October 1997 - Volume 5, Number 10
Klaus Gerken
Guilt.......................................Janet Kuypers
In The Air.....................................Janet Kuypers The Dream, Gone Now, Is There..................Klaus J. Gerken Coffee Break...................................Jeanne Khan Unbound Surprise Pen Push H‚lŠne.........................................Milan Georges Djordjevitch Je sens........................................Milan Georges Djordjevitch
Mother Teresa: First Thoughts...............Jeanne Khan Diana's Way Tunnels Psuedo Haiku
-- Shawn Tribe Art Editor.
I was walking down the street one evening, it was about 10:30, I was walking from my office to my car. I had to cross over the river to get to it, and I noticed a homeless man leaning against the railing, not looking over, but looking toward the sidewalk, holding a plastic cup in his hand. A 32-ounce cup, one of the ones you get at Taco Bell across the river. Plastic. Refillable. Normally I don't donate anything to homeless people, because usually they just spend the money on alcohol or cigarettes or cocaine or something, and I don't want to help them with their habit. Besides, even if they do use my money for good food, my giving them money will only help them for a few hours, and I'd have to keep giving them money all of their life in order for them to survive. Once you've given money, donated something to them, then you're bound to them, in a way, and you want to see that they'll turn out okay. Besides, he should be working for a living, like me, leaving my office in the middle of the night, and not out asking for handouts. I'm getting off the subject here... Oh, yes, I was walking along the sidewalk on the side of the bridge, and the homeless man was there, you see, they know to stand on the sidewalks on the bridge because once you start walking on the bridge you have to walk up to them, and the entire time you're made to feel guilty for having money and not giving them any. They even have some sort of set-up where certain people work certain bridges. Well, wait, I'm doing it again... Well, I was walking there, but it wasn't like I was going to lunch, which is the time I normally see this homeless man, because during lunch there is lots of light and lots of people around and lots of cars driving by and I'm not alone and I have somewhere to go and I don't have the time to stop my conversation and think about him. Well, anyway, I was walking toward him, step by step getting closer, and it was so dark and there were these spotlights that seemed to just beat down on me while I was walking. I felt like the whole world was watching me, but there was no one else around, no one except for that homeless man. And I got this really strange feeling, kind of in the pit of my stomach, and my knees were feeling a little weak, like every time I was bending my leg to take a step my knee would just give out and I might fall right there, on the sidewalk. I even started to feel a little dizzy while I was on the bridge, so I figured the best thing I could do was just get across the bridge as soon as possible. I figured it had to be being on the bridge that made me feel that way, for I get a bit queasy when I'm near water. I don't usually have that problem during lunch when I walk over the bridge and back again, but I figured that since I was alone I was able to think about all that water. With my knees feeling the way they were I was afraid I was going to fall into the water, so I had to get myself together and just march right across the bridge, head locked forward, looking at nothing around the sidewalk, nothing on the sidewalk, until I got to the other side. And when I crossed, the light-headed feeling just kind of went away, and I still felt funny, but I felt better. I thought that was the funniest thing. -- Janet Kuypers
In The Air ~~~~~~~~~~ Part One Over Las Vegas with my family, my sister and myself in one row, my parents in the other across the way. We're nearing the end of our flight; mother tells me to sit in her seat and look out the window as we fly over the Hoover dam. Sitting next to father, I watch him lean out the window saying, just think of all that concrete. I look over his shoulder, the dam, no larger than a thumbnail, the water, like cracks in a sidewalk, like the wrinkles in the palm of my hand. Over Phoenix, preparing for another descent at 8:50 p.m., but it's usually fifteen minutes late, as it is now, I'm getting used to the schedule now. The mountains look like the little mountains you see on topographically correct globes, little ridges, as if they're made of sand, if you just lean your head down a little bit, your exhaling can make them all blow away in the breeze. And I know that what I'm looking for is out there, somewhere, I think this is where it is, I better not be wrong, I just have to search a little harder and find it. I love the city lights from above at night. Have you ever thought of how much power it takes to light all those buildings? All that energy. And every time I look, look out that little window with rounded corners, i see a string of yellow Italian Christmas lights strung across the ground. And little Champaign, Illinois, and those little airplanes that 25 people fit in. The airport there is really nice, actually, it's made for a bigger city, a city of dreams and tall buildings, that's what I think. The roar of the planes are so loud, though, not like those 747's where you can sleep during the flight. But they fly low enough so that I can see the building I live in from the sky. And where I work. There's the store. Neil Street. Assembly Hall. The bars. Over Fort Myers, the city always looks different from any other place, all those palm trees, the marshes. Like you've just landed somewhere foreign, and pretty soon the big tour will begin. You can feel the heat, the humidity sticking your shirt to your back between your shoulder blades, and your neck, sticking to your neck too, from inside your cabin, before you even land. Chicago looks grand from the sky with this huge expanse of lake next to it, like civilization crept up as far as it could but finally had to stop. The power of nature stopping the power of man kind, for once. And I cannot decide which one looks more evil. The lake does, looks evil i mean, at least at night, at night it looks like two spheres: a string of lights and a huge void. Daylight, and the snow on the ground looks dirty, too many cars have splashed mud on it as they drove by. And the sky always matches the shade of grey of the snow: fitting for the city of the Blues. Maybe the snow is already that color, that perfect shade of grey, when it falls from the sky in this city. Part Two Have you ever noticed that the air isn't normal air in an airplane? I mean, I know they have to pump in the air, and pressurize it and all in order to keep us alive up there, but there's just something about the air in the cabin that's different. It's got a smell to it, that's the only way I can describe it. A smell of all these people, going places, running to something, or running away from it. When I go on vacation and I promise people I'll write, I usually write from the plane, just so I don't have to worry about it for the rest of my trip. And I write their letter on an airsick bag. It's more interesting than paper. I like the window seat, I like to look out the window. Clouds look like cotton balls when you're above them, and when you're landing cars look like little ants, on a mission, bringing food back to their hill. Little soldiers, back and forth, back and forth. And the streets look like veins, capillaries in some massive, monsterous body. And the farmland looks like little squares of colors. I wonder why each plot of land is a different color, what's growing there that makes them different. Or maybe it's that some of them are turning shades of red and brown because some of them dying. Once I was bumped from my flight, but on the next available flight they gave me first class. And I sat there, feeling underdressed. And afraid to order a drink. And it always seems that you're stuck sitting next to someone that is either too wide for their seat, or is a businessman with his newspaper stretched out and his lap top computer on his little fold out table. Once, when I was on a flight back from D. C., a flight attendant walked by, stack of magazines in her hand, Time, Newsweek, Businessweek, and I stopped her, asking what magazines she had. And she replied, "Oh, these magazines are for men." This is a true story. And I asked her again what she had. I had already read Time, so I took Newsweek. -- Janet Kuypers
The Dream, Gone Now, Is There...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part II
LXXV
Yoric never satisfied not
intense but sometimes sometimes
doesn't think that life is real
got the rotten end of any deal
Ottawa's fake it's Art that's
here at stake
reads his work
no power there might be life
as lived no true dra-
matics anywhere want dra-
matics no not really
Yoric lacks an explanation
that's the problem that's his
station
true equasion.
LXXVI
He's falsified
his own
strong situation...
Yoric wants to find like
Rimbaud
transmutation of (not
of metals but of) life
not an end but the beginning
of it all wants to see not
how to change but what the
possibilities ought to be where
it all went wrong
perhaps it's god he want's to
play but is too smart for
that recall Caligula he
never could react to that.
LXXVII
He wants to get back to a
perfect night not a dream
but shadow that equates
reality he wants to worship
from afar a lady like a
guiding star perhaps a beatrice
or Fanny Brawne if Keats or
Dante did it why can't I?
Indeed it's not perfection that
he wants it's something more
to focus on but then can
any woman take such adoration?
LXXVIII
Getting back to Van Goth's ear
no one understood all clear
was it love or hate or
was it fear?
whores will
always call you dear "Dame
religion" might you say
let's you worship her *that* way
the physical must always pray
ah yes but memories from
"Time Retrieved" to "House of
Sleeping Virgins" everything relies
on these
emotions.
LXXIX
Yoric learned how hard he
learned a deeper fall
no man has earned
the
search for self is never
strong in those who think there's
nothing wrong Not Neurosis
but a flood of feeling
what has been and what could be
Yoric always wants to see
very clearly everything so the
mirror's violent
to really learn
let no one guide your hand.
LXXX
I kinda like him Yoric
all his fears his hopes his
dreams even when he couldn't
give a damn even when
he suffered so and never felt
he need to show it even
when he lied
still he was
a happy man I wonder
how he's coping now deep
so deep within himself
those
he sees are memories or just
a function of his brain.
LXXXI
Electronic impulses not
much different than a Lanpar
Scope he sometimes wonders
are we so controlled?
perhaps we are if that's the
case is not all life in
vain? who knows perhaps
we're here to gather some
experience for beings who cre-
ated us beings who are part
of us a way an only way
that they can really feel.
LXXXII
Strange if we should be that
way to feel reality only
through the physical and not a
mental state not to feel
through thought? to only think
that love is sex or
nourishment is food or
pain is shedding blood or
broken bones Yoric feels
so different now locked
inside his world the physical
so rarely touched the mental
so sublime.
LXXXIII
Yoric doesn't like his person
well sometimes tries to figure
himself out others seem so
different
yoric wants to cry
He sees the image of a balcony
always there again standing high
above the ground the view
is always lovely there won't
go there again Yoric looked
so calmly down stared
into infinity
Yoric so
wants to be free.
LXXXIV
There's something about churches that
Yoric likes they're so old I
guess he hates the modern
world wd take time back
as far as possible perhaps
even so before the humanoid
emerged upon this world
how
was it then the moment
of the birth that primal mo-
ment of the earth the first
all in a hostile sea How
could it have been all begun
so secretly?
LXXXV
Don't compare me thus to
anyone I'm me myself
the best I can
I steal the
best and make it mine
a poet must reflect the
world the way it inter-
acts with him a line
another poet writes if that
I use I'll make it mine
its usage in the way i will
like an artist uses paints
no credits given to discoverers.
LXXXVI
For days Yoric mopes around
doesn't do a thing hates the
world and hates himself
you've
got to get a job but I don't
want to work but You've got
to make a living! I don't
want to live!
the situation's
getting worse Yoric nurtures
what he think's the cause all
the pressures everything he sports
a mustache shaves it off
Yoric can't make up his mind
that tough.
LXXXVII
Couldn't care less wakes up
early just to think too much
the world is out to lunch
Yoric missed the train realson
too insane perhaps the work
inane but it really doesn't
mater much
is there anything
that Yoric cares about?
yes
there is but he can't get
it out it's locked inside
his brain all that needs be
pain without that there can't be
gain.
LXXXVIII
The man who never hates hates
incredably more than anyone
always on the run from himself
from others too hide the fact
you do it too what? to
feel emotions that are very
real (rotten deal) play-
ing solitare hours on
end and every game is
lost in a personal
frost (Yoric coughs)
all it ever is a great big laugh.
LXXXIX
To know what's right and not
to do (Confucius always knew it
too) said so Yoric studies
hard the path was right but
neither heart nor soul could
play that part the world of
politics were never it Yo-
ric couldn't calculate he saw
the world for what it was
what once was perfect never
is again those who follow
rightful path first must know
the other way. Yoric knew
it everyday.
XC
Enough to throw a fit silence
that is it what's the use
of thunder torture silence
better when we think so it
trounces on us unawares
hold us up (like love)
then lets us drop either
situation;s THE event
still don't know what
Yoric meant? don't be
daft married fourty years
and still stomping like a
herd of buffaloes from
each other won't they
ever learn?
XCI
Yoric the surrealist Dali
gets away with it Yoric
is the only fake always on
I guess the make not the
quest for love at all that
only leads him to the fall
but the quest for what's it
called yes, individuality
originality Yoric already is
that kind but only sees the
surface there of things makes
one wonder if he's serious.
XCII
It was so easy to take
your head off climb the
walls see the world revolve
around your eyes stimulate
your mind oh but don't
create don't even think
(that's fine) as long as there's
no interference from another
source and "ever try to
read Finnigan's Wake on acid?"
Yoric was impossible o lost
Yoric make the most of nothing.
XCIII
Yoric's so afraid of everything
but most of all afraid of
change the very thought devistates
his every ounce of strength
confrontation frightens him he
wants to be alone he wants
to lock the door cork up
his room he wants to
only write write write
he wants to live inside his
head it's the only thing that
matters that the world is too
complex.
XCIV
Yoric worked as a Barber once
(a dull man's job) so long
ago it seems like yesterday it
frightens him to think of it waht
poet was a Barber once? it
gave him time to write mostly
under pressure very bad but
still it was security (ex-
tention of his home)
He there could hide so well
away refuse to think and
dream the time away no more
time to get off the floor.
95
Yoric shaved his mustache off
disn't like the change -
Yoric thinks
it's better now - to realize
the world for what it is
(there's nothing wrong with this)
from Barryman to Van Goth's
ear - suicide is never fear
neither will it be despair
More or less it's just a
dare - a game that no one
wants to play - even photo-
graphs will fade away.
96
Yoric applies for a job this
"old" (he said) professor
(PHD et al) researching a book
Biography to be precise says
needs a helper an "assistant"
speaks for quarter hour tells
all about the book Yoric sure
can do the job but no
Professor wants someone with a
more "Academic" background
O.K. Yoric said at least I tried
The hung up Damn could have
done that job. He lied.
97
It is always waiting waiting
for the opportunity that seems
to never come a monotiny of hope
like as if the vision
too clear greener grass and so
much we want but never
get because we don;t g after
it Yoric has no one to blame
but himself but Yoric isn't
lazy just too busy
with whatever life will offer
him he's got little time for
anything.
98
Yoric knows no matter how
it hurts he's got to tell
the truth not just tell but
face the truth he's got to
tear himself apart come to
grips with every situation
and he's got to learn that
THIS IS IT nothing else
the moment is the basic pre-
mise the reaction to an
interaction the way he's
built not of bolts but flesh.
99
Yoric never smiles the weight
of centuries upon his back
all of it the weight of
anything amassed - his heritage
he's reading learning his
experience everything that touched
him even more Yoric has a
good good memory even
when a-weary drunk can't
forget a thing wishes though
he could at least for once
at least to be like every-
body else.
100
Yoric's grown too fat Yoric
looks like Balzac now Sports
a mustache in his mind writes
upon the table top of a very
grand design knows it's
there but can't explain
(Yoric's in a lot of pain
thoughts keep hammering his brain)
Even writes when he's a-dream
wrote a novel that way once
thinks that it is very grand
hasn't shown to anyone.
101
Cold and calculated thus
the situation is that said
the passage is of time so
difficult to understand ex-
cept in certain book of His-
tory Yoric doesn't mind
the age there's no passing of
his youth Yoric looks
five years younger than he is
overweight a bit perhaps
but he thinks (at times) he's
Balzac anyway But he
doesn't wish he were totally.
102
Himself is best no other thing
would be experience that's his
job his "destiny" to thus ex-
perience another thing certain
things to create from that
to show the world another
way another path (to
rightiousness?) no that's
not the way he'll just
point the way put up sign
a milestone he knows
what's best in his own world.
103
Yoric on the dance floor
feels like a bloody fool
this is fun? this enjoyment?
couldn't wait to get back to
table and get drunk she
just cornered him I'm bored
that's just what she saud
Didn't like her much at all
Corners of her mouth were
black opium didn't like
the stuff Yoric mad alrea-
dy what's for lunch?
104
Yoric born in Germany thirty
years ago when was Yoric
really born? fifteen years
ago? then he knew his trade.
saw the light? no opened
just his mind and flooded
out school project write
a cuplet took a week
that was that never stopped
filled up notebook after
book flunked his grades
Yoric always knew the way.
105
Only one teacher T.O.
LaGrave only one person
understood got good
grades in Art that is
for writing poetry! true
enough one of these days
you'll have to do some work
but still the grade is made
Yoric knew not how he
knew not anything his trade
begun his calling made
what was there to stop him
then?
who is there to guide him now?
106
But that was long ago even
now remembering is hardly
worth it all Yoric always
wanted to be a painter had
his chance but used the
chance to his advantage no
only what was needed some-
thing to describe his inner
feeling that was all he wan-
ted out of what theraphy?
no a new way to explain
a certain need that was
Yoric's deed.
107
All the books he ever read
each locked in his head
mired books that told the
truth even though it was a lie
had stamina hand tossed
in the flame so that utterly
defiant Yoric always knew
those books had burned the
soul you could stale-
mate such a question why?
twisting dagger through the
guts only perfect later on.
108
Yoric a barber ten long
years if it hadn't been
for writing for these "counter"
movements of reality he's
have done it long ago
like a prison every day a
job he hated and what
better reason for to cut
one's off from all the world
living only for sex and wine
and to forget the late late nite
T.V. and ahopelessness divine.
109
He kept on writing Yoric
did that was all he
had so like a drug to
him he'd give you eve-
rything but wasn't a Gau-
gan there were (there are)
too many ties already Yo-
ric knows he'll ill escape
His life's his art no social
part that's all he's got
He's happy there so let
him be that's his eternity.
110
Everything he does he has to
know about he hates
unceratin situations he
needs a point of reference
but sometimes lately many
milestones vanish he's
standing in a desert tossed
upon the ocean Sargasso
weed (with reference to Crowhurst)
not quite lost but it's
the fake the fear of a
mistake how much more
can Yoric take?
111
Yoric how to come to grips with
yourself try to analyze each
and every one of all these poems
that you wrote? those novels
wherein you lied ot fanticized?
but was it all a fantacy?
could it have been a disguised
truth? all of the emotions
that you felt each of them
were real does love
have to be consummated
to be really love?
112
Not so much foolhardy as it
is another view of the world -
whether crows or cubes or abstract
forms the painter segragates
himself he *needs* the other view
Yoric rumbles "out of self"
Doesn't know anything at all
the way he feels might just
as well walk through a wall
he doesn't seem to think at all
perhaps it's Art that life's
about perhaps the other way
around...
113
It works all strange the
music's loud you cannot hear
the light so overpowering
you'll be blinded when it comes
Can we recognize ourselves?
mirror's black so might be
moons the castaway adrift
at last! a contradiction
like an atom's blast Yoric
understands at last head's too
high above the clouds down
to earth it's all about.
114
It's not so silly as one thinks
a lifetime passes in the eye
of a blink a deep a dream
a private realm (a shady
elm for making love be-
neith as Yoric once a-did)
and really no pretence is
here Let only those who know
beware perfection's best
when no one's there I've
heard it all before somewhere
Yoric always wants a share.
115
It's Yoric's right to do what -
ever Yoric has to do but
Yoric never thinks of it
that way Yoric always
failed he's always been
the jester without jokes
the lover without women
and the monk without a
robe Yoric's been a
kind of joke least
of all himself to blame
when Yoric paints a picture
to immortalize the frame.
116
Whatchin' those movies
aint no fun what's the
use of other *such* realities?
If it's truth boy that you
want take a look at
all those walls all of this
monotony that's what free-
dom really means al-
though the sport's built on a
team one remembers what
one means that is a personal
ideal never what it seems.
117
Yoric knows that everything
went wrong I mean that he
went into town (that is) to
work at ten and typed
these envelopes till three
got paid a-dollars ten
(she wasn't there) so
went and bought some wine
a litre of the "better" stuff
that he could find then home
(two girls at the bus stop
giggling) a way to pass
the time.
118
My work consumes my every
need all my life is how
I write what I write and
what I do (and you my
friend can di it too) it's
all so easily all so perfect
all complete nothing there
beyond the need Yoric
laughs a silent mournful
laugh that's the only way he
finds release eternal
peace poetry's his own
disease.
119
Yoric stayed awake all
night bad dreams? no
just fright fright of
everything that his reality would
conjure up even more as
if of dreaming this that's the
highest form of fear there
is fear of life as you
might want to live it
fear of how you should be
living it fear of everything
fear of waking up again.
120
Yoric wants to cultivate
a madness a perfect re-
flection of a perfect situ-
ation that is how to fake
the world and all its appre-
tures like screaming light
and all too many books and
absinthe mind and voices that
refuse to answer when they're
spoken to that's to yourself
and others too Morphene in his
mind* each and every character
is YOU!
*Note: Morpheme, see the novel RITES.
121
Blast a way thru with a
serpent's jaw she so devours
you that there's little time to
think but thinking would only
ruin it too much thought the
worse for wear tearing at
each single file arrangement
in this all but static universe
what's
worse is never so secure blast
wind sucks eternity jutting
forth from out necessity
not
a hoe in hell, the way it
used to be.
122
Only a ruler bites through
a time of abunance usually
short lived but not to be
sad as all must pass...
as all remeains in one way
or another not to fail not
to lose sight of one's object
but still to float freely...
as to let the wind take sail
follow the wind do not
be as stubborn as to try
and fracture that wind know
not blindly.
123
ALL OF IT that's the game
an artist's always got to
renegotiate his stand he's
never free but must bite
thru sometimes that leads
to an extreem naivity
and almost trance where
everything declines into a
secondary stance before
that inevitable conquest
perfect conquest of
one's self all of it.
124
Yoric writes the worst poems
in fact Yoric doesn't write
at all he's a scientist
exploring the inner recesses
of himself his body and
his mind whether dream
or in reality to Yoric
there's hardly any difference
whether TV screens or
books or even on the street
everything is a reflection
he
can use that has he's like.
125
As everything he's like that
that is a part of what his
life his drive the only
way he knows that he's a-
live alive living breat-
hing loving all's to him a
feeling to explore nothing
less and nothing more and
violence in every situation
as: clawing out my eyes
and is it love dispised?
the truth to Yoric's just a
pack of lies.
126
It's an inverted cone a
dunce cap a spiralled
universe touching touching on
an insignificance that's it
that is always it the perfect
moment the perfect movement
all of it it never exist-
ed an impish smile (Voltaire's
perhaps?) gives it all away
head above the clouds but
on a clear day keeping tabs
on everything that for Yoric waits.
127
If ever he will find it has
found it he will never
know or will he ever
want to know isn't it
the search that's all im-
portant? the anticipation
finally which writes the
work fills the page?
it's all a type of rage
grinding teeth always the
restriction which is still
ones self (wiskey's onm the shelf).
128
A person's room is like his mind
a reflection of that internal
agon exploring every possibility
a fixation with the self
each piece of furnature each
book each painting the whole
atmosphere that which tears
or shapes the soul a re-
flection of an individual
how a person shapes his life
Yoric likes an empty room
but always it gets cluttered fast.
129
It's not how the image is
but how the image is
percieved Yoric makes
no bones about it his
life (coined now apprentice-
ship) a bloody mess he
suffers for a need (he thinks)
but suffers very needlessly
He wonders sometimes how it
would have been had he stayed
in Germany would his life be
different then? sure enough
he's be not here.
130
His dream world how would that
be changed? or would his
dreams be his reality? no
way to know Yoric knows
all this he doesn't even
care to speculate he's
happy in his happiness and
even so is happy in his
sufferinf all's a part of
life his dreams once
shattered lies high that's
how Yoric builds his Try...
131
A crisis alweays in a crisis
lost among the crowd panic
as a woman's body soothes
him the leading up to
frightened Yoric the devine
jester cap and bells
rotten jokes nervous
everything is nerves even
sleep how he dreams how
he writes how he no-
tices the world Yoric only
'knows one perfect situation
void.
132
Yoric freezes Yoric's hot
Yoric grabs his own erection
Yoric's mind is imbecellic
Yoric's life is so idyllic
Deep in thought (out of it)
above the universe sexual
power chanelled thru the
mind all powerful
Deeper thru the twisting
screw deeper fathoming
every meaning every absurd
meaning meaning simply
nothing nothing at all.
133
Yoric feels depressed op-
pressed Yoric can't accept
the rotting of the Roman Emipre
he can't reconcile himself to
so few poets that survived
what happened to all the
others? Yoric thinks that
history is just a series of
mistakes nothing he says is
THAT important to not
starve to procreate
to survive the elements that is
all important.
134
What's today important?
paper work? red tape?
boredom? what's the
real world like? one
without this artificial fla-
vour this poisoning with
out technology? is there
reason to survive talking to
a computer? who makes less
mistakes than you? what's
the use of living in a world
like that? wrists are cut
for less than that.
135
No matter how wild it
gets no matter how much
we drank no matter how
insane how rediculous the
situation it's all still the
same no different we
always knew we didn't care
the forces sprng to life
Yoric walks through walls
others talk to paintings
one's no different than a-
nother this the same as
all that was.
136
Yoric violates his own
sanity the music is his
head's always too loud
his hand is guided by
another force the voices
always penetrate a feeling
of each helpnesless always
form that versus content
a vortex throws off sparks
while blinding everything a
vortex like the universe
expanding contracting all
and everything is powerful.
137
Yoric doesn't see to want
to do anything right he's
afraid of failure that is
failure brought about by the
wanting of success otherwise
it doesn't matter a hell
whether things go wrong or
right Yoric;'s only Plus
is fright (rains alright)
he thrives on what he thinks
is sufferingf mental anguish
if confession were good for
the soul Yoric wouldn't.
138
Once is enough but Yoric
makes the same mistake twice
just to be sure of himself now
that's a joke but the mask he
wears is better than a
Montegue's it's better than
a frightened doestalked by
a wolf but TYoric doesn't eat
his prey Yoric tortures it
uses it to his own "artsistic"
advantage Yoric can't be true
That false mask... that is really
you.
139
bored again? always bored
that's the only way to be
for an artist anyway that's
how dreams beset
others might
read romantic or detecive
novels I create these
situations in my mind I
live them thus
It's the
only way the only way
an artist only knows is
through himself what others
might incline to call insane
Yoric only feels his pain.
140
Yoric admires his own stami-
na which of course is never
there he digs a hole he
drinks some wine the more that he
gets drunk the more he sees
the light the more the useless
imbecillity collides with what
proports to be a proposition
of a high intent Yoric really
didn't know what, ah, he meant,
all the same, just leave it be,
Yoric knows he is a fallen tree.
141
Yoric has a right to do this
that is write but no one else
no one seems to this that work is
feeling work work is just mono-
tony it's not the work that
Yoric does is really suffering
he doesn't but he does, just
wants the world to know
the world just doesn't carte
Yoric's drunk could be at the fair
Yoric says he's got the flair
flair for what? what's there?
142
The inexhaustable well to-
wards that even though there
now is mud and the well
needs repairs and to be
dredged what seems so
stagent now will one day
clear that's the image so that
others therefrom might enjoy
a drink quenshe their thirst
thereby be satisfied Yoric
says to friends you yourself
the poet heaves these stones
upon his back so that that
light might one day be seen
clearly.
143
This is forcing one to believe
it's no different to deceive
guess what's happening win a prize
no different all except a pack
of lies listen to the radio
watch a lot of stale TV
write a book you want
write if it has already
been then do it right
work a bit monotonize
suffering then dispise aye.
144
Fanatically Yoric tries to
understand himself he already
does but doesn't want
to believe himself others
are just simply too puzzled
to comprehend everything and Yo-
ric is quite a pussle
he lives by himself in a
world of broken images
(sutured hopes?) Yoric
quickly shakes his head (he
dead?) Yoric's always been well
read.
145
Yoric loves to see his friends
perplexed he loves to ply
a joke that's very subtle
of course they all will think
he's crazy well, perhaps he
is (something's got to give)
lose his friends or lose his
sanirty Yoric's very hard
to please lives his life
the way he wants "suffering
for ART" Damn it all, you're
enjoying it how in any way
can that be "suffering?"
146
Yoric is a haunted (king
of the woof, hunted?) man
alone quite alone iso-
lated from the world not
because he wanted so but
because he ses the truth
he notices what the world
is and what it will be-
come but Yoric strikes
out on his own he's not
easily understood but
that's good makes them wonder
how.
147
What is ceratin? if any-
thing, what is? even
without image, wityhout
thoughts, what is? and if
Yoric isn't, who is? Str-
ange to say the least bet-
ter to wait to get the key
than to barge in (where
should one begin?) it's as
Hang Gliding doesn't master
all the wind thinking doesn't
master all the mind what
a find!
148
Yoric thrives on rain
it's the knowledge of the
certainty of something happe-
ning it's the somber mood
a sharing of all history of
a momeny such as this a
day that deep reflects upon
the image of a total truth
everything's intensified o joy
of those emotions Yoric
likes to think whether of
romance Yoric takes that chance.
149
I believe Yoric when he says
that he can do everything from
a Cahateau in France to a
Basement studio in Ottawa
He can write the finest novels
and paint the m,ost astounding
pictures He creates, like
Balzac his youth like
Rimbaud he's a vulcano
Mount Vesuvius deviuring
Pompaii he just laughs at that
the divine joke is always
about one's self.
150
It is not to find anything
not the sword excaliber
not the Bible nor I Ching
It is sometininh much more
personal (whatever moods
the rain might bring)
something Yoric cultivates
half or nothing that might
separate... Yoric don't you
think it's getting late?
punching holes in the debate
what's there? or just a
twist of fate?
1979
-- Klaus J. Gerken
(1st Part published in the October 1995 edition of Ygdrasil)
Coffee Break ~~~~~~~~~~~~ When I prepare coffee I conjure you. Warm roasted beans become expresso grind dark and fine. Boiling water passes through and makes this brew. I pour black hot coffee into a pink and white ceramic cup. I add just enough cream to barely change the color. This barely creamed coffee reminds me of the color of you. The chipped cup reminds me of a blue knee brace you wore. Coffee now forgotten I am seeing only you in my hands. Now, I am seeing me white pink ready in your hands. Together we sip, then swallow and seek a refill. -- Jeanne Khan 29 August 1997
Unbound ~~~~~~~ Before you removed the pins holding my hair coiled and twisted atop my head, you said "seems a shame to muss your 'do, but I can't help myself, I just want to look it at down around your face, on your shoulder and flowing down your back..." As you removed the pins one by one, I said "slowly, like that is nice.." I watched you place each pin in a row on the side table; I felt your fingers like hot pokers poking through my hair looking for more of them. Each eased out slowly making no sound. Then, my hair fell all of a sudden and you gasped and grabbed it. You held on while I held still. A clock ticked; a car drove by; we held our breaths; we looked at each other; we knew a roller coaster run had begun with no getting off until this trip was done. -- Jeanne Khan 5 September 1997
Surprise ~~~~~~~~ Sadness shows up at odd times to surprise then sear the soul. A thirteen year old boy bends to look closely at notes and drawings among piles of flowers outside his gate at his home; I am eight and motherless. He holds his father's hand tightly even as he lowers himself to read the notes; his father bends with him and hangs on to his hand; I am eight and alone. In the moment we are one and the same; our mother died. -- Jeanne Khan 5 September 1997
Pen Push ~~~~~~~~ When my pen poured passionate picturesque paeans prodigiously on paper, poetry pealed. When I taught myself to type, each letter chopped the image to pieces; poetry postured or petered out. The wet ended pen flowed in a stream of connected letters which spilled across the page and onto the next. The click and clack of keys made rote or rotten or routine the ryhme I typed every time. Give me a pen to unblock the brook to gurgle, to babble and to rush through my hand again! -- Jeanne Khan 28 August 1997
H‚lŠne Que mon coeur soit entre vos bras Et vos bras dans mon désir Et vos désirs dans mes mains Et mes mains en attirant vos doigts Font l'amour avec vos lois morales ChŠre H‚lŠne - la belle fille de la Poésie H‚lŠne ~~~~~~ That my heart is between your arms And your arms in my desire And your desires in my hands And my hands by attracting your fingers Make the love with your moral laws Dear H‚lŠne - the beautiful girl of Poetry -- Milan Georges DjordjevitchJe sens... ~~~~~~~ Je sens l'absence de votre O Une fois la fin arrivée Vous partagez mon X absolu Avec le mal de vivre - Bougez alors! - parle le N - Je porte votre croix I feel ~~~~~~ I feel the absence of your O Once the fine arrival You share my X absolute With the pain to live - Move then! - speaks the N - I wear your cross -- Milan Georges Djordjevitch
Mother Teresa: First Thoughts ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Not tall, but towering not young, but ageless not attractive, but beautiful not teaching, but imparting not contemplative, but activist not simple, but complex not complex, but simple not flexible, but certain not weak, but strong not soft, but forged not afraid, but fearless not demure, but dominating not timid, but forceful not harsh, but gentle not angry, but kind not cool, but fired, not absent, but present not now, but always not here, but everywhere. -- Jeanne Khan 9 September 1997Diana's Way ~~~~~~~~~~~ Elton John sings of an English rose as a candle in the wind Lynne Dawson's Verdi's Requiem moves marble in the Abbey Derry's Air echoes Danny Boy's wailing lament Channel of Peace recalls Francis of Assisi foment Sacred hymns include the wedding's song an ironic and sad reminder of what went wrong Music soars through the apse, nave and the arches and later paces black bubble top shoes in the marches Ceremony and song, choirs and gong to reassure all who sinned that the cause for this day is accident, not their behaviors so shabby. The Ninth Earl of Spencer, brother of the deceased, calls each to account his words etch themselves into the memories of the present or absent he remembers the girl so shy before she became press prey he remembers the woman she became before this funeral day he lists her laughing, mischievous as well as compassionate he lists her feeling unworthy and describes how this did resonate he admits her foibles as well as he extols her virtues he admits her failures as well as he extols her successes this eloquent man speaks for his mother, two sisters and those who count no one fails to weep; no one misses his meaning or faults his intent. Applause arising outside among the crowd rolls inside to where all heads are bowed. Applause echoes among the standing masses in every country having television's eye. Applause resumes as her hearse slowly passes and continues long after it has gone by. Aboriginal men and Indonesian women weep as cameras scan tributes piled high in a heap. Flowers flung at her hearse slowly passing by let fly old and new sorrows for those who die. Petals raining on this poignant parade tears washing away protocol's charade. All over the world a great mourning occurs as if we are, after all, her brothers and sisters. The words of Stephen Spender come to mind: I think continually of those who were truly great... The names of those whose lives fought for life Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre. Born of the sun they travelled a short way toward the sun, And left the vivid air signed with their honour... A long moment of silence followed blinding recognition that indeed she opened our eyes to our human condition. Diana's life was more than mothering, posing and duty done Her death showed us a way to look into mirrors on everyone. -- Jeanne Khan 7 September 1997 Tunnels ~~~~~~~ The tunnel loomed large long before a mere mercedes 600D carried her out of one and into another. Domed on the Wedding Day, until progeny produced as two sons for safety sake, heirs to the crown; duty done. Doomed on the Divorce Day until diets, depression and despair nearly closed her off from caring for others. Driven on the Death Day until the press piranhas in pursuit pushed her over and over to the wall. Paris' tunnel loomed large long after she knew there was no way out of the other one she entered as a girl. Its maw named monarchy gaped wide and swallowed her twice; once alive, now dead. -- Jeanne Khan 30 August 1997 Psuedo Haiku ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Diana's death on Sunday morn did not stop her suns her sons this time. -- Jeanne Khan 8 September 1997
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:
. 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
