February 1998 - Volume 6, Number 2

New Works and Words

....as seen through my heart and words.
Pedro Sena, Associate Editor

INTRODUCTION

This journal has been instrumental in showing others that there are many talents that come and go, and are rarely noticed in many arts. Writing is no different, and has, for many years, suffered like other arts, because "standards" have been set for what is supposed, and HOW, to be written.

The only judge that I use for any art, is how it hits me in the nugget, or nuggets. Many works, do not affect me at all, and this generally means that they are more "words", or "paint", or "notes", than they are a complete vision... but that's not to say that I caught it right the first time. However, almost every time, my first impression of any kind of work stands up very well, years later.... I do not listen with my ears, and the mind attached to it so tight, that I can not SEE what is behind all the words, paint, or notes. I can. And it is easy. The movie comes alive as soon as the words, notes, or paint start their ethereal brush strokes.

Through out my stay with this periodical, and many writers, there have always been friends and people that I have tried to see if I could abscond enough material from them to initiate one of these issues. This is difficult for some, and easy for others. Poetry, it seems, is a window to one's naked soul, and that is not as easy to hide as a song that has no lyrics, or a cloud that covers half a painting. A poem, is naked, in many ways, and this is not something that many of us can work with very well, or all the time. One could say that Klaus and myself, kinda have the attitude that we do not care if we are naked or not in this realm... it is about "letting" it all flow, and not wether we are naked in our souls or not. We have never felt that we were "nekkid" per se.... funny thing, we have never needed blankets during those moments, either.

But, as time goes by, and I have seen this happen more than once, expression clears up, and one spends less time about what comes out through this naked-ness, and then concentrate more on the "how" one wishes to see, and work with. I take the stand that there is no such thing as "HOW" in the first place. People are people, and expressions are expressions, and as such, they are all valid. Thus, a poem for me, never has to rhyme... it just has to create a "movie", or "music".

JOY
Not a writer per se, but as we have become friends and work together during the week, it appears that my sensibilities have brushed off on her.....not that I throw paint around all day, mind you. Some other poems that she did not feel comfortable with were of a rather personal nature, and she was not prepared to have them used in a public forum very well, which is fine with me. I suppose that we all need to close a few doors now and then, even if it is just for us to feel safe in some way. But, if there is shyness in her poetry, then the outcome is much more important than anything else. She CAN express herself, in wonderful combinations of letters and words that are hard to explain. The words simply ARE, and this is a rare gift. One can think, one can feel, one can postulate, but it all mixes to create a poem. One can see a mind struggling to figure out what it sees, opposite what it does, and wishes to do, or something similar to that. For me this is excellent, as there is no better way to find out and learn what it is that is behind the meat in any person, than a process like this. I write, from a similar space, although I think I tend to stick to a vision to its fruition, much more than I attempt to define my moody nature of the mind and words.

@@@

There is much more I would love to say, regarding Joy. But like her words, that are so simple and do not beg any of us to look into them, as much as they do say FEEL ME, I prefer to let our dear readers check them, and appreciate what is really hard to find anywhere in the words of any art the world over. A certain freshness of expression that only appears every once in a while. I always hoped that I could be there finding these moments, as they are some of the best ones in my life.

Enjoy these works.

January 1998

In Love with Love?

 

Could it be that I am just in love with love,

in love with poetry

...using people...

for a reason to write, to sing?

With feelings and obsessions,

words,

...ignoring people...

following a less traveled road?

To capture the moment,

the poetic notion,

to awaken my heart to the heart

of life

...without people...

but more deeply needing them?

I'm willing to play the fool

to go along with it,

just to love not knowing anything.

...trusting people...

Trying to stay untangled,

free,

looking to see deeply,

and being.

Speaking less because

the heart is clouded then.

...feeling people...

to probe without fear of losing.

I'll survive.

I'll survive because love

is its own benefit,

and beauty

lasts.

 

May 97

 

 

As I came closer,

the voices could be heard more clearly...

but I still couldn't fully understand them.

I needed to hear what they had to say...

the true message,

what I was longing to know.

 

If I could have just gotten a little closer

concentrated just a little harder

put some things aside perhaps...

I would not have missed

my hour of visitation.

 

July 97

 

There is just enough pink in this morning sky.

Just enough to make joy and faith arise in me.

It seemed to say this is a brand new day,

a new start,

a new mercy.

I need the release from yesterday.

the bonds,

the fears.

I claim the pink in this morning sky for my new start.

 

June 97

.

 

 

...I see that fence you've built...

I will not intrude,

go beyond my welcome.

 

... I feel that locked gate...

It is obvious I am not wanted

there's every indication

I should leave you alone.

 

...I sense that stop sign in my path...

I'll go now.

 

Everything selfish in me wants to

jump the fence,

pry open the lock,

and ignore the stop sign.

Everything impatient in me!

 

July 97

Bleating Lamb

 

I am simply like a run away child.

A fearful, rebellious and selfish run away child.

I just throw my little temper tantrum and plop myself down on the ground.

It's the inner child that demands attention and will not be satisfied until

it has everybody looking and serving and bowing down.

It's the ungrateful heart, the weak-minded character, the needy spirit that

cries out.

 

I have forgotten my dusty origin, my frailty, so prone to falter,

wandering and alone in a wilderness.

I'm so disobedient that I have lost my way.

 

But, where can I run now?

Where in the world can I go when I have run too far away,

when I have reached my destination of hopelessness and tears?

There's no one who really cares about me but One,

who would really take me in without price.

What I need is a spanking, a ruthless and unbearable reproof.

Certainly this is what I deserve.

 

But I have never gotten what I deserve, only mercy, and a blessed forgiveness.

I long to be brought back home, to be in good graces once again.

To be sought out with a gentle staff and found in the thicket,

like a little bleating lamb to be held.

 

July 97

 

Come and Go with Me

 

You are everything I want in a traveler,

a partner in the adventure of life.

I see in you one who would want to go wherever I went,

an around the world or stay at home type,

contented to be with me.

 

I want you to see what I see:

a majestic ship on the ocean,

a sunset of brilliant coral,

the expansive field of wild flowers you made.

 

I want you to hear what I hear:

the ocean crashing on the rocks,

the large city teaming with busy people,

the twitter of the spring birds.

 

Walking together, humming a tune,

Feeling the breezes blow against our cheeks.

Perhaps we would choose to do something daring or silly.

 

I'm just sure your presence is the key,

Being together.

Don't forget to let me hear what you hear,

See what you see,

I want to be in tune as we walk, talk,

Be.

 

Come and go with me.

 

May 97

 

Honest Reflection

 

When I look in my mirror the reflection seems to ask this question:

"Am I being true?"

Sometimes there is not an easy answer.

True to whom, what?

Myself?

The one who made me?

My fellow man?

My ideals?

Am I a true reflection of my true self?

This thinking causes some fear in me.

I have a deep desire to be true.

To be genuine, real, honest, and sincere.

But, played out, is it possible?

Admittedly, I don't look that deeply into the mirror often.

The question probes a little too much.

 

April 97

 

Giving

 

I gave the deepest part of me,

My soul was bled of words,

The only thing I want to know...

was I heard?

 

What were you thinking as I spoke,

You seemed to read my mind,

You held my future in your hand...

was I blind?

 

It mattered not the words I said,

You heard my very soul,

With wisdom and a nod of love...

I was whole.

 

It seemed my world was open wide,

You understood my heart,

I cannot thank you half enough...

I will start.

 

Why do I trust your listening ear,

How can I be so bold?

Your eyes convey the simple truth...

You are old.

 

July 97

 

Your Heart Shows

 

It is your heart I see with every gesture you make.

It is your heart I hear with every word from your tongue.

It is your heart I read with every glance from your eyes.

It is your heart I feel with every song unsung.

 

July 97

 

Spring is doing it once again,

turning my heart inside out!

Strange how you come when Spring began -

my mind will turn that one about.

 

Green is greener somehow this year,

The sun has a brighter glow.

My heart cries with a joyful tear

my poems have an easier flow.

 

Flowers are pushing through hard ground,

portions of my heart are too.

It's a mystery how our souls are found -

I give credit to Springtime and you.

60's

It seemed the blackberries came early this year...

the fresh clump was just poised

asking me to pick it,

so I did...till my hand was full.

It was as if I were tasting life for the first time...

so sweet, so full, so satisfying to my hungry mouth.

One doesn't realize the need

until it is met sometimes...

so thankful it has come

whether early or late.

 

June 97

Take Me With You

 

I don't want so much to go where you go,

to be with you,

(which at first I thought I needed)

because I cannot.

I want just to know

that I have a special place

within you

that goes wherever you go.

July 97

 

It's so hard to read another

the feelings

even when written

even when spoken

strongly

or weakly

to understand

with the heart

what is rumbling inside.

 

It seems complicated

confusing

clouded.

 

Does it go back

to childhood

these mixed thoughts

these wishes

undefined?

If there was a way to read

a person's real self

to probe

and best perceive

his honesty,

then we would know

how to care

more accurately

be more in tune

with them

love them truly,

fulfill a need

in us too

to give

share of ourselves

better.

 

I want this for myself

to know you

to understand the child in you

to dream with you

to know the password to your soul

and to care.

 

Time will

patience will

I will.

 

May 97

Temporary Relief

 

 

It's an amazing feeling of

relief.

 

Where struggles and questions

somehow

are put into perspective.

 

Everything is in its place

for now

and peace rules.

 

Putting on the eyes of

reality.

 

Weaknesses and blindspots

revealed

before being engulfed.

 

Not forgetting the torment

previously

and searching of my soul.

 

It seems to be a constant

tidying.

 

People and experiences

needing

to be put in their places.

 

Obsessions and possessions

constantly

having to be dealt with.

 

I will relax

and enjoy this moment.

 

June 97

 

There is a part of me that is still...

wanting to create

some scenario,

an artificial platform,

a planned performance,

the perfect setting...

rather like posing

for a picture.

 

Analyzing,

memorizing,

organizing.

 

But...

the larger part of me now is

learning how

to trust ...

the inner timing,

to love...

the joy of surprise,

to give...

...

and to enjoy...

each unplanned moment.

 

July 97

When I came to my senses

I was broken hearted

and I started to cry

but why?

Was faulty reason

and a season of doubt

what brought it about?

For confusion and pain

still remain.

Yet I hold a picture in my mind

of the kind

of outcome there should be,

to be free and face the future

with hope.

I don't want to mope

forever,

and never be able to face

that trace of self unknown.

I would resolve my fears

not with tears but strength

and at length,

I would pass the test,

for at best, my heart

would be mended

and blended with God's peace.

Release!

80's

 

The beautiful piano cadences

floated around the corner

and over the yards to where I stood -

 

down below me the verdant lake valley

seized my eyes -

(the sailboats looked especially bright I thought)

 

I took an intoxicating breath of the summer fragrance

in the cool evening breezes -

 

but when I stroked the branch of a nearby tree,

and brought the soft leaves to my lips

the fire within me was ignited -

 

it was then I knew

I was much too sensual for my own good.

 

Sept 97

 

Leaving is the Hardest Thing to Do

 

Those hard words, those fateful words

chow,

goodbye,

see ya,

could it be the last time?

We are never

confident...

never assured

down deep...

that we'll ever meet again.

'See ya next week' we say.

...

But in light of what

I believe

God has begun...

there will be many goodbyes,

many hellos

many new understandings

of us

of Him.

There will be many apologies

many banterings

of ideas

many explanations or

our inner selves.

...

And if there aren't...

'if' includes a myriad possibilities

of

tragic happenings

changed plans

and movings of many sorts.

But I feel I will never move

away from you,

your spirit

your expression of life.

Somehow

we have built this...

and leaving is not a part of it.

 

August 97

Lesson Learned

 

We had a cabin in the woods.

Seven fir trees dotted our parcel,

no fences,

no pretentious land scape.

Across the way,

another house,

but trees denied it in my view.

A field on the other side,

spanning my gaze to the far away hills.

I found contentment there.

My children and I grew up there.

My husband loved me there.

It was not fit for the average American.

It was small, old, and rented.

I did not allow certain kinds

to see me there for a long time.

The contentment grew,

I saw poorer,

and I felt my pride melting.

This was where I wanted to be.

I became thankful for little things,

wanting less and less for happiness.

I suppose the struggles were designed,

and it was imperative I yield to them.

Through gritted teeth

and regretted words many times

I did yield.

But the depth in me wanted to know

the depth of my creator.

I wanted to see this life through

the eyes of the one

who made life.

And so I let my cabin in the woods

be the teacher.

 

'85

Middle

 

...meeting in the middle...is that a safe enough place?

Neutral zone?

Neither wins

Neither loses

Apprehension forces it.

 

...venturing toward either extreme...

Inching our way.

Hear me for a while, and I will hear you.

Stretching on both sides.

 

...entering into each other's worlds...is that what we want?

Combat zone?

Someone wins

Someone loses

Safety demands it.

 

...time and love are on our side...

Giving equally.

Trust me as I grow, and I will trust you.

Enhancing our horizons.

 

...we will not stay in the middle for ever.

 

May 97

Music in my soul

synchronizing

washing

rhythms dancing in my veins.

 

Song of tempestuous waves

pulsing

surging

breaking down reserves.

 

I want it to stop

no I don't.

 

Did ever a sound

a love

rippling brook

make such melody as this?

 

Is happening sweet

peaceful

painful

joyous laughing in my mouth.

 

Twist the inner man

resounding

floating

Till I cease to be.

 

It must stop

no it musn't.

 

Cries of deepest searching

wondering

longing

need the chorus swell.

 

I will float upward away

blissful

exalted

In my music reverie.

 

It never needs to stop.

 

June 97

Nothing can console

or cajole me now!

 

Not even clean

green painted park benches

or children romping on

swings and things,

or sparrow twitter

baseball hitter

baby sitter

German mitter--

not even true

blue cloudless sky reaches,

or music playing in

rhymes and times,

or banjo strummer

showtune hummer

hitch-hike thumber

lazy summer--

not even down

town bussling sale shoppers

or rolling hillsides with

bowers of flowers,

or candle taper

colored paper

muscle shaper

midnight caper--

not even house

mouse playing cat chasing

or summer backyards with

shade and ade,

or firework flaring

TV blaring

income sharing

drummer snaring.

 

Nothing except your returning

to my yearning!!

 

197?

Only Today

 

I am in mourning today.

Grieving,

not feeling,

only existing.

I can see the horizon

but I cannot feel it yet.

My freedom calls.

The purity

of the refreshing oil,

longing to pour

over my spirit.

I am wearing black only for this day.

I will not continue

in this hole,

depressed,

hanging.

Life is calling.

I will walk,

I will run,

head up high,

to greet it.

The dark clouds will part today.

I see a blue,

sun-drenched sky,

reaching down

to lift me.

My hand goes up,

needy,

ready.

Humbly I will touch it,

gratefully,

and I will know my destiny,

my calling,

once again.

 

July 97

I would not hang on a cross for you.

I would not bleed and writhe in pain for you.

Endure the spitting, the reviling, the jeers.

I would not pay the sacrifice for your sins.

I would not love you enough for that.

But Someone did.

 

June 97

Real Seeing

 

I've got to have seen more

than I've seen.

My eyes are so old,

but I'm afraid not.

Holding a picture

detailing it,

from a different angle

...living in the seeing of it...

 

Teach me.

 

Every line, shape,

color round,

may I be allowed

to have it?

Oh world of brighter,

world of deeper,

increasing delight.

 

...and those who sit cannot know...

 

It is a seeing

of the eye, true

through the eye within,

to become a fashion

of beauty, or not.

'Tis a lesson

to be taught oneself.

 

I want to know.

 

Wondering at ripples,

widening the scope,

if it could be

of what's already there.

My eyes are so old

surely I've seen,

but only on the surface

mostly.

 

Let me look again,

into heaven

into the treasures

into life.

 

June 97

 

Summer of My Discontent

 

I thought this may be

the summer of my discontent...

it has been growing since winter.

I have felt my soul

creeping into

a sort of joyous pain,

similar to labor contractions.

Even the enticements

of summer

aren't wooing me

as they once did.

Though I am awkward

and my pace is slow,

I find I am following its lead,

determined to hear its voice

and learn its lessons.

It's as if I were being squeezed,

prodded and slapped...

brought into a

birth of myself,

hungry

anticipating.

All the outdoors is opening to me...

a beautiful intimacy with

the creator of it all.

I wasn't even aware

I needed this newness

this awakening,

this broadening of my world.

Yet, here it is

invading my summer,

stretching me,

forcing me beyond my faith limits,

and if it were possible...

creating

a brand new season.

 

June 97

 

Like a cold crisp

apple...

a delight in the hot summer...

I look forward

to sharing our thoughts...

I've saved up

a bushel basket of them

for you.

 

Sept 97

 

If I lied to you

you would have cause

to trust me no longer

and you could throw me away like old gum,

tasteless and used.

 

But, if you found only a lie or two

enough to throw away

all the wonderful things we have,

then perhaps you didn't understand

the reason I lied.

 

'70's

Mercy

 

Did I miss something here?

When I went over there, what did I pass?

Were my eyes closed?

Were you sitting there?

Why didn't you stop me?

How could I have been so blind?

What could I have been thinking?

Now I must go back, review.

I need another chance.

Don't let me miss it again.

Don't let me walk by you.

Stop me, entreat me, love me.

Thank you.

 

April 97

I'm high.

It's extraordinary.

Like sky diving slo-mo.

Satisfied to go the speed limit.

Putty.

Can't be hurried, flustered.

Feeling every heartbeat.

Warm, oozing.

Not on anything.

Just one of those moments.

 

97

The essence of it all,

When the dross has been burned away.

When the clouds have cleared,

And you have come out of the fog.

 

The bottom line.

This stands out through time.

 

What the soul craves,

The spirit longs for and the mind needs.

When the ripples have ceased,

And you can see the lake through,

 

Shining and pure:

Unconditional Love.

 

May 97

Softly now, the crisp new snow beneath my feet, the warm fog of air upon my breath mingling with the fresh sharp air of a moonlit winter's night. I am walking slowly through an unknown forest on an unknown world somewhere in an unknown universe and the shadow of the branches of the almost obscure trees are incised upon the virgin snow crossed here or there by the tracks of non-migrating birds or nocturnal mice scampering for scraps of food left over in the snow. It is near midnight and even though the moon shines brightly, the stars are crisp and clear and sparkling in the bright illuminated firmament. One can make out many varied unfamiliar constellations. And it is a marvel how the mind wanders through one's own mythological history to put names and adventures to the procession. There is a great hunter and the hunted bear or tiger and the woman in chains he is trying desperately to free from the bondage of her captors. There is a great ship in the south, sailing a vast ocean like Ulysses across the great Mediterranean, searching for home after ten years of war with Troy. And there is even Helen where the brightest star presents itself with such brilliant enthusiasm and ethereal beauty that the moon is almost dull compared to its magnificence! I hardly think of earth, and although it is very cold, I am really rather warm and do not mind the harsh environment. It does not matter to me if there are any others on this planet. And perhaps it would even be better if I were the only one here to wander through the vast empty spaces and marvel at the silence and the shadows and the firmament knowing that no other ever walked this mystic land or breathed the purity of air I now breath. Whether it be reality or dream, it does not matter. If reality: the wind upon my skin tempers this reality; if dream, the illusion is the true reality. Either way it cannot matter. What is my reality may be your dream, and your dream, my reality. We are caught within a linkage that spans space and time. We venture in and out of every realm as the mind sees fit with a fluid transfer of personality and place. As the electron moves freely from one universe to another, so are we a part of one and all. So do we exist not just in our own immediate universe but in every universe at every time; and that is the fountainhead of our creativity; the poet in us, the painter, musician, artist, and the seer: next time you look up at the sky know that you are not just in your own reality, but also in that vast unknown you only intuitively (some would say instinctively) recognize as being part of what you really are: the greatness of the vast infinity and timelessness of all the universes gathered in one great all encompassing mind: your own. Om Ah Hum Benza Guru Pema Siddhi Hum.

Klaus J. Gerken

An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) Copyright "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda

Come one, come all! Welcome to the 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 everything and everyone. 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, it makes us something quite exotic, since most nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a writer--which is where the Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created. Feel free to drop by and take a look at Newsgroup alt.centipede

---

Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find Ygdrasil on the Internet at:

* WEB: http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines and alt.centipede and other areas and services where applicable.
* 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.

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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
THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
WILL i EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997, poems 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.

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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, 1997 and 1998 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

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* 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

Please note that photographs will not be returned unless return postage and a S.A.S.E. are provided. But we'd love to hear from you anyway!

We can also accept submissions through the newsgroup alt.centipede, Getting it through email is easier, and the newsgroup is a better way for us all to meet and yak it up all the time.

Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:

YGDRASIL PRESS; 1001-257 LISGAR ST.; OTTAWA, ONTARIO; CANADA, K2P 0C4