April 2007
VOL XV, Issue 4, Number 168
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
Oswald LeWinter
THE PASSION OF POETS, SAINTS AND EUNEUCHS
CONTENTS
Vanessa Raney
I breathe
What Frivolity
Listen
Lynn Strongin
When you go to your eternal maker
The Train will not wait for me
My eyes rove over the page lit by the match
Bryon D. Howell
NIGHTGAMES ON THE NEW HAVEN GREEN
EVERYTHING IN ITS OWN SPECIAL TIME, OR ELSE!
THE DAY VANITY GOT FIRED
THE PITS OF HELL
SO MUCH FOR THE NEXT 12 YEARS
BACKYARD BLUES
A. Thiagarajan
Voice
So?
NOT FOR YOU
Gentle Breeze
Accident
Naya Blue
Exploding Sun
christopher barnes
GRISTLE AND HAIR
DOOM
'GUERITE I.M.
GUGLIEMO MARCONI’S RADIO
GUY FAWKES MUSIC
GYPSY ROSE LEE
Nathaniel S. Rounds
Letter from the Crypt (or Crib)
AFTERWARD
BETTER THEY THAN THE SUITOR (ONE HOUR PAST THE PROMISED TIME)
lydia shutter
Flowing Currency
Karen Pape
Blues Sonnet for a Blues Monday
On Reading Shakespeare's Sonnets
To Her Critic
Marching toward the Dark
POST SCRIPTUM
Heather Ferguson
The Abused Woman
Oswald LeWinter
THE PASSION OF POETS, SAINTS AND EUNEUCHS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I.
Words have eyes. The blind poet saw Trojan carnage,
hillocks of maimed, and corpses that grew from love
on one side and the passion for vengeance on the other;
ruby grass, and the sand, gruel of gore.
His words would be the eyes of centuries through which
epigoni would forever see illicit love turn to tragedy.
II.
In Shiraz, called the city of love, a single rose graces
the tomb of Hafiz. The nightingale that sang here
centuries ago is gone, its dust scattered across the
Kuhha-ye Zagros. But the legend leaps the bounds
of time in verses glowing like magma.
Hafiz loved one woman in his passion for many.
III.
Augustine showed Hippo how lust alters in middle age
to become passion. His bastard son inspired
fierce pride, that became the source of a new language
to pit against heresies
that finally matured to love and a marriage
with his church that would last longer than death.
IV.
Love is a burden, whether between man and woman, or
between men. It is like trying to balance an egg
on the tip of a needle. Ask Whitman how the lips
of the young Oscar Wilde seared his. Concupiscence
lurks behind each tree in Brooklyn's Prospect Park
on a summer's night: screws among ice cream wrappers.
V.
Heine loved his poems, their words, and metaphors, more
than any woman. Gyorgi Lukacs believed that poets
who love women can't write great poems. Heine is great!
If the critic has a lease on truth, some poets are exalted
by the Medusa of language that freezes other passions. Perhaps
there is hope for me. Poetry was my woman, words my blood.
Vanessa Raney
I breathe
~~~~~~~~~
My river-waist
shallows beneath my skin
pushing past bones
to the void deep down
the oxygen of my soul.
Like fish I see out
from the sides I bleed
currents whirling vicious
viscous liquids
from chasms within.
My life pulsing steady,
I breathe.
What Frivolity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I found myself in the water.
In dreams, I breathed into it.
Waking up, I swam in it.
Yesterday, I drank from it.
Today, I thirst for it.
When I die, after all these years
of change, I will be it again:
as my ancestors knew it.
Before we became man,
we were particles of the great
ocean. Over time we made love
to the land, but our hearts -
my soul - couldn't stop yearning;
the undulations of our bodies:
unsexed, rolling with the currents,
one with all: us, them and the father
or mother who made it possible.
Rocking out of the bottom,
we made our way to the top,
dazzled by the sun's heat,
the barren body of dirt,
the lushness of foliage.
Ah, but what frivolity
to dive into the lifeblood
which sustains us!
We are fertile, you and I.
Listen
~~~~~~
I am nowhere
The sun hides my face
The clouds shadow me
I tower over water currents
Sinking through tunnels
Reservoirs too deep for me
If I go the spirits of the earth
Will catch my broken bones
Fallen from the dirt and mire
No human consciousness
To stop the tears that trespass
In my heart; you may intrude
From inside me. I need you
To let go of my spirit sifting loose
I am not a toy so listen carefully:
I will not bend to your will
Because you are only a voice
You move without substance.
Lynn Strongin
1.
When you go to your eternal maker
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
will it be like this world of cracked crystal
in which my incarceration
is illumined?
I could not be your semi-invalid forever,
your companion on holidays
those cream colored summers.
Heavy duty at the warfront
however
was the color of the clouds.
Shook hands with military brass?
Only the hummingbird
olive colored throat.
More military join up in Montreal
than any other province.
"The military interests me & is the best choice I could make."
We live in arctic outflow
warningg
zero degrees high.God Ure helpe.
It is very cold here now: real teal:
the box
closes over me, I struggle for oxygen in all this ozone.
It's like walking into a sirocco at times.
But when I see us back
sipping tea on New England porches
the cracked geode translucent bars, the geometry I live in circles
and "X: bar having replaced height
my incarceration gleams supreme.
2.
The Train will not wait for me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh no:
but an old lobster trap & baby buggy
in the attic gather dust late sun strikes ancient aglow:
polish them with spit on your
finger: the trap & buggy shine.
There goes Freddi, cock of the town
one foot up one foot down.
My love my friend
the Christian Calendar was never mine
not enough stretch
and I was no patriot
though carrying a glued red white & blue at age four
I frowned, the mark of God. I'd read of gunmakers
"Fusiliers" and Battalions. Old Toughs. I was one.
Up in the Lord's morning.
That banged it. The spaghetti lace of the streets
sparkled in sun:
newspapers on stoops -
puffclouds thru sky.
I had a parcel to deliver a library book.
A cheeky kid
I never liked, said mum.
Bantering like a cock turkey
the other kids
my back was my cross
a step was my cross.
Like the plough I was to read about
in primary school
drawn by workhorse:
I knew the train would not stop for me: O gloss:
Lobster trap & ancient cobwebbed baby-buggy:
My age & time my loss
shadow nailed on tree: Black. Glossy
3.
My eyes rove over the page lit by the match
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
i
Stern north austere north:
but room cozy.
Not the knitting kind
but enjoying new stockings.
Woolen.
Came here on whose recommendation?
Senior years
Zen moments
opened to concepts
way beyond comfort
yet comforts for the troops
in France were at the paper's edge, run along the consciousness of my childhood.
ii
Blissful simplicity
was vouchsafed me
in the hospital at age twelve.
Once a month new stockings
once a week
a dress off a hanger
out of regulation
gown.
Correction
prisoners
wounded.
Believed.
iii
Bach home on the west sick
a blackbird scuttling off down the path like a schoolboy caper.
I was not out in the light and pavements
but air was leisurely as the sea.
The boy
the girl
stared at me.
The gift
of Jewish
gab.
iv
My garb?
Braces
a wool coat
a bathtub.
I could not catch
the fish of reality which was more like water always slipping thru the net
and like water
the world
I could not hold onto.
Bryon D. Howell
NIGHTGAMES ON THE NEW HAVEN GREEN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The homeless of New Haven pitch their tents
upon the green, which lays at Yale's feet.
They can't afford the cheapest of the rents -
the shelters only hold so much defeat.
Assistance from the State is null and void,
some of these souls are just too old to hire.
they sit on benches, at the world, annoyed.
Still I'm convinced, there's something they inspire.
All passerby can stare in their disgust.
They scoff and so they earn the right to boast.
They find it funny watching people rust
and smile next time they propose a toast.
No State-run plan will find these souls a place.
Spitting's legal if you hit them in the face.
EVERYTHING IN ITS OWN SPECIAL TIME, OR ELSE!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Art may be fine at imitating life -
let's chat for just a bit about a food.
Where parallels exist, there's also strife.
Some foods themselves can be a little rude.
Top Ramen noodles can be such a treat.
They're inexpensive and they satiate.
Move too fast all the time, you'll miss a beat.
It's never wise to rush food to your plate.
Top Ramen noodles cook in their own time.
They have to boil so they can expand.
Eat them too soon, life won't be so sublime.
I doubt you would enjoy the reprimand.
You ate so fast, you're full - and now, a but~!
Half-cooked, they're still expanding in your gut.
THE DAY VANITY GOT FIRED
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had an interview to which to go,
since I'd been out of work for quite awhile;
when I looked in the mirror, had to know,
that I had what it took to force a smile.
Impressions are important, this is true,
but I believe it all went to my head;
my eyes became fixated just like glue,
upon a pimple; stubborn, ugly, red.
I knew what time the meeting would be held,
obsessed I had to look a certain way,
I played with it as I was so compelled,
I found and lost a job on that same day.
So vain was I, still jobless - stupid me,
to pop a zit which only I could see.
THE PITS OF HELL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We have no choice, we have to put him down.
There is no telling when the boy will snap;
you'll thank us later, there's no cause to frown.
Besides, he's much to bulky for your lap.
You've heard of their attacks, we're sure you did.
They've made the papers and the TV news.
Now what if one attacked your helpless kid?
You'd side with us, you wouldn't be confused.
It's just a little shot we need to give.
We promise he won't even feel a thing.
This demon doesn't have a right to live -
since rage is all that it could ever bring.
We're poisoned too believing our own bull -
with hearts as empty as the needle's full.
SO MUCH FOR THE NEXT 12 YEARS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I was rather bitter once I wrote
a poem all about my mother's faults.
It didn't rhyme, it read much like a note -
I never knew profanity could waltz.
I sent it to a publisher although
I didn't quite expect what would come next.
It was accepted right away and so
I let them publish, still a bit perplexed.
A falling out had come to pass years back,
I hadn't spoken to her in awhile.
She Googled me one day, found that attack -
now I'm not sure we'll ever reconcile.
And even when the journal had arrived -
I had no clue it all would be, archived.
BACKYARD BLUES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I used the feed two squirrels in the yard -
in six short months I trained them both too well.
To earn their trust took love but wasn't hard.
I called them, they would come - and all was swell.
I never missed one day in six months time.
They ate too well and even gained some weight.
Some warned me feeding them should be a crime -
that I should stop before it was too late.
There's something to be said for let it be.
I earned their trust in six months time, it's true.
They must have thought all men were just like me,
they thought it wise to trust some others, too.
I meant well, yes - I made a big mistake.
Some think of them as pests, not friends to make.
A. Thiagarajan
Voice
~~~~~
my grandfather's voice
of authority, so distant -
my dad's becoming the same
in good time-
the school, the temple
the prime minister
the management gurus, know alls
cacaphony-
in 360 degrees, motivations & manipulations
you sounded different
the tune looked different-
until lost in mine
becoming the dad's
Stilled & pickled
Poems
Birth of dreams,
Or Dream of births?
If dreams were lives
Or life were dream
"Shall I type them out?"
Yes,
You type them out or type them in,
With your fine fingers
In the patterned
Letterings
Fonts & sizes, Caps, U's, Bolds, Italics & what not
They get cast like the
Statue
Like the moment stilled
Caught &
Got.
So?
~~
Don't do this-
sorry's and thank you's
birthday cards and flowers
the forwards and hi's
are jarring..
that bird in the cloudless
faroff sky
doesn't even look at me:
so?
the fragile gentle breeze=20
doesn't do all these
so?
NOT FOR YOU
~~~~~~~~~~~
You walk naked.
To you
The Sun
is
Sun
To you
The Moon
is Moon.
On your left
dream
is real
On right
real
is
dreamlike.
Tomorrow
and yesterday
are not
for you.
Gentle Breeze
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
he carries a mild breeze....
very gentle
without leaving any landmark
except for what I know...
and tells me in whispers
not to worry
if it lasts or not
kissing me all over
and as if color
giving me
as though I asked for it
the expanse
of where he came from
with hues of the butterfly
not realising
while it happens
impregnating me -
labouring to deliver
the words of whisper
he doesn't wait
to hear my poem.
Accident
~~~~~~~~
Satish died yesterday
Nita told me
in my dreams this morning
that is when I lie
in the drawing-room sofa
after picking up
the milk packets from the door-
I spoke to him last night.
No, he was run over by a speeding truck
on the Cadell Road
near Bankers Training College
The last I heard from him was
on the haiku yahoo group-
he wrote something about
coincidentally accidents
but it was of life
and not ones like this-
As I went from lunch back to my desk
there was this bundled group message
again
where he wrote to Ram
that he would rather go
and kill that bastard of the Dhobi
rather than putting Sita to fire-test-
but that can't be said Ram
you can't put the whole world to death
even if all were bastards
because of gossipping which all do-
it's all prewritten on your head-
But Satish is not the one to buy
he can't take the vada pav
and the associated amoebiasis
to blame on the head-writing..
but can not answer the question
why in the first place did he
decide to eat like
drinking for the sake of company
or to promote sales of your company-
He just said simply because I do not know
it doesn't become einstein's relativity story
the synonym of ignorance is not unproven
it could at best be arguing
simply because you do not indulge
in arguments
when you know and are not ignorant-
but what happened in the death of
Satish is beyond doubt
an accident
irrespective of his having been
ignorant or otherwise to have
been driving after a drink too many
on such a road
in Mumbai-
at least that is what the police say..
Naya Blue
Exploding Sun
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In one window shadows fell from the pines
dark against the sky as moon light whispered around their old shoulders.
Winter's breath fades in the last days of cold February
day light blooms earlier and night's deep grip softens.
After Valentine's day, you said your mother's cancer had
exploded like a sack of flour all over her stomach.
Or the doctor had said it like that, dark black flour dusting,
the snow tonight draped in sooty shawls around the trees.
Each moon darkness grows shorter as spring comes on
time changing in each breath, hasten no season the winter stars sing.
Exploding their own thousand suns, dark gases, sacks of flour
into the galaxies create moments of silence.
Your Memories
Your memories of my life are this pastiche
of old worn records that they don't make any more.
Led Zeppelin blaring into the heat of summer as locusts clicked away in the
smell of rotting black walnut husks
You tell me of bits of my life that I am no longer
a guardian of, "remember the time when you..."
Fill in the blanks that my relentless wandering has left all
over worn foot paths on linoleum of the kitchen I rent a tumble down house
The floor boards heavy under the weight of repetition
that block the ability to recall any thing different than today.
This aloneness is worth more than a thousand lives.
This freedom is worth more than all the lands on earth.
To be one with the truth for just a moment,
Is worth more than the world and life itself.-Rumi
christopher barnes
GRISTLE AND HAIR
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The scourings of time on the Colony club lino
Lose momentum to an afternoon, circumstance.
Lucien collapses inhibitions in brass-coloured whiskey,
No one’s suffering is hangdog here. Misdemeanours
Of the penal code
Are by nature invited to spiral
Through the rootless fumes of the barroom.
Muriel, the instinctive procuress
On a steeple-stack stool is the grandee
Of a nub of garbled substance,
She’s Deacon’s bailiff as he touts
Bosomy pics for cabin boys,
She’s a fixer of queer arrangements.
Henrietta is spiked,
Floury crystals airborne in serum
And in her heart a casino chip’s circling,
Always relied upon to take a chance.
And Francis is half-seas over
Tackling the bar in grips, disturbing by impulse,
Surveying by potluck - tatty in Soho.
From the Francis Bacon poems
DOOM
~~~~
The spuggie who squats
In the Kwik Save bag
Coins the word "veto" (otherwise engaged),
Does not see fit
To clean-sweep till roll
Nor hasping holes
Recoiling rain.
Neither will he crush
Pour homme promos for nesting;
He’s found the itch
To delouse.
'GUERITE I.M.
~~~~~~~~~~~
A sombre lure
Of censor, magic stick.
And the wide margined world
Over which she muttered
Turns O-shaped,
And seems emptier.
GUGLIEMO MARCONI’S RADIO
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Artic chill since morning
Pupils shift –
Frosty glass
Debris on foreshore
The distance, mottled streets
Greying,
Snow-white sky.
The rough-hewn receiver
Corpse of coil
Storm-smashed in the violence,
The elements of progress.
I attach
The simple earphone
Listening to vibrations
Moving indefinite motes,
Geosphere
Oggin tide
Atmosphere
Small planets,
Watery sunlight
Recoiling at edges,
Physical realignments.
Pulses from Poldho
Bleeping like bats
Over the Atlantic
Unimpeded by miles,
Cutting waves,
The curvature of the globe.
GUY FAWKES MUSIC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Slapheaded triangles plink;
Chimes of sparks.
GYPSY ROSE LEE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She's an enigma,
The clairvoyant who splits palms,
Runs to earth a lucky shamrock
From somewhere between the lines.
Nathaniel S. Rounds
Letter from the Crypt (or Crib)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To my sister in Nazareth:
Thanks for the fish box ready-made, a
Molten brew of Shostakovich-stained colors
Sealed in brooding encaustic
Over worm-ravaged pearwood.
Yea, a time capsule
Of burr-prickled, horsehair inelegance.
Inside: Your travel itinerary,
Complete with ribald poems and travel postcards.
(Why bother to color the obvious?)
Its unraveling compelled me to join you,
Which, of course, is impossible.
Instead, I untapped a full case of Madeira
And, having emptied it some two days later,
Came to find Franklin, Churchill, and Gandhi
Playing draughts inside.
Enclosed please find one gramophone,
Some sinful Cossacks in authentic garb,
And some pithy proverbs concerning
Self-preservation.
Yours in the relative sense (nyuck nyuck),
Danny the Younger,
St. Petersburg
PS
Yes, one paints what one hears.
AFTERWARD
~~~~~~~~~
Dandeliar Charles Merrill Mount,
Née
Stanley Merrill Suchow,
Kicks up a shoeshine down San Francisco streets.
His cane is a cavalry saber.
Behind him,
Wind rattles his suit pockets,
Shakes lockets of confederate generals
and
daguerreotype scowls.
Stephen Carrie Blumberg,
Malodorous savant book bandit,
Pedals up hill in an ice cream wagon.
Hack saws, glass cutters and door knobs turn cartwheels,
Steal free from the deep freeze to dance in the sun.
Emperor Norton bows to Lord Buckley,
Who,
In turn
Bows to Thursday October Christian.
They exchange cards and courtesies in synchrony
With vinyl hiccups from the Tijuana Brass.
You fold your hands and take in the scenery,
The gentle-hearted pageantry, the last Big Three
Plus two middling Merrills
In this dandelion-garbage-dump-fruit-fly Yalta.
You say the model prayer by the Caltrain railroad tracks,
Even though there's no money in it, there’s no bottom line,
There’s no tax refund, there's no free gas for a year,
There’s no company car, and
There’s no executive office to be gleaned from it.
You have some sense of remorse for prying the stars from their settings in
the sky.
That was a bad left turn, Mr. Juke, for the sky took sick and covered its
hurt with a long, Black cowl.
BETTER THEY THAN THE SUITOR (ONE HOUR PAST THE PROMISED TIME)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A lonely damozel, puffing frumpish hrumphs of cankered resignation, casts
her icy glare at an innocent bouquet of camellias.
Down comes the samurai's sword! Ten snow-headed blossoms fall dead to the
floor.
lydia shutter
Flowing Currency
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my laborious shuffle through life
I found you
or perhaps you found me
both of us fish caught in a net of need
you read my coded messages better
than I can write them
sing my song louder than I ever will
and when darkness threatens
to shadow my world
you pay the piper
with the flowing currency of love.
Karen Pape
Blues Sonnet for a Blues Monday
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh let me have that little memory
Just let me have that little memory.
All I want you see is to be free
I'll take liberty when and where I can
Find liberty in every song I sing.
Drink tears like they're made of finest wine.
And when my liberty runs down the drain.
Yes, when freedom drizzles down that drain.
I'll still be singing the same old song.
Until that liberty coin's all long been spent
Yeah, until that liberty coin's been spent.
Then I'll hum a different melody.
And I'll linger long on the sweetest note.
Takes me back to this freedom song I wrote.
On Reading Shakespeare's Sonnets
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My lover's eyes were once summer sky.
Now they're leached of color, cloudy gray--
why does love take so long to end?
I cupped it in my palm for a time.
Now its flown to some warmer climate.
Maybe love grows cold, instead of old.
Maybe we must searth out Prometheus
and kindle love with fragile wood
and fire only an archetype can summon.
Yesterday's a blizzard in my heart.
I want remembrance to be blue.
Give me back my memories of joy.
My lover's eyes were once summer sky.
To Her Critic
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cleric: wearing hornrims as you sort
File after file; excuse I have used
Too many times. Patriarchal, you rise
Above my wild child, holding the art
Of her prisoner to your misuse.
But the madwoman, mysterious, wise,
Leaps from the girl and cries out in a rage
Of life that numbers every bruise
As coup. Critic, you'll learn to prize
The poet as master; or pace your cage,
Revised.
Marching toward the Dark
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The boy comes to me with an answer
to the question I hadn't asked his life.
He tells me he is marching toward the dark,
good night of the soul. How am I to talk
of once and future worlds, mandalas, griefs?
the boy comes to me with an answer.
We speak appointments of no consequence--
news of war, fires that people don't escape.
He tells me he is marching toward the dark,
this boy who speaks of art with wit, heart,
grace. (Routine, a friend said, both rod and staff)
the boy comes to me with an answer.
Poetry ensures immortality
the journey, the reason to believe.
He tells me he is marching toward the dark.
we all have and will confront, that stark
messenger mask, inexorable death.
The boy comes to me with an answer--
he tells me he is marching toward the dark.
Heather Ferguson
The abused woman
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The abused woman no longer speaks. She spins low-lying clouds into hair and
filaments of dream. Hawsers to bind memories to love. She follows
fog-bound coastlines, weaves a net to catch mist, harvests March winds,
never ventures far to open sea.
She plans escapes from towers. She remembers starless nights, unspeakable
tongues. She dreams of widows' walks and crows' nests. Hands twist into
burls. Elbows and knees root into dank muck, leaves sprout from her mouth,
nostrils. She drives her ship aground on fertile shores.
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 - 2006 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://users.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.
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