




 January 1994  volume 2, number 1 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
  Ŀ              Ŀ    Ŀ ķ  Ŀ               Ŀ Ŀ  
  Ĵ                          Ĵ                       
                                             
                                                                            
  Ŀ    Ŀ    Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ    Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  
       Ĵ                             Ĵ       Ŀ  
                                          
                                                                            
                                                                            
                        Guest Editor: Pedro Sena                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      
                    Associate Editors: Paul Lauda                           
                    Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy                        
                      European Editor: Miodrag Djordjevic                   
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
ͼ









                               METAMORPHOSIS
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                                    ...
                       changes in time, seen through
                       poetry, as only a true heart
                              can appreciate
                             and live with it.

               This issue is dedicated to Jorge and Luciana
                         ... thank you so much!!!






                         NOTIONS ABOUT LINGUISTICS
                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                   I listen to my children talk English
                   not the smallest alone but the older
                    ones too, and they the young ones.
                       Born elsewhere, they grew up
                      with Portuguese in their ears.
                        But it's English they speak
                  they who will not be merely Americans;
                     melted, they continue to melt in
                    seas not their own.  Tell me about
                 poetry's mystery, a tongue's traditions,
                a race of people, all that is inexpressible
                    save in the untranslatable essence
                    of a people.  Bastards.  Languages
                 last centuries and will survive even when
                   hidden within other tongues, but they
                 die every day in the stammer of those who
                 inherit them.  So immortal are they that
                a half dozen years suffice to suppress them
                   in mouths dissolving into new shapes,
                      impressed by another people, a
                    different culture.  So metaphysical
                all languages, so untranslatable, that they
                melt thus, not unto the highest heaven, but
                into the quotidian crap of another tongue.


                                      -- Jorge de Sena, October 1970
                                         Nooes de Lingustica

                                         Translated by George Monteiro



  
  
   ķ ķ ķ         ķ      ķ ķ ķ ķ  ķ ķ ķ
                                                     
        Ķ Ķ                                       ķ
                                                       
          Ľ       Ľ        Ľ Ľ                Ľ
  
  

         Issue Title.......................................Pedro Sena
         Notions About Linguistics......................Jorge de Sena

         Introduction -
           Preamble of a Man with a Few Words..............Pedro Sena

         When I Say......................Jorge de Sena and Pedro Sena
         Whoever Has....................................Jorge de Sena
         The Minotaur......................................Pedro Sena
         Whispering Wind...................................Pedro Sena
         Ayers Rock Meditation.............................Pedro Sena
         You Are No Longer A Vision, or a Poem.............Pedro Sena
         Together..........................................Pedro Sena
         The Art of Music,......( Pt 2, Of Course )........Pedro Sena
         Special Sound.....................................Pedro Sena
         Sweet Scented Heart Of The Night.( Pt 1 ).........Pedro Sena
         Erin, Erin.......................( Pt 2 ).........Pedro Sena
         Gentle, Radiant and Smiling......( Pt 3 ).........Pedro Sena
         Angels Have A Heart...............................Pedro Sena
         Shauna............................................Pedro Sena
         Blindsided....................................Michael Stroup
         I Feel The Same...............................Michael Stroup
         Miles To Go....................................Jan Kingsford
         Edgar Allan...................................Ruby I. Bender
         Drying Drops...................................Jan Kingsford
         Manic's Refrain...............................Ruby I. Bender

         Post Scriptum -
           The Minotaur.................................Klaus J. Gerken
           Anaglyph.......................................Igal Koshevoy
           Coda-issma........................................Pedro Sena




                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

                   PREAMBLE OF A MAN WITH A FEW WORDS
                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                           And so it has been.


       Amidst a few difficult cultural changes, I have finally figured out
  how to say a few things in words, where before I felt intimidated.  Little
  did I know that it would be through a few poems that help my own spirit
  dream, that I would eventually find a thread of communication through
  which I could learn the English language and make some friends.

       I have always written.  I have numerous diaries, and a myriad of film
  reviews ( I moderate, and participate in a conference called THE MOVIES
  for this reason ), and many stories in the form of diaries, short ones, a
  novel in the works, and many theater plays.  Looking back at those
  writings, I find a young man that was not struggling with what he wants to
  say, but how he wants to say it, trying ever so hard to find an avenue of
  communication which might help him find a way to talk to himself and
  others.

       Even with all the writing, the chance to put all the learning to work
  with real people, has never really developed.  The atmosphere I grew up
  in, being the son of a well known gentle giant, was not conducive to a
  child learning to grow in a different society.  Mom couldn't help with the
  homework.  Pop was too busy writing yet another page on his trusty
  Olivetti.  And I was quite lost, watching foreign films by the best
  directors, hoping the French, Italian, and Spanish would help me define
  the English language through the badly translated sub-titles.

       Indeed, much of my life has been a sub-title to the real thing.  I
  had a rude awakening along the way.  I couldn't enter college, right
  behind the high school due to my poor scores in the entrance exams, on the
  English side of things.  Eventually I got there, but it wasn't easy.

      At the University of California in Santa Barbara, I took many theatre
  and film courses, most of them centered on DIRECTING which was my major in
  the THEATER ARTS.  The successes were good, though the Department figured
  out a way not to give me the correct degree...  the students are always
  wrong.

         In my final year I had a chance to fight for one "Evening of
  International Theater" and amidst Marguerite Duras and Peter Handke short
  plays, I produced my father's "A MORTE DO PAPA" ( The Death of the Pope ).
  The animosity, and lack of concern by the ( then ) superiors of the
  Portuguese and Spanish Department, left a bitter taste in my mouth.  I
  came away feeling that these people had no interest in the literature (
  which they taught ) and instead, had much more care for how they wasted
  the money donated in my father's name.  I felt that developing the "arts"
  was important.  Teaching the language to those who didn't have an
  attraction for the culture ( most were taking it as a requirement for a
  second language -- and the rest were foreign exchange students ) was their
  main interest.  Did they know if there was a difference?  I didn't think
  so, then.  They had not been the recipients of the cultural upheavals I
  had already lived through.  I graduated and quit again.  Continuing the
  film studies was a difficult undertaking, with no financial resources even
  though one professor thought I was excellent.  I was working nearly forty
  hours weekly to pay for my tuition and books, directed scenes at night,
  and studied in the class breaks.  It seems no one cared.

       I moved to the Pacific Northwest, leaving behind a cultural hot bed,
  where I was also involved in some radio work by providing music from my
  collection of imports and foreign music.  I left all the cultural
  diversity, away from all the antagonism and shadows of a father figure.
  Being the son of a god, meant that to all the professorios ( and scholars
  -- there are good people there ) I was a pain.  And to whomever I showed
  any writing ( already three plays, one screenplay, and several poems ) no
  one was to even look at it, or acknowledge it, except to this day,
  Luciana.  In one swell foop with a nice one page letter, the dream, the
  inspiration, the heart was born.  She is, to this day, my greatest
  highlight in a world of competitive and glorified egos which are embraced
  by the many.

       Rather than fight an institution, whose stench I didn't like, I left.
  And in exile, I set about writing with a vengeance, since it was the only
  way I could satisfy my inner desire and objectives to make my own vision
  come alive.  I learned that a poem read out loud, created so many feelings
  that it was hard to let go.  And no sooner would I get done, another line
  would appear, and another poem would develop.

       It wasn't until this past year of 1993, that I finally came to
  participate in a group of writers, people whose imagery and knack for
  expression I have come to LOVE so much.  I wanted to be a part of it,
  knowing that the only way new writers could 'make it' was if they stuck
  together and brought attention to their work.  I had always wanted to be a
  part of such a group, and to celebrate it I created a series of poems
  which are called THE AETHERIC CAFE, which have not been introduced as yet.
  We shared our input, and turned the output ( we never really criticized
  ourselves very much, though I regret playing father to a good friend and
  writer...  ) into scores of words, which made so much music to my ears.
  This was it.

         After a few starts, in different places, we had become a set of
  renegade poets.  And this, under the supervision (are you kidding me..??)
  of PAUL LAUDA and KLAUS GERKEN, we became the CENTIPEDE.  And within those
  confines I have posted via this electronic mode nearly 100 poems, which
  have been written in the past 6 years.  I now average, with this kind of
  sharing, about one or two poems per week, depending on my moods.

      The honorable Klaus, had always published his writings.  Some of them
  were in this format here, of an electronic magazine.  This is a new form
  of doing things, and most likely the form of the future.  I had enjoyed
  immensely the words of IGAL KOSHEVOY, and those of Klaus' very own
  prolific output, and I had enjoyed PAUL LAUDANSKY's words, and several
  other writers, some of which I had seen in various issues.  Klaus decided
  that I should guest edit one issue.  I settled for this one in January, so
  I would have plenty of time to decide what I wanted to do with it, and
  perhaps create a new concept in design for the magazine.  I did have one
  idea that I wanted to work with.  I wanted to use THE JORGIAN POEMS, which
  are conversations and dreams I have had with my father I had written
  several years ago in resolving his effect on me.  Most of this material is
  allocated in dream diaries of mine which are several volumes in length and
  span nearly ten years.  Essentially I kept this issue to unpublished
  material by a few very special friends and talents.

         I want to call this issue METAMORPHOSIS, since it was that set of
  poems which created the turning point for my own father.  Not that there
  is a requirement that I, myself, be thought of as good as he, or that I
  have the potential to be as well known as he, but it is my first serious,
  and solid effort, to put together a bunch of poetry, in a context that
  made sense to me.  It wasn't easy to choose the poems I wanted to place in
  this issue.  And it wasn't easy to figure out how I would exorcise the
  statue of my father's spirit into a solid set of lines.  I had to trust my
  instincts, and let things fall where they may...  they did, and ready for
  my own adventurous planning for doing this issue of the YGDRASIL...

         And it isn't my hope, here, to profess that the Gods shouldn't be
  mentioned, respected, or forever studied.  I revere my father, but quite
  differently than would be expected, and have dedicated this issue to him.
  I accept my father as a man with failings who had a talent for writing,
  but teaching and sharing knowledge and abilities with his children, was
  not one of them.  There are two artists, direct artists not intellectual
  talents discussing the work of other artists and writers, in the family of
  nine offsprings, and we are both self made, at a terrible cost and price
  to our private, and physical, lives.  I am not sure why this is really so,
  but there is a chance, that, perhaps, this was the way it had to be, or we
  wouldn't have become the artists we are, or the lovers of the purest art
  of all....  to do it...  rather than just talk about it.

         A very large thanks of appreciation, goes to Klaus, Igal and Paul
  and my surrogate family, the Hickersons.  The Centipede, is the first
  ( second actually, Helen comes first ) family that has accepted me for
  who I am, and I have learned through them to share properly my true
  feelings, about life, love, poetry and music.  The Browns should also be
  thanked for having put up with me for so long, and given me a chance to
  develop this.  And of course, my own family of mom, brothers and sisters,
  who will be shocked to read this.

         Found in this issue are Jan Kingsford and Ruby I. Bender, both not
  new to the poetic arts.  But they have not been, as one would say,
  properly introduced.  Their abilities are there on the tip of the tongue
  -- Ruby reads it with great aplomb off her memory -- ready to anoint those
  willing to listen for a few seconds.  Jan's ability is much more personal,
  but nevertheless, just as clear and good.  While she feels that her
  writings are not good enough to match her feelings, we all here seem to
  agree that there is more to it than she might notice or accept.  Michael
  Stroup, is a song writer and musician of talent and a very special friend,
  who had to quit the music business in order to raise two very fine young
  sons.  But his ability to get rid of the writing bug failed, and I wanted
  him to see, personally, that his work is good, and worthy of being printed
  and shown.  I know he will admire this and it will add to his writing, and
  to our Centipede a few more songs.

      If this road is not a chance to publish a little more, at least it
  will be a strong impetus that will make all of us proud to have written
  our ( EVER SO ) personal feelings for others to see.  It is their very own
  chance, and mine, to explore the further depths of their souls through the
  eyes and enjoyment of others....  it's the least they deserve, as lovely
  weavers of a magickal science, where the placement of one single word, is
  all consuming, and important, which we call, in English, simply, POETRY...



                                          ķ                ķ
                                        Ľ ַ ֶ ַ ַ     ķ ַ ַ ڷ
                                               ӽ   ӽ     Ľ   



                                WHEN I SAY
                                ~~~~~~~~~~

             ( Quanto eu disser - April 1953 - Jorge de Sena )
                ( Translated by Pedro Sena - October 1993 )

                        Quanto eu disser no ouas
                         quanto eu fizer no vejas
                         e, se eu estendo as mos
                         nao me estendas as tuas.

                    Aceita que eu exista como os sonhos
                             que ningum sonha
                    as imagens malditas que no espelho
                          sao noite irreflectiva.

                             Talvez que ento
                              da pura solido
                             eu desa a vida.

                      

                     However much I say, don't listen
                      however much I do, don't watch
                         and, if I extend my hands
                          do not extend me yours.

                    Accept that I live like the dreams
                            that no one dreams
                    the cursed images that on a mirror
                     are a night without a reflection.

                                Maybe, then
                           out of pure solitude,
                            I'll come to life.
                                    ...

                 ( add-on, September 1993 by Pedro Sena )

                                    ...
                           and write a few lines
                      that might lessen a difference
                             between you and I
                         brought on by a language
                             different culture
                          and separate realities
                             where what I say
                          means not much to you,
                                 anymore,
                           ( it might have, then
                             had you read it,
                               who knows ),
                                    ...

                              to anyone even,
                                    or
                        to the many who might, yet,
                            read a few letters
                                  perhaps
                              and ignore them
                             as another folly
                      another selfish act of my own,
                          some mere masturbation
                          in the heart of a hand
                            whose desire to be
                            has been still-born
                                    ...
                              until recently.








                              WHOEVER HAS....
                              ~~~~~~~~~~~

            ( Quem a tem... -- December 1956 -- Jorge de Sena )
                       ( Translation by Pedro Sena )

                        Nao hei de morrer sem saber
                         qual a cor da liberdade.

                          Eu no posso seno ser
                         desta terra em que nasci.
                         Embora ao mundo pertena
                         e sempre a verdade vena
                         qual ser ser livre aqui
                       nao hei-de morrer sem saber.

                         Trocaram tudo em maldade
                           quase um crime viver.
                         Mas, embora escondam tudo
                         e me queiram cego e mudo
                        nao hei-de morrer sem saber
                         qual a cor da liberdade.

                      

                      I shall not die without knowing
                           the color of liberty.

                       I can't but be anything from
                       this earth, where I was born.
                       Though to this world I belong
                         and always the truth wins
                     how will it be, to be free here,
                     I shall not die without knowing.

                    Exchanging every thing maliciously,
                       it is almost a crime to live.
                      But while they hide everything
                        and want me blind and dumb,
                      I shall not die without knowing
                        the true color of liberty.








                               THE MINOTAUR
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~

     ( Written in 1988.  This poem is a 'reply' to one of my father's
              best known poems IN CRETE, WITH THE MINOTAUR. )

                        In Crete, like the Minotaur
                        without verses or much life
                      without country, or any spirit
                         with nothing... no one...
                           except my dirty paw,
                     I'll drink my coffee peacefully.

                   I have sat here many days and nights
                   I am told there is such a difference
                   how would I know, I haven't seen much
                         since the day I was born.

                    I've lived here, in total solitude
                             at times peaceful
                         other times frightening,
                        a few horrors enter my mind
                       and some occasionally feed me
                           something, anything,
                         ugly maidens and children
                          sacrifice to the gods,
                                   yeah,
                          as if I were an animal
                           which to many, I am,
                                but to me,
                          I can think, feel, cry,
                          and what would you care
                         you are not here with me
                           and haven't seen this
                                   this,
                        endless cave, my very home
                                some home.
                      the only one I have ever known.

                           I am a beast of prey
                           a Minotaur, the poet
                        tells me, my only visitor,
                          and I need to have some
                             benefits for life
                         except the decisions were
                           made a long time ago
                          that I should stay here
                        incarcerated by the ideals
                          which befall your ways.

                                I was born,
                        half a man, half an animal
                        and to this day do not know
                       why I am treated so harshly.
                           Don't men and animals
                            all live together?
                            Aren't they a part
                       of a large world? Somewhere?

                          But I am an aberration
                         of the union of the right
                            and wrong feelings.

                         My ancestors talk of such
                      there were bulls and erections,
                      there were swans and soft beds,
                    there were horses and great lovers,
                      there were birds great flyers,
                           and how could anyone
                        not expect some odd results
                              here and there?

                              Were I maimed,
                           deaf, dumb and blind,
                          what's the difference,
                            a Minotaur, but no,
                        after all is said and done
                          your lust is satisfied
                           you forget the result
                              forget yourself
                           and all that mattered
                             was your pleasure
                           that became my pain.

                        These days there are humans
                             many more of them
                       children of unsatiated lust,
                      who think they aren't animals,
                           all of them, anymore,
                             but man and women
                          a part of the kingdom,
                    some lands that I never have seen.
                           Many times I sit here
                       and talk with my only visitor
                              ... and tutor,
                      about justice, and philosophy.
                          And he brings me coffee
                         that's what he calls it,
                              it tastes great
                     and better than the piss streams
                          I find here, and there
                       in the depths of these caves.
                   He's asked me not to fear, or judge,
                  to forget all the ugly past, and grudge
                  the mistakes that time made me a beast
                 and has to answer for, soon, in the least
                  in full, for its error and sad neglect
                 and allow me some love, a bit of respect.

                   He's a good man of lines and letters
                 I can't write like, yet, like he tatters
                   you see, I have no fingers in my paw
                  with which to recommend a very new law
                  which may find room for man and a bull
                   and close the book of errors in full.

                 And I tell him the stories of the feasts
                 and how all the women ran naked and wild
                  attacking men and anything like beasts
                in ways that are now unusual, and not mild
               showing everybody how they all were so virile
                and capable of making this earth so fertile
                           in its proper season
                                    ...
                      as a bull, I have a long prick
                     and few people desire less of it
                                 and us...
                   the stupid beasts of talented arousal
                    know nothing of refusal and arousal
                 and to our share, must live like a beast
                    and have our members hardened, for
                         some men ... old men ...
                       who hope for yet another lift
                         to support their old body
                              before they die
                                    ...
                       but I haven't asked the poet
                        why me... and the dirty paw
                                    ...
                          scent of a whore, maybe
                                    ...
                    stains from the poet's ink and pen
                                    ...
                      maybe he feels as alone as I do
                  and as he writes, he can't help notice
                       all the weakness, and faults
                      and hopes of correcting it all
                        being that I have no chance
                         to fix any law, anything
                          and will eventually die
                         for the errors of it all.

                    He says that it will be remembered
                   through all the thick and thin minds
                     until it be known we all murdered
                     the hopes, the dreams, the love,
                        from our very own lives...
                        I know not what I would do
                         without the poet's heart
                          to soothe my weary mind






                              Whispering Wind
                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                           ( December 11, 1988 )

                        A whispery breeze of wind,
                              slipped by me,
                                    ...
                             I barely noticed,
                                    ...
                            but I stood there,
                          on this desert island,
                                  amidst
                                   land,
                                dried land,
                          waiting for another...
                                whisper...
                      from that scintillating mother,
                                    ...
                               of pearl,...
                                of life,...
                        whose sweet and moist kiss,
                      brings life to the inert body,
                              that is dry,...
                                    ...
                             and thirsting,...
                            for nourishment,...
                              yeah, life,...
                            amidst this desert,
                                 arid,...
                             and desert land.

                       And another whispery breeze,
                                 shook me,
                                    ...
                            out of my slumber,
                           out of my long dream,
                                of waiting,
                                    ...
                             and nourished me,
                                 like,...
                                 like,...
                        another sweet kiss of life,
                                  yes,...
                             it did feel like,
                             life,..real life.

                               Out here,...
                             in the desert,...
                                we live,...
                                    we,
                              manage to live,
                           in spite of all odds,
                    and manipulations of our nature,...
                               or heart,...
                                or heat,...
                         yes, we live, and dream,
                          to see another sunset,
                           as the dawn slips by,
                          on my side and I draw,
                           my slight petals in,
                              for warmth,...
                           perhaps to sleep,...
                         to be awakened later,...
                                  by,...
                     another whispery breeze of wind,
                           that will slip by me,
                             and take me away,
                                    ...
                               and I guess,
                                 out here,
                           in the desert lands,
                       there is nothing else to say,
                                    ...
                                except,...
                     it was such a long time away,...
                                   and,
                                  oh yes,
                                 and then,
                          another whispery breeze
                          of that wonderful wind
                          just kissed me aw......






                                Ayers Rock
                                ~~~~~~~~~~

                           ( January 12, 1993 )

                         That we shall all connect
                        despite creed, love or sect
                     and join together in this flight
                     to meet true love in its height.

                         Near a rock are we today
                       as we sit, and lovingly pray
                     the words, the feelings of a care
                     which teaches, praises, we bear.
                                    ...
                       the life of true spirit being
                      like god, and capable of seeing
                       wishing its care to be taught
                       lest it be wasted in thought.

                      As we gather here in real life
                    let us set apart always the strife
                    and help end any, and all distrust
                      into the night of ugly disgust,
                        let us this day accomplish
                      all deeds of healing and bliss
                    and take it back to all our friends
                   to help a world, in its many amends.

                                   Amen

                   ( and enjoy the rock by all means! )






                           You... Are No Longer
                                 A Vision,
                                or a Poem.
                                ~~~~~~~~~

           ( Written after a series of visions and meditations )
                             ( August 4, 1989)

                                   You,
                                    ...
                          are no longer a vision.
                                    ...
                                Or a poem.


                             There was a day,
                             and many a night,
                                of wonder,
                                 of hope,
                                of waiting,
                                and perhaps
                             of expecting,...
                          and, I have often felt,
                             ..'what daring'..
                                  have I,
                            to stand and think,
                         much less,... even more,
                               write a poem,
                                 of hope,
                               prayer like,
                          that one day this will
                            all come to happen,
                                 somehow,
                            amid all the daily
                                    ...
                                  events
                         and rotten repercussions
                           of doubt and belief,
                                some mine,
                              most by others,
                                   that,
                           somehow, in some way,
                              I would one day
                                 stand up
                             across your path,
                               and blatantly
                              tell you, that,
                                    ...
                               I loved you.
                            And you might say,
                                    ...
                              do you know me?
                                    ...
                               And I'll say,
                                    ...
                          what is there to know,
                           that can't be proved
                              by your being,
                                   and,
                              standing here,
                                    ...

                              I had to grow,
                              you had to see,
                              I had to learn,
                              you had to be,
                                 and now,
                          as the end of the past
                                  nears,
                              ever so softly,
                               I can finally
                              see your eyes,
                                  truly,
                                    ...
                                  fully,
                                    ...
                                 and feel
                            what can't possibly
                                   ever,
                             be felt by many,
                            but the lucky few,
                                    ...
                               chosen ones,
                                    ...
                                yes,...You,
                                    ...
                          are no longer a vision.
                              Or even a poem.


                             And from my dream
                               of our climb
                        along the many splendour'd
                              shaft of light
                         shall the truth of truths
                             forever be born,
                           that no one can ever
                        cast a side glance of doubt
                          over the power of hope,
                                or of love,
                               and of care,
                                    ...
                           (yes, I have cared,.)
                                    ...
                               and of trust,
                              Oh yes, trust,
                          that indomitable faith,
                              which can make
                            or break all of us
                       into worthless,unhappy beings
                             whose desires are
                           masters of oblivion,
                            and reality is but
                             a shadow of what
                               it all could
                                and should,
                                    ...
                                forever be.


                             Sure it was hard.

                           And, it was painful.
                               But worth it.
                            For in one second,
                            all that ever was,
                            only but a vision,
                          perhaps a hope or two,
                           and a wondrous sight,
                                  is now,
                                 so true,
                                 so clear,
                                so perfect,
                             and so inspiring,
                             that I'm not sure
                           that there even exist
                         in this unfathomable idea
                        of eternal time and space,
                            enough ink and lead
                             to describe you,
                                    ...
                                    or
                                    ...
                   enough notes, scales and instruments
                                   to,..
                             to surround you,
                                    ...
                                    or
                                    ...
                        enough paints and canvasses
                             to delineate you,
                                    ...
                         which will truly describe
                               the feelings
                                any feeling
                               just for once
                          not even a second long
                        of a vision within a vision
                                 which is,
                            an incarnate truth,
                                    ...
                           a specialized moment,
                                    ...
                            of unbearable joys,
                                    ...
                        when all time stands still,
                                    ...

                              and shines,...
                             like only the sun
                            ever can and will,
                           oh yes, it shines,...
                           ever so brightly,...
                             hot, desirable,
                       when it finally can be said,
                             once and for all,
                                    ...
                                    You
                                ( my dear)
                                    ...
                          Are no longer a vision.
                                    ...
                                    Or,
                                   even,
                                   just
                                  another
                                   poem.






                                 Together
                                 ~~~~~~~~

                             ( October 1993 )

                                 Together
                                we embraced
                                each other.

                            Didn't seem enough
                             even when naked,
                              with your warm,
                                gentle body
                             your smooth skin
                             the velvet touch
                               the slim arms
                            the many times when
                             we came together
                         to celebrate our meeting
                            of mind, of bodies,
                         of soul, and further yet,
                                of spirit,
                        when the two energies meet,
                        and no longer side by side
                               but together
                            as one, one source
                                one energy
                               one new form
                             of life, of love,
                             of a special care
                          which I have hoped for
                              and dared think
                         that you would, as well,
                            and accept this man
                        with his heart in his palms
                        and his poems in his hands
                          as a part of your being
                             one he could have
                            one he could enjoy
                       a feeling he wanted to share
                                 with you,
                                    ...
                               maybe a need,
                           on occasion a desire,
                           maybe even a demand,
                                    ...
                        but not without full heart
                            to share the warmth
                           and our little desire
                         some small lust for life
                       and living, the kind that is
                       only spoken of dreamed about
                            more often than not
                             totally forgotten
                          amidst our daily lives
                            where love is just
                         another word or argument.
                          No, none of that stuff.

                      Together we embraced each other
                           in an unspoken desire
                       to be together further still
                       within and without the body.

                           And together we came
                              both our bodies
                          bathed in sacred sweat
                           a sign of the intense
                           love of god, not lust
                           until we knew we were
                          experiencing something
                         so exciting so beautiful
                         we couldn't talk about it
                              the energy flew
                           it danced, it jumped
                              it flew, it ran
                             it went, it came
                                it swirled
                         stirring a slight breeze
                          that only a true spirit
                               can ever feel
                           the kind that we want
                                rarely find
                                    ...
                         I never wanted it to end,
                           what was a holy union
                         so meaningful to the few
                               who have met
                         the spirits of the heart
                                    ...
                              and dared share
                             their total soul
                             with nothing else
                          absolutely nothing else
                               between them.

                                 Together
                          we embraced each other
                                 yet again
                                    ...
                           because it was right
                           yes, it was alright,
                                and we had
                                  finally
                             found each other
                               and were then
                          able to feel each other
                            alive, truly alive.






                             The Art of Music
                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                            Part 2, Of course.
                              (October 1993)

       Music is the guiltiest rhythm in my life.  It has made me what I
  have wanted to become, although my immediate family would rather I let go
  of the inane wonderings and transmutations I live to enjoy it.  With it,
  I have become an artist of the heart, and learned to feel what has
  created most of my visual imagery.

       Many times, during upheavals, or moments of depression and inner
  disarray, my only drug that works, is music.  It has never failed to lift
  me unto another world, and many nether spheres somewhere in this
  universe, of the mind.  It is the endless realm, the only one of the kind
  I have ever met.  And the realm I cherish and love like no one I have
  ever met, or wished for.  And this special love has taught me not to
  differentiate between the bourgeois styles of music and the proletarian
  snobbish ways of listening to it.  Regardless, both musics accomplish the
  same thing, though they may use a different road.

       There was a time when I was going to learn the piano, but the
  teacher had as much talent for teaching as the worst teacher we have ever
  met.  Or at least, she never tried to tell the child that one had to
  learn a few things first, so he could eventually learn how to emulate
  what he was hearing, and figure it all out.  All in all, I think all of
  the children were 'encouraged' ( fun thing to know -- so nice -- you play
  so well, but don't make it a career -- we already have one bum here ) to
  learn something about music, but none of us had the gall to stick to it
  and one day stand in the limelight to either sink or swim.

       In that time, music was something which was seen, and occasionally
  heard on the radio.  When we went to Brazil, my father was finally able to
  buy a record player, and his collection started, and increased to almost
  3,000 albums.  I started my own collection of unusual things, ecletic
  tastes, which my father also had in his collection.  At one point I had
  over 3,000 albums as well as the knowledge of classical music.  Together
  we had over 6,000 different albums of music.  I ventured to give my
  father a TOMITA album, to which he graciously replied "..very nice..",
  though I think his idea of electronic music by that time was more along
  the cold lines of Stockhausen and Heinemman, than they should be of a
  Japanese artist trying to do one of his favorites, Debussy.

       My musical tastes had expanded.  I still tend to like the sound that
  is more symphonic, and almost always aim for mood and any creation of
  imagery, which I long for for every minute of my life.  It doesn't matter
  to me if it is created by an orchestra, or a synthesizer, or if it is
  created by a single voice, or a teaspoon.  All of my tastes lean towards
  what is known as 'avant garde', 'experimental', or even ( heaven forbid )
  'electronic'.  These are labels which I do not accept, but people are
  generally afraid to like something which is not the norm, or the pattern
  in the radio speakers, or in the ears of their friends.  Regardless, all
  of it is an inspiration to what I tend to consider a rather empty and
  lonely life, where I have found that love is another lyric in a song, or
  just another word in a plastic sign with a few colors around it, and a
  good relationship on all levels is impossible, and another dream to be
  found.

       I find it difficult to build a consensus on music.  To me, the
  feeling closest to mine WHILE creating a poem, or a new story, or another
  screenplay, all for the sake of using excess wasted paper and
  electricity, is that of listening to a piece of music that just dares you
  to close your eyes and go along with it.  This is what I live for.  And
  there are times when I wish to write a few lines about those visuals
  which a specific piece of music has given me, but rarely have I succeeded
  at it, and I think I figured out why.  One is that the original composer
  of the piece has an idea, or theme, sub-conscious or otherwise, and is
  trying to get it across.  The other is that I am also a living entity,
  who is experiencing the music, but also has his own wavelength to follow
  up on.  The difference between these two is massive, and prevents me from
  concentrating long enough to write about it.  But there are benefits.  I
  have learned to let these moments live for the duration of the piece, and
  enjoy a heck of a movie, be it mine, or the composer's.  And there are
  certain pieces of music, TANGERINE DREAM's Mysterious Semblance At The
  Strand Of Nightmares that always manage to command direct attention, and
  they defy me to listen and fly away with it, rather than bother
  writing...  I have never been able to describe that non-euclidean space,
  and its colors and vibrations in any form which was satisfying enough for
  me.

       I've been told that all this means that I am a natural musician,
  with untold capabilities.  To that end, I occasionally strut my trusty
  Fender Bass, and have in my agenda a plan to get a very good synthesizer
  and midi system ( my weakness is keyboards ) with the hopes of developing
  some more music.  While I can't exactly play Chuck Berry very well ( it
  is simple enough ), I can compose pieces of music that allow me some
  inner space, to which I can easily write lyrics or a poem, depending on
  my mood.  I have been assuming that this is another implementation in my
  tapestry of creativity.  The instrument allows me to enter, easily, into
  a specific inner space where taking notes and writing is effortless.

       I have also been told that my poetry is very musical.  I attribute
  it to two things.  One, quite often, not as much as I used to, I am
  listening to some music.  This also helps in other ways.  The poems
  dedicated to Erin, were a perfect example of a similar inspiration.  We
  were in conversation and ANTHONY PHILLIPS' Slow Dance was playing behind
  us.  During a special moment she noticed the music and it brought tears
  to her eyes ( hopefully not sad .. ) and the lucidity of that moment went
  on to create several poems.  The memory of that one moment in time of
  that lovely lady has become such a steady force of inspiration for me,
  than I could imagine or hope for, which I do all the time.  And I hope to
  have the chance, one day, to find out why the music was so sad for Erin,
  or was it just a memory of something so good, that didn't work.  The
  other thing happens to be that the only feeling which I can relate to in
  any art is a fluidity which I can only explain with the sensuality of
  music, which one could say is something which I long for.  And when I
  describe it, it seems to come off fluid and musical.

       More often than not, these days, I write in silence, since almost
  all of my work is dependent on listening to myself, and paying special
  attention to my inner visuals that develop so fast and frequently.  And
  the less I am distracted, the better my ability to stay with it and
  transcribe the inevitable hieroglyphics.  The clearer the visualization,
  the more detailed, the more fluid, all these images appear in the paper.
  Not a bit of this process has anything to do with THINKING.  It is merely
  a 'frozen moment in time' which I have learned to gather long enough in
  my field/vision screen, until I have had a chance to write it, or tape
 into a small recorder.  In many ways, this is a process derived from my
  experiences in transcendental meditation.  I have even been told that
  much of my poetry is PSYCHOTROPIC in nature, which I consider a
  compliment, and attribute it to my living of each special moment, through
  a few lines and words.  I never thought that Aldous Huxley, Carlos
  Castaneda, Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali would ever meet, but if there is
  a moment, here they are sharing a cup of tea, or their favorite wine.

       There is a special flow, if there is such a thing, which keeps me
  busiest.  It is music to my heart, and it generates a feeling which very
  few things in my life have ever done, from any inspiration to any one
  single person.  There isn't a single piece of music or a woman, that has
  ever been so exciting as the special moment when a line like,

                                   You,
                              are no longer
                               a vision...
                                   or,
                                 a poem.

  and the ensuing sequence of images which follows, that I have ever
  seen...  or,

                                  sweet
                        scented heart of the night
                                   ...
  when an eternal flame and desire for a perfect muse, a real love, is
  always lit into a stupor of romantic notions and visions.  Yes, I do
  write for a dream I have not dreamt yet.  Yes, I do write for a love that
  has not met a vision, or vice versa.  Yes, I do write for a peace that is
  not here which feels incomplete, or cut in half.  A moment of sharing,
  soothing, several tears in an oasis of dry, deserted sandy dunes, tears
  no one will ever seem to hear or have the ability to feel.  In many ways,
  I live for these moments for they are all I have found, and at this point
  will gladly die for them.

       In this, I do differ from my father.  His life pegged him to a pair
  of shoes he didn't like ( I don't wear shoes by the way ) and a life of
  servitude to a thankless system of education which killed him, though I
  admit that I am very proud of the level to which his ability has been
  admired.  I look at it all, as UNFINISHED.  I may yet die the eternal
  young man in love, hoping his Juliet will still appear and dance, or
  paint, or love, one more time, in her own special way, just so I can
  create yet another refrain to keep her remembered forever.  Maybe I'll
  write for her to paint.

       Music led me to all my visions, dreams, which I had to harness in
  one way or another.  It was transcendental meditation which taught me to
  appreciate much of these moods, and at the same time enjoy something
  which is inexplicable.  I can't even write about all the FIBERS, COLORS,
  and STRANDS OF ENERGY I meet in those travels, or have ever found a
  language good enough to translate them with.  There just aren't enough
  words available for such an undertaking.  I try to place these images in
  a poetic format, because there are no other viable forms which I have
  found that helps describe a feeling with one word.  POETRY, then, is the
  best language, with which I can express so many images, and keep them
  moving since they are always moving, in such an easy fashion.  I take it
  that if I were a musician, I would do the same thing with a string, or
  wind instrument, or a few keys.  If I were a painter, there would be so
  many layers that one would never know where to start looking at the
  piece.  Through meditation, and writing is really a form of it, I have
  learned to increase the level of awareness, both inner and outer, in
  order to be able to see it all a bit longer, which I have been able to
  store in a buffer, long enough until I have worked with it.  In many
  cases it is ready, and I barely make any changes, with the exception of a
  few words here and there.  The spacing of the words is a factor of the
  feeling depths and their ministrations of my visual imagery.

       All in all, I find there is no difference between music and me.
  Together we resonate as one, and express ourselves likewise with our
  specific tools.  The music comes through the instruments while my images
  born out of the etheral space play via my hand, through a pen, or
  computer keyboard, into the eyes of those who will enjoy it, regardless
  of rhyme or reason.  I can't think of a better way to live, or even
  conceive of living without any music, the spacious heart of the soul,
  expressed in such a meticulous way...  as to the personal hopes, that
  remains to be seen.






                               Special Sound
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                          ( September 17, 1993 )

                               Special sound
                           Methodical Vibration
                          weaving a color thread
                               thru a space
                                an eternity
                                    ...
                                 to reach
                                 somewhere
                                    ...
                                  in time
                                    ...
                                 a feeling
                                    ...
                            perhaps an illusion
                              of love, hate,
                              even a thought
                                    of
                                    ...
                          that wants to tell you
                                 something
                                 anything
                               maybe nothing
                               but, that you
                             should experience
                              in its fullness
                             al of its secrets
                                 languages
                                   notes
                                  fingers
                           deciphered as a form
                                 of energy
                               that we call
                                   sound
                                made a hand
                              who felt it all
                                  deeply
                               the vestiges
                               of its truth,
                                the dharma
                               of its heart,
                                 the rings
                              of its energy,
                                 the pain
                               of its body,
                                 the life
                               in its death,
                                the living
                                of its day
                                    ...
                             for a mere second
                             that reaches you
                              and touches you
                                  somehow
                           don't even know how,
                              in yet another
                              minute feeling
                             making you shiver
                               inspiring you
                               one more time
                            before it moves on
                             to another oracle
                               another time
                                endlessly,
                                endlessly,
                               but forever,
                                    ...
                           and it will never die
                      even if the style is different
                             and you like one
                                I, another,
                               all the same,
                           but different colors,
                              amidst the many
                                some speak
                                 some cry
                                 some die
                             some live forever
                                    ...
                           it is all so special
                              a special sound
                           such a peculiar feel
                           glowing in your space
                               it has a life
                                of its own
                                on its own
                                 way.....
                                  ready,
                               ever so ready
                              to excite you.






                                   Erin
                                   ~~~~

                            ( August 7, 1993 )

                        Scented heart in the night
                        lives, loves, learns, cries
                       seemingly alone, staring away
                       looking for a sky of thought
                                    ...
                       breathe, breathe in that air
                       take, absorb,  nature's care,
                       and tell me o'your loud dream
                        so I can write more, scream
                               occasionally
                                    ...
                        when virtue fails my sight
                        scented heart o' the night
                         live, talk to me, and cry
                        all the beauty you see, try
                       'til I can no longer take it,
                       hide, write, or even fake it,
                                   that,
                                   that,
                                    ...
                        there's feeling in my heart
                        that I see, tears me apart
                            ( not your fault )
                        and it can always be shared
                        if we could, and only dared
                                    ...
                         to forget a past, forever
                        till a new dawn comes e'er
                                  to show
                      the scented heart o' the night
                       lives here, shines so bright
                                    and
                        will light such sweet face
                        w'lines of love, and grace.
                                    ...
                      ( thanks for the inspiration )






                               Erin, Part 2
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~

                            ( August 21, 1993 )

        ( The music playing is Anthony Phillips' SLOW DANCE Pt 1.)

                             Erin, erin, erin
                                   sweet
                             and scented heart
                           that has been living
                                  in much
                                 darkness,
                                  awake,
                                  awake,
                        ( I whisper one more time )
                                  awake,
                               for there is
                             yet another song
                            which can be shared
                          and could be danced to
                               before it is
                             all said and done
                                 forgotten
                             on the way to be
                                 forgiven.

                             A long sad, life,
                           of a shattered dream
                             that didn't exist
                            but left you hurt,
                           and with heavy heart,
                               please awake,
                               here's a kiss
                             just plain warmth
                            simple care to you,
                              a little love,
                             a lot of feeling,
                               some desire,
                            which can be shared
                             as friends, even,
                              for much good,
                             should ( could )
                            it all be possible?

                            That in your heart,
                              you could give
                                your vision
                              another chance,
                              before you lose
                                that sweet
                               scented heart
                               into the deep
                                dark night,
                             of our memories,
                           of nothing, nothing,
                         the darkest space of all,
                            no love, no cares.

                             Erin, Erin, erin,
                                  Awake.
                         You, thy inspiring muse,
                          where your love lives,
                              not in fantasy,
                              but in reality,
                                 in life,
                              at least where
                             you can also gain
                           a seedling of respect
                             a measure of love
                              some pain, yes,
                            but also some more,
                          developing your desire
                            that has been hurt
                            rarely appreciated,
                             often dismissed,
                              but ( for me )
                              never forgotten
                                 ever felt
                             many times wanted
                          I wish it were possible
                          rather than a horrible
                         dream, out of frustration
                          with a few more lines,
                               of adulation.

                         Sweet, and e'er so sweet
                        scented heart of the night
                        full of stars we see, meet,
                      make it all, desire, and might
                         to find it, to learn it,
                         to love it, to share it,
                              to nurture it,
                              to care for it,
                             so it can be told
                       in a few lines, full of words
                             with few actions
                         ( except in the mind's )
                               that there is
                                 out there
                              in those stars
                        spread amidst this universe
                           one person who cares,
                                   and,
                           will gladly share it
                               all with you.





                               Erin, Part 3
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~

                             ( October 1993 )

        ( The music playing is Anthony Phillips' Slow Dance Pt 2 )

              Gentle, radiant, smiling, you take yourself far
             And as you sway, the doors open, the windows ajar
              The winds behind you, colorfully tender breeze
            Caressing you, like a feather with such soft ease.

           Life is rough, we can be rougher, and you'll survive
           Yet to the end, we all have, and shall to see, arrive
            Then, you'll see all you have been through and done
             Loved, hated, cared, failed - more and then some,

                              We'll show you
                    Your experience has been worthwhile
                                  To you
                                   To us
                              As you learned
                                 And grew
                                And became
                                 A vision
                                no, no, no,
                                 A person
                          To a poet of few words
                      Hidden behind the many numbers
                          A man with some letters
                          A human with such heart
                         A spirit of a little care
                            A soul with desire
                                    ...
                    It isn't always the battle it seems
                   The efforts we push forth and endure
                    But with a few smiles, loving whims
                     You'll yet sway, through the sure
                    and true clear path you have wove.

                     Nothing like a little inspiration
                      for a poem of heart and no soul
                     But with love and true radiation
                  I give it to you in a plain round bowl
                                    ...
                    while a fish in a glass still pouts
                                    ...
                               and we watch
                                    ...
                                  I did,
                            and wanted to meet
                                    ...
                           a feeling of freedom
                           you, to share
                                  a scent of air
                           you, to give
                                  a tender mercy
                           you, to feel
                                  a gentle breeze
                           you, to touch
                                  a gentle skin
                           you, to whisper
                                  a smooth tale
                           you, to see a light
                                  there is only one to see
                           you, to join
                                  a dance in the sky
                                   ...
                           you, to dream
                                  and write, yet,
                               another poem
                          from this lonely heart
                                into a life
                         a creation, an invention
                        of mere thoughts into words
                                    ...
                              a hope to learn
                             a chance to live
                              a need to give
                             a hope to inspire
                                    ...
                        a few thoughts into a face
                           that has beauty in it
                       somewhere hidden behind much
                              thought, ideas
                           but not enough, such
                           that one can not see
                       what is there ready to appear
                                at anytime
                             and in all truth
                               really should
                                  always
                                    BE.

                      ( thanks for the inspiration )






                             Angels Have Heart
                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                              ( April 1987 )
                               ( For Vina )

                 All angels have a heart for us all to see
               let it show, then, all its glory, shine, be,
                                   ....
                                   dive,
                                  splash,
                                  woosh,
                and our hearts carry the wings, a blanket
               for you and I to sleep in, with some warm air
               or a coolish breeze from the earth's thicket
                 and we live on, with many tasks to bear.
                                   ....
                                   dive,
                                  splash,
                                  clean,
                                   turn,
                                   then,
                               take me away,
                           the feathers so soft,
                              sound so pretty
                            appear, disappear,
                             and fly so gently
                      until the time we have them not
                              and feel empty
                        and that loneliness appears
                            and our heart cries
                                   again
                                    ...
                          the missing beat nears
                            we look to the sky
                              away from here
                              hoping to find
                                   ....
                                   dive,
                                  splash,
                                  swish,
                                   run,
                                   fly,
                                and caress,
                                  softly,
                                 with me.

                                    ...

                           The flight is so high
                          the dive is quite pure
                        your heart will clean much
                         pain, fear, hurts, anger
                            you'll find a cure
                         and many shall feel free
                                once again
                           to dance in that hall
                       where his legs and feet stand
                               and await you
                                 to shine,
                             and never to fall
                               ( or fail ).
                                 dive,...
                                splash,...
                                  run,...
                               fly away,...
                             and here we stand
                                 and watch
                                such beauty
                                such care,
                                such love,
                               that few know
                         or will ever understand,
                                or desire.

                           We have been together
                              and have shared
                                  it all
                          from the loveliest wing
                           to the greatest heart
                               of them all.

                               and yes, I do
                              miss that heart
                                yes, I do.






                                  Shauna
                                  ~~~~~~

                            ( August 21, 1993 )
                              ( For Shauna )

                            Cuddled, we slept,
                             your back to me,
                           tucked in next to me,
                             my arm around you
                              my right hand,
                           on your left breast,
                         and I could feel a heart
                            palpitate, quietly,
                                 smoothly,
                              writing a song,
                             spelling a dream,
                             perhaps a vision,
                          the feel of that heart,
                            so soothed my life
                          made it easier to live,
                             simpler to hear,
                                  you...
                            you moved a little
                             there was a sound
                            in the large window
                           right in front of us,
                          amidst the spring green
                           of the early morning,
                               stood a deer
                             rubbing its nose
                             against the glass
                              you got up, ohh
                      the emptiness of your departure
                          hit me like a thunder,
                           the arms were cooler,
                             the warmth cooled
                          and you naked and free
                             moved your body,
                              ever so gently,
                             ever so quietly,
                               to the window
                            as the deer watched
                                 carefully
                             took a few steps
                               then returned
                              to the window.
                        Your presence was stronger,
                             and it knew you.

                           You passed the table,
                            grabbed the cereal
                             and walked slowly
                         quietly, breasts swaying
                             secretly, lightly
                            towards the window,
                          you made a few sounds,
                        the deer's ears perked up,
                         I had heard these before,
                                right here,
                            it understood you,
                          because it didn't move,
                             somehow it knew,
                           somehow it just knew.

                       You opened the window slowly
                         I could see a silhouette
                             perfectly, short
                             well proportioned
                             smooth, beautiful
                           a painting, but alive
                             and with feeling.

                        As the window slid upwards,
                          the deer stepped back.
                          You poured some cereal
                               on your hand
                         brought it to your mouth
                                 kissed it
                               ate a little
                               then, softly,
                                  gently
                            stretched your arm
                             holding the food
                                 holy meal
                           to the curious animal
                       who immediately moved forward
                             and began eating
                             out of your hand,
                           it's peace was clear,
                          its ears moved slowly,
                           but only when needed,
                               no fear now,
                              its love alive
                           its thankfulness near
                     the amount on your hand was done
                       the animal licked your palm,
                             and looked at you
                             and moved closer,
                             took a few licks
                              of your wrist,
                                arm, neck,
                                you smiled,
                           it kissed your face,
                           you laughed a little
                         and poured some more food
                               on your hand
                        and the deer ate it gladly.

                       Then it suddenly moved away,
                           it scampered quickly,
                         as we heard some bustling
                              in the bushes,
                             you never moved,
                           you must have known,
                                 and soon,
                        some little ones appeared.

                               You sat down
                            on the window sill,
                            gracious movement,
                           and you fed them all,
                           until they were full
                            satiated, thankful
                       and rubbed their little heads
                         on your leg, on your arm
                            on your smooth body
                               on your heart
                          as if suckling for milk
                                    ...
                                 I got up,
                            came to the window
                              ever so slowly
                        the animals were no longer
                                  afraid,
                              they knew you,
                                trusted me.

                       I brought them a little more
                                   food,
                        and patted their soft fur,
                           their attentive ears
                          their slight foreheads
                   the mom kissed my hand for some more
                           and I gave her some.

                            Alas, out of food,
                           we patted them again
                             wished them well.

                           Shauna and I kissed,
                              mouth to mouth,
                               body to body,
                               soul to soul,
                             spirit to spirit,
                          I then kissed her eyes
                          I kissed her forehead,
                            all under the eyes
                         of our gallery of beasts,
                               and I kissed
                           that beautiful body
                           that ached for peace
                           in the animal kingdom
                          for a life in the wild
                                for a dream
                             of total freedom,
                             and we made love,
                               right there,
                              by the window,
                           with the curious eyes
                            watching, laughing
                              and occasionally
                             nibbling my back.
                            We went back to bed
                            satisfied, satiated
                                free, happy
                             shauna cuddled me
                            kissed a thank you
                                  turned
                              cuddled tighter
                           grabbed my right arm
                      and covered her figure with it
                            and then tucked it
                            on her left breast
                              over her heart
                             and I, once again
                                 listened
                             to the heart beat
                                 of a life
                        there was a little rustling
                                in the wind
                                and I knew
                          that our blessed beasts
                                were gone,
                              gone for today,
                              but this moment
                                never, ever
                                   will.








                                BLINDSIDED
                                ~~~~~~~~~~

                              Someone speaks
                              Across the room
                          A sobbing voice breaks
                        Love soaked days and nights
                             Cancelled by fear
                           Of repeating mistakes
                                    ...
                                And I was -

                                Blindsided
                        I didn't even see it coming
                              Can't fight it
                          Before I hit the ground
                      You were already running away.

                                ( bridge )
                    It don't get any clearer than this
               Believe it like the taste of a goodbye kiss.

                                   I was
                                Blindsided
                          Nothing I can say or do
                               Will it right
                           You won't come around
                        And I'm already fading away
                                    ...

                                One morning
                     All alone with someone who cares
                              Without warning
                        The fabric of reality tears
                                    ...
                                And I was -

                                Blindsided
                        I didn't even see it coming
                              Can't fight it
                          Before I hit the ground
                      You were already running away.


                                      -- Michael Stroup





                              I Feel the Same
                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                            I carved your name
                                In the desk
                         The first time I saw you
                              In gradeschool
                           And I carved a heart
                                In a tree -

                               By the brook
                          Where I walked with you
                            For the first time
                              Read you a poem
                            That did not rhyme.

                           And I felt the shame
                                In my heart
                       The first time I lied to you
                              And like a fool
                              I made you cry
                                 Over me -

                                In the park
                           Where I talked to you
                             For the last time
                             Spoke of my life
                         Oh, but I wasn't in time.
                          ( instrumental verse )
                                In the life
                         Where we thought we knew
                              We were in love
                             I didn't realize
                            It's never enough.

                            And I feel the same
                                On this day
                          As I did the last time
                               I kissed you
                           And I felt your hair
                               On my face -

                                On the lake
                         Where the full moon light
                           Made your eyes shine
                           you gave me your love
                             I gave you mine.

                                    And
                              I feel the same
                                Baby, I do
                              I feel the same
                            Darlin', don't you?


                                      -- Michael Stroup








                                Miles to Go
                                ~~~~~~~~~~~

                            I drove across the
                           flat farm land in the
                             purpling evening,
                          speeding past memories
                         of grandparents, kitchen
                          pumps and cottontails,
                              to say goodbye.
                         Silhouettes of cornfields
                        and grain elevators settled
                            against the remains
                         of the parting sun as it
                            painted the sky in
                            a childhood vision
                                of sunsets,
                          pink rays fanning into
                              the heavens as
                         the stench of manure and
                         feedlots coated the air.
                            And there you were,
                           wearing a quiet smile
                       that spoke of the secret you
                               finally knew.
                         I stood and caressed the
                           red of the flag that
                        covered you and shared our
                         communal silence of love
                              one last time,
                           staring at your hands
                             no longer shaking
                  no smoking cigarette dripping ashes....
                           but still your hands,
                      overwhelmed with love for this
                          prison that was yours,
                         and wished you farewell.


                                      -- Jan Kingsford








                                Edgar Allan
                                ~~~~~~~~~~~

                      I dig and hoe get seeds and sow
                    And water them and watch them grow
                         If I don't do this I know
                       My gardens will no color show
                     My soul will surely fill with woe
                      Can't stand and chat I gotta go
                      And get the shovel and the hoe
                    And till the earth and start to sow
                    And plant some flowers tall and low
                    And water them and watch them grow
                      And dream about the color show
                        No I'm running out of time
                    I'm running out of words that rhyme
                    Too bad the key word here is "hoe"
                 Sounds like this verse was penned by Poe!


                                      -- Ruby I. Bender







                               Drying Drops
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~

                      Dreams run down my windowpane,
                       drying drops of summer rain.
                My heart chatters endlessly, restlessly on,
                 telling its stories from dusk till dawn.
                   It calls to you and sighs your name,
                   the echoing silence wounds and maims.
                   Trying too hard to be seen and heard
                   stumbling, tumbling on just one word.
                     Trying to free my hearts desire,
                      caught in a choking muddy mire.
                 Please be the wings for my dreams to fly,
                 don't let them flutter, sputter and die.
                 Your words speak truths my heart can hear
                 quelling and quenching the nameless fear.
              Let the river of your vision overflow my banks,
                 let me sing you a song of joy and thanks.


                                      -- Jan Kingsford







                              Manic's Refrain
                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                        Have you tried the Lithium
                           Haldol and Navane too
                       Tranzenem Thorazine, Triavil
                 Elavil or Prolixin just to name a few - -
                Well if you have, you may join this refrain
                        By and large all reek havoc
                       And not only with your brain
                      Though professing to stabilize
                       In truth they mostly paralyze
             Both mind and limb your body through and through.
           Though some appear to thrive on these legalized meds
     Most patients plead for mercy as they stagger towards their beds
          Now it's time for Dekapote; is this another sour note?
                       I won't know until tomorrow;
                        Will tomorrow be too late?
                   Is this just one more failure or - -
                           Will it rehabilitate?


                                      -- Ruby I. Bender







   ͸ ͸ ͸ ͸        ͸ ͸ ͸  ͸ ͸    ͸
   ;    ͸             ͸     Ѿ    ;           
       ; ;             ; ;             ;   
  


                               THE MINOTAUR
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~

                               The Minotaur
                               After a long
                             Long journey home
                                Lies asleep
                                In his lair
                           With his eyes closed
                             Afloat on a dream
                                 That his
                              Exhaustion airs

                               A dream of a
                               Girl so young
                               As he is old
                            With mushroom eyes
                             And hair so wild
                              Lost and alone
                               The Minotaur
                             Stirs in his lair
                             He sighs for her

                            A dream which forms
                             Each single tear
                           That's gathered here
                           Throughout the years
                            Throughout all time
                            Tangled with vines
                               A dark lament
                            His heart is wrent

                             A tear which has
                               Repeated that
                             "I loved so much
                              And how I loved
                              And who I loved
                              And why I loved
                             No one can know"
                            The Minotaur stirs
                                In his lair
                             He sighs for her

                               The Minotaur
                               After a long
                             Long journey home
                                Lies asleep
                                In his lair
                           With his eyes closed
                            And a thorn lodged
                                In his side
                           A tear extracted from
                              His gentle eye

                        So with his heart bled dry
                             Beneath the sword
                                Of Thesius
                            He howls and cries
                             For want of love
                             For want of life
                              A life that is
                              But now a dream
                              A life that but
                              retains the lie

                            But once this dream
                            Revealed the truth
                             How two were one
                              But now no more
                             It's just a dream
                               As any dream
                                 A penalty
                            Where death becomes
                               The Labyrinth
                             Lost love exposed

                               The Minotaur
                               After a long
                             Long journey home
                             Reclaims his lair
                             Reclaims his love
                           Reclaims what's there
                               The Minotaur
                               After a long
                             Long journey home

                                  Dies...


                                   Coda
                                   ~~~~

                               The Minotaur
                            Stands by her side
                            Protects the light
                           That shines on her...


                                      -- Klaus J. Gerken





                                 Anaglyph
                                 ~~~~~~~~

                             beyond the shadow
                                of a doubt
                                 of hatred
                                  of pain
                              of jealous lust

                                 beyond it
                              across an ocean
                              lays an island
                           with an empty cave -
                          long since uninhabited

                        where the tears have dried
                          and the lies have died
                      and the majesty turned to rock
                          and the altar lays bare

                                now and for
                                 eternity
                                    
                                    yet
                                the island
                                 the cave
                                the meaning
                          will never be forgotten

                               but forgiven
                                    
                                 and those
                               sailing past
                              bow their heads
                       to the darkened rocky outcrop
                              to the majesty
                           to the crumbling god
                                  finally
                             ( allowed to be )
                                put to rest
                                    
                         and they open their eyes
                              to the new dawn
                         to the sun rising higher
                            into the sky above
                        to the fresh morning breeze
                    billowing lovingly in their faces -
                       faces so adapted to the dark
                         so adjusted to the night
                    so accustomed to a different world
                                    
                          the new dawn is upon us
                           let our eyes be open
                           let our minds be free

                                 for ever



                                      -- Igal Koshevoy








                                Coda-issima
                                ~~~~~~~~~~~

                               And so be it
                           That we all have done
                              Well under this
                                   Sun,
                            As all my children
                            Have been promised
                             That they forever
                                   Will,
                               and Will.....
                                   Write
                                   Again
                                 and Again
                                    ...


                                      -- Pedro Sena







   ͻ
       A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers    
   Ķ
        - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet   [9310]     
   Ķ
    (C) CopyRight     "I Write, Therefore, I Develop"     By Paul Lauda 
   ͼ

       Come one, come all! Welcome to 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.

       Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area,
       an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and
       speculated history & publishing.  In all of the ten conferences,
       anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends.
       For that is what CentNet is here for: for you.  Ever wonder how
       to accent a poem at the right meter?  Well, come join our
       PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out.
       Have any problems in deciphering your dreams?  Select The Dreams
       echo, and you're questions shall be solved.

       The Network was created on May 16, 1993.  I created this 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 Bulletin Board Systems.

       I 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 download the whole network, 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.

       If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call
       at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences.  You'll
       not be disappointed!   Or, check out the latest info packet
       being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE].






                        (tm)
                                              
            Cent                         
             Net                               
                               

           A Professional Mailing NetWork 

                              - A  or   -

             Welcome to Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network!

             Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a
       very special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the
       sharing and distribution of poetic material.  It was our
       feeling, THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in
       life which should be treated with honest feeling, and not be
       censored, because it might have one word, or one feeling which
       someone did not like.

            When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY.
       But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all
       also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share.  Immediately
       a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease
       the needs and interests of the several members who helped place
       this on the map.  All in all, we find that we are a group of
       dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of
       writing.

             And what does Centipede stand for?  The body of the
       Centipede is made up of the Sysops who carry CentNet.  These
       Sysops have a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM ( BBS ) which dedicates
       itself to carious uses depending on each individual user.  There
       are many types of BBS's and some of them are specially dedicated
       to electronic mailing of messages.  For this purpose several
       NETWORKS have been created.  Centipede is one of these.  These
       Sysops, which means they are Systems Operators, when joining a
       larger system, become known as NODES.  And without the hard work
       of many of these Sysops, CentNet and any other network would not
       be able to flourish properly.  The legs are the Users, without
       the users the Sysops could not move anywhere.  Without the body,
       the Users could not interact with one another.

            Our NetWork offers a special program for Sysops and Users
       in case there may be questions or problems.  A 24 hour Voice
       Support Line is here for your questions: (609) 895-0858.  If per
       chance there is no one there to answer your call, please leave
       your name and voice phone number, and the best possible time to
       contact you (Eastern Standard Time), and someone will get back
       to you as soon as possible.  We are here to help you, please
       feel free to call, even if it is just to say "Hello".

             CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would
       like to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are
       about.  You may give us a call at the number mentioned above,
       and we will gladly find a way for you to interact with us.








                  
                      
                   
                          
                                       
                             
               
                   
              
      

  
            THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ 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
            THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
            FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
            POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
            DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
            KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
            THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
            FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken
            MZ-DMZ, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            DARK SIDE, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            BLATANT VANITY, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            ALIENATION OF AFFECTION, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            HATRED BLURRED, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME, ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

                And coming soon:

            THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
            THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
            INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena
  

    All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each, and may be ordered from:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from  the  same  address:  $2.50  an
  issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac),
  operating  system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for
  delivery.

  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems
  BBS (1-609-896-3256).




  
                 Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ    Ŀ      Ŀ
                         Ĵ      ڿ Ĵ   
                                 
            ķ  Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ ķ 
                           Ĵ              
                                   
  


  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 by KJ Gerken

  The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS:
  No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from
  there.

  Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or
  anything else  appropriate  should  be  addressed,  with  a self addressed
  stamped envelope, to:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS




