one's life in a very direct and difficult way. One never 'plans' these episodes - but one does, one might be blind to them at the time of their conception but that stage is all too real... It was a dark day, a day of rain she spoke about the acquisition of student loans of course I wasn't all that interested in the topic I came only because she was alone I came only to see her She told me later that she was very frightened of me that day She got dressed up and wanted me to take her out We were just about to go when it began to rain again She was incredibly beautiful with her newly cut dark hair which she couldn't get to shape the way she wanted to the nervous energy and how she told me that I looked exactly like her husband and that oh if I only did not look so much like him The restaurant was dark with red table cloths and music which was much too loud I only drank a beer The conversation swayed from all to all To how we waste our energies and friends their mental capabilities I said that as a poet I must nurture all neuroses She laughed and repeated the phrase Turned it over with her tongue I waited for a single sign I had not found it until that moment where she said If only you did not so much look like him, if only... Through the rain going back to the apartment Will you invite me up again? Yes I fell in love with her And yes, there are lies in love and yes, too, there is deception and the next time that I saw her not too many days from then he was there, and she was walking around in her nightgown showing off her charms and she sent him out to get some milk and told me how afraid she was that night alone with me and how everything seemed suddenly all right and how I took that as a light to follow through the darkness of the path that I had cut through this the jungle of a poet's dreams and that how I was in love with her and that, yes, there are those lies in love and also deception and how we were all later on after there no longer were any secrets and he acted so childish to her and that I jumped on him with It's time now to grow up and how shocked he was and how he looked at me and then at her he left for a moment and she told me how much she was in agreement and had wanted to say those things to him herself and that he treated her so cruelly... not cruelly in a physical sense but cruelly in a mental aberration of insensitivity and how that day I wanted her and how I couldn't stand her there with him and how I left I had to leave I didn't want to leave but what was there to do I who loved her so I who followed every lie I who shook deception's hand And then how she phoned me and that I told her all the truth Is there anything she asked What do you think Yes there is I want to see you Me Yes you Only you When Make time and how deception smiled black eyed in the wilderness And how I was there I who held life in such sanctity I giver of the word Seeker of the truth I was there to murder all for her To sacrifice everything for her embrace for the sent of her holding me so captivated there at the edge of the precipice So much dawned on me that night so much dawned and if we live again if we live again what chances do we take what choices do we hold and what throw freely to the wind what feelings sacrifice for those we sanctify and how I loved her well with lies how I promised to do everything for her how I was and am the blinded minotaur charging at his own image in the black mirror smeared with his own blood smeared by his own fear and jealousy and hate and what image does he see there behind his shoulder the image of deception and he tried to turn away turn his back away no matter what he turns toward his destiny... - - - - - Well, I see the audience is stunned - better to be stunned than have no reaction at all... that's what I always say. Nicht Wahr?..." ... The poet, hunched over leaves the stage in sorrow and to an almost silent applause from his conscience... he doesn't even hear that. It is still only her he sees. One cannot remain in love forever; nor out of it... But how much more does he have to deny himself to make that one effort that will not be fraught with fear? - So the poet came back. This time he wore the mask of Paggliacci. He wanted tears painted on so real that he couldn't wipe them off again. He wanted a lot of things that simply were denied him... he wanted to go after them, but somehow held himself back. His melancholy knocked him down and the difficulty of love propped him up again with hasty promises and new found hopes bound by genetic chains in stagnant cesspools - but the poet like an acrobat must always breathe the air of survival, even if he falters - he must taste the consequences of every fruit, even that which comes from poison vines - otherwise how can he call himself a poet? how indeed describe the world without ever having been a part of it? the poet always meets his fate head on - not always granted for the better, but he has a knack of knowing when he must retreat - not give up - for retreat is only part of harmony - as is waiting - Listen, here the poet speaks again: "I don't like what's happening, these emotions I have never wanted to feel. I don't want them now - I would rather hide away again, but know that it's too close - one's feet in mud and cannot run away - waiting is the perfect opportunity, now that further action would only complicate the matter - I will wait - what have I to lose? - no matter which way I turn I run headlong into fate..." . . . . . . . Nothing ever comes to an end it all melts back into the beginning just as a knife sharpened is dependant on the blunting of the blade to make a living we blunt a relationship to build it up again Whether we do it on purpose or it just happens that is hard to say Nature's laws are very wide and difficult and we are like her children attempting and integral calculus with grade one mathematics It just can't be done or perhaps it can but have just not found the way to go about it And the poet believed himself to be above it all he believed that he could beat the odds but the odds are what? he's like Icarus, waxen wings and all he's like the bull that sees the red cape but doesn't see the sword behind it he sees the object of his desire he doesn't see the wall surrounding her and he doesn't scale the wall or even attempt to come through the open front door he attempts to ram it down Poet! nurture your discretion! there are very few who survive this way and even if they do one has only frightened the object of desire away by a show of such blind violence... Wait, poet... Wait with feet in mud and the ocean lapping at your feet if you have to, but wait... no matter how difficult... It is the path that you have chosen and you'll get there but sometimes you can only go so far and have to wait for the obstacle to clear itself sometimes you have to wait for her to come to you and waiting that is difficult teaches you a lot more things than rushing blindly forth can ever do If icarus had taken his flight slowly his wings would not have melted and at least he would again have safely come back down to earth Have patience poet, with your heart aflame and your mind untamed... waiting after all might yet be the only truthful way to gain... THE AFFLICTED LADIES

The theme for this month's poetry section is "Backtalk", suggested by gabriel1 (Keith Hendricks). "Backtalk" is a theme that has been interpreted in a broad variety of ways, by the contributors. Other news: I have a new CD rom of poetry on release, called Pinky's Little Book of Shadows. It was great fun to make and contains video recitals, audio recitals and 41 pages of poems presented as musical web pages, with 3-D animated lettering by Australian artist Graham Ramsay, also some midi music files by me, and old music classics (credits on preface page). There are also animations, art scans, songs and two musical wavs made using the music program Rave Ejay, with kind permission of John Silvera at FastTrak. Anyone wishing to know more - email me for a reply with a link to the new Artist Profile Press Inc. website about it. Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to me and with permission, may be used on the letters page. Best Regards,

---

I asked some poets to come up with poems on this theme, and the results brought some fun, light-hearted interpretations...

NOTE: This first example, with Mop and Jerry, is about a poetic term that was coined on the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments - a "HASP". Here is the official definition of a HASP:
"The term HASP ("Heart-And-Soul-Poem"), as used in AAPC, has come to mean an overly sentimental poem, heavy on emotion but poorly thought out and filled with overused phrases. It exemplifies the assertion that "poetry comes straight from the heart/from the very soul"; the shibboleth of the 'poem-is-raw-emotional-blurt' approach to the poetic craft. Such poetry is frequently filled with extravagantly self-pitying phrases, like the peeping of a mopey chicken, or passages that can be found readily in a run-of-the-mill greeting card or a pulp-fiction romance novel, or sustained triviality of thought or banality of theme.
It's generally taken to mean a poem lacking in depth, artifice or skill."

JERRY JENKINS has been writing poetry since 1993. He is a member of the Academy of American Poets and the Science Fiction Poetry Association, where his poetry has been nominated for the Association's Rhysling Award. His poetry has won numerous awards in individual and chapbook competitions, and has appeared in printed publications and anthologies such as The Formalist, The Lyric, Mobius, Echoes, Harp-Strings, Amelia, Cicada, The Piedmont Literary Review, Mail Call Journal, Poetry Monthly (U.K.), The Devil's Millhopper, The Fractal, Dark Planet, Pirate Writings, and Star*Line. His online publication credits include work in Octavo, Eclectica, Pyrowords, Avalon, Poetic Express, and Deep South. His chapbooks include AVIAN, Helionaut, Hamadryad's Passage, Candle, Monks' Wine, Our Own Loving Kind, and Confluence (in collaboration with Rosa Clement). He is a former Marine Corps officer with 26 years of service, including service in Vietnam. He recently retired from George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia, where he was Assistant Vice-President for Information Technology. He is a Sysop of the Poetry Forum on CompuServe, where he is the editor of the Compuserve Poetry Anthology.

I won't write a HASP for you (mop) I will not write you a HASP, no matter what you do Though every word I try to write has a go at you I cannot tell you a lie, I want to try right now But to be given that award, ain't no way no how. I won't write of bleeding souls or tears in the rain Nor crucify self esteem for someone, oh so vain My knee won't bend nor try to be anything but straight and if I have upset you, well hey, tough, that's fate. You can call me if you want but I don't really care I don't have the time to try and teach you how to share If you want to try and be as silent as the stone Well honey you are welcome but do it on your own. Perhaps one day when you have learnt to act more than three Then I can write a fitting verse about you and me Until that day oh dearest one, I won't say a word nor write another HASP for you no matter how absurd. (Jerry) You bust my little heart in two and now I lie in tears and squall and sob. I'd even throw a temper tantrum, dear. I gave my naked soul to you. It's lying on my pillow. Bareass as a nestling crow are all my peccadilloes. I weep, I wail, I sulk and mope but you don't care for me. I blubber here without no hope for all eternity. I'll hold my breath till I turn blue. O, you'll be sorry then. I wrot this litl HASP for you. But I won't writ none agin. (Mop) Once again you silly man you've made me feel real bad, Why is it everything you say makes me feel this mad? Maybe I should pity you for your defective genes That simply cannot let men say what it is they mean. You say you wept and wailed well, if that were only true It's only from the pins I stuck in this doll of you Don't get me wrong its nice to see a man that likes to beg But men in love often act like dogs against a leg. Now what you gave I rather nicely left on you attached But should you try to write a HASP you will be outmatched As a man a heart is something worn upon a sleeve Unless of course your simple heart packs her bags to leave. (Jerry) O you have mopped the floor with me an hung me out to dry a-flappin' like a faded sheet. I ax the heavens why. My soul goes flutterin' to your door a-beggin to be let in. You say you don't love me no more but you was my heroine. I loved you more than a double Mac with a bag of chili fries But you left me an you wont look back but you're in for a supprise. Cause I'm a-gonna study a spell in a fancy poet school an learn to write a vilanel. I aint nobody's fule. Your words have cut me to the quick and stung me like an asp. You left me lonely an heartsick - but I still wont writ no HASP. Yore fren J, HASPman (Mop) Oh you sweet and darling child, there lies the simple truth You think of buns but talk of love in your naive youth. chilli fries will be the only hot things in your life When next you dare to compare a burger with a wife Now I've mopped the floor with you and hung you out to dry Perhaps my child it's because your spelling makes me cry Now I see your grinning though you claim it is through tears Judging by your spelling you will be in school for years When your graduation comes you'll show me me what you wrote A musical tapestry with less discordant notes Then I hope that you have learned what does and doesn't work HASP's my friend would only serve to make you look a berk (jerry) You ditnt lik my poem an you ditnt like my verse an you ditnt like the funny way I spel an you giglt when I tole you that rejection hurt my soul. You ditnt even look at my new vilanel. Well the worm is now a turnin an I'm done with my heart burnin an the far of love is growin mighty col'.. As for them "discordant notes" an them other things you wrote, why you cut me to the marrow of my soul. So I'm fixin now to leave you though I know that it wont greeve you, an I've lernt a lesson an I've lernt it well: that the pen it aint so mighty writin flighty Aphrodite an the road to love takes detours into Hell. When we meet, if we should meet, down some everlasting street in whatever future lives we must endure, let's remember what we've spoken. Poets' hearts are quickly broken, and a HASP is just a hinge upon a door.

MORFYDD CERIDWEN JAUREGUI was born in Wales in 1971. She has been writing poetry since the young age of eight and has been published in various magazines and anthologies. Recent Publications include 'Woman's Lot' in Poetry Now Wales. Napalm Moon in Gravity: Issue 26, A Journal of Online writing. Mother, Respectable and Repossession in Wired Hearts. Morfydd was recently awarded 1st place with Mother in a Poet of the month competition (March 99) run by Claire's Corner. Often to be found at alt.arts.poetry.comments all her postings can be found in Dejanews under the name Mop or Morfydd. Morfydd's current day job is in the capacity of Marketing Director for the UK based Internet Portal Site run by 'Go-get Networks', a UK based internet company. Although this takes up much of her time, Morfydd still finds time to devote a lot of effort to writing her poetry. Her website is called The Cauldron - click her name under her photo to go to the site and read her poems and regular interviews with AAPC poets.

"OWL" illustration by Jan Sand JAN SAND, poet and illustrator from New York, is a regular contributor to Poetry Life & Times. and the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments. A great deal of his work is about animals, or science fiction. To see more of Jan's poem and illustrations, visit the November '98 issue of Poetry Life & Times, and scroll down past the Editor's Letter.

STREET TALK © Jan Sand When I walk the street, The birds that I meet Go tweet. I frequently tweet back at them Which, to a bird, may seem absurd. For, in a word, it's rarely neat To compete with birdy words. I should, I suppose, merely smile And twitch my nose, bow from the waist And curl my toes to demonstrate I merely wanted to relate. When I walk the street The cats I meet Retreat. They slip under cars to make it clear When I am near I generate a certain fear. I may meow or emit a gentle purr And, to the cat, it may occur I am not an angry dog, but then I think it must prefer To beware of strange men And not reply to my appeals. With odd humanity, It makes no deals. When I walk the street The dogs I meet Stare back at me. When I greet Their doubtful looks With a bark or pant or two, Their owners are not sympathetic To my canine shaped aesthetic. They pull the leashes quick and rough Which makes the dogs jump back and "wuff". When I walk the street The squirrels I meet Sit upon their small behinds And wonder with their tiny minds And cock their heads and twitch their tails And hold their paws before their chests In attitudes of mute requests. I offer them some bread, a nut, Which they may find congenial, but, No matter how I chirp or squeak Not a word will they speak. They say not what they think of me, Merely chew silently. So, confrontations on the street With the creatures that I meet Are rarely fruitful or two sided. Not much gossip is confided. But, you never know. It's worth All attempts on this Earth To converse with all the tribes And maximize the social vibes. jan_sand@hotmail.com

The Potato of Terror (self-portrait) THE POTATO OF TERROR is an oddity on alt.arts.poetry comments and the Internet. Its work has appeared in Avalon, Curiouser and Curiouser as a featured website, and back issues of Poetry Life & Times. Its website, in 1998, won the THREE-TOED ELVIS DUCK AWARD for weirdness, from Curiouser and Curiouser. There are no photographs of P.O.T., only potato animations on the website.

AU CONTRERE © The Potato of Terror, 30/7/99 I'm totally, conversley, diametrically opposed to anyone asserting what is foolishly supposed in completely, truly, utterly and indubitably pointless contradiction of opinions held by me. I shall walk in through the out door any time that I may please or wear pinstripes with polka dots and skate pads on my knees and people may point out this is intrinsically insane but I shall simply disagree and do it all again. To those who give a swift retort, I shall give three more and tangle them with reasoning that straps them to the floor and they may beg to differ, while still I disagree for I am simply perfectly unanimous with me. potato_of_terror@redcity.demon.co.uk

---

Hi Sara.... I brought your Poetry Discussion and fun poetry page up and enjoyed it very much . I loved the one about the U.S. regulations in the Fish Poem. That was GREAT. Oregonian Carol USA

---

Back Issues of POETRY LIFE & TIMES:

September 1998

October 1998

November 1998

December 1998

January 1999

February 1999

March 1999

April 1999

May 1999

June 1999

July 1999

Mail me on: pinky@redcity.demon.co.uk with any poems, comments for the letters page, news about your poetry site, or forthcoming poetry events.

Click here to return to main index

---