August 1997 - Volume 5, Number 8
PROLOGUE by Klaus J. Gerken THE POEMS
An Outline to the Apex of Rites of Passage..........Janet Kuypers Athena Decorating the Lockers Doctor Eating The Globe...........................................Neca Stoller Put Mount Rushmore Back.............................Wil Clark E...................................................Stephen Pain For the Daughter of County Sligo Options.............................................Tulitre Recompense..........................................Darren Schulz Untitled Sex Talk Eminence Invasion............................................Joy Reid Experimental Pain Metamorphosis Beanbag Depression NO WHERE TO HIDE....................................David Kline Crocodile Song Unwritten History Fern's Dilemma Art for Art's Sake By Day, A Neon Sermon The Sound of Bricks SKATEBOARDING ON SUNDAY Captain's Log Reason Has Its Place The Reasoned Life Teaching Through the Pores Marching with the Vanished Battalion Galactic Axis HANDS TOGETHER BOWING Holiday Ruins Socioflage When Weeds were Greedy After the Blizzard of Oz THIS ONE'S GONNA BREAK YOUR HEART...................Jeannette Harris THE LAST PHEASANT Night Thoughts......................................Klaus J. Gerken
POST SCRIPTUM
Waves
18 July; full moon. John Prine's The Missing Years; Sulfur; Shawn Tribe's Violin Collage #4; my portrait of Achilles; diskettes containing photographs of Haushofer and his environs--to be incorporated into the Moabit Sonnet series; glass of wine; straw hat; package to Rita Stilli in Italy, containing my 1974 paintings of "Rita", and "Portrait of an Old Man--bearded"; TV's on...nothing much...; The Dream, Gone Now, Is There--Part I published in Ygdrasil, August 1995, part II, who knows...; Can't believe how the years have flown--1979--Relationships come and gone--books written, books not...; hot evening, but better than the last few days, which were oppressively humid, now at least livable...I can sleep at night...again...I can shave without the razor sticking to my skin...again...; Dante's Divine Comedy; notebooks everywhere; bookcase of: Gnostic Scriptures; The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets (misnamed and should be read by everyone); The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova; Durrell's Alexandria Quartet (recently re-read); Biography of Simenon; KMT magazine (complete series); Juvenal, The 16 Satires; Web Directory; The Unknown Modigliani; silent guitar; light breeze; motorcycle rattling on the street below; who knows what the future holds; the past is everything we know; the present is the moment of decision: is the moment everything? We contemplate the future, unknown, desired, but unknown, frightening, anticipatory, yet our only hope; and who desires life without a hope? ... Last night I stood on the balcony and observed a crest of thundeclouds with the sky above a brilliant clear purple sprinkled by an infinitude of stars. But the thundercloud streaked veins of orange-white deflected lightening. How to express the juxtaposition of these images...the immense power of the storm and the immense impression of the universe...expansion to infinity...what we know and what we don't...perhaps, what we believe we know and what we believe we don't...; Map of Ottawa; Book of latin quotations; Travel book on Italy; Italian edition of Dante Rita Stilli sent to me; Roget's 21st Century Thesaurus; poet's paraphernalia; "painting is a lie which reveals to us the truth" (Picasso); the night actually turned cold; Cynthia left two hours ago; worked on my latest novel for a while--added a line or two--nothing much; Shawn Tribe's cubist cat stares at me propped up against the book case; straw hat on the sofa; university certificates (unframed) lying on the floor...; life's more than a piece of paper--tell that to the upper echelon reengineering; what a laugh when they told us computers couldn't cost anyone their job; "Give then all the lie" (Raleigh); true wisdom transcends every boundary, be it time or distance, be it fad or fiction, wisdom knows the past and present and the future; it becomes the kernel of our being--more often than not we cannot fathom it--we don't know how to decipher it's clear meaning. Poetry, music, art. Wisdom may not tell us what we know without some trepidation; without a journey, odyssey, where the journey is the way...the education...where wisdom is the ultimate survival...instinct...elders passing on experience...and the students gather round...silent...and this silence captures everything... --Klaus J. Gerken
An Outline to the Apex of Rites of Passage ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It was one of those rites of passage. A Bah Mitzvah of sorts. But this was bigger, much bigger than shaving for the first time or getting your period. This was the chance for all young high school men to lose their virginity and a chance for all young high school women to dress up, feel like adults, look pretty. Everyone felt the driving need to go through this rite of passage, to not be left out, to be a part of the group. Either way, you got to take a day off of school. But like every rite of passage, the high school prom is probably more traumatic than fun, because no matter what, you feel like you have to go, and the entire time you have to look like you're having fun. Especially for the photographers. You have to have a perfect record of your perfect life so you can upstage everyone else. With every aspect of prom, there was always a conflict, an expense, or an irony. I mean, this is supposed to be one of the best times in your life, and it's wrought with confusion. First, find a date. Has to be someone socially acceptable, otherwise it would be less embarrassing to just not go. Then, go through the trauma of asking your prospective date to actually go with you, or if you're a woman, wait to be asked, which is almost more cruel. Then, see which of your friends are going, organize what group you'll go with to your prom. Then you have to start working on the details. For men, this meant transportation, the cheapest tuxedo, what kind of corsage to buy, something that pins on, something they wear on their wrist, or something they carry, like a bouquet. Oh, and don't forget the most important part: enough liquor and/or condoms. Note how suddenly the prospect of multiple hookers performing anything you'd ever want is both less expensive and less of a hassle than this quote-unquote "date." For women, the details meant picking out the right dress, the right shoes, the right purse, the right jewelry, the right perfume, the right make-up, the right hairstyle. Note how you have to then coordinate your clothing with your date. So much like real life. Then, beg your parents to let you wear the dress you picked out, or keep the make-up and hairstyle the way you wanted it. Beg your parents to let you borrow their sportscar. Beg you parents for enough money to pay for the limo, the flowers, the clothes, the film for the camera. Beg your parents to let you stay out past curfew, how about 6 a.m., just this once. But, come on, it's prom. Then the Big Day arrives. Ditch school, because you know, getting you hair done can take hours, and you want to spend some time in the sun, so you don't look as pale as a ghost for the pictures. Then, after getting ready for an inordinate amount of time, meet up and take the pictures. Urgh. This usually entails the man picking up the woman, taking pictures at the woman's parent's house, then going back to the man's parent's house and taking more pictures there. It's almost worse than a wedding. Then finally arrive at Prom. Take more pictures. Talk to as many friends as you can there, compliment their dresses and tuxedos. Find out what everyone else is doing after prom, see if anyone is doing anything better than you. Note how many women are repeatedly pulling up their strapless dresses so they don't fall out of them. Note how many men are already drunk, and look, it's not even dinner yet. Take lots of pictures with your instamatic camera. Let's do a group shot. Oh, let me take a picture with so-and-so. Then eat. Try to figure out how to eat your salad without using your knife. Check to see how little all the women are actually eating. Note how many women go to the bathroom in groups. In any case, whatever you do, don't stop feeling awkward. But keep smiling. Then the dancing. Try to remember what your father taught you. Try not to look stiff. Try not to sweat. Dance in a box. Right foot forward, feet together, left foot left, feet together, right foot backward, feet together, right foot right, feet together. Or go for the high school standby; wrap your arms around each other and sway, occasionally making out in the middle of the dance floor. Note how many women have their lipstick smeared across their cheek, or on their date's collar. Note how many bow ties have loosened. Then collect your things, say your good-byes, take a few more photos and head out for the after-prom activities. Possible options include a late dinner, a four-hour boat cruise, a walk along the lake, a bonfire, bowling, a hotel party, or the back of dad's sportscar. Note how disheveled you look by six a.m.; try to clean yourself up in the car before you get to your driveway, in case your parents are waiting for you. Don't make out for too long as you say your good-byes in front of your house. Then, get in the house as quietly as possible, drop all your clothes into a pile in the middle of your bedroom floor, and collapse on your bed. Here's a helpful hint: drink a glass of water and take a vitamin and some aspirin before crashing; it will help with the hangover. Try to get some sleep before the day-after-prom amusement park trip, and keep in mind that even though prom is over, your friends will be rehashing it for at least a week. This is the ritual. Now go to sleep. -- Janet Kuypers Athena ~~~~~~ ladies and gentlemen high above the dancing elephants and the clowns driving around in their little cars honking their horns high above the lion tamers with their whips and chairs is our main attraction tonight: all eyes turn to Athena, the tightrope walker see her gracefully step out onto the paper-thin wire balance high above everyone else while all eyes are on her all without a net would you like to see her do a flip? a spin? touch the rope with her tiny, fragile fingers? Athena will put on the grandest of shows for you imagine, if you will, the fear she must feel: with one wrong move she falls to her death into the mouths of the lions in between the running clowns come, see her perform: watch her walk watch her move watch her shake this is the greatest show on earth -- Janet Kuypers Decorating the Lockers ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Days when we sat in the gold gym, Friday afternoons, hot Indian summer days. Days with a pep assembly, there would be a contest, which grade could cheer the loudest? Those were the days when the cheerleaders lead us on in school spirit, and we wished the football team luck in the evening's game. The cheerleaders even decorated the lockers for each football player the night before a game. Streamers. Signs. I think of this now, one of those players went professional, moved across the country, made it big. Had a friend from high school visit. And they drove out on a road together; could they still hear the cheering, the screaming, faster and faster, down the road, they're winning the big game, faster and faster, then black. The hero walked away from the twisted mangled wreck, to find his friend couldn't hear the cheering. No one assembles for him now, for the loss of his friend. Why did the hero get all the attention? There was no screaming, just the low, dull moan in his head as he ended his own suffering, his own guilt. And we assembled again once more for him, this time not on a sunny Friday afternoon, not anticipating something. The anticipation is gone. All we can cling to are the lockers covered in streamers, the cheering. -- Janet Kuypers Doctor ~~~~~~ Once upon a time there was a young man who was very intelligent. You could see him at his desk now, writing, or sitting on his bed, leaning against his headboard, reading, studying. And people knew he was intelligent, and people knew he would be a doctor someday. If you got him talking, he'd tell you about starting work in the emergency room, about the people he met, about the lives he wanted to save. And this man was also a very handsome man, he stood tall, blonde hair, bright blue eyes, eyes like water, reflected in a scalpel. He dressed well, always looked impeccable. And he had a wide, open smile. His mother never had to tell him to brush his teeth every day. And this man was a charming man, as most would have to be to be a good doctor. He was raised well, given the best of everything, and still taught the value of work. And as you'd get to know him, you'd see that he holds open doors for you, listens intently, pays the bill, laughs at your jokes. In fact, this man is so charming, so kind, that you'll never see him yell, never see him get angry. He never swears, never cries, never laughs too hard, never has too much fun. He's like a Ken doll. You can be mean to him, you can steal from him, you can rape him. That's part of his charm. He was so charming. So lifelessly charming. Just once, I wanted to be able to grab his broad shoulders and shake him, dig my fingers into his flesh, maybe break a nail, maybe bring some more pain into his life. I wanted to grab him, to shake him, to tell him that he needed to feel this pain, he needed to feel it, because without it he couldn't feel the joy, the bliss, the ecstasy of life. When he saves his first life on the operating table, when he falls in love, when his first child is born, these things will all register in his mind, he will understand these things for what they are, but otherwise they will mean nothing to him. How do I tell this charming man, this handsome man, this intelligent man, that he's not living life right? How do I explain these things, how do I explain the color blue to a blind man? -- Janet Kuypers Eating ~~~~~~ (written with D.J.) I can feel it gliding down my throat with a huge push of water like your body, sliding, up against my skin, warm and wet, wet like the feeling and taste of your tongue intertwined with mine. I feel it swirling down my throat, intoxicating me, head spinning almost nauseated by the mere thought of the taste rather than the actual sensation and I swallow the poison; let it cover me from the inside out. There is no pain, just a feeling of regret, what have I now lost with this one trigger I pulled? My life flashes, and what I expect to be a monument of achievements is an abyss. I realize there's nothing left to fear, because there's nothing to remember. -- Janet Kuypers The Globe ~~~~~~~~~ While it was not yet dark we entered the crenelated walls, traversed the hunt mosaic, mounted spanning steps, treading warp thin carpet; Crowding into the enchantment. As the void fills with sights and sounds, our agile minds... leaping ahead to laugh, to cry, to love , to die outside time, with no logic. Emerging from the spectacle, with blinking eyes, halting speech, yearning for a domain not ours; we exit into our grainy film, just shadows on the rain. -- Neca Stoller Put Mount Rushmore Back ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Do you really think that the pragmatists of this world are getting things right at this moment? The liberal backlash this time will be complete And meant to slay the conservative conspiracy, the Moral Majority... and the Christian Coalition, And we will stand over Fundamentalists and watch... Watch until the last drop of life throbs out on the... Pavement. The pavement that is beginning to cover OUR earth! Who in GOD's NAME could be foolish enough to spend this Precious moment worshiping the PAST?? Who would want things to stay the same all the time? The only people who would ever want things to stay the Same Are people who are Exploitative... Megalomaniacal Users... And Glutinous Control Freaks... They NEED to be building a Powerful Army... So that it will be effective when it turns on THEM When the Bubble-Breaks for them, AND IT WILL BREAK! For Them They belong to a class of people who need to be destroyed. All around Us We Are In A World of CHANGE! Chemicals, Technology, Medicine, Language, Weather Patterns! Hydrocarbon burning-Greenhouse affecting-Nuclear disrupting WARGAMES are changing, AND THE MONEYGAME? OH YES! THE MONEYGAME THE TIMES THEY ARE A CHANGING... I don't like what you are doing to MY country! YOU think that Your BELIEFS make YOU better than US??? We will shatter your beliefs! And then we will get on with the task that God has put before us.... To make all things new... NOT OLD. -- Wil Clark E ~ They tell me that you are like a fresh shower of rain, your hair has the fragrance of an Autumn flower and that in the infinity of the evening I can kiss you on your thoughts and you will in the immensity of the morning illumine me like the golden sun. -- Stephen Pain For the Daughter of County Sligo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She with the silver earrings symbolic of the land of Joyce and Flann O'Brien, says "Will you be drinking up now." ". . .and bugger off!" She's right though, there's an insurmountable difference. I look like a grave digger; I am one you know, the corpse of Patrick Pearse is exhumed, "I am not Ireland, I am not England", I am the moon-black silhouette trotting on the coastline of cultures, and my muse laughs at my pretentiousness, her mineral water half-consumed, she drags me from the table "You've had enough for sure." And the hero? I'll give him brawn, a clean cut, a squash racket and the heart of an elk, he'll eat a t-bone steak, he'll have degree from Trinity, play rugger and the violin, he'll have a story to tell about the hero without brawn, unkempt hair, who eats a packet of crisps, has the heart of a whelk, he'll eat all-bran, he'll have an o level in sociology, play darts and the coarse comb, and he'll be from Aberdeen. She stands there, immaculate, her name as in birth, and she'll have a story to relate as she crosses the Styx, a tale for Charon, and all before I have even have had a piss. "No I'm not Ireland, I am not England", the refrain is growing on me, I'll howl as writers are wont to do, "No I'm not Ireland, I am not England!" My muse has had enough, she shouts, her hands on her hips, "Hurry up! Will yer!" and I come out of the bogs like a hare on heat "You can't possibly drive in that state!" and she is right, she is so bloody right. I am drunk, pissed out of my skull, think not ill of me, number fifty six, the strange traveller, I think of my time in Japan, life in Tokyo, and a haiku springs to my mind, something or other with the four seasons, earth, wind, fire and water, for my Daughter of Sligo, shouldn't be six syllables, I look in the mirror, "Piss into Peace says Pearse." What should I do? what would the old lady of Beare do? And my muse from the crystal coracle, supporting me now she is, ushers me into a taxi bound for hell I am sure, and what is it with her? Doesn't she know that I'll be asleep before I think of making love, Daughter of County Sligo, oracle of mine, supporter of the cause, won't you forgive me, for rhyming you, scanning you, parsing you by, and the unforgivable punning; I want to lay my head on your lap and nod off gently into childhood, but this taxi driver has different ideas, he's mean and he's obscene, and he doesn't know his left from his right, he'll do, through his bleary eyes I'll get to wherever I'm misunderstood. -- Stephen Pain Options ~~~~~~~ Collapsing in a heap on the dirty carpet, to be confronted by a child's toy--- a plastic token. Flipping it yields the skeleton head again and again--- never to encounter the other side. Turning it over to find it blank inspires the thought: it's death or nothing--- those are the options. -- Tulitre Recompense ~~~~~~~~~~ I can't exorcise the demons by paying reparations to the gods of forgiveness nor hold my feelings hostage in a dungeon till they waste away nor entertain the dogma of what I said. Maybe if I get down on my hands & knees & pray something might happen to make everything different. I doubt it. You see, I'm trying to draw on all my resources in an attempt to portray feelings, draw on emotion like a scanner picks out stars in the midnight sky and dispatches them immediately to a place on earth where everything is simple, serene, free of artifice and deceit, where everything remains to be learned and discovered anew by memory, by heart, for You--my Friend-- because the brush of your sleeve is a source of happiness: I crave the moments that pass me by. -- Darren Schulz 28 May, 1997 I Return ~~~~~~~~ I return to this cluttered, unsure, almost senseless now, to test my feet on solid ground and find you are still here, still patient as time with a jet-lagged traveller. This proves to my senses that what's real can't be found in the striving nor seen in the whirling radiance of hot words, but grows in darkness and disorder, in odd loose-fitting days that seem not to fit but, touching now, grow into seasons, ripen in secret to an unsuspected grace that one day awakens us here, together. --Darren Schulz Sex Talk ~~~~~~~~ The Americans are violently oral. Even the American passion for laxatives can be explained as an oral manifestation. They want to get rid of any unpleasantness taken in through the mouth. --W. H. Auden, "Halloween 1947" Let's face it: Our Puritan prose can't nearly embrace the sexual imagination to which are built the great temples of distant lands. No intimacy to be found here--nothing about places, rhythms, touches, & tastes-- just adolescent boastings & action-packed machismo: screwing, scoring, chasing, shooting, lovemaking as heroic performance, that hard-rock fantasy of sex. Yet confidence in sexual prowess requires not so much in the way of big talk nor big size as letting our flaccid speech become more redolent, more swollen. Purpling. In short, we need imagination. Just listen to the marvelous language of foreign erotica: Jade stalk, palace gates, ambrosia! Yet all we've got are cocks, dicks, balls & nuts, bushes, frogs, slits & holes, to suck, poke, blow & yank. As Chinese plums are to be deliciously enjoyed, our cherries are taken, popped or broken. -- Darren Schulz 29 May 1997 Eminence ~~~~~~~~ No man can stand prominence these days. It's the surest path to obscurity. People get sick of hearing the same name over and over. --F. Scott Fitzgerald He felt oppressed by his family tree, which flaunted its branches of eminence; he couldn't stand the thought of an achievement that fell short of it. Gifted, though he was, this pressure to be eminent prevented him from ever starting out in life. He solved this dilemma of getting going by a ruse worthy of his ancestors: He launched into a career so secret that neither friends nor family could inquire into its nature. Though not beyond the reach of criticism, he made most everyone's opinion irrelevant to his work. What did he do, you ask? Let's just say that if I now tried to assess his achievement I could be arrested. My whole point is that deciding what you want to be is like deciding to be part of an eminent family with eminent ancestors. Should its weight be so oppressive? Not really. Some are satisfied with household chores. Others notice that the role of black sheep happens to be vacant--they'll join the family so as to let it down. Even so, eminence should have its share of dutiful laughs and duffer sons. Now please excuse me-- I must call to see if there any job openings. -- Darren Schulz 29 May 1997 Invasion ~~~~~~~~ Pines do not whisper, they conspire. They hold unholy counsel under moonlight. Cones are their emissaries seedlings, scouts. Invasion is a tactic that requires infiltration. Nervous kangaroos are stalled, a swivel-eared search relaunching flight. Rosellas flutter, disturbed in sleep. They crouch beseiged in a quivering gum. Nothing seems easy near this alien growth. And the murmurs persist, a wave of sound that will swallow the night whole. -- Joy Reid. Experimental Pain ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I am like Icarus, I am drawn to the flame. The itch to experiment, to stake a bet with pain persists. I play the white heat with the lust of a gambler, it plays cat's cradle with my sinewed fears. The unanswerable question that cymbal slams attention will it happen this time? -- Joy Reid. Metamorphosis ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Worries sloughed, cicada-like. Into the warm water womb I slip unsheathed. Lapped by primal security, inhaling healing with vaporous steam I will emerge wrinkled, red, reborn. -- Joy Reid. Beanbag Depression ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Pummelled odours rise crushed beneath stray hairs. Left to absorb, stains carouse thrust aside like blood from stitches, seeping. Occupants like hot air balloons mingle and copulate. Fearless of challenge, the latest spills bead in a convenient corner. -- Joy Reid.
NOWHERE TO HIDE
Crocodile Song ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Come along, let's try the amoebic cage for gather frills. Just do not tarry there till fever dew. Our page, forever bright, will humidify dew, And that will do for now. Tray banners are burning bright, Scattering daisies in the night, And tomorrow's dawn will be blue. Unwritten History ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Cacti have circled the wagons Out there on firelight fringes And it is a standoff. The pioneers know they are surrounded, But they can only see so far. The cacti know nothing. Fern's Dilemma ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An anvil without sparks is a fly without wings. Jessica Fern cued her next recording. Concentrate! The next ad is about GM's car of the future, One step ahead of Mercedes Benz, Global positioning. But next it was A bicycle chain swung over the mailbox. Art for Art's Sake ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Cavernous paintings experiencing stage fright Ply their wares in darkness, Waiting. Soon the fools will arrive. By then, all will be ready. By Day, A Neon Sermon ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peach fuzz in the morning is brilliant, Spreading over corridors and kindergarten shoes and trailing laces, Entrained like tin cans on a string, along with whipped cream. Gray stone balusters crane necks to catch a peep. Ladies at the hairdresser, Sitting in suspended chairs. The Sound of Bricks ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A one hundred watt caterpillar is required For full motion sound, Or so they told me at the store. This is the ecological imperative. Every pad, no matter how humble, Must have one. They will not work in daylight, As there is interference. But who cares? We vote with our feet.SKATEBOARDING ON SUNDAY
Captain's Log ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ YOU! Yes you, staring at this page -- This is home. Yes, we have carrots and potatoes in the cellar. Chickens are clucking. Don't you like the creek, still flowing in June. Feet on the table is OK -- You got downsized? Join the crowd. Machines, machines . . . . Well, that along with so much Greed. Reason Has Its Place ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Logic supports the feeble minded. Those who are strong Think for themselves. Those who are superior Do not rely upon thinking. The Reasoned Life ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peace comes without reason Bees pollinate sky Moon shines on abandoned marsh Neon signs stab night in the thigh Teaching Through the Pores ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ French bread, cheese and salami I thought While overlooking suburban digs -- Hardly the thing for a spiritual leader, Who was the focus of our evening, A Buddhist priest. He was mild, friendly, not wearing robes. He said little. Afterwards, he ate nothing. Marching with the Vanished Battalion ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ How to reconcile the malarial night Mosquito nets and smoking candles With the far reaches of an orbital telescope. A sense for the unknown. Galactic Axis ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ By imperceptible degrees, The rubber tree becomes a tire. Orchids in needle point shade to disappearance. Commerce of the day is forgotten. All points in the ten directions Sit quietly.HANDS TOGETHER BOWING
Holiday Ruins ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Remember Forbidden Planet? If so, we are at Reset. Twenty thousand leagues. Crickets chirping. Coral reefs beneath the sea. Welcome to the Coconut Grove, trombones flying. Please, just step over those corpses in the street playing washtub bass. And Disneyland, Remember? Where the electric parade mocked our dreams. Stepping gently, now. Socioflage ~~~~~~~~~~ Having learned about stream washed rocks, I gave up hiking. Then fame. Quit horseback riding and trips in my car. Parrots were screaming ; Polly wants a cracker! But I stuck to my buns, Not budging. Thing is, Movement gets discernible, Thus taxable. When Weeds were Greedy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Barnacles have gone the way of Wonder Bread, pinnacles and desert valleys. All the junk of a generation stacked in piles, with a path winding in between. Old doors. Windows and odd pieces of wood laid up by trees. And through that clear glass, a circle of paper, red crepe varnished in breeze. World of choices. Where I stop to pee. After the Blizzard of Oz ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Echoes of ebb tide linger at shore, Warping to a juke box that can't be heard any more. Dances, home coming parades, dual stacks with glass packs. All those years ago, While I listened to now. Goodbye tide. Enjoy your time, Where ever it is you go. -- David Kline THIS ONE'S GONNA BREAK YOUR HEART ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Saundra can't remember ever seeing the sky so clear, so crowded with brilliant sparkling light. She sees, almost feels, the stars, planets, suns, moons and comets, asteroids straining back into the universe, imploding, exploding, stretching toward infinity. For an instant she knows herself, a tiny still life marooned on a field, spinning on a planet, crystallized against a vast expanse of eternity, unknowable, untouched. "Women are always in love, and men are always busy," her mind notes, as Saundra rinses a plate in tears and warm water. Cory has been gone nearly a month now. She's heard from him twice, once by phone and once a postcard from Charleston. He's a trucker and, basically, he loves it, loves his truck. The cab is pink and a friend has painted dragon swirls in black, curling over the doors, climbing onto the hood. Women creep into his loneliness, curving into the bunk on fleeting nights, caught in a dim memory as the four- and six-lane blacktops call him on, carrying him through states from Maine to Florida, and occasionally west toward the Mississippi. - - - - - "Hey, gal, how ya' doin'?" Deb smiles and holds out her arms. "Great!" Sandy hugs her. "It's such a gorgeous day!" "Yeah, I know. I've been rushing around doin' stuff, so I could go to the river. You comin'?" "Yeah. Let me finish paying bills. I'll meet you down there." "Okay. Don't be long." "I won't." Sandy hears Deb's motorcycle sputter and choke, die and start, as always. Deb is seated in her webbed metal chair, feet resting on a plastic side table, as Sandy steps and slides down the bank onto the pebbled beach. "Where's the jerk?" Dependably plain in expressing opinions, Deb never sanctions or encourages entanglement with a man so obviously committed to loose ends, to being a loose end. Accustomed in total disagreement to Deb's view of Cory, Sandy laughs. "He's in Buffalo, or almost. I just talked with him. He calls every morning now. Really early, like 5:30 a.m. I can hardly get my mind together. By the time he hangs up, I'm awake. Then I remember what I wanted to tell him." Sandy sighs, staring through translucent water into the muted pastel of rocks wavering on the river floor, listening to her heart's echo of a deep voice that comes from beneath Cory's feet, from the center of the earth, that rumbles into her soul. "There's so many men around here. Good ones. Interesting ones. Fred's in love with you." "He isn't. We're friends." "I'll never understand you choosing a guy that's always gone." And that messes around all the time, Deb thinks, and Sandy hears it. "I love him. And I don't mind time by myself. I get a lot done." "It doesn't make any sense." Sandy laughs. "It does." "Okay," Deb warns, "but this one's gonna break your heart." "He won't." Sandy digs her toes into the sand and stone. "I'll be fine." - - - - - Saundra always knew instinctively about the women, felt them in Cory when he came home and willed them away, pulling the essence of him alone back into her heart. Now it had stretched, torn, melted into her bones. There was an ache under her left breast and a silence inside her, broken by the beat of a sudden image or the remembered crush of his body against her. He wasn't coming back. He might appear for a time, but his spirit had left her. How had she lived before him? What had she done with her days, her thoughts? Saundra can't remember. From a distance, she watches as her body moves, performs the rituals of life: running a bath, writing a letter, changing the sheets. No, Saundra thinks, I can't stand it. She sees Cory stretched against the covers, arms folded under his head, laughing, teasing. Come here. Saundra closes the bedroom door and sleeps on the couch in her clothes. Finally, she crouches into the rug, folds into a darkness that becomes all of Saundra. Rocking softly toward the screens, swaying on the frayed white diamonds of a hammock they had bought years ago, Saundra watches from a silent lake. Finches, defining yellow and etched in black, flow through waves of warm summer breezes, settle into the lavender down of thistles. Flowerheads thrust toward the midday sun and fall in disordered step down the hill, against a small forest of pine, toward the river's unceasing current. A grayness sweeps slowly through quieting leaves. It clouds the air and calms the midday heat, silences each song of transient warm-season birds. The world appears to be dying. She understands why ancient people, uncomprehending of celestial law, were afraid; but Saundra knows, has been told: today there's a partial eclipse of the sun. -- Jeannette Harris THE LAST PHEASANT ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Once there was a cabin by the river. It was small, maybe 600 square feet, and built, even the deck, with sawmill lumber. At first, basically, there were two rooms inside, a kitchen and an "everything else" room. Outside, down the hill a bit, wavered a rickety outhouse with a pink sliver of a wooden moon nailed to its side. Some years after constructing his home, and in consideration of friends and family who occasionally braved the long and torturously bumpy private road, more like a four-wheel drive trail really, Garner added an indoor bathroom with a curtain hanging from the top of the doorframe. Complaints about the curtain and ribald jibes concerning privacy led him somewhat later to install a door. Mostly, though, Garner was alone, and he meant to be. Through three warm seasons, he tilled and tended a large country garden, experimenting with new varieties of seed, canning, and giving away much of his produce to neighbors and passersby. In cooler weather, he hunted, first squirrel and rabbit, later white-tailed deer and black bear. Years back, when the cabin was sturdy and new, ring-neck pheasants were plentiful. As time went on though, the holler's large-scale farmers passed away and with them the most extraordinary of game birds disappeared. Garner missed the startling sight of bright green head stretched low from its gliding wingspan through fieldside brush and trees. Finally, although generally opposed to keeping pets of any kind, Garner built a tall coop of scrap lumber and chicken wire and with a slightly sloping plywood roof, with perches and bad weather boxes nailed inside to the supports. Driving to Tonkle Holler, he found Jim's rambling and ramshackle collection of coops and buildings. "Don't yer want a female?" "Nope. Just a male." "Get a hen. You can raise 'em. Sell 'em." "Don't want to raise 'em. I'll jest take the one." He called the pheasant "Mister." Mister, like Garner, seemed incredibly hardy. He survived blizzards and torrential rains, temperatures way below zero and above 100 degrees. Sparrows snuck into the coop in bad weather. Cardinals, robins and yellow finches pecked from the ground through the chicken wire to corn and birdseed scattered inside. Whenever Garner reached in to remove the water dish for cleaning, Mister grabbed quickly at earthworms and nightcrawlers squirming in the mud. And every spring, Mister called, undiscouraged, for a mate. "Ain't no use," Garner would say. "Ain't no mate fer ya here. Ain't none for me neither, bud." So, Garner and Mister passed the seasons, with unexpected, uninvited company from time to time, that they enjoyed and that soon left. One fall, after twelve years of mostly silent companionship, Garner found Mister crouched, eyes closed, on the coop floor. Opening the small plywood door, Garner reached in. The bird leaned against him, quiet, calm. A healthy wild animal, no matter how tame, struggles from a human, Garner knew. And so, as he placed Mister carefully back in the coop, he said goodbye. That night Garner dreamt he was walking slowly, carrying Mister against his chest, toward the woods. -- Jeannette Harris http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/1293" O Shenandoah! Country Rag Night Thoughts ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What rival's madness knocks the gate Upon a craggy night like this? Creaking shadows, wailing alms Of beggars, ghosts and where the Nightmare does not end we cower In the caverns of regret. Is nothing So forthcoming as the fright to run away And hide from no one but ourselves? Pitiful pitiful failing in the bright Desire of what we could become without The terror of our being this alone! And this alone is where we falter, Coming first to face ourselves Without the mask that comforts us: Frightened beings that we are. Eternal in our wandering through Limbo's black reclusive spiralling. Desperately holding on to anything, Any action, thought or hindrance, Allowing us a comfort zone, pathetic In it's mastery of what we should but Won't become. They say: "The witching hour." But what is that except the darkest Recess of the mind: that we cannot see; We cannot know...we fear the more because It is ourselves! The thunder beats upon The trembling ground a devil's cane. Sparks Collide and dislocated voices wail and moan. Who is human Here? Not I, not they, not anyone. And what of sanity bespeaks the lie? The desperate secretive cry goes out only To the deaf. But the deaf have eyes. Glowing eyes that see beyond the darkness; and the blind have ears that understand this voiceless murmuring. And those who cannot speak, speak soundly without pretense that the great and windy orators have wrought. Who has not been caught up in the lie? Who has not shouted "Stone the prophet to His death?" Who has not been Judas and Regretted such a twist of fate? Regret Nothing. Fate is wrought as it should be. The book of history extends the future, Not the past. Oh what misery we wrought! And shouldn't somehow shadows comfort Rather than they torture and torment? Oh the ugly monster that is "I"! Cold And begging for enlightenment. (And the Cave grows ever deeper in suspense.) But what's a cave without a heart, I say? And what is frightening also comforts. Perhaps that makes it all the more so, Since comfort, warmth and trust is what The rival offers. The great cat can also Be a friend to later meals. The warning Within us. It's up to us to be aware Of any dangers in the cave. Know thy Enemy is one thing. Know thyself a darker Train of thought. What's this? The sky Breaks yellow on the far horizon? The Purple clouds are not a Solid wall? I suppose that even the most evil must Disperse before the fateful winds of Change. That's at least a positive Dimension in the convoluted acid rain Of fact. Or is it fiction? Hard to Tell these days. Delusion's a crafty Manager. Taught the devil tricks, I say. Well...maybe not. (Thunder cracks the Violet in half--the storm's not over yet!) Shutters slam, trees wave hydra arms, Raging tresses spitting venom to the sky. So much beauty in the violence. The Sword of Damocles hangs above your head and there on the horizon...hope. What are we to make of this? What spurns Us on this path of no return. What gravity Of will edges up upon the precipice? Is it fools gold we are after, sometimes Finding real stuff? I wonder if we're All not fools of wisdom? Knowing nothing But explaining all. But away with this! There's poison in a thought without no sleep. The mind's a pool of rancid oil. A slave To misdirection, dereliction; slave to Dazzle, dreams and fantasy... The storm Abates, the voices shelter, dreams Disperse. Knowledge is the trust of hope. The quest can never be denial. The Last rain pelts the window. The Storm's a murmur now. Lost and Lost and lost forever. Found and Found and found forever. Know what I know: know eternal. Know the river Always never is the same. What I Know now will I ever know again? 30 Jun 97 -- Klaus J. Gerken
Waves
Where the ocean crests upon the beach The world is once more fragile
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda
Come one, come all! Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies. Even a chance to be published in a magazine. The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993. Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin Board Systems. We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking. Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created. Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede
Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find Ygdrasil on the Internet at: * WEB: http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken/ * FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/ * USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines and alt.centipede * EMAIL: send email to kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version and method you'd like. We have two versions, an uncompressed 7-bit universal ASCII and an 8-bit MS-DOS lineart- enchanced version. These can be sent plaintext, uuencoded, or as a MIME-attachment.
. REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings . AFTER ALL, HE WAS AN ANGEL, a novel by Rita Stilli . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken . ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken . THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken . THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken . FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken . POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp . MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy . BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena . THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena . THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena . INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena . POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each. Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press. YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's World-Wide Web site at http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken.
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited. All paintings and visual art copyrighted by the respective artists. Any reproduction of these works, without the express written permission of the artists, is prohibited. YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996 and 1997 by Klaus J. Gerken. The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's World-Wide Web site http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged. All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its contents: kgerken@synapse.net * Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access: art@accces.com * Shawn Tribe, Art Editor - for submissions of visual art works for potential publication in a future edition of Ygdrasil. Submissions may either be sent via E-mail to stribe@kwic.com as a scanned IBM/Compatible format (JPEG or GIF preferred), preferably kept at a reasonable size (under 200k). Submissions of photographs may be sent via snail mail to Shawn Tribe, Ygdrasil Art Editor. 244881 Milldale Rd., R.R. #1 Otterville, Ontario, Canada. N0J 1R0. Please note that photographs will not be returned unless return postage and a S.A.S.E. are provided. We'd love to hear from you! Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:
YGDRASIL PRESS; 1001-257 LISGAR ST.; OTTAWA, ONTARIO; CANADA, K2P 0C4
