INTRODUCTION
MOSHE BENARROCH
Strip poetry
CONTENTS
RICHARD FEIN
WRECKAGE MAN
THE BEAUTY OF BLOODY MOTION
THE RHINOCEROS
SQUINTING TOWARD THE LIGHT
FAME ELUSIVE
CROSSCURRENTS
JOHN HORVATH JR.
THE MOON
MOSES
RAINS
BOY DISCOVERS LUST, ITS PURPOSE, AFTER THE FUNERAL OF HIS MOTHER
RAVENS IN THE FIELD
JOHN SWEET
the poem is only a means of killing time
driving nails through the heart of hope
in the frozen ground
if the door is love
rumors of forgiveness
WARD KELLEY
The Struggle to Relax
A Pulse
Silent Guards
POST SCRIPTUM
RICHARD FEIN
THE NIHILIST CREATIONIST POEM
MOSHE BENARROCH
Strip poetry
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pour it down words like tears words like waves
pour it down until it bleeds people love the blood
not the words not the world behind them
pour it down till there is no more coagulated blood in your veins, poor
it down until there is no more sounds, no more throat, poor it down like
an orange juice, like lemons from caves, like olives without oil, poor
it down until you have no more words, poor it down, pour it until you
have nothing left,
they want you naked, naked not only from your clothes
naked from your skin, naked from your bones, naked from your hormones,
they want you transparent, bleeding and invisible,
dead and non-existent, they want you all and nothing
you are never good enough for the fearful frustrated
you have never gone far enough while they have never left their room
and you have traveled the moon, but no it's not enough
castrate yourself, but it's not enough cut your finger your hand until
you can't write
but you've not gone far enough amputate your legs until you can't walk
but it's not far enough
this is the new circus of poetry we want you famous and unknown, we want
you killed by a fascist, dying of cancer, dying in car accidents, we
will interview you again and again
but we won't read your poems until you are dead, we want to interview
you
about your divorces, your terminal illness, your mother and how she used
to beat you
about your father who raped you, poets do it, it's the striptease of
poetry,
poetry of the striptease, you want publicity don't you, you have to do
it
and people will read you, get drunk, get beaten, get busted, beat
someone, get some news,
be a whore, be a pimp, fuck your own mother, we love you but we won't
read your poems,
be a killer, we will interview you, we will praise you, be unknown and
be famous,
you are selling out man, you are selling out way before you can sell a
book,
you are selling out and selling in, sailing out and sailing away from
humanity.
RICHARD FEIN
WRECKAGE MAN
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saw him when I was ten,
a geezer, curmudgeon, suzerain over the usual junkyard dog.
Torn undershirt, gray hairs on chest, big muscular arms
can of beer, many cans.
Wasn't really a junkyard, the old man dealt in used auto parts;
salvaged what he could from broken wrecks,
those driven down to scrap or crushed by oncoming traffic.
I snuck through a hole in the fence.
My sneakers were blackened with engine oil.
I navigated through rusty hulks, tetanus perched on every sharp edge,
came out of the maze and was face to face
with the geezer and his dog.
Froze rigor mortis stiff.
The dog reared up and growled.
The junkyard king sat tall on his porch, rocking chair throne.
I awaited, "sic him."
But like a magnanimous Caesar he dismissed his fanged henchman
with a flick of his wrist.
He rose and went through the torn screen door, and out again,
with a bike, a ten-speeder, for me, for keeps.
He said come again but through the front entrance.
I rode away, never having spoken a word.
Found out later from the neighborhood,
that Moe once had a ten-year-old son
who never rode it, rheumatic fever.
Moe had bought the bike and put it by his bed,
to lure him up, to lure him up.
I never returned. And as I rode away I realized,
he was not like a Caesar, his eyes were too sunken and red,
and his voice was too low for such a big man.
Never went through the front gate but often rode by
as the lot filled with beer cans, and beer cans,
till it was all swept away for a shopping mall.
Then I'd dodge cars in the mall parking lot.
I knew then as I swerved my speeding bike left and right,
I never could have been his fantasy son.
Had to, had to
never again go through that gate.
Never thanked him, never can now.
RICHARD FEIN
THE BEAUTY OF BLOODY MOTION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saw the birds against the July sun
through squinting eyes shielded by my hands.
The hawk descended and I heard
the last shrill cooing, the triumphant cawing.
The pigeon ceased flying its own course,
as the hawk flew a perfect downward parabola
with the tip of the trajectory touching the prey.
A seamless conic section,
for the rising curve was also smooth.
The talons held the dead bird tightly,
and the hawk never wavered in its ascent.
The raptor flew,
flew until only sky and clouds remained to be seen.
Eons of evolution perfected this geometry of motion,
this perfect kill.
I confess an attraction for such skill.
Even a chicken slaughterer holds me wide-eyed
if the blade is deftly flicked.
A sleek fighter jet firing a silvery missile to a fiery explosion
makes me forget that someone may be the burning target.
A well-done public execution would draw a sell-out audience,
and with my collar pulled over my face, I'd follow the mob.
Museums display art.
But art is not only the static and tangible,
but also the dynamic and ephemeral.
And movement can be toward awesome horror.
A boxer's well-landed punch is as controlled as a ballerina's dance.
The beauty of bloody motion is an artistry of thrill and trepidation,
an ethical teaser creating an inability to hide the eyes,
even if they must stare directly at the July sun.
RICHARD FEIN
THE RHINOCEROS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first
the mother rhinoceros
tolerates
the calf butting her belly.
To the calf,
her thick underside is shelter
and from her teats always
comes milk.
But
as days pass
no longer
will she allow
the impatient gnawing.
Now
they must walk
side by side,
a distance is between them.
But
should a hyena or lion
tease, taunt the babe away,
then
the earth shakes, a dust cloud is raised;
the impaled foe
is tossed away
by a backward thrust of her horny head.
The calf
creeps under her bloody snout.
Months pass
and another
calf drops to the ground from her womb.
Should the older brother
approach his mother,
she will charge at him.
He, wounded,
head bowed, grunting,
wanders away.
Never
do they travel far,
and finally
years later
he will pass by her
(her hide peeling off her bones)
and shove the debris aside
to eat the grass.
RICHARD FEIN
SQUINTING TOWARD THE LIGHT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Race faster daddy so we can meet the sun."
I speed along the highway, the sun visor down.
"Faster daddy, faster. Beat the sun.
Ahead there must be a place to meet,
where we can stop and watch the sun
come down from heaven and wave goodbye to it.
And we can wait all night for it to come up again,
then we can yell and clap when we see it in the morning
and maybe shake hands with it."
This is logic of my five-year-old.
"Faster daddy,"
but I'm at my limit now.
"Faster daddy."
I reply, "No one can beat the sun."
"Not even a racing car, daddy?"
"No."
"A fire engine?"
"No."
"A plane?"
"No."
"A super big plane?"
"Nothing on earth can go fast enough to meet the sun,
nothing.
The faster you come close, the faster it races away
If you keep trying, you'll run in a big circle,
ending exactly where you began.
And the sun won't be any closer,
though after trying so hard you'll probably
make believe it's nearer."
He answers with only,
"But daddy, can't we just try?"
RICHARD FEIN
FAME ELUSIVE
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Everyone has their fifteen minutes, according to Warhol.
I haven't.
No paparazzo has ever flashed me on the street.
In my high school orchestra, I was told to play only the triangle.
I went naked once, years ago, but it was at a hippie happening so everyone
was.
I can sit in a restaurant every day and draw in no ogling customers.
I often sign my name, but payees simply cash my checks.
No one would forgo payment just for my autograph.
I can date whomever I want and set no tongues waging.
Even my dates keep forgetting my name.
I tried putting up my picture on a post office wall,
but I was covered over by a poster for an Elvis commemorative stamp.
Every passing year will make it harder to fit my measly minutes
into the remainder of my life.
My quarter-of-an-hour entitlement, if it comes, will last a lifetime.
The funeral will be next day.
The cleric hired to recite my eulogy will endure tongue-tied forgetfulness;
after all, an entire twenty-four hours will have passed.
Thereafter I will go where my two ex-wives told me to go.
But if one peruses the Bible, one finds no humans named as being there.
Sure Dysmas is up above, but the roster for below seems blank--
not Hitler, not even my ex-wives.
Down there I'd be famous only to you-know-who,
but he'd be red faced after forgetting my name.
Without a crowd to blend into, I'd suffer perpetual stage fright.
My personal, perfect hell--
itching for the spotlight and sweating away to nothing if in it.
Unfortunately for me, unique sin is as elusive as singular virtue,
so I will not rule in hades or be its only citizen to be ruled.
If I qualify for upstairs, then given my middling voice,
I'll be stuck in the back of the choir.
One must create one's own solace.
I'll write my own three-line obituary
and mail it in advance to the South Flatbush Advertiser.
There, on the same page as Jack's used car deals and Sister Tanya's love
potions,
will be my name, date of birth, cemetery location,
and the proud declaration that I was neither famous nor infamous.
RICHARD FEIN
CROSSCURRENTS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I curse, cradle him.
How dare he wither to such a state
that the bathroom recedes to light year distances?
That fecal smell, he averts his dimming eyes.
I give him a rare kiss.
"A man's a man," he always said,
but now pain parts the curtains of our proprieties.
"A man's a man," once with one arm
he picked up a seven year old who had scraped his knee,
"A man's a man," he said
and no tears dared come from me.
But now the crumpled bed sheet pinching his back brings groans.
On the back of his hand, five freckled spots
have measured his age with an ever darkening hue.
I link hands and see my inheritance;
his fingers part around the same design
that now faintly dawns in my skin.
I jerk my hand away.
Now mother comes, I yield my place.
Ever tidy, even now, I see her silhouette
against the sterile hospital lamp.
Napkins here, water glass there,
"Damn it woman for thirty years you've never stopped."
Then he winks at me and touches her.
Their arms link to form an L
which half frames the lamp
that now glares much too brightly.
JOHN HORVATH JR.
THE MOON
~~~~~~~~
It was as far as anyone could go, where
we went further than we could dream.
No one knew this Barstow or if he was a man.
The company bought slag from the steel mills
and crushed the slag into cinders. In Whiting,
Indiana, there is a place where tons of slag and
cinders wait some unknown purpose, and we there
called that mounded place "the moon"
and I was the first man on the moon--
or so I believed as each before me himself had believed.
Along 129th, a chuckholed street that stretched the nerves
of pockmarked boys first time outing with someone-else's
silly little sister, across from widescreen doublefeatured
Outdoor 41 theater with its bias against NashRambler wagons
whose backseats folded into beds, at Barstow's
she and I mouthed the hollywood dialog we believed in
on a moonscape of slaghilled majesty under a red moon
with a first bud I kept between my thighs the terror
of childhood touching the man in me swollen beyond
the banks of my flesh. And she asked whether I loved her,
could love her after, did now love and would forever--
her! like in the movie whose hands and lips had led here,
like James Dean loved speed or Autry loved his horse--
until the credits rolled I would say a sly "of course."
In that place of Yes who hadn't loved that role of "yes,
I love you" in the part of earth I called home and added
"like a neighbor"; so very little could then satisfy and
make my eyes widen like at Christmas a gift receiver
says I will cherish the moment but the gift will forget
or a child who rips into the gaudy package forgets
so soon the bright gift but always having received
remembers the package and the joy of destruction
Yes, I do. For the reception of joy and the guilt thereafter.
When a same moon hangs above rotgut bars I'll swagger
into and I say to the sissified bartender "gimme the same"
it's not a drink that I'll be after. It's memory of your
quick gift and your sigh that go down real smooth--
not hot burning whiskey, not the ones who came after,
nor the ripened stem caressed, nor the red wine of youth
but I myself so vulnerable sure I could again and again
as if the celluloid film never fades: "Gimme another!"
To a similar woman I might now ask whether there's love
for the first time loss, and is it that which feeds the snake
to involuntary majesty, or whether the nub rub stub
has a kind of selflove all its own and wants to be petted
as it had been down the street from the moon on the front
porch of another I sometimes forget
who drank with me grandfather's brew
and I am convinced again it is a potion,
a magic in the juices of a pink place between thighs
more potent the younger that gives us all our parts,
like a glue in the bloodstream you never wash off,
the jumping soundtrack on the edge of the film,
the sprockets and sprocket holes that must meet.
Life since is encountering moments of terror,
the women who stood in Chicago against streetposts
or the slippery redlights of Calumet encounters
precursor to evenings in taverns foreign and sleazy
for boys in the manhood of armor on short leave
with a wallet of money and government issue
protection against being captured, for propriety
or some far-away thought kingdom where god
keeps a clipboard full of the notches we carve
wedlocked or out. And it is always someone-else's
silly little sister scratching her ass on the cinders
Will I tell it among the tongues of boys gathered at drive-ins
their engines revving loud boasts of conquests to come,
craving for numbers that all such share, shall I say that I had
known joy as much as terror of parents who terrified others
repentant for crimes against someone-else's little sisters=20
whose white panties serve memory as spirits of dim times--
Yes, every city, every farm has its place is all I say and time
where and when the inches of boyhood are stretched
either by hand or by lip into manhood full of consent
and regret. And I as much regret sisters I hadn't as had
and I regret the moment's hesitation, seeming rejection,
the sleep incurred and lost through love and the moon
round as a youngbud cheek unhinged in the sky. I must regret
the changing of reels and the burning of film. Oh Yes, I regret
that red drops from the moon replenish the earth and the slag
stained with the time of change along 129th Street at midnight
now smothers the crabgrass alongside some highschool track
and I regret that there could have been Black girls from Gary,
Harbor girl latinas to share such a night with me or another
some time ago at Barstow but our moments are cinders spread
on some highway long ago to break up wintry ice, spread
on some track to build up the traction, or over a sidewalk
to keep old legs from going out and I cannot remember
the color of her face or her name or the time speeding
from boy into man. If ever while passing I look at my feet
and there are the red stains well then it's only a notch
nothing more, like the moment in Denton on leave from
the business of war with the stranger against a fence,
or it's the passing through Denver after the war
with someone-else's still very young sister
one or the other, a notch then another
Daughters, come away from the slaghills, a bed is awaiting,
the children must hurry from stems to their nesting.
JOHN HORVATH JR.
MOSES
~~~~~
Moses with a monkey-wrench
who brought us here with overtime
who died of overworked loneliness
before we placed one foot
upon his promised land--we
who proved ourselves untainted
with disease, non-Bolsheviki,
and still quite sane--
we honor you so we remain
to die in this land of milk
and careless wealth.
Ah Moses, if you knew them
as we know, would you return
to take us home, There
is no going home for us
(the axis of the planet
tilts just so the sunset
is--forever--in the west).
JOHN HORVATH JR.
RAINS
~~~~~
Window
Cicadas in the trees
Stars patterning behind clouds
A full moon
open
Flooded river
Cicadas in the trees
Stars behind clouds
Water
sparkle
You there,
Where might you be going
On a night like this
I want to have loved
You before we drown
I'll call once more
From this window
Smoke a cigarette
Watch clouds roil
and think of the rain
that swells the river
JOHN HORVATH JR.
BOY DISCOVERS LUST, ITS PURPOSE, AFTER THE FUNERAL OF HIS MOTHER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the Sea of Angels 'mid the wing'd singing harp trees that ring that
sea
Near Jesustown and Christianville whose folk despise their place of
birth
Here was I remade and born a man upon the moment of my mother's death
Where vessels cast upon the waves as seraphs sang and hers burnt bright
On ebbing tide toward sunset beneath a heavensky a sliver yet still
green
There held my father's giant fist in mine, my fingers narrow as a dream.
The land we learn is never what we seem to think: it has a life; it
grows;
It ages though we seem to age upon its ageless face. The sea, it knows.
It knows that all starts here, or ends; It is the same.
For each of us the same on sameless seamless shore
Whose motley and each grain of sand unique is not.
In vagabondage, thralls to travel, as hobo baggage, hence we came--
Farmers off their stillborn fields, sailors from their saltless seas,
Harlequins and harlots, each and all entranced upon a second chance
Thought this new place (a newness centuries retained in every name)
Would be again their home but not their homes--unique but not.
Descendants of those dreamers, these
Who with me stand and watch the sunset
flames meet my mother's pyreskiff,
Cargo too, expected somewhere; and them, expecting to know, a cargo cult
Of sea and waves and trees, the land that 'round us each and all does
dance
A dervish faster and faster yet until the very rocks our whence forget
(Forget that once we stood and once we watched
and once we plotted journeys to the stars).
The sun had set; the stars shone bright within their stark and empty
space.
O what are heaven's stars but specks of dream,
lights that once begun to move
Now random move without purpose through emptiness like adolescent love
Which moves from one unto a next and soon forgets the first; it is a
thirst
To leave behind, a hunger not to be consumed, a selfless overfull with
self
Like waves upon the sea a moment meet the land,
return, then call again upon the rock.
We leave behind; but, for us now, being left behind remains a mortal
shock.
Until unless we realize: It all starts here, or ends; It is the same.
Along the Sea of Angels, all around, our anchored flags we strewn to
wave;
And, waving, those banners beckon each of us take up that breath and
move
Again, to find some still yet newer place that we shall never leave.
A vagabond, an emigre, a gypsy, tramp or trek: each some freedom
has we like to calculate and so convince ourselves against a truth:
we fear to live
In one place long--the earth will rise, the land must fade,
the very sea does shift.
Which way the breeze? What weather comes? How will the harvest be?
With whom has wed? Who's given birth? Those gathered with me ask, numb
To the sanctity of death, the questions prime it bids us ask;
They query 'round me mundane acts of life
Which give no pleasure but in the habit of them suggest the second
chance:
We shall return if not with her then as with her return--to flaming
dust--
Like cosmic lights that shine without a source, those fires like our
Edens
spent and long ago died out.
It all starts here, or ends. It is the same.
This NOW extends. This moment ramifies,
Suggests a start or end. It surely signifies.
Another gathering for asking without answer, another line comely wrought
though forced and lacking serious intent,
Another hormone-burdened boy, idolator of Me, I take in mine
the hand of some simple woman's child,
A daughter of a baker or a chef, and say (as if to make her mine),
"come lay awhile; console
Me in my grief--we are so nearly one in grief--upon this stretch of sand
Where stars, my mother on the sea, the sea, the waves, the trees, the
land
And dreams have met and for a moment mine eternally unchanged be mine."
Soul into soul a first time looks, into the cataclysmic moment of
design,
Before first place where firsts together took first liberties to entwine
(As lovers always look, we looked). She took my hand, caressed my
cheek,
Kissed me gently with her expertise; weakly, I returned an awkward kiss.
It all starts here, or ends. It is the same. It is a moment not to
miss.
Farmboys fertile as their fields,
as fruitful as the pitching seas young tars
With portgals go about, and harlequins with harlots take the chance--once
No, once Not this time, Not in this place, This love--
it smells of permanence.
Cargo's how we all begin; as cargo on an unknown sea is how we all
began.
There is no manifest; the craft has unknown name when as cargo we began.
And many, like the light of stars whose flames have died,
too late we do arrive to find
That no one waits. Expect nothing here nor there: No one and nothing--
it all--several and each--it has been left behind.
Neither hope, desire none, nor love. I've learned--
just leave behind all that's been left.
JOHN HORVATH JR.
RAVENS IN THE FIELD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little flurries of the field,
wehrmacht in the corn
Deep gouges in the road
rise toward cloudlessness
from the field
past the burnt barn
No cirrus reflected in the deep
blue wells of her eyes,
Where we had met
smile like a red ribbon
little milk maid
startled by raven eyes
The rye around us hidden
in the wave of summer
The jet black of her hair
fallen with a lost kite string
whipping back as she ran
toward the red evening
When my father first brought me
to these fields he said, "here The fields
alive with flames
is your life; your life's work"
ravens too fat to chase
the little mice running
Mama let me taste bread dough
from her fingertip-- And
the huge noise of canon
egg, flour, vinegar.
thump thump
like mother kneading.
JOHN SWEET
the poem is only a means of killing time
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
driving slowly
across the moonscape
this town becomes
in january
driving blind into
this afternoon glare filtered
through a skin's thickness
of grime and road salt
and is there anything here
that really needs
to be said?
has this life been nothing but
one unending afternoon
filled with the missing fathers
i called my friends?
and maybe
the sons of these men
will grow up happy or maybe
they'll just grow up to express
their anger with the same
tightly balled fists that
marked their mothers
maybe the daughters
will disappear
will repeat the
mistakes of their pasts
and there is nothing profound
in revealing the obvious
the poem is
only a means of killing time
until the light turns
green
the things
that truly matter were
never meant to be defined
by words
JOHN SWEET
driving nails through the heart of hope
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
these things i do
that
make my wife cry
these days i waste
trying to capture ideas
too fragile to
pin down
there is
no particular moment where
habit becomes addiction
but the streets are
full of junkies
the children
have no food and
their fathers have lost the war
and the eye of god is a
sun gone cold
all of this despite
the paved driveways and
vinyl siding
and so innocent men are
nailed to flat expanses
of midwest landscape
are left to contemplate
the choices they've made but
end up dying
unwilling martyrs to
worthless causes and i
will not take the blame
for all of this pain
i will not speak out
to save anyone found
driving nails through
the heart of hope
there needs to
be a point where
beauty becomes the
only thing that
matters
JOHN SWEET
in the frozen ground
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dog on
a short leash in
an empty back yard
the first snow of
the season
wars are fought for less
every day
hands cut off and
planted in
the frozen ground
and a man i know
says my words cut
too deep
prescribes christ
like an addict
and the dog has
no food
no water
and the house
is covered with dust
maps are consulted
and
bombs are dropped
cages are built
for the pregnant women
we've
moved beyond the need
for reasons
JOHN SWEET
if the door is love
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
if the door is love
then the hand
is what?
and who was it that
built this house
and why?
these are
the questions born
from fear
from sitting alone in
cold motel rooms
while the sun fails to
escape the clouds
while the child
murders
the parents
and east
is one solution and
west
another
the highway and
all the lives destroyed
to reach this simple
place in time
but first the
door
first
the hand
cold and moving
blindly through empty
space until it finds
something solid
maybe a way
out
JOHN SWEET
rumors of forgiveness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
trains
where there
should only be
flatness
men caught
beneath
them
violence
then rust
then rumors of
forgiveness
buildings
planted
fertilized and
grown tall
and always
the steady scream
of machinery
the lakes
poisoned
the babies
deformed
no one willing
to hold them
to sing
the song of
america
and what else
to do
but laugh when \the planes
crash into the
ocean?
and god
how we dance
WARD KELLEY
The Struggle to Relax
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somewhere at the core of the matter,
zeroed down into an essence of
carnality, there, there, at the heart
of our breathing souls, we will find,
I believe, I am sure, I know, a truth.
Why we cannot see it without dying,
I do not know; it certainly does not
seem just or fair that we should die,
but it is in the nature of this world
that no poem can ever reveal to all
of us what lies beyond the rim of death
as succinctly as science or religion reveal
most of their truths, yet it is the poem in
which I have placed my faith, the faith
of one who would secretly hope there is
some good reason for us all to struggle
on and on, in our simple endeavors, in
our anxiety of breathing in and out,
hardly ever stopping to seek a poem
that reveals the heart of the soul, the little
beast who forever throbs and beats away at
the discords and fears that swirl around
it, beating, beating, in the whiffy aftermath
of all this flesh: the beast hints this is all to
some great purpose, so relax until you die.
WARD KELLEY
A Pulse
~~~~~~~
The sane are always only a few pulses
from the crazed, for it is a hard path
to view the world as benign, and not
an instrument for eventual deterioration.
Can we really find fault with all our
idiosyncrasies, all the odd diversities
us human beings have found to deter
the final realization that we are mortal.
We fight against it every day, for some
intuition says once we admit it we begin
to die more swiftly, so it is better to try
to ignore all the signs that we are not meant
to be, for long, not meant to inhabit these
poor bodies who foliate slowing into wind.
So is it sane, or is it not, to ponder this task
of living, ponder it by poem, the eye of
intuition, who tells me in the recesses
of the soul, the lid to the eye, which opens
from time to time to see this body is just
a shell, a home? And when the hermit crab
has grown beyond the capacity of his body,
he must then discard it, allow it to go vacant
and unused, drop it to the bottom of the sea,
a grave, while he searches out the next pulse.
WARD KELLEY
Silent Guards
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rebels separated the men from women,
placing them in different, roughly-made
barracks while they awaited disposition . . .
most of us feared our execution.
Exercise yards were defined by barbed
wire which looped from the barrack,
enclosing a muddy, grassless ground
where we captives trudged and smoked.
It happened in the corral -- as the guards
called the female exercise yard -- where
the youngest, most comely, women, maybe
seven or eight of them, held hands, joined
in a ring, ring-around-the-rosey, then slowly
rotated their circle of humans in the sun;
some of us men drew near our wire
as we tried to peer into their purpose . . .
on the third rotation, without a signal,
they removed their shirts then rejoined
hands. We shouted, and abruptly all men
pressed into the wire, our arms reaching
toward the unattainable; the guards ignored
us, mesmerized by these girls who now
removed their bras. We shouted again
and again, but the women kept their eyes
fastened on each other as pairs of breasts,
untanned, revolved around and around, just
beyond the silent guards, far beyond our hands,
around and around, an act of graceful beauty
and great bravery in this sad place where
we might very well meet our deaths today . . .
these women have found the courage to defy
the fates who predict our lives go straight,
from beginning to end.
RICHARD FEIN THE NIHILIST CREATIONIST POEM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This universe is colored writer's block white, not bridal, virginal white, but filler white, an annoying glare that just takes up space. Genesis has it framed like a photo negative. This universe was not born from darkness. That first decree was, "Let there be dark, and let the inky blackness dot the white." For the Supreme Author, the would be writer of the first sentence, had thought of nothing original after an eternity of pondering. All was blank, an absolute blank. What made matters worse was the realization that if He had come up with anything at all it would have been, by definition, original. Panic gripped Him, for if nothing came out, could there be nothing inside? He needed something, anything, on paper. Thus He decreed a cosmic dappling of dark characters on the blinding white void. Now look around you, characters of his creation, does His plot make any sense? No, we're all the fruit of a grand doodle across an infinite celestial page. This universe is His first effort, a promising but still sophomoric try. Our common prayer should be an end to artistic inspiration, a writer's block of infinite duration, for if inspired our Author would crumple up this embarrassing doggerel and pitch it. Then he'd put a new sheet in His metaphorical typewriter which would pound out a much better script, preferably on paper colored an eye-soothing light blue.
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://users.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines and
alt.centipede
* 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://users.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 - 2001 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.
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:
