December 2004
VOL XII Issue 12, Number 140
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Heather Ferguson;
Oswald LeWinter
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTON
Maria Jacketti
In Memory of Rady Khella: A Thanksgiving Story, 2004
CONTENTS
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
Collage of Eyes
Souls Are Streaming
A Moment of Happiness
Moments to Minds to Madness
Cold Wind's Mockery
Alone
A Hole In The Sky
The Scene
Envious Gods
Venetian Blinds
The Wilderness
Roger Taber
2 (English) Sonnets:
ON THE ART OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY
POPPIES FOR FEARS
2 Villanelles:
LAMENT FOR A GRASSHOPPER
TRIUMPHANT VOICES
2 Kennings:
CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
THE TIME KEEPER
Katherine L. Holmes
Where air conditioning salesmen are seldom heard
14 karat hummingbird
After the wiles
Blue heron
Bustard bird
Kristi Swadley
And the Past Shall Seek You Out
Born Again Somebody
Solitude
Rehabilitation
Good To Be Known
POST SRIPTUM
David Sparenberg
THE END OF THE WORLD
Maria Jacketti
In Memory of Rady Khella: A Thanksgiving Story, 2004
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today it my turn to write, although this writing feels more like a
primal scream. If screaming would do any good, I would scream.
Perhaps if we all screamed together, someone might listen..
When I was a newspaper intern in the early 1980's, I wrote
obituaries. I hated writing them, and time has only deepened that
feeling. Yet, this obituary I must write. I must write it before I do
the dishes, clean up after my family and pets, or answer my current
students' very important writing. If I do not write this I will either
implode or explode - I'm not sure which. It is not every day that
writing can mean life or death, yet today I see very clearly that I
became a writer to keep my sanity in a world that has lost its center,
a world in which things fall apart, and entropy rules whenever and
wherever given a chance to take hold.
Let me tell you about when I first met Rady Khella. It was the
summer of 1996, and I was just beginning to work as a composition
coordinator of Saint Peter's College's EOF program. (Economic
Opportunity Fund.) Rady was a happy and talkative young Egyptian man;
he sat next to his sister, Mariam, another new student in the program,
who was a little older. I think that Rady was about seventeen. They
siblings were very close in age - and in spirit.
Students in the summer program had much to get used to: college!
And I was the captain of this boot camp, constantly putting on my stern
teacher's face, as I shushed and hushed the group, trying to get them
to focus. The future would depend upon what happened now: the future,
the distant future, that theoretical destination, golden and
all-healing, an aloe for all the insults of the past. Now I am sure
that I talked about the future too much. I yapped about the imaginary.
I droned and harped. Some of the young men told me that they had no
futures. They said that in Jersey City they might make it to
twenty-five. With all my talk about optimism and the future, lustrous
careers and well-earned paychecks, I sounded like I was from another
planet. Clearly, they responded, I hadn't grown up in Jersey City.
They were right. I grew up in a small city in Pennsylvania. And
while it was loaded with poverty, it did not preclude escape. From this
moment on, I will talk much more about this present moment, and how we
must act in the now.
..
After the summer session, I would see Rady and Mariam for freshmen
composition, two semesters more. Since freshmen are such wildflowers, I
kept pressing my face into that serious grimace that spelled
displeasure. Clearly, in order to do my job, I could not always be
nice, at least not sugary nice. Statistics told us that a good number
of students would drop out before completing their freshmen year - and
then there would be those lucky others: the survivors. Now I wonder if
even I can define that term - survivor. How hollow the boundaries of
that word, how relative. Define love, define peace, define success. Go
beyond the dictionary. Use your own words. The undisciplined freshmen
often pushed me into my red zone. I wanted them to do better, work
harder, so I pushed myself to push them into areas where they did not
believe they could go because they were either poor or not affluently
peach-colored. While some students liked me, others clearly thought I
was a bitch. I, too was trying to survive that first year and the new
population of students I was facing, consisting of the urban poor and
new immigrants.
Somewhere in the middle of their freshmen year, students began to
write things that showed glimmers of wonder. I encouraged several of
them to submit their essays for competition in the annual freshmen
writing contest, a very big deal. I encouraged Rady to submit a little
parable he wrote about a father, son, and a journey through the desert.
The flavor of the essay was biblical and very Middle Eastern. It also
had a mythic sweep. Define heaven. Define hell. I entreated my class.
Rady answered, "Hell is this Earth." He was thinking about the
suffering he had witnessed in Egypt. This kid has depth, I said to
myself. He has gifts. I did not know that he was also a prophet. The
contest would be terribly competitive, and all of my students were
considered "at risk" and "sheltered." Thus, I took a low key approach
to the process. I simply wanted us to show a presence, to declare,
"This class exists, too." We are here.
To my delight, Rady won second prize in the competition, beating out
students in the honors sections of composition. We would never be
underestimated again. He, his family, and I were invited to the annual
Michaelmas (Mass of Saint Michael the Archangel) banquet so that Rady
could receive public honor for his writing. It was really difficult for
me to put on that stern face, at least with Rady, anymore. He had begun
to blossom. The school honored him and his essay. He stood, at last,
among the stars.
In the years to come, his sister ended up in my classes more often
than Rady did. When she suffered from a debilitating hip and leg
condition that forced her into a wheelchair for some time, Rady often
wheeled - or carried her to class. When the E.S.L. program expanded,
and we finally had a lab of our own, Rady would stop by to say hello and
ask me if I needed anything. For a time, I employed him as a peer
tutor, and when funds dried up, he continued to work in the center,
helping his peers, without payment. He had become a really a good
student. Beyond that, he was a good person.
In 2002, my work at Saint Peter's College ended - it was time for me
to move on. I moved to another college right down the street from
Saint Peter's, Hudson County Community College, and in fact, I lost
touch with many of the people I had known during more than decade at the
Jesuit college. Life is like that. Postmodern life, that is. People
lose touch. And then sometimes the touch returns, as a bitter slap..
Two days ago, in writing lab, at HCCC, another Egyptian student,
Remon, emailed me a copy of an article from The Jersey Journal: it was
about Rady. They worked together as taxi drivers and had me as a
teacher, in common, I guess. But what was this that I was reading? A
young man, a graduate of Saint Peter's College, a pre-med student, 25
year old Rady Khella had taken a bullet to the head when he was robbed
on Route 440 in Jersey City on Thanksgiving morning! This had to be
another Rady Khella. Maybe Rady was a common Egyptian name. But then
the student who emailed me the article showed me his picture. It was my
Rady, our Rady, Saint Peter's Rady, Rady who was actually going on to be
a physician, Rady who had just lost his father two months earlier, Rady,
Mariam's brother, Rady, the essay writer, Rady, the young man whom I had
watch growing over a period of some six years.
Today in class a young woman named Damaris told me that she had
heard bullet. The murder happened in front of her house. It was early
Thanksgiving morning, around 2:30 am, and she had just returned home
from her second job. She was preparing the turkey when she heard the
blast and rushed to the window. The taxi door was open, she said, as
if he had been trying to flee. Rady was on the sidewalk, bleeding, the
wound to his head fully visible. Rady had been robbed and then shot,
assassination style. Christ. The turkey proved inedible.
I sometimes joke that I have taught most of Jersey City or half of
Hudson County at one time or another. I suppose that I taught hundreds,
maybe a couple of thousand students. In a large community, that makes me
just another teacher who has managed to work somewhat steadily. Yet, I
realize now, more than before, how we are all connected. Terrible
covenants, the stuff that holds communities together, are being broken.
Fear begets silence, and indeed silence is begetting more fear and
violence.
Today cab drivers in Journal Square stopped work, asking for
protection. While this is a wise call, I wonder how such protection
might be achieved. Cabs that were running, early this afternoon
displayed Rady's graduation photo from Saint Peter's. In the photo, he
is giving the camera, and his audience "thumbs up." Next to the photo,
his fellow cabbies have written "Justice for Rady." Class, define
justice.
Last week, another assassination type murder took place about five
blocks away from my apartment in Bayonne, in front of a fruit market
where I sometimes shop. A student in another section of composition,
Erick, told our class that he heard the shot from his home, down the
street from mine. It's a small world after all. A week before that
gruesome music rocked the supposedly calm city of Bayonne, which borders
Jersey City, another popular young man in Jersey City was robbed at a
fried chicken spot - and then shot to death. Recently the noble and
well-protected candidates for the U.S. presidency debated many issues;
however, they both neglected to address to the wars, the very real
wars, going on right outside our doors. My friends, it is probably
safer to join the army and fight in Fallujah than to navigate Jersey
City on a daily basis.
.
In one of the most relevant films of our time, Grand Canyon, a
piece about urban violence, serendipity and miracles, a black man named
Simon, played by Danny Glover, saves the life of an affluent white
lawyer whose car breaks down in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong
time. He is the angel-like tow-truck driver who shows up just before the
end is about to happen for the lawyer. (In the background, we hear the
ominously ironic rock hymn, "Send lawyers, guns, and money.") Quickly
assessing the situation, and without pause, Simon negotiates with the
head of a group of gang bangers, asking for what he calls a favor, to
spare the lawyer's life. The warlord is well-armed, while Simon has
only his sense of intention. He knows what is right - and what is
wrong. Like a true hero, he acts without thought for his personal
safety. He is "the salt of the Earth." While both men at this point
could have been killed, Simon pulls off the miracle, saving the
stranger's life. The movie continues to evolve, showing the
development of a wondrous friendship between two men of different races
and classes. Together they effect small, positive change and place a
Bandaid on the hemorrhage that is urban violence. Finally, they visit
Grand Canyon together, along with their families, staring wide-eyed at
the handiwork of millions of years of nature. It is only their
connection as human beings with this grandeur that makes sense.
I wish that Rady could have an angel that night. A Simon. A
somebody with incredible persuasive powers. And while I tend to see
Grand Canyon as a realistic film, and a great film, perhaps it is just a
fairy tale. As a teacher, I have read too many essays about murder,
and no one has been writing fiction. I am weary of all this daily
slaughter, the blood-stained sidewalks, and the numbness that many
demonstrate when they hear about just another murder, as if there could
ever be any such thing.
The former Catholic nun, Karen Armstrong, in her amazing work of
scholarship, A History of God, writes best in her conclusion, her
summary of the collective human search for the divine. She warns us to
avoid blind fundamentalism and closed mindedness. One can not afford
becoming one issue people or bigots. She warns us to see beyond the
external trappings of skin, ethnicity, and of course, religion. She
tells us that the Earth, herself, that Mother we call Nature has been
terribly wounded; she reminds us that we are suffering as participants
in this murder. Any good Hindu knows that she is talking about karma.
As we sow, we are reaping -- but we are also reaping the collective
deeds of others. We are denizens of a sick ecology. Written pre- 9-11,
Karen Armstrong tells us, "We face a future that is unimaginable."
Terribly bad karma has been made in the case of Rady Khella. While
we weep for Rady, the Earth herself feels this wound, this loss of a
healer-to-be. Let us hope that justice, whatever that might be, can
ease this outrageous pain and balance this outrageous karma. This
community is bleeding. Consider this my scream, Dear Rady.
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
Collage of Eyes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
we're useless without a shot at bliss
paltry organs oozing from clinched fists
wet lips puckered with no one to kiss
but why is death so easy to resist
I'm afraid there's nothing more than this
religion and madness
hold your ground
we'll all ride
god is on our side
amen
one word makes it okay to destroy
euthanize
and unfurl
the two biggest monsters in the world
christianity and the unconscious mind
divinity and dollars for the blind
a collage of eyes
something to find
who'll honor them
fine
reminded of what's behind
it's all mine
a fiery collage of eyes
my reflection on the river's rise
a single flower
clandestine mind
to follow
or crawl so blind
despite ourselves we forge on
creatures burrow into abstraction
free from judgmental eyes
inside we harbor a plethora of lies
we're useless swells
nonmalignant tumors
the best we can hope for
maybe a sense of humor
Souls Are Streaming
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm alive
I'm dead
the world is in my head
I'm an angel
I'm a demon
somewhere souls are streaming
so surreal
I can't feel
make it real again
It's getting harder to pretend
the misery is why
I'd rather fly
we breed
suffer
and die
believers in our own lies
clinging to life
hurling obsidian knives
we escape reality
and transcend the sky
A Moment of Happiness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a moment of happiness
the fiery rush of anger
what does it mean
a towering erection to service our genes
a haven for germs
one day soon eaten by worms
the insane babble
living among the rabble
listen for ideas will spill
only wanting to feel anything but humiliation
humanity
a coming of beings to no certain destination
I'm a god
I'm a fiend
I could be anything
I'm sincere
I'm perverse
a mere dreg of the universe
Moments to Minds to Madness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
got my shoulders don't need wings
a morsel of knowledge is all I bring
so senseless
so blind
so ethereal
so divine
these thoughts embody all that's mine
an existence so lost in mind
searching for something that I'll never find
tears descend from inclement eyes
we're trifling
and skies never clear
clinging to shards of life
hardly residing here
reflections on calm waters distorted by skipping rocks
racing the clock
another heart stops
the functions of feeling
thoughts reel
ideas are spilling
to think
an invitation to sink unknown
moments to minds to madness
a world abandoned full blown
Cold Wind's Mockery
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
our thirst grows empty with the planted seed
as we tailored for indifference bleed
a stranger caught in rusty water's reflection
captivated by hollow-sun recollections
caught in the midst of stolen intention
the sin of stolen beauty
how we are all betrayed
meager faces fall in disarray
a stranger lurks in the mirror searching direction
be content with imperfection
crayon blackness
the darkness everyone fears
close your eyes until it's real
a stranger is breathing near
memories empty
whispers spill
invitation to alcohol and pills
thoughts scatter in chimney debris
only wanting solace
oblivion is free
shotgun
the killer still chases me
cold wind's mockery
mocking ideal seeds
eyes open as similar clouds abound
angels mock our actions
and corpses fill the ground
Alone
~~~~~
alone with my friend
considerable time
taking anything to derange the mind
a look behind barrier walls
where a phone rings
but no one ever calls
maybe I'm a perverse thought
corrupting crystal perfection
or merely a fool without direction
an animal just like the rest
counterfeit at best
I ramble on
pen tries to coagulate
lit a cigarette
opened a window
the smoke escaped
shake a pen until it bleeds
abandoned cellar once served its need
preserves to shelter
mouths to feed
the plentiful garden envies the virgin seed
the ink begins to wane
pinch myself
hello pain
an excuse to feel
enter the mind's valley where nothing's polished
and no one is real
I see a vase of plastic flowers
floating in the blood of another shower
falling to depths unknown by average cowards
alive as waters rise
confusion is still
awaken before night empties
or waters spill
A Hole In The Sky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
welcome to this world
we enter the race
of brilliant colors
and pollution's swirl
we forge toward an accomplished mind
soon polished
and no later refined
but still eaten away
as all man kind
a hole in the sky is a corpse in the ground
there's no escape
reality sends us cascading down
dear lord of divine dominion
end this madness
and let us dregs unravel into sweet oblivion
The Scene
~~~~~~~~~
the scene
crooked shadows
misery strings
life behind windows
envious of wings
mildew paints faces in the hall
open gates
lives fall
porch lies rotten in our memory shed
soon forgotten
pictures in an album
branches on a tree
imagine lives
forever green
film projector
we decorate the screen
awake
smile at the ceiling
gasping for air but still breathing
conscious but shaken
unaware of the scheme the dream was shaping
numb thoughts surrender
whispers spill
unable to remember
Envious Gods
~~~~~~~~~~~~
waves crash on foreign shores
blood fills the ship and the ocean floor
swallowed by salty water
can you see my face
close your eyes
try harder
we're meager puppets
hand tailored
engulfed by night
eaten by the sailor
mystical sea of lost souls
and deep violence
forever clandestine beneath languid water
and mute silence
Venetian Blinds
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's never relevant
the mouth is an arid
cotton desert
breathing thru lungs of black
mined coal
torching the mind
excavating a soul
a rapid fire of happy hearts
where wisdom falters and destiny embarks
on a ceremony where life flickers in simple sparks
following the streets
cursing a mockery of dreams
the last gasp of a fiend
clasping a crucifix
wallowing in the obscene
like a serpent in a cavern below
waiting to be uncovered and exposed
hearts flutter
bodies contract in electric motions
of silvery-green heat lightning
startling yet enlightening
The Wilderness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the wilderness is a portrait of realness
a lost world eternally captured in stillness
coal black eyes burn in salty surprise
god is a fleeting memory
heaven a soft chorus
eyes squinting
fixated in the worried womb of the bleeding forest
kill the poor
and feed the florists
she ponders in a plethora of fiery carcinogens
legs open ready for sin
chasing her lost horizon
are we infinity
horizons saturated in radiant hues reveal true divinity
dance in the acid rain
faith and dances
dying and chanting in obscene ritual pain
I'll pinch a smidgen of religion
a torpid legion
minds asunder
coveting separate regions
wallowing maniacally
bathing in the acid rain
it always ends the same
Roger Taber
2 (English) Sonnets:
ON THE ART OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's a reality that's but a dream,
kept within life's quickly turning pages;
though an amateur fiction it may seem,
therein a wisdom worthy of sages
The lonely man, woman, finds a loved-one
to share life's adventures, emerging heroes;
Failures succeed beyond expectation;
The poor live out their lives in TV shows
Some selves we show the inquisitive world,
others people close to us may perceive;
Though of a mind to stay true to falsehood,
no kinder heart, intention to deceive=E2=80=A6
Half the world living on expectation,
the rest surviving imagination
POPPIES FOR FEARS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In two world wars, and conflicts since, they died
for love of country, freedom and their own;
Shells, mortars, bullets and bombs they defied
so we may reap the rewards they have sown
Let's remember those who never came back,
sitting comfortably watching TV;
Somme, Dunkirk, Korea, Falklands, Iraq,
so much for the lessons of history=E2=80=A6
The wounded, too, deserve our thanks and pride;
some forgotten, left but to fade away
in pain, loneliness, no one at their side
as fought with them so bravely, won the day
Poppies for remembrance, prayers, shedding tears
and - world peace to put an end to our fears?
2 Villanelles:
LAMENT FOR A GRASSHOPPER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once I heard a grasshopper sing,
heard the dawn chorus...
where, now, trucks thundering
I have heard bluebells ring
sweet sounds of silence;
Once, I heard a grasshopper sing
I saw a stream, twisting, turning,
haunted by otters...
where, now, trucks thundering
I have watched birds mating
in leafy trees;
Once, I heard a grasshopper sing
There used to be a graceful flying
of kingfishers...
where, now, trucks thundering
Needs must, called 'progress'
through the centuries;
Once, I heard a grasshopper sing
where, now, trucks thundering
TRIUMPHANT VOICES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Through terror strike fear
into the heart,
we shall persevere
Listen, and we can hear
a pop song start...
though terror strike fear
Here, there, everywhere,
lives torn apart;
we shall persevere
Listen, young voices clear;
we play our part...
though terror strike fear
Pity the poor slaves to war
losing out;
We shall persevere
No matter the arms dealer
politicking clout;
Though terror strike fear,
we shall persevere
2 Kennings:
CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poets have strived to catch me;
But how to capture a lark's song
bursting on the ear with mere
simile, metaphor, rhyme=E2=80=A6
or convey a rousing waltz in time
to the rhythm of a spring breeze
playing for the coming again
of all things bright and beautiful,
all creatures, great and small?
Painters have strived to catch me;
But how to capture the blue of a sky
on a summer's day, or its hues
of red and gold at the sun's setting
on a glorious reawakening
to the beauty of life, for all its ups
and downs, treasures lost and found,
hopes dashed, sure to be recovered
if only we look long and hard?
Musicians claim to have caught me
in an embrace of song whose beauty
must surely equal the sweet lay
of a nightingale at the closing of a day
seen all that's best in Man and Beast,
the worst forgotten, let fade away
like blood stains in a weeping sky
spelling out the names of those
among us sure to die
Dearer by far than all we own=20
is Love's setting, not its stone
THE TIME KEEPER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Keeper of my time since the day
I first saw you, a beauty to the eye
more splendid than royalty, riding
a white unicorn among pastures
green and gently rolling hills,
Child of Avalon, Queen of Hearts,
carried on wings and a prayer
like wildly flowing hair
among chariots of fire
Keeper of my time since the day
I first heard you sing, such songs
to make heaven ring out with
such hopes of spring, joys that only
long summer days can bring,
dreams that autumn cannot fulfil
nor winter kill, whatever God
may have in mind for us,
free to choose
Keeper of my time since the day
I first followed you into a storm,
shared the violence of a passion
equal to death's own, nor less
a rage to live than stirs in me,
envious of rider-unicorn, a place
in eternity - riding, rearing
or simply left to graze, my
Lady of the Hours
Keeper of our tides in history,
the sea, the sea=E2=80=A6
Katherine L. Holmes
Where air conditioning salesmen are seldom heard
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
over summernight fantasied and shortlived
a frost of alyssum spirea is snowing
and the sun is on icicles of honeysuckle
above scattered skids of dusty miller
new drifts of grass are over four inches high
surpassing the ankles but soft and glistening
before a machine chuffs from its chimney
a ground cover of vivid flakefalls
lungful of fresh air the tree bronchiae
after winter trail green gaspings
while infrequent white bleeding hearts
sweep angel wings in the chancels of yards
the gardeners are absent as Jack Frost
in the husky-eye blue the cloud toboggans
slow down I push off socks of woolly hot
inside shower after sweaters of swelter
14 karat hummingbird
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ready to sit and shimmer
she watches
him in a luxurious gust
buds and rubies overlapped
it’s a Christmas kind of occasion
her subdued
He zooms large and near
he zaps himself small and far.
Under neon waterfalls
girls go out downtown nights.
By daylight his taillights
flash from lane to parallelogram
radiant imbrications.
Shopping she ponders
what’s keeping them apart.
Time is a jewel-studded ticking
when a hummingbird
finangles artful sun tangles
dangling in filigree.
Decided as the lover thrumming
to an over-scheduled date
and a charged diamond
somersaulting out of
a small shadowy casket.
Just so two speed-freaks return to split-seconds
the honey and the homey oh-so-slow letdowns.
After the wiles
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Near the stonecoast, ready or not, the wind
puts the pedestrian mind on horseback,
is as unseen divagations of thought
wafting off from awareness,
becomes soundful and susurrant as traffic
people in their twenties hear
in uptown cafes along with
abridgements at mealtimes
and midnight.
So much so that the day the wind withdraws
its wiles and wiles, the air
near the greatlakeshoreline
seems awestruck
as though an opinion is being asked of a
northwinded washed-in seafarer.
This is kindred to the day a blizzard calls off
everyone else's work in preparation for
sculptures silky as cold cocoons and
friezes high as dressing screens.
This is a state of sky the breezes
have mediated to achieve,
bathbillowy
the effect of multi-pastel windows
at night though the house was
low-rent and rundown by day.
You could hear a bird drop, connoisseur
os skyscapes, tacit today at this
tranquil lampblobe glaming
where the sole flickering
approaches home and a cultivated liking for
aloneness after the windy rilings of
relationship. This accomplished
moratorium makes a stillness
not so much apart as
of about to be.
Blue heron
~~~~~~~~~~
blue heron on the
island circumference
of a garage where
the settler this side
of the bay squatted
duck hunting a circle
traced around him
the naiad-mystic
ripples humming from
the cool cauldron
one heron one rock
one cloth of moss
one pine one boat
one man one duck
one wild onion
one heron one leg
one fish one water
one
a lookout raised
his moated self
on a man's shrinking
buoy boundaries
area of an office
area of a sunroom
of a stilty fir
sinking in marsh silt
and the lagoon waves
fishscale lustrous
where we sisters paddle
with seaweed-somnolent
arms lake-brisked eyes
canoe-logging along
to see the heron
the remembered closely
from the spindle
the blue heron whirs
spins adrift cloud
of sky camouflage
Bustard bird
~~~~~~~~~~~~
What an old man he is
retro-bachelor and forgetful and bristly
benign
he scrapes for brawny coins
from his self-conscious homespun pocket
mumbling about what he’s read
the phantom bustard bird
whiskered and sought-after
the ostrich of European hinterlands
he sticks his brown head in his own business
(a female bent on his boring plaid)
he’ll strut
he’ll pivot he'll bow he'll peer
so few of his type around now
delving for the little he still has
that rustic round crystal moment
when he beams and seems to be full of it
the bustard bird is reversible
his inside tweedy thoughts
sprout out like hoarfrost
guaranteeing collars and cuffs
to the last lands
he will earmark and wool-line his engendering
for the long-lidded awed discoveress
who knows it’s his place
not hers
Kristi Swadley
And the Past Shall Seek You Out
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
once upon a time
in a land far, far away
I sang myself to sleep
each night
braver in the dark
more sure of my voice
recently, I had taken
to sleeping with a light on
not afraid of the dark,
mind you
but something else…
once upon a time
in a land far, far away
I wanted this present
back in the past
as the future was
a safe distance ahead
my mind outstretched like arms
to embrace how I had it planned
I was positive it would be better...
once upon time
in a land far, far away
I was given to inexplicable
sobbing verging on hysterics
my mother's lap wet
with unanswerable questions
how strange that I think
of these things
that present now past
and the future seemingly bright
I thought I had left that behind...
once upon a time
in a land far, far away
I was 15, 18, 20 -- anything but 27
I remember those years as past lives
it is difficult to fathom them in
the not-too-distant past
for surely I was not that
creature which saw for the first time death
as a permanent fixture
through eyes welling with tears
I realised the future can be bleak
if the past is any indication
surely the tears threatening the present
are not the same...
not everything i say has to make sense
or have a name for that matter
i judged myself too harshly
by you
you never said a word
i know
i said enough to fill
your silences
didn't know you had not
said anything
did you?
not to worry
no big deal
it wasn't your fault
honestly
it's not you
it's me
good thing you
don't know who
you are
else you would
read this
and think me
dangerous
Born Again Somebody
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
skin swells
shiny and tight
pulsing
pushing
flesh rips wetly
emergence of bone
sinew
quickly covered by new hide
hair, eyes, nails, lips
any and all protrusions
extremities
dimples
innies and outies
touch and taste
expulsion of old body
through new canal
bears little resemblance
to what came before:
transformation complete.
John Allen
Solitude
~~~~~~~~
dolls and pictures
swear quietly at my distant memory.
clock strikes coupled with the ambiguity of an empty room,
absence writes a draft for me,
a note of withered leaves,
a kiss of arsenic lipstick.
like everyone else alone,
i chase the grasping truant.
probably playing hooky in some idea,
or perhaps a misbegotten word,
spoken in invariably false pride.
where could he be?
that dilated schoolboy
instituted into shallow verbs
lost in the loneliness of the summer air.
Rehabilitation
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
if you're quiet, you can see the chatter of
chipped green wall paint
you can hear the dumb replies of cheap
mattresses to tears
borne from broken corneas swimming in acidic
canals.
weathered folds in skin like snapped tan
leather speak numbingly in sombre tones
and suede inflections through shaking
pockets of air
the deaf ring of faint hearts rebelling
against worn rib cages echoing in restless
dreams
of failed contrition and homeless yearnings
for a clear headed love.
mute protests from sweating pores slick
treatises written in oozing drops to the day
Good To Be Known
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your words shred the nighttime like
clipping shafts of light
or airborne sun scissors.
I grasped faintly at the locks trembling
and hued with dark for the pieces
of my spliced shadow.
And with a desperate dive worthy
of a bow legged swimmer,
found the absence of what was.
David Sparenberg
THE END OF THE WORLD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This poem
should never be written.
Wretched are these words.
And the light of day should not
reach in but
blot them out.
It is a trail of blood.
It is history.
And the revisionsim of lies.
This poem is a reflection,
a moment of isolation
in the desolation of
genocide.
Generations and
races perish
under the wet
smude of witnessing ink.
Children might be heard
crying.
Bodies might be felt
falling.
All that is agony and
violence
convulses and whimpers.
But this poem is a
monster.
It is conscience.
Because rebellion
remembers, defies
indifference, challenges
indolence and acquiescence to
murder--
murder,
mass murder,
war,
infanticide,
mothers,
fathers,
sisters,
brothers,
children.
I warned you when this
poem
broke into the heart of darkness and
ruptured silence, your silence.
I warned you then
to distrust the intention
of that which should never
have been.
But still it caught you,
when you thought there was
nobody looking and
you glanced
in the direction of the blood of
protest -- and wondered
(how the wind, cold,
makes the flesh
quiver
and the body shivers)
whether
there are even,
or ever again,
on this hell of earth,
enough tears
to forgive us all.
But this poem, this
mouth like
aching gall and
vinegar sops,
bitter as death, which,
like the Christ who is
naked and
nailed to injustice,
loves
in spite of hatred.
And pleads
not to be forgotten.
For this,
which should never be,
cannot be still,
will not
shut up. It is,
no, it is
like salvation.
And salvation
cannot
leave or save or
leave this
place of thorns and screams
until you too
are saved
and gathered, with the innocent,
into the harvest
of forgiveness.
This poem,
this poem,
this poem...
It should not be listened to,
no, for I tell you,
with all of the
pain hurting here, about the heart,
it will find your heart
and wound you, cruelly.
For blood
will have blood!
For God's sake.
The mothers.
The fathers.
The sisters and
the brothers.
The children.
26 November 2004
A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul
Lauda
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,
alt.centipede, alt.ygdrasil, alt.ygdrasil.film
* 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
. 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
. THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
. WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), 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 $10.00 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.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2004 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
COMMENTS
* 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
We'd love to hear from you!
Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:
