January 2008
VOL XVI, Issue 1, Number 177
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson
European Editor: Mois Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter
Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
Maria Jacketti
Self Talk
CONTENTS
Daniel Barbiero
Chasing the Subtle Body to Asheville, NC
A Fiction of Attention
Connecticut Avenue
New Year
Starlings Going to Roost
A View to Mautunsq
Totoket
The Problem of Induction
"The Present Instant Does Not Stay"
Sublunary Blues
Kristi Denke
Mohammed and the Tree
Sasbach, Germany
Creed of the Displaced
Joseph Farley
Living With Evil
Children of War
The New Radical You
watchers
A Face In My Mind
Night Soil Man
Chang 'Er
G. David Schwartz
A Stroll Around The Hotel
To His Majesty, the King
Just Another Side Of The Rainbow
ADAM J. SORKIN
A NOTE ON THE POET AND THE TRANSLATORS
POEMS BY ELENA STEFOI
Ties of Love
Behind the Conquerors
Especially for You
Somewhere, in a Different Realm
In Midsummer
You Deserve to Win
Michaela Sefler
PRIMARY
THE GATES
THROUGH THE CLOUDS
VIRTUE OF CREATION
WITH EASE
POST SCRIPTUM
Del Corey
Pearls
Maria Jacketti
Self Talk
~~~~~~~~~
Gibberish of guts,
never-ending brain blog,
talk back, my corporation:
this self wants emeralds shaken
out of pine cones,
long walks under Orion,
maybe a cruise hosted by
cartoon totems
under a grape lollipop sun,
just a teensy fugue:
congeal a translucent clock of honey soap
to measure dips in aqua,
crunch a Timex back to salad dazed eons, steamroll
at least one googleplex, into infinite granola, enough to
balloon my Buddha's one hot babe of a barriga:*
season quotidian bread born again with ancient
my oh Mayan chiles
practically incandescent digest history's hash
redemption
I.O.U..
January 8, 2008
*Spanish slang: belly
Daniel Barbiero
Chasing the Subtle Body to Asheville, NC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
81 South
Pleated hills
Dappled as afternoon
Turns into evening
The fields raked flat
Blue lettuces and yuccas
On the meridian
64 East
Sumac and mountain laurel
Flowers white and dirtying
Skin of the mountain
Scraped away-
An artificial talus
White pine and yellow poplar
The waterfall a trickle
26 East
Standing cloud in the cup
Of Buckner Gap
White pines and aaron’s rods
In loose soil
Long enduring hemlock
Battened down in ivy
And trumpet creeper
A dull greenish grey
Under low clouds
The image of a world
An image in the mind
A diamond pressed from the carbon
Of what was heard and seen
An image of the mind
A cipher scaled down
To a useable size
One we can grasp
As the visible world
Draws the eye downward
To itself
A Fiction of Attention
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deer watch cautiously
From thirty yards out
As we move through brush
Our presence a redundancy
Another bush among bushes
Here where we see ourselves
Slightly out of focus,
As in a memory, the
Foreground crisp, but
All movement behind it
A blur, traced as it were
In an ink sketch seen
While held under water—
We grasp its sense
As the outlines dissolve,
Before we return to ourselves
As a consequence of an
Obscure intention
Of what was designated by “soul”:
An opaque fog wafting
Beneath branches,
A fiction of attention.
Connecticut Avenue
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1
The fountain is off
sounding a fermata
over the traffic’s through bass
grey stone below and
I can only see what disappeared
years ago
2
I notice no trees
only a thistle growing
at the root of a signpost
cirrocumulus clouds laying tracks
across the night sky
3
The bridge grows roots
in the park below
arches enfold night air
grey as the concrete is grey
4
Autumn moves backwards
into summer
through an opalescent sky
Moon, cloud
and Venus above both
concrete lions guarding the bridgehead
New Year
~~~~~~~~
A new year
And the same sun comes up
Black leather seedpods
Hang withered from the locust
Wind caught
In a spider web
Starlings Going to Roost
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wingbeats perturb
The surrounding air
A black cloud lurching
And dipping
A whole made up
Of a hundred parts
We see them
As the Chaldeans might have
Seen them
As wheels whirls shriekers
Turning as a helix
An Ezekiel wheel
Revolving and drawing the heart
Along with it
A hundred yards up
Halfway between the sky
And what surrounds it—
The empyrean of speculation.
A View to Mautunsq
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sky begins at one’s feet
A low elevation scraped clean
By retreating glaciers
Where chicory and wild carrot
Edge the roads
Wild turkeys probing
The perimeter
In morning twilight
The black snake shed
By its skin.
The ghosts of corn lie
Entombed in tiny hills
A dry earth's recollection
Of Algonkian paths.
We are their eternity
The place they go
Once they no longer are;
Not an emblem
But a space among things
An image suspended in the mind
And caught
In the fallible afterlife
Of memory
A vessel into which
Heavy August air pools
As the sun's rays lower
Into the black understory.
Totoket
~~~~~~~
Cumulus clouds pile up
Over the horizon, over
An entire ocean
A wet haze above
An empty seafield
Barren and streaked
With greens and browns
As in a landscape
Broken with hedges and
Last autumn's stubble.
At a different shore
We put down a template
For the seaside
That made good sense
Until it no longer did:
One summer of sangria
Of tan knees breaking through denim
Red brown sun in a bleached blue sky
A misunderstood allegory
On the origin of rain.
Bare feet on pavement and
The smell of fresh laid asphalt
Bring back an afternoon
Now thirty years gone
One in a series
Of liquidated summers
Warehoused in the restless
Coexistence of memory
Stacked up like extended chords
Their harmonies astringent
Locked in fourths
And not resolving.
The Problem of Induction
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An onrush of wind
A rumor of cones
Green in the pine
That someday will
Brown—this we take
On something like faith
A view toward which
Each thing is well-defined
No less than
This smoothed rock
At the bottom of
The stream, its profile hard
Against the light.
"The Present Instant Does Not Stay"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stand of white pine
copper-lit
from below
now darkening bronze
Things are/ things change
the course of transience
no less true
for being transient
For being a vacillation
pretending to permanence
the ground beneath us
giving way
Sublunary Blues
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What part of us is aether
and what part elements
found beneath the air?
The rusty light of Aldebaran
where Mars ought to be
the eye drawn upward
by the Moon
Once the center of the universe
when the center was the bottom
where the densest and coarsest
matter fell
Kristi Denke
Mohammed and the Tree
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I.
a leather shoe
where a foot should be
shoelaces tied
wool interiors
illegible and worn
mohammed
you are no face
you are your shoes
and a number
a milky white contrail
cuts the sky
in an even
pale line
mohammed
bury the words
of your prophet
here
we send corn
peanut butter
and pamphlets
to declare cause
and cover your grave
trenches irrigate where
weak stalks are trampled
beetled corn discarded
morsels given over
to another
mohammed
your ashes
are in the earth
and in the rain
II.
brittle snaps
an off-path hazard
warm breath or fire
i hold the earth
at a slant
while the sky
bows its neck
in a crooked line
i know my name:
intruder
the fragile bones
of stairs
are man-tendered
and uneven
a deerpath
or a stream
concreted by folly
war has broken out
among the pines
mother nature
makes no promises
expresses no guilt
weeps no apologies
takes as needed
and weeps for none of us
a fallen tree
with legs like timbers
a face clothed in snow
a pale curtain of cold
a forest speaks:
mohammed
if you cannot live
i cannot live
Sasbach, Germany
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the trees are decades
wintered, fragile, and young
twisted frames upon a road sunk to dust, an alley
in the spring, children will sing of Turenne
to honor the ignoble death
of the enemy of palatine
daily with linked hands, a chain of
tiny bodies pay homage with uplifted eyes
in their passing they will sing, high drums
of infant chorus, swelling to childhood timbers
and in the spring they sing
afterwards in the plush sponge of grass
pretzels with cool slips of butter
cherries shaken from an orchard
they go home by dark, by bike
over limb wrists eyes of summer
shift in the night
cannonball sentries -
the pillar is meek by moon, pale marble
face and hand, listening for kindred
thunder across the Rhine
Creed of the Displaced
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
kept: a garden and thumb-length of twine
soil in pockets and the curve of robin egg sky
the smoke of injury upon tongue
sparks sensation through fingernail and cheek
bad tidings walk the meander of fence
and tell us the earth is no infant, but we are her children
language is the arduous wound
from the stem of our naked tongues
decide, the wind might say
ripe with summer rot, eager
to press our noses to the dirt
kept: an island, a wasteland, and wheat.
Joseph Farley
Living With Evil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
inside, outside, all around -
death and disease
and purveyors of violence
and chaos
and yet hands can
still sink wrist deep
in potting soil
and transplant
a few seedlings
to bigger pots
while the bullets fly
Children of War
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
with plastic guns
we stalked the streets
hunting Germans, Japs
and Vietnamese.
the war on
the evening news
was just a game
that adults played
like the ones we did
until the sun began to fade.
the dead on television
were not real.
they all stood up
at the end
like we did,
and shook hands
and went home
ready to fight
another war
the next day
after breakfast.
that has changed
with passing years.
the dead no longer rise.
yet boys still love
to play at war.
presidents and generals
remember your youth
and what we have lost.
do you still want to play?
at what cost?
The New Radical You
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Transformation comes slowly
or all at once,
a sudden blizzard
in early May,
a burst of sunshine
in November.
Protest was not your thing.
Rights were something
you whispered,
never shouted.
But that has changed.
I hear the anger in your voice,
see the fist clenched in the air
if only metaphorically.
You scream,
"Enough!"
But will you march?
Will you fight?
Will you help
to make things right?
Smoke and bombs.
Prayers of blasphemy.
Brimstone in the wind.
You see the collapse
of everything.
What can you do?
watchers
~~~~~~~~
in the cold streets of a rainy Tokyo
pedestrians splash through puddles
as they walk each in his or her own
unique form of isolation.
in the apartment block above
a girl with dark hair and eyes
stares out the window
at the ant-like creatures
struggling through the downpour.
the thoughts of the many
each follow their own logic
and each mind sees its own path
whether it be to love or work
or a dry towel and a bowl of warm
noodles.
the girl with the dark eyes
sees the crowd but does not follow.
her mind is elsewhere,
a garden erupting in fury of red flowers
among snow as white as her breast.
she does not see or feel me
but my mind is upon her
a warm draft from the heat vent
bending the down on her arms.
A Face In My Mind
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in Shenzen a girl asked my name.
there was a smile, a thought, a moment,
but time made all things blur.
now there is only a feeling
of what was or may have been.
Night Soil Man
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the little boy stares at the cart
with the black steel cylinder,
and the strong legs of the man
in shorts who pulls it,
cigarette dangling between thick lips,
the stench of shit all about him.
"What does he do daddy?"
You try to explain.
"Remember the chamber pots
from last night?
Your mother and grandmother
emptied them at the public toilet.
The man empties the toilet."
Later, crossing the bridge,
we saw the barges in the river
coming fro the cities downstream,
heading inland to the farms
farther west and north.
We rolled up the windows
on the company car,
and asked the driver
to go faster.
Chang 'Er
~~~~~~~~~
Moonlight turns
your skin blue
you hang above me,
face framed
by black hair
like dark clouds
in an evening sky.
You smile
but say nothing,
lost in the moment
as I am lost in you.
You are my Chang 'Er,
my moon goddess,
cold and beautiful.
You often seem
so far off,
I cannot reach you.
Then there are times
like now
when you descend
to this mortal plain
and become a woman
with pale skin,
red lips
and black hair.
How can I not love you
when you grace me
with your embrace?
Soon you will return
to heaven,
become again
a cold object,
distant and
disdaining
of men who
work the soil
or plow paper
with fox tail brushes
and fresh ground ink.
G. David Schwartz
A Stroll Around The Hotel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We waited until the stars came out
For verses made of virus
And stroll around the hotel grounds
To tempt the sun to try us
Investing loves who know our names
And those who cannot bargain
The Ivory Coast it full of hosts
Who, spite the straw keep walking.
To His Majesty, the King
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The emperor who had new clothes
Spun invisible strands of gold
Which fist illuminated Aries heart
And disappointed in the wind of the soul
Was wearing I do over and calm
For not another one but I
A blind ambassador of the king
A troubadour who has lost his lute
I alone impatiently with all the ghosts
Believe in the majesty of the clothes
All the superstition souls beware
The fool alone sees the underwear
Just Another Side Of The Rainbow
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You know its funny
That in all the photos and drawling
Pictures always appear to be
Flat and mysteriously
In perfect proportion
And what is certain
My life is nothing but
Another side of the rainbow, love
And another thing I can say
It comes out anyway
In meteor showers or just in play
Coming fast or going slow
It' nothing but another side of the rainbow.
ADAM J. SORKIN
A NOTE ON THE POET AND THE TRANSLATORS
Elena Stefoi [pronounced 'Shtefoy'] is the author of six books of poetry,
most recently The Starting Line (1996). Other titles include Daily Rehearsal
(1986), Sketches and Stories (1989), and A Few Details (1990). A career
anthology, Behind the Conquerors, is appearing in Romania this year or next
Her work has been honored by the Romanian Writers' Union, and she was one of
the four Romanian poets who appeared in Michael March's groundbreaking 1990
Penguin Anthology, Child of Europe. Stefoi has been an editor of the
important political-cultural journal Dilema and a correspondent for Radio
France (with daily reports from Bucharest) and the French-language
L'Invitation in Bucharest. Until early 2000, she was General Consul at the
Romanian Consulate in Montreal, Quebec. Since the start of 2006 Stefoi has
served as Romania's Ambassador to Canada. Stefoi's poetry has appeared in
English in in Dominion Review, Metamorphoses, Frigate, Pif Magazine,
International Poetry Review and (forthcoming) Antigonish Review.
Liana Vrajitoru (Andreasen) graduated with a Ph.D. in English at the State
University of New York in Binghamton and now teaches in the English
Department at South Texas College, McAllen, Texas. Her translations of
Traian T. Cosovei, Aurel Dumitrascu, Mariana Marin, and Elena Stefoi (all
with Adam J. Sorkin) have appeared in Poetry New York, Another Chicago
Magazine, Faultline, Pif Magazine, Kalliope, Osiris, Smartish Pace, Runes,
Metamorphoses and Frigate.
Adam J. Sorkin's translations have appeared widely. Recent volumes of
translation include Radu Andriescu's The Catalan Within, translated with the
poet, just out from Longleaf Press, and three 2006 books: Magda Carneci's
Chaosmos, translated with Carneci (White Pine), Mihai Ursachi's The March to
the Stars, mostly with the poet (Vinea Press), and Mariana Marin's Paper
Children, with various collaborators (Ugly Duckling). Sorkin's 2004 book,
Marin Sorescu's The Bridge (Bloodaxe), won the 2005 European Poetry
Translation Prize of The Poetry Society, London). Sorkin received an NEA
Poetry Translation Fellowship for 2005-2006.
POEMS BY ELENA STEFOI
translated from the Romanian
by Adam J. Sorkin and Liana Vrajitoru
Ties of Love
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I could hear you behind the walls through two closed doors -
the dark fog of a devil's breath
sucked everything in, quickly swallowed gods and jewels,
any flame my hands had lit
I could hear you, I knew the skill
you had with the nutcracker, I'd watch
as one at a time you crushed a whole row
fragments that had cost me my life
an endless glacier across double borders
twice took possession of me
in vain the great conflagration will come, in vain,
what can eyes see if there's nothing more
than flies lost in that very glacier
between two walls, through the north wind of salt
it seems that a feral cat tries even now to claw to shreds
a worn-out copy of the devil's breath.
Behind the Conquerors
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another year goes by. My mother's tomb has dropped
from my shoulders. Every day I sustain myself
on the difference between the rich and the poor
breathing boldly always behind the conquerors.
Do you love me? Good, I'll let you deftly stroke
the rope under the soles of my feet.
Take care of its health,
count the strange doors before which
it has started to freeze with fear,
and hold in your fury.
As long as only you can see it with the naked eye,
as long as only because of you
it doesn't get dizzy above the morass,
at the market stall inside my cranium dangers are sold
by the kilo: fresh, assorted,
wary of calories and rigor.
Their special qualities appeal to passersby.
They don't even seem to hear the howl
of the laws of supply and demand straddling the fence.
They're sold, they're bought, life goes on.
I'll let you, oh I'll let you deftly stroke
the rope under the soles of my feet. Take care
of its health, count the strange doors
before which it has started to freeze with fear.
Raise your eyes as seldom as possible. For now.
Especially for You
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the face of others
the day has the eyes
of progeny with a six-figure income.
But just a little while ago - especially
for you - a screen lowered
over the world, a kind of
coffin lid
through which penetrate -
without stop - clammy old tales,
mountebanks, parodic swamps.
Humanity had gone blind
and it would have done no good
to raise a hullabaloo.
Somewhere, in a Different Realm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's how it is: I haven't split hairs
in a dithyrambic landscape
since adolescence.
(I admit, back in those days
even words were good
for sweet holiday breads.)
Danger smells
like a rich widow
waiting for suitors.
And the denouement
is in my hands.
I know by heart
the giggles and hijinks
of every part of the trap,
I know by heart
the squeals of late youth
(in itself bait
as well as victim of the whole)
when stupefying and necessary
it mounts
the back of this future
too used to failure.
Somewhere, in a different realm,
a biography
that could be mine
to live
takes the devil
by his most prominent horns.
In Midsummer
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nothing important. Resistance
still mocks
its vital organs:
everyone is impelled to confess
at full tilt
the atrocities committed
in recent days.
Attracted by the spectacle
the winners at last
cast their eyes down to the ground
as if they were passing
an insane
asylum. Do they fall
only into traps
padded with a double history?
I leave, come home and in my bed
absolutism is praying
to a telephone number.
Absolutism, tee-hee!
I can admit
that it too has the right
to a pair of horns.
Especially in midsummer
when nature presses smooth
anniversaries and graves
with a hot iron.
In a natural voice they tell you:
the nightmare around my neck
will be my dowry until hoary
old age. I will never
cherish it as a weapon.
You Deserve to Win
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's as if I were reading a tale
going back a thousand and one
nights: I pass the underground arms
of the great river
I stare into the beast's eyes
until they reveal their darkness
I find the ever-coveted key-weapon-symbol
sniffing the depths the heights
I turn around set the trophy
in your beloved arms
the world rolls lazily onward
like a log, "it will snatch him up,
the whirlwind will snatch him up"
a thousand and one years ago
on the same face
our mothers' smile appeared
reflecting little bits of us
look at that, be glad
here and now
the abyss grows
around my feet, the fanged magma
it alone foresees
the comforting hiss
of the poisoned tongue
the gleam of the cup of gold
the fatal collision.
Michaela Sefler
PRIMARY
~~~~~~~
One universal principle,
ruling;
a singular point
of beginning.
The primordial breath
primary movement;
communication
of divine origin.
Urging
movement of pure beginnings
towards a unified whole,
a complete flawless expression.
Love and kindness
liberating
the limitations
of living.
And all men
are part of a collective;
coming and going
seeking to finalize.
THE GATES
~~~~~~~~~
The gates are open,
and she comes through;
embellished
by the moonlight.
His attempts,
bring back the hopes
of a forgotten promise,
he shines.
He retires
taking his vows
for he remembers
her promise.
And this night is different,
and he remembers
the slight nuances' that take shape
in the moonlight , their lives embellished.
And all that happened
is theirs to know;
and what their entails
is a mystery.
THROUGH THE CLOUDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And through the clouds
the moonlight lightens;
the darkened waters
reflect.
Reminiscence
of beauty of old
responses
that awaken.
Remembering
the illusive promise
showing
for an instant told.
And clouds are
moving hastily
hiding the light
that illuminates.
And recall
is elicited
by vision
that moves him so.
VIRTUE OF CREATION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Impelling is virtue
and they remain heeding;
bringing into the light
gifts untold.
For secrets kept;
are awaiting to be revealed,
for all to heed and become
opportunity for all remains.
For order was ordained before
generating each moment into the next
keeping possibility
as an open hand.
Their influence spreading forth,
keeping in position;
for strength is adamant
and the power of a revealed reality, is brave.
And directing influence
is virtue from within;
the heavens arbitrate
and blessings are bestowed.
And possibility remains on all sides
and man chooses
every day,
taking chances, and giving hope.
WITH EASE
~~~~~~~~~
And partially they reveal
the truth inherent to them
for with ease they overcome
and remain.
And giving choice, they allow
attempts on a given plane
to effect
and lasting will reveal.
For the earth is filled
with kinds that bestow
their lessons interconnected
as a collective they will rise.
And their return will lead,
for together they stood
pending their judgement,
for their time will come.
Apprehending together,
in all corners of the earth
they bide,
for their revelation is imminent
and understanding is near.
For from within are the answers
and transcending gives change
development of self,
guiding.
And strengthening with ease
is recognition of the worldly
and all will know
the name that withstands.
And the limits set,
are only for a day
for they learn
and become better.
Changing reaction,
even their own
and time, improvement
is known.
Del Corey
Pearls
~~~~~~
When a sandy grain
invades an oyster,
this irritant, this pain
forces the amazing creature
to exude liquid balms
to coat, again and again,
that enemy, and world's
fortunate friend,
into a smooth, brilliant gem.
So, too, do teachers plant grains
of thought in students,
challenges causing pain,
internal tears forcing brain-clearing,
re-painting, coat after coat,
into smooth, rounded Someones.
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2008 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there.
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions: kgerken@synapse.net
