October 2008
VOL XVI, Issue 10, Number 186
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
Kristina Marie Darling
Les Fenetres
The Homecoming
The Patron
The Orchestra
The Death Watch Beetle
CONTENTS
John McKernan
THE TIP OF A SUNDIAL
THE COCKROACH ON THE CEILING
SPIRITUAL COMPASS
WHERE DO YOU CARRY YOUR PAIN?
Toby E. Baldwin
First Movement
Insecting
Specimens
Undulanthades
Peycho Kanev
spiritual kill
some non-important thoughts
Seasons in the abyss
Puppet on the string
save me the world
confession
Rose Grimaldi
Underground Cultivator
Thirty Years Old
Time Is Ben
Thirty Two Years Old
Mother
Thirty-four Years Old
Illuminate
Thirty-six Years Old
POST SCRIPTUM
A Clayton Eshleman Reader
Kristina Marie Darling
Les Fenetres
~~~~~~~~~~~~
We drive to a window factory and traverse its rooms, the summer night pale as
the steeple of a church. Behind each door, you dust locks, turn hinges,
dragging your signal flares and your phosphorus glow. A yellow light catches
spots in each pane as we count the saints on dim clerestories. Soon I ask,
one word at a time, mouthing into the watery dusk: Est-que je ne suis pas une
fenetre? You turn from the work, appalled, our reflections like sand burning
into glass. A porous moon stares through the doorframe. The locks say nothing.
The Homecoming
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once he returned from a long trip and found dozens of dead canaries. They
littered the terrace, his doorstep, every dirty windowsill, casting strange
yellow light and tiny shadows. That night he tried to clear the cobblestones
of their otherworldly debris, humming Dvorak and muttering to himself. A
coffee pot rattled in the kitchen. Then he stopped, leaving feathers to drift
in each corner, the old grey house still an homage to some other life.
The Patron
~~~~~~~~~~
Come in, the cellist said, showing her up a flight of dusty stairs. She
recalled the thin wooden railings from her last visit, when they found
canaries nesting in a cor ridor. Tonight, their song waxes with her
restlessness, ticking like a metronome into the dark blue night. At this the
musician begins to stare. He brushes their pale feathers from his tuxedo,
buttoning his long silk gloves. The woman rifles through her pocketbook.
The Orchestra
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My instrument is a splintered viola that no longer sounds. And its strings
snapped one by one, curling like vines into the greenish night. When the
connoisseur left, with his gold pocket watch and unsightly bifocals, every
concerto grew oddly dissonant. The conductor wanted nothing but to count
aloud. The halls still ring with the sound of his tally, a rapt audience
humming along.
The Death Watch Beetle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She can hear the ticking of the death watch beetle, boring through her
trellis like a miniature auger. On evenings like this, the woman keeps time
by the sound of snakflies grumbling across a colorless sky. And when their
buzzing swells in her tired ears, she fastens the latch on every window,
recoiling. Her house still hums with shrill opera. As she sleeps, the song
grows louder and more dissonant.
John McKernan
THE TIP OF A SUNDIAL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Can pick
Any lock
Peel
The muscle
From any bone
At noon before siesta
My shadow hides
Inside a tiny scar on my lip
Seeps into dust as I snore
With the dream
Of sleep
In full daylight Where
Each eye is packed with imitation midnight
Wrapped tight in skin
THE COCKROACH ON THE CEILING
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Is modeling Lenin's
Underwear
No That is a forelock of
Robespierre's wig
You silly screw
Can't you tell
Mao's right testicle
From his left ear?
If some of us pray now
It's a prayer
For the laser knife
To slice certain ideas
From our skulls
SPIRITUAL COMPASS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nothing appears at the edge
Of the plate It's been there
All day beside a dead ant
The nun wants to pray
It away but she is lonely
Perhaps a door slams loud or
A tone in the intersection
Of shadow interests her
Having learned how many
Colors of green & blue there
Are to love in this world
"Perhaps I could become
A dictionary" she says
"I know the meaning
Of some words so thoroughly
No one need turn a page"
At that moment she opens
Her hands her eyes her lips
When a bell clangs overhead
"I thought I did but no
I do not want the stigmata"
She tells her confessor
At lunch "I want music
And a small garden to hoe"
WHERE DO YOU CARRY YOUR PAIN?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do you stash it
In a safe deposit box
Lug it beneath a bruise
The color of an eggplant
In an ear or a hip or inside an ankle
Is there any room Any empty space
Inside your body
That could be loaded
With more memory of additional pain?
Look over there That starving old man
With the large bloody spoon in his paw
Bending to a bowl of alphabet soup
He will only pick out and eat the O's
He says he can hear them scream in Braille
Toby E. Baldwin
First Movement
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When,
In
Autumn,
The
Trees
Are
Bending
And
I
Am
Sleeping
In
Bed
With
You
And
You
Are
Sleeping
In
Bed
With
Me,
All
Our
Windows
Are
Full
Of
Light
And
I
Am
Pretending
To
Dream,
Then
It
Is
Spring
In
Our
Arms
And
We
Are
About
Ourselves
Suddenly
Thrown,
And
The
Whole
World
Is
Again
And
Again
Moving.
When
The
Wood
Around
The
Fire
Is
Gathered
And
We
Are
Lit
By
The
Light
Of
Laughter,
And
The
Trees
Are
Bending
Down
To
Me
And
I
Am
Bending
Down
To
You,
Then
We
Are
Again
And
Again
Suddenly
Sleeping.
Insecting
~~~~~~~~~
Its hinged body bent
a wing of blue
light,
then
dangled in the
air like a
bell
before it
fell
and was swallowed by the room.
Specimens
~~~~~~~~~
I.
Autumn's falling leaves Wind Through
Slow fog sighing in trees' reaching
Limbs,
That whisperingly leaning in: Shhh.
II.
The tree roots,
Leaves,
Breeze,
And branches move.
III.
When moving trees
Leaflessly bend,
Flowers
Folding in wind fall.
IV.
In sadness flowers bloom,
From dirt roots move
Through,
Leaning to grow.
Undulanthades
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In waking hours of lost attention to pillows of fro
st and moon. Light windows through to sheets smooth and up
set. A dream frog slapping its wet belly against the sudden sid
ewalk, and then the forest wakes in shimmering long oaks b
ending in moving wind and I don't want to walk away from thi
s dream and wake up falling asleep in your car trying to find it
again.
Peycho Kanev
spiritual kill
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
hatred in the air
my love must crawl wherever
it can crawl
eyes deep into mine
heavy breaths
screaming
my love crawl
please,
let me be me
let you be you
let them have you
let me
be.
some non-important thoughts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
yes, I drink a lot
but I am not a drunkard
I am drinker
and my liver don't like it
and my kidneys too
but my soul love it
I consider my self some sort of a poet
and maybe that's why I need the stuff so much
but there are so many of them
poets, poets, poets
and almost everybody write
even their girlfriends
yes, and I love to sit here
with my legs stretched on the couch
to listen to this sad sad songs
and to pour down in my belly these bottles of wine
and I also love
to eat olives and avocado
to wear black
not to watch TV
but most of all I love to sleep on my left side
I don't care for the elections
and for the miss America
I just swim with the sharks here in this game
but there are so many of them
poets, poets, poets
and they write non-stopping
even their girlfriends
but I could drunk them down, baby
oh yes, and they girlfriends too
they give me sicknesses and toothache
they make me dizzy and confused
they make me disgusted and angry
and now I can't even sleep on my left
side.
Seasons in the abyss
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the moon is high again and full like
a Turkish lira
our silence fall harder on the rocks
in our hearts fulfilled by the dark
your hand in mine
we walk
our pace
our heart beat
and soon enough our sweat
but right now
we reach the empty harbor
then we see the fire camp light and
like lost mosquitoes
we go towards it
there are 3 old fishermen
they all nod at us with a smile
do you remember?
and we sit by the fire
and one of them reaches in his torn
back pack and bring out big demijohn
full of blood red wine
and you took just a tiny sip
and I took big gulps
oh these 3 old fishermen
with their beautiful wrinkled old faces
with their toothless smiles
they told us stories about the sea
they told us parables about horror and death
and we listen in stupor
I put my hands against your face
and when I divide them
your face is two perfect moons.
do you remember?
I try to do the same now
alone in my dilapidated room
reaching with my hands for the moon
but when I bring them together
nothing is changed here
just this unbearable harsh darkness
and I _
Puppet on the string
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember the time
I don't remember anything
there was year after year
and many moons after the suns
many kisses
roses
fights
churches
museums
funerals
weddings
birthdays
wars
bombs and
bombs again
I remember everything
and I don't remember you
can you tell one fly from
one angry panther?
one white cloud
one heart in barb wire
one dried lips
one dried sheet
one_
kill them softly
and pet them on their beautiful tails
and then jump from the bridge
this poem becomes silent for ever.
save me the world
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
drinking
pints and pints
of cheap Italian wine
drinking with my friends
under this naked light bulb
in that small room
only one table
ramshackle walls
and the roaches crawl on our
bare feet
we talk about
the next rent
the next job
the lost loves
the loneliness
the happiness
the moon
the death
drunk
I think
is this world failed us all
or
just some lives are made to be wasted?
confession
~~~~~~~~~~
behind the shades
hiding from the sun
I think of agony when there's nothing
better to do
with empty bottle of wine and out of
cigarettes
I think of pain when the love is gone
away
and while other man go to work
in searching of their hairy fat dreams
and some perfect girls make love at 8 am
I look at the carpet
redder from my blood
and I put a smile on my face
like a relentless tarantula
I look at the crack on the wall
and I say:
Hey, where the life goes
when it stops?
Rose Grimaldi
Underground Cultivator
Thirty Years Old
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He is plump - full and fat - with a long, smooth
and reddish- brown body that slithers like a snake
and gurgles like a worm.
Underground so deep in the fertile earth -
in his own tunnel winds through other dark tunnels, which he makes around -straight
ahead - while he airs the earth for many miles more.
Ingenious is this little worm who -burrows many channels in the earthy dirt - by mixing
old sun dried leaves, rich soil, and his own mucus for the new earth. Small in size -
the earthworm is large for earth's ecology
Time Is Ben
Thirty Two Years Old
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Many white opal pieces that look like colored stained glass in church
encompass the faces of Ben, with bordered gilded gold surrounds the faces
that shine as the sun strikes the edifice so grand. Ben protrudes to greet
the open sky and Ben spans spaciously wide like an oversized couch.
The sun's intensity subsides during the sunset; a diminutive amber hue
reflects on Big Ben's tannish-brown stone brick facing - up to the clock in
a funnel shaped charcoal iron frame to summit stick atop. Masses who are so
inspired by the master grandfather clock engulf its antiquity in Gothic d‚cor
with all the royalty, priority, and formality that Ben's momentous appearance
bestows to the observers.
Obedient Londoners serve their Queen and bow to her command - Big Ben serves
her majesty as he permanently stands patient awaiting her pronouncement. Big
Ben - a rusty copper bell persists, for the sound it resonates on the hour;
melodic chimes on the quarter.
Londoners on a misty night sometimes expect mystery and intrigue. Mystery of
a perilous nature continues always, for Scotland Yard still solves murders
today, as Sherlock Holmes solved cases in the past eras. Even now present day,
in the distant obscured dark evening, - a towering, tall figure appears
motionlessly still, but only the eerie clock eyes illuminate in a bright,
beguiling yellow glow - which peer down on a shadow passing by like a
startling Halloween night. Fear! - Fear not, - it is only Big Ben overseeing
people from afar and ready to ring the eleven o'clock hour.
Time is timeless -it just lingers around us - lurking behind us. It reappears
when punctuality is summoned by the two hammers of Ben ringing - since time
is yesterday, today and tomorrow. Time is always.
Mother
Thirty-four Years Old
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun is shocked like the walls that are canary yellow
in early morning and breakfast.
In soft conversation we continue; she encourages me.
Coffee sweetened with sugar we share - one cup, maybe two.
Caruso`s voice is honeyed golden.
Words I learn - that we may sing along.
arms open. She touches my face,
eyes so bright and blue that broaden.
As the small lady crouches down to pull the covers.
Lowered down close to me,
Is that smile, the thank you my mother seeks?
Illuminate
Thirty-six Years Old
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gray darkness creeps to night as
the orange sky slips. Vibrant moonlight
appeals as glow worms appear. Around in
circles glow worms do hover while they too
catch mates or morsels. They hide in the
gray ledge crevices in green wet marshes,
for glow worms do blink their blue tails.
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 - 2008 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.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions: kgerken@synapse.net
