June 2008
VOL XVI, Issue 6, Number 182
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
Gila Heller
Daddy, I Met a Boy Today
CONTENTS
Tammy Ho Lai-ming
HER EDITOR
JOHN GAVE RACHEL A BOOK
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
HIS PENIS
Dan Gallik
Pharmacy
Females And Their Ideas Of The Purposes Of Babies
The Good News On 52 Cable Channels
In Our House We Have An Automatic Shower Cleaner
You're Lucky If You Get 20 Minutes From The Medical Community
Jeff Spahr-Summers
Vultures
yaka mountain
Fear of deadlines
forgiveness
The Bogeyman
Anthony Nannetti
A FATHER'S PRAYER
TRANSPARENCY
Walter Ruhlmann
#4
#5
I AMNESIAS
II TURPITUDES
III NAIVETY
#6
Tellis Yae
1. The Mitten Ghost.
2. I Don't Know Better
3. I get so confused.
Priya Sankaran.
The Kitchen Guard
Femme Veena
POST SCRIPTUM
Ursula Tillmann
I am
Gila Heller
Daddy, I Met a Boy Today
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You would have liked him-
intelligent, handsome, and ambitious.
I knew him already;
we were friends,
the threads of our lives entwined
past the knot in mine
where yours ended.
But I never really met him
until today.
I want to tell you, Daddy,
how we embraced
as the moon turned its
bright face
upon us.
Were you there, too?
Did you see us, Daddy?
I wish you could shake his hand
and ask him
about his plans for college.
You could tell him
about how you met Mommy.
We could all have dinner.
But, Daddy,
this boy's thread
has pulled away from mine.
They are only loosely entangled now.
I know him still;
we are friends.
Soothe me, Daddy.
Tell me I will meet someone else.
Tell me you will be here
to approve of him.
Promise?
Because I know
that the boys will dance
in and out of my life
fleetingly.
They will love me,
and they will hurt me,
but I will never cry over them
the way I have cried over you.
That Night
Could you feel me trembling
that night?
Did you see how I shivered
as your fingers
came to know my skin,
or did that melody
of fear and awe
play only in my heart?
We didn't speak many words,
but my lips whispered
an entire conversation
against yours.
You rolled over me
to close the space between us,
and I could look up at you
for once.
Later, you told me
about how they tease you
for your size.
But did you know
that I crave the safety
of your solid bulk?
And when I drew the boundary,
you stayed away from it
and didn't ask why.
I wanted to wait.
How could you guess
that I would wake
in the morning
and wish that I had
extended it,
if only so that I could exist
for a little while longer
as the only thought
in your heart?
Tammy Ho Lai-ming
HER EDITOR
~~~~~~~~~~
It all began the day when you waited for me on
the Wan Chai MTR station.
I saw you leaning
over a ticket issuing machine. Composed
and manly.
Before I knew it, my heart was whirring
'I like you'. Agonisingly happy.
The sweet smell of fresh cookes from
a nearby bakery.
(She wishes to meet
someone who is like an ancient
frail manuscript, waiting
to be deciphered:
mysteries sustain her interest,
suspense nourishes her mermaid tale.)
Stream of passengers filling the
never empty group. 'How crazy!'
I wondered at my untame
virginal feelings towards a man over
fifty. Didn't know it was wrong.
Was it wrong?
Too many pages
to discuss at once.
This poem first appeared in Magma Poetry (UK, Issue #38, Summer 2007)
JOHN GAVE RACHEL A BOOK
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John gave Rachel a book, ten years ago
John gave Rachel a book
Of Poetry--
Western Wind: An Introduction to Poetry
On the second page of the book
John had written, in green:
For Rachel, who doesn't need
An introduction to anything--
Certainly not to poetry--
With memories of all the
Places we talked about
This book in the days when
It was three times as
Long
Ten years later
When John and Rachel
Were no longer together
John saw the book
In a secondhand bookstore
Some pages were missing
But not the second page
John saw his own handwriting
John has believe since then
He shouldn't give
Anything to anybody
Anything. Anybody
Maybe Rachel's dead--
Her books were sold
Maybe Rachel's broke--
She sold her book
John didn't care
John has made up his mind
That he's not going to give
Anything to anybody
Anything. Anybody
This poem first appeared in Pressed (Taiwan, Autumn 2006)
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know what you did with someone
last night
shortly after the dinner's done
the light
was turned down, you rolled under the bedcover
with her
she was surprised how passionate a lover
you were
you might not have genuinely wanted it
'a whim'
afterwards you will claim, while I sit
in dim
light with you, on the sofa in your apartment in
Hong Kong
and you will even say that it was not a sin--
so long
This poem first appeared in Pressed (Taiwan, Autumn 2006)
HIS PENIS
~~~~~~~~~
Lie is a skin. I rub it against a man.
He knows my lies, such as:
I'm a rainbow fairy with transparent wings;
Such as: my neck is made of paper;
Such as: I've never seen a penis.
He, 'the well-oiled hair guy', laughed
At the last lie. Time was midnight
Plus three hours; in that blue bar
Next to a red one, he unzipped
His trousers in one second.
Just a bottle of port,
Just the two of us at the table
Far from the cash bar (still very busy).
He showed me his celebrated Latin 'tail'
Between his legs. I saw a familiar
Mole on the creased foreskin.
Lie is a skin. I rub it against a man.
He knows my lies, such as:
He is not my boyfriend; such as: all
Poems aren't autobiographical;
Such as: his language isn't foreign; such as:
I've neer seen a stiff penis.
This poem first appeared in Fe/male Bodies: the First Asia-based Bilingual
Bookazine on Body, Gender and Sexuality Vol.2 (HK, July 2006)
Dan Gallik
Pharmacy
~~~~~~~~
I am going to catch that cold if I can.
I wanna die of one. My boss, Larry,
said, I am not going to quote you but
I am sure going to give you a big
raise. Especially if you find a way to
actually get sick at a moment's notice.
My boss jumped right on top of me
and sang songs the whole way. I
said moola and he believed me. Larry
went home singing. He had another
idea, an advertizing scheme, a name
for the drug called FRIDAYs. I
had chemicals in my head for a month.
They festered there. America now likes
my drug, FRIDAYs, and timing. I
like America, & its working antibiotics
Females And Their Ideas Of The Purposes Of Babies
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She told me she was going to tell me how we were going
to be. I said I wanted to be silent.. She yelled silence
was her fortune. I asked her, pleaded with her to get
a new car. She said I was a waste of money. Then,
she hugged me and told me I was her lover and she
wanted it right then. I told her it was sex. I told her
before she interrupted that love was a bad buy. She
slapped my ego so hard it got out a gun. You like
headlines? I said. Then, she smiled and froze my
male assets right away. We loved in the middle,
at the side, along the four corners of an old bedroom.
After midnight left us, we closed our eyes and
dreamed of tv and radio and cd's and new movies.
And food. Dreamed of thousand dollars steaks at Mac's.
The Good News On 52 Cable Channels
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Fools would say what's
our destinations." That's
what Jillbo sparkled onto
her guy "Lestermolester."
At that impressive micro-
sec, he was stealing a car
over on 4th & Nothing Sts.
Jillbo continued, "Cross
words too are only armed
by those who are worried
over the future of Amerca's
monstrous civilization on
this here earth." L checked
his watch and cracked, "Got
my pants' tomorrows to
worry over babe.!" "I'm
seeing that you," gummed
Jbitch, "that you got nothing
but gas in them pants, babe."
"Molester" socked her face,
"Humanity's future died!"
In Our House We Have An Automatic Shower Cleaner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dad had left Mom 10 yrs. before
he killed 3 of our dirty cats and 2 of our dogs.
Yeah, guess he hung around a lot.
He lived over off of 4th near
the elementary’s playground on 6th Street. I
never really ever talked to him.
Mom worked at the local Kfart.
I worked there too. My sis hadn't ever even
tried to find a job. She ran off
with George who had worked for yrs.
at Mill's Electric near the courthouse on 28th.
One evening Mom and I came home
from the store and spotted fire engines and
lots of other stuff. I spotted another
of our pets dead in the st. in front
of our burning two story. Dad was nearby
watching. I got out of our car and
walked over to him, and had the guts
to ask him why he likd killing animals, and
burning things. He whispered,
it's fun to watch bad things happen.
He also cracked, I still love you and Mom
and Lill almost enough to kinda kill u.
You're Lucky If You Get 20 Minutes From The Medical Community
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mom was 86. I said, hey Mom
you're dying bitch! She looked
at me lying there in her bed
at the Home, and smiled at me.
I said it again. Anymore docs
don’t say a damn thing to you
like, "she's got six months."
All are afraid of lawsuits. I
said it again to her, this time I
whispered, bitch, you're dying.
My sis had made some excuse
for not being there. Everyone
else had died before mom. So,
they weren't around. So, it was
just me, and docs and nurses that
don't say a thing but know
a hell of a lot. Of course, this
Home didn't want her to go.
They liked her 8 thou/mth. fees.
And that she layed there quiet
as the beating of mud over
an oil field. Docs smiled at her
as they walked by on the way
to their shiny, black Infinities.
Jeff Spahr-Summers
Vultures
~~~~~~~~
I see them circling above me
Gliding around
Butt ugly birds
I would know them anywhere
yaka mountain
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
lets bury our dirty little secrets
in gods backyard
under yaka mountain
in the heat of the desert
lets challenge the devil
lets dig a hole
Fear of deadlines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in doing this again i
stew on submissions i
fret over selections i
listen to music i
smoke and i
smote i
edit poems i
chew them one at a time i
make no excuses i
wrestle i
write i
re-write i
read commentary i
indulge myself i
take my own
sweet time
forgiveness
~~~~~~~~~~~
for traci
is a gift we can only
give to ourselves
it cannot be coaxed
or demanded or expected
never borrowed
it knows no guilt
it knows all things
The Bogeyman
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mother needs a handicap room
with a refrigerator
for her insulin.
Mother comes from fairvale
but yesterday
we were in Memphis.
can i wait in the lobby while
Mother gets dressed?
Mother loves the room.
Mother loves the restaurant
you suggested and
she asked me to thank you.
Mother wants a 4am
wake up call.
Mother is
i am a light sleeper.
Anthony Nannetti
A FATHER'S PRAYER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Work on fidelity, Sisters,
for the prince never shines like in your stories
nor the castles as lofty and sheltering.
Stand and help the other stand
to every sudden blow
without self-regard or deference ---
and show that, even battle worn,
you are bonded by your love.
TRANSPARENCY
~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a better world
casinos comp plots for those about to be buried,?
poetry workshops include a vocational track,???
and mega hardware stores hang signs everywhere saying
Put that shit back before you hurt yourself ---
while you, Inamorata, draped only in barrier tape,
read me my Miranda Rights.
Walter Ruhlmann
#4
The days pass without a noise and their torrid silence calls in crime,
with this feverish imagination.
Another step within cruelty and sweat is erased.
Hours of constraint, the world collapses under the fibres of the hunger,
this regime of misfortune and fear.
Welcome!
All leads us to the suffering.
#5
I AMNESIAS
~~~~~~~~~~
Black hole
lapse of memory
extra nothingness and nothing in extra
encircle amnesias.
II TURPITUDES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To bore the secrecies of disgrace
and to lighten one's spirits full of sulphur by opening one's veins
to pour a rotten blood on the pure whiteness of the good.
III NAIVETY
~~~~~~~~~~~
To let oneself believed and fooled by words without degree.
To leave on the back of the blue clouds
and never go down again without having low spirits
to fall indefinitely into the traps of the words distorted by desire,
selfishness and sadism.
#6
Virtual paradise, will you take us far from the pangs?
Venom of this fabulous dragon that is being insuflated in ou veins, the
pieces of transitory extase dig tombs and build the vaults.
Nightmarish, dantesque and without exit, the brown poison gives us
thirst and pushes us to the crime.
Sweetened odour, acidulated, the evil spell can charm us.
Tellis Yae
1.
The Mitten Ghost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is a ghost as a host in my house.
Who has seen this family ghost?
Running around leaving prints on the cookie jar.
Climbing around leaving prints on the refrigerator.
It can’t be the boy, because he hates those cookies.
It can’t be the girl, because she hates this ice cream.
Now, who’s seen the ghost with the mitten on?
Running around in the neighbor's garden.
Pulling out roses before they mature.
Throwing baseball at neighbor's windows.
It can’t be the boy.
His baseball has been missing for days.
It can’t be the girl.
Her roses for mother’s day came from the mall.
So, now, who’s seen this clever invisible ghost?
Stacking candy rappers between the family couch.
Causing the spooky Owl to look with a twisting neck.
Giving moms and dads a mathematical nightmare.
And making, “one plus one = a boy, a girl, and the mitten ghost.”
2.
I Don't Know Better
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My better half is mad at me because,
I get rowdy rowdy some times.
I should know better but,
Most of the time I don’t.
Like the good, gone bad,
She says I'm getting better
So I get rowdy rowdy some more.
Looking to know better.
For better or for worse, I’m on a quest.
My mom begs me to be good.
I told her that I would do more good.
"No," she said. "Better."
"Things always go from good to better."
But my dad always warns "you better be good."
Better be good?
He’s always going backwards?
So, I get rowdy rowdy again.
And sometimes people ask me why.
I tell them that, I don't know better.
Who knows better?
That's just like "better sitting in the middle of good and taking the best."
No more rowdy rowdy lately.
Finally they tell me that I’m at my best.
Good, now who's better?
Before I get rowdy rowdy.
3.
I get so confused.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So goes the words of the wise,
For love, by my fiancee.
"Life is so good.
The world is so beautiful.
The stars are so glorious.
And the moon is so adoring."
So goes the words of theory,
For science, by my teacher.
The star are so far away
The planets are so mysterious.
Life is so warped.
And yet, so so amazing.
So goes intertwined everything.
For life, by my best friend.
Life is so magical.
Nothing is too hard.
Because she knows so.
Music to my ears.
Do: Re: Me: Fa: So: La: Ti: Do:
Me: Fa: So?
Man I just get so confused.
Priya Sankaran.
The Kitchen Guard
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ganesha's mouse lives in my house.
Boldly scurrying along bottom creases of my kitchen walls.
Mistaken them for cool, grey stone pathways of Pillaiyarpatti.
Lost his way, poor thing is blind.
My kitchen on Palmerston, the temple he now stands guard.
The moment the sun vanishes into the earth and the bright moon protects the sky,
Ganesha's mouse scratch, scratch, scratches away.
At my shelves of pasta, lentils and stacked boxes of Mac & Cheese
In the dark, he darts in and out of pocket sized crevices.
With the luck of Ganesha, scampers past tiny traps,
licking clean the dabs of peanut butter I've set to catch his wiry tail.
Tummy round and full, like his masters.
A silly smile on his pint sized face.
Perhaps he read my mailbox wrong?
Confused me with Parvathi?
Our names both start with P.
Now, two months have passed, since Ganesha's mouse arrived in my house.
His new Annex abode.
And I've resigned to share my space, until the time Ganesha's trusted carrier discovers a new temple to attend.
Femme Veena
~~~~~~~~~~~
My dalliances with the Veena began the year I spent my first summer
Out of Canada, visiting India.
That summer of my eighth year, living in Madras with Paati Grandmother.
Long, hot afternoons studying my Maami Aunt strumming on her Saraswati Veena,
as the rest of the house dozed off during the afternoon Tamil Cinema on Doordarshan.
Playing hide and go seek and hopscotch on terracotta red roof tiles with my army of
cousins, high above the dusty Thiruvanmyur salais streets.
Scoldings from Maami and Paati and Amma Mom when, we the army interfered with
Karupukam's broomcorn sweeping of the front sitting room.
Early mornings on hands and knees, tiny fingers pinching lines of rice powder into lotus
flower kolams drawings on the freshly washed front stoop.
Counting the minutes until the Paal milk Wallah arrived with Nandi cow to dot kum kum
red powder on her white forehead.
Splashing in bucket baths in the garden.
Dancing simple adavus steps in saffron orange and red salwar khameez while teacher
repeated "thay ya thay".
Gobbling bricks of Kwality ice-cream for tiffin, and gulps of Limca to wash it down.
Until the five days of Diwali pataas fireworks had been lit and done.
The diyas oil lamps all burned out.
Once back home in Ontario.
Frigid, shivery, On-tar-i-ar-i-ar-i-o.
Grade three had started without me, and couldn't have cared less if I ever came back to
play.
Didn't care much that I'd ridden an elephant for real.
Thought I looked funny in my new clothes of loose fitting dresses for tops and skinny pants
that did up with a string.
And when my Paati came over to Canada a few years later, she brought a gift.
A brand new, elegantly carved jackwood Veena for me.
I loved my new toy, but I did not love the Veena.
By the winter of my twelfth year, I hated the rigidness of lessons taught to me by a thoughtful
Veena teacher who'd driven all the way from the west end of town in -28
degree weather.
I hated the way my fingers stung after coaxing its four strings to sing.
I wanted nothing to do with "sa re ga ma pa", because my love affair with the memories of that
summer were frozen.
After Long Canadian winters of trying to fit in.
Cold Canadian winters detesting the skin of my ancestors which I was forced to wear
like the toque on my head which at least protected me from the chill.
I, not Canadian, not Indian, desperate to shed those beauty marks that made me different.
So I let my Veena slowly die.
Her strings twanged out of tune, the faux ivory carvings which laced her body, fell off her
curves like the autumn leaves from Mom's Flowering Maple tree.
That tree she planted the first spring after our Indian summer, sprouting leaves the colour
of raw, sour, green mangoes and blooms of snow white and pink petals for twenty one
springs and summers in our front yard, until the year my Paati passed on.
The waxy black arms which craddled my beloved Veena's twenty four frets crumbled,
chipped until there were only a wobbly three.
And in the end there were only two dusty rounds of opposite sized gourd held together by
a cobwebbed covered neck.
These days I long for a chance to strum on the gift my Paati so lovingly delivered to me
across two oceans
Packed in a lattice work wooden coffin of a crate that foretold of my Veena's fate long
before I allowed her soul to slip away.
All I've lost by silencing her sweet ragams melodies
What I'd give to hear my Veena sing again.
Ursula Tillmann
I am
~~~~
I am the
gentle breeze
soothing
your mind
like velvet,
covering with
my blanket
you grief
of yesterdays'
thoughts ...
I am the
wild ocean
breaking
its waves
on your shores
of my memories,
soaking with
salty waters
the current
to pause ...
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
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Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
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