August 2009
VOL XVII, Issue 8, Number 196
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
Marie Ocher
Proper adjustments
Firsts
CONTENTS
Jim Erkiletian
Preface:
Orpheus' Song
For Euridyce:
Such Good Songs:
Roger Taber
SWEATING IT OUT
IN PRAISE OF PERENNIALS
STRANGER THAN FICTION
THE OPPORTUNIST
THE OUTSIDER
WHERE THERE’S LIFE
Adam J. Sorkin
Poems by Mariana Dan
The swan
photosynthesis
sacks of darkness
my little ego
magdalene or the glass bead game
POST SCRIPTUM
Marie Ocher
The 3rd
Electrocution
Marie Ocher
Proper adjustments
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Big blue veins
I wish they’d be any other color
but blue
But they don’t care, see -
Opposing your wishes
they grow and spread and take hostage
of the body
as it opens,
and the blue veins conquer:
We have always been"
the emperors,
We have always ruled
this waste-place,
and nobody else but us”.
Firsts
~~~~~~
Will you then admit?
And babies are not different from
And blushes are not different from
And turning plates on dining floors
Are not too different
not at all
And hands, they burst through thick earth-twigs
And roots, and vanity,
And many firsts.
Lots and lots and lots.
Jim Erkiletian
Preface:
It's no accident that the greatest tragic hero of the ancients is a poet/musician.
How else do we explore the innermost reaches of our own collective psyche than by
listening to our stories, our myths, the most powerful of which are sung.
Several gods play roles in the Orpheus story. Aphrodite, of course, the goddess of
love and sensuality, and Athena, the goddess of justice and common sense, both have
roles of prominence. But as in many tragedies, Hades, the lord of death, must make
the final decisions. Most prominent, however, is Hermes, the trickster god of mystery
and fate. For it was Hermes who invented the first lyre. But it was Orpheus who played
it most beautifully. And composed on it.
Can a gifted mortal avoid falling victim to the jealousy of a god?
Orpheus' Song
Listen to my song of pain and tragedy of birth
Of the greatest musician-songwriter to ever walk the earth
Orpheus was a child of Greece, three-thousand years ago
Who played the lyre which symbolizes music to all the world
And still we use for ³words that must be told in song²
The term ³lyrics² that to which his lyre did belong...
He set out from Athens in his twenty-second year
To tour throughout the city states of his country so dear
To sing that unity through love can conquer death and fear...
His journeys took him further west, by pipes and cloven hooves
To the seven hill tribes led by twins, children of wolves
And some say he had made his way to islands further west
Where the sun shines through the whole night long in the wake of Odysseys
Then sailing back to Greece to find his songs were widely known
Throughout the warring city-states his peace message had grown,
His home city of Athens, after welcoming him with feasts
Sent him to tour the dying civilizations of the east
To make of him the very first ambassador of peace...
Orpheus traveled five more years where Egypt¹s great Nile flows
And north up into Persia where the Euphrates river rolls
He saw the lands of India where the ancient wisdom lived
And discovered spiritual messages among the ancient Nepalese
He saw there¹d been great forests in the lands through which he trod
Most reduced to charcoal in service to the metal-smelter gods
He played in palaces for kings and in the village squares
And spread the fame of Greece and new ideas bourning there
Until his return to Athens in his twenty seventh year...
And so he found himself back home his star still shining brightly
To play and sing in homage to Athena and Aphrodite
And there he met Euridyce, Athens¹ fairest flower
And knew when first he met her eyes that he was in her power
Euridyce, already known by the age of sixteenth years
The most compassionate and caring of the city¹s dears
An invitation to her house was Orpheus¹ request
Her father soon accepted him as an honored guest
With a pallet one wall separate from his lovely daughter¹s nest...
A small window opened between the two and all that night
They talked of what was dear to them and how as lovers might
While Orpheus knew the joys of love, of princesses in Tibet
Of sad-eyed beauties of the temples for Isis and Set
Euridyce was innocent as a woman of Athens should be
A virtuous daughter of a proper father, as pure as the Aegean sea
Orpheus knew from the very first she was the only one
Who¹d make his life of searching for his meaning to become
The one to give his wanderlust its station in the sun...
They talked and talked the whole night through until the rooster called
And they hurried on their separate ways to their duties in the festivals
And through the day their thoughts would stray to their quickly growing love
And they found themselves longing for the next evening to come
And the second night was like the first except they finally slept
As the dawns light glowed in red and gold on storm clouds to the west
And on the third day while Orpheus played at the Temple of Mysteries
Death came in the form of the god Hermes and took Euridyce
Away to the dark kingdom stripped of all that¹s sensory...
In those days death was closer than to us it is today
Orpheus went immediately to the entrance, far away
Where down the thousand-and-one dark steps the River Styx is said
To separate the land of the living from the kingdom of the dead
He descended all the steps into the cave that lay below
Until he arrived at the river bank with his lyre and his bow
He sang and played until Charon came to hear such beauty in loss
Then he suddenly jumped into the boat and asked to be taken across
To the land of dead where he must face lord Hades at such cost...
Charon explained that should Orpheus cross, he may not be allowed back again
Lord Hades is greatly displeased at those who come calling before their time
Orpheus ignored the boatman and rode across the meandering Styx
Then he journeyed across the land of the dead to Hades great palace of mist
And when he was granted audience, he argued with great erudition
That the great lord Hades should understand the terrible human condition
That it was unjust that Euridyce should be taken so young and unwed
To never have known the joys of the living before being confined to the dead
That it was unworthy of great Hades, to such unfairness be led...
Hades listened then granted Orpheus, this tender plea of his mission
That Euridyce should be allowed to return, but only on one condition
He must not look on her until such time as they reach the living sunlight
And so they crossed the land of the dead, her hand gripped behind him so tight
Charon took them over the Styx, they climbed the thousand-and-one steps
But at the top step, in the sudden sun light, she stumbled and lost her grip
And in one fateful moment he turned and looked back only to see her fade
Into the tunnel, back down the stairs he ran with a desperate haste
But he found her already across the Styx and all his pleading too late...
Old Charon said when he appeared on the bank, ³No more musical tricks
And by Lord Hermes order Orpheus you are forbidden to cross the Styx,²
So he¹s marooned in the land of the living, never again to see his love
And Orpheus has never again played his lyre for the living people above
He wanders the earth and some say he plays for only the wilderness now
And this may be why sometimes if you try, if you get well away from the towns
And well away from the farms and the houses that mean civilization is near
Only where animals are wild and roam free, where uncut forests appear
In the distance the most beautiful, saddest of music may reach your wondering ear...
For Euridyce:
I¹m going to write you a song, about love sex and sin
About princes and pirates and thieves
About how the wild northwind through your shining hair
Can whisper a tune a free heart believes
I¹m going to throw in a cuddle for flavour and fun
And your smile for the melody line
And if your damn cat gets himself off my lap
I just might be able to finish in time
I¹m going to write in the tune of your sparkling laughter
That makes my poor heart seem to glow
Going to give it the rhythm of your sweet idealism
That causes our love for our people to grow
I¹m going to write you a song about living and giving
Healthy, organic and sound
Being with you is like touching the sky
Yet knowing we both have our feet on the ground
Touching with you is like being the sky
Yet knowing we both have our feet on the ground....
Such Good Songs:
Social changes haven¹t ended where Psychic change began
Like lovers in the evening mist They both go hand in hand
Yet I don't understand the wars That tear our world apart
Nor why it is such good songs Come out of broken hearts.
Holding minds together Walking in the park
Pretending on the bridge to be The captains of the ark
We know our world is much more than The sum of all its parts
But can¹t glimpse why such good songs Come out of broken hearts.
Yet a broken heart can tell you Some things you need to know
About yourself and life and which Directions you can go
But it can kill a part of you Or turn a piece to stone
Until you learn to live with it Your life is not your own.
So if you shy away from letting Yourself get involved
You think to stay inside yourself You¹ll have the problem solved
We¹ll finish all those things that come From us, before we start
And never learn why such good songs Come out of broken hearts.
And never learn what good songs come out of broken hearts...
Roger Taber
SWEATING IT OUT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A soldier, an arm and leg in traction
(truck blown up by a mine)
reassured me he felt fine, just fine…
while half-listening to pulp fiction;
No regrets, he said, well worth
any price he’d known he might pay
for the thrills and kills every soldier
sees but as Hobson’s choice
As the audio story started to spread
dark mischief in his one good ear,
he leaned forward as if trying to peer
into shadow lands of the dead;
War’s is mother’s milk, he explained,
to those with subtle convictions,
like its paymasters and those politicians
floating victory on the wind;
The audio voice ducking and diving
the whistle of a sniper’s bullet,
the blind young soldier ducked a hit,
beads of sweat a legend for living
He was discharged, fighting off tears
for all the world's nightmares
IN PRAISE OF PERENNIALS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am the spirit of the wind
writing poems for trees, turning leaves
just as humankind turns select pages
of history, Creation taking imagination
to its heart and turning it
into a religion, nurturing growth
independent of home truths
daring to question how best to raise
born again geraniums
I am the spirit of the wind,
no sooner rocking a baby in its cradle
and composing a lullaby than pitting
sailors against an ominously moody sea
as heartless as a 21st century pope
towards its gay and transgender folks
standing up for love and peace
and demanding a place in the natural
order due a common humanity
I am the spirit of the wind
treating the eagle and the dove
with equal favour or cruelty,
as Earth Mother has demonstrated
since Creation took imagination
to its heart and turned it into a religion,
stunting growth, leaving home truths
vulnerable to rust among
last year’s geraniums
Inspiring perennials, spirit of the wind
last seen wrestling humankind
STRANGER THAN FICTION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m as likely to arrive naked
at the party and set tongues wagging
as slip quietly away, everyone
asking who I was, where I came from
and wondering why I bothered
turning up at all since I didn’t appear
to have much to do or say,
like some charismatic stranger
stepped out of a dream
I’m as likely to arrive, guns blazing
at a showdown and set tongues wagging
as slip quietly away, everyone
complaining that I didn’t take their side
against this or that antagonist
or snivelling into handkerchiefs like lovers
caught out playing cat and mouse
with a passion that wearies of the game,
leaves them home alone
I’m as likely to arrive in royal fanfare
at some local fete and set tongues wagging
as slip quietly away, everyone
agreed I could have put on a better show
but supposing it’s for the best;
Besides, who really knows what inspires
us to action or inaction, given
a fickle nature so often putting us
at odds with each other?
Call me life, shining love's light on the mind
though its mortal shadow closing in behind
THE OPPORTUNIST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I stay in heavy shadow
so no one sees my face although
they may glimpse me
now and then as I close in
the better to suss out
how ready those I keep an eye on
may be to receive
the likes of me, whatever their
expressed opinion
I dare intrude on dreams,
conspiring against the Sandman
to undermine whatever
kind intention possessing him
to relieve stress,
light up an all-devouring darkness
threatening to obliterate
any thoughts of love and peace,
come early or late
Yet, I am no one’s enemy,
can even (sometimes) be a friend
ready to lend a hand
as men, women and children
stumble through a world
that doesn’t always understand
differences between them
driving divisions, pursuing what
makes them human
Call me Death, whose darkest ends
find new beginnings among friends
THE OUTSIDER
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Through a misty window pane
set in a red brick wall,
I pass through now and again
I glimpse familiar faces, strain
to hear them call
through a misty window pane
A kaleidoscope of spring rain
touching us all,
I pass through now and then
Oh, to catch up with love again,
follow its trail
though a misty window pane!
A mirror to choice, loss or gain,
(makes us look big or small)
I pass through now and again
Who turns down Memory Lane
risks going into free-fall;
through a misty window pane,
I pass through now and again
WHERE THERE’S LIFE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Treading lightly among lotus flowers
risen from mud to show this world of ours
there is beauty to be had, even where
it may seem lies precious little more than
the stuff of a slum child’s dream
Opening my heart to those who dare
allow the same, so they may yet discover
there is treasure to be had, even where
it may seem, at first sight, there’s nothing
to inspire even a poor poet
Offering sustenance to those who seek
to strengthen a mind and body grown weak
from treading heavily among weeds
where nature meant to tell a different tale
were nurture called to account
Bring vision to those who would see
into the murky waters of pain and misery
where the dark is rising, Earth Mother
but waiting (like us) to flower and produce
fruit that is a poem called, lotus
Adam J. Sorkin
Introduction to the Poems of Marina Dan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mariana Dan is the author of twelve books including three collections of poetry.
She was born in Bucharest but has lived for almost thirty years in Belgrade, Serbia.
Dan was educated at the University of Bucharest and received her doctorate from the
University of Belgrade, where she now heads the Romanian department. A participant in
the neo-avantgardist movement of the 1970s and 80, Klokotrism, Dan’s interests range
from Romanian literature to the Romanian minority in Serbia. She is an important link
between the Serbian and Romanian literatures. Angels at the Bus Stop (2006), the
collection these poems derive from, is her most recent book of poetry. Poems from this
book in our joint translation have appeared in Words Without Borders, Puerto del Sol,
Subtropics, Per Contra, Tipton Poetry Journal, Absinthe: New European Writing, Rhino,
Sou'wester and Salamander.
Adam J. Sorkin recently published Memory Glyphs, a collection of three Romanian prose
poets (Twisted Spoon, 2009), and Ruxandra Cesereanu’s Crusader-Woman, translated with
Cesereanu (Black Widow, 2008). He was awarded the 2005 Translation Prize of The Poetry
Society (U.K.) for Marin Sorescu’s The Bridge, translated with Lidia Vianu (Bloodaxe Books,
2004). He is the most active translator of Romanian poetry into English. Sorkin served as
Regional Editor for Romania and Moldova of the anthology New European Poets (Graywolf, 2008).
I have permission to translate and publish.
Adam J. Sorkin
Distinguished Professor of English
Penn State Brandywine
Poems by Mariana Dan
translated from the Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin and the poet
the swan
~~~~~~~~
light streams out of everything
when the swan skims over the water
to make its bed
among the reeds
I cry aloud
and the echo brings back
the song of the swan
that wants not to be born
photosynthesis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m in my bath –
light streams out of things
with my finger I cut
the steam on the window
in the shape of a swan
across still water a white swan glides
among the reeds to make its bed
may angels keep watch by your side
sweet may you sleep, lay down your head
light streams out of things –
I’m in my bath
sacks of darkness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I float in a black cell
everything I feel happens somewhere outside me –
an angel’s hands carry me
like a speck of food to the hill
of the giant ants
other angels come and go
every which way
bearing sacks of darkness
in the shape of dogs and monkeys
in which sack is light?
in which darkness?
in which hand does the angel
carry me so carefully
that nothing gets bumped,
not even my shin?
my little ego
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my body will never have need
to materialize once more
in the meadow my ego knits
tiny sweaters for other egos
about to be born
my ego is a little dragonfly
it flits over
meadow and river
wings glittering from the water
on my saddle a baby
about to be born
out of words
and sort of mine
kind of an I
magdalene or the glass bead game
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
for m. eliade’s colleagues, past and future:
swami sivananda, satyananda, sivamurti and niranjanananda
how many illusions must still be unraveled:
letters with knots, threads and strings, lullabies
for worms that caress the roots of flowers
and for people who unfurl lotuses of light and tears;
I dream at night and under the midday sun
while I peek through the keyhole
at my own garden where a well is being dug,
an inherent meaning
in the very digging of it – maybe this night will be
the beginning of the morning when I meet you face to face
on the path of my thoughts’ broken circle,
in the immaterial form of my inward specters,
in the strata of sounds impossible to distinguish
until furled into words.
forgetting yourself, you live for the memory
of those who open one by one the doors to rooms
and tunnels, who express in the form
of flesh and blood
the changing contours of the scudding clouds.
such are my words – a revelation of thoughts
about life’s secrets. can the image in a fresco
be true if it burns
the appearance of circumstances into flakes of ash,
into leaves trembling gray, but still secured
to their stems? how many illusions are there still
to peel apart so as to free the true colors to be painted?
a gust of wind and thought blows away my fears,
my teardrops – near the blue ocean
it guides yachts and steamships
upon the surface of nature’s hand. today birds peck at
the grain scattered by your fingers – tomorrow
their wings will be doors before the wind
of the void. here is the key I know no name for –
a unity vibrates burning in my every cell,
and the glass bead game with children, with words, turns
the world. the truest service is never obvious: I’m like
the lobe of the ear through which one can’t hear,
yet which is an instrument of hearing –
I’m a glass bead that shines
only when dazzled by brightness.
Marie Ocher
The 3rd
~~~~~~~
Goodbye, tremendous sull
It’s been an honor just to be near you
to smell your feet as you run, to breath your dust
as you’re descending.
Electrocution
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To the chair,
To the gas, to the gas,
to the fire,
To the gulling grip of the mass.
be it shameful, be it rare.
The all-consuming hell,
And the flames, small, they turn
Laughing jauntily, at our paralyzing roar,
powerless, slimy, morose,
The fire laughs, then so it goes
A flair streams up the spine,
To the head, to the mind,
To the chair,
To the gas, to the ground.
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 - 2009 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
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Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
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