




 October 1993  volume 1, number 6 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
  Ŀ              Ŀ    Ŀ ķ  Ŀ               Ŀ Ŀ  
  Ĵ                          Ĵ                       
                                             
                                                                            
  Ŀ    Ŀ    Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ    Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  
       Ĵ                             Ĵ       Ŀ  
                                          
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      
                     Associate Editor: Paul Lauda                           
                    Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy                        
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
ͼ



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

      INTRODUCTION...................................Klaus J. Gerken
      not nor........................................Jari Winter
      AWAKE..........................................Gerald DeJong
      k'trs........................................Igal Koshevoy
      FADED PICTURES.................................Igal Koshevoy
      Happy Poem.....................................Joe Hope
      RAIN...........................................Joe Hope
      The Cubist Circle..............................Shawn Tribe
      Cubist Vision..................................Shawn Tribe
      No. 16.........................................Shawn Tribe
      home is Where the Hell is......................David Hickey
      Shadows........................................Heather James
      Reasons........................................Heather James
      Come Dance With Me.............................Heather James
      October 1990...................................Pedro Sena
      December 16, 1987..............................Pedro Sena
      January 4, 1988   .............................Pedro Sena
      "Tis Vain to expect"...........................Vince Otten
      Homecoming.....................................Vince Otten
      Regenerative...................................Andrew Blevins
      Common Rivers..................................Andrew Blevins
      IMAGE..........................................Franz Zorn
      "I love".......................................David Parton
      "I FEEL GOOD..."...............................David Parton
      "Were even the skies...".......................David Parton
      SO MANY DAYS...................................Klaus J. Gerken
      POST SCRIPTUM..................................David Parton



                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

      Ok.  This issue is late, mainly because of the editor's own inability
   to come down from from the attic and clean up his own basement.  So now
   that the old papers have been discarded, the floor swept and the dust is
   slowly beginning to settle (mostly in the editor's dislocated Id), I
   think this edition can finally be brought forth from the shadows.  And I
   think, like the previous editions, that it is a good one, with many of
   the poets this journal was meant to accommodate, reappearing, with new
   and more challenging works.

      I must say that the month of October has been rather difficult;
   although the poems were chosen quite a while ago, the editor could not
   cope with a valid full length Introduction to the issue - mainly because
   of other commitments, but also because what is commonly called a
   "writer's block".  I believe anyone who is serious about writing can
   understand the devastation this can bring.  Trying to write a simple
   sentence becomes a deep and angry chasm which, the longer it takes,
   becomes ever more wide.   Finally one either sits there despairing or
   forces something out.  I was jostled out of this by a poem which appeared
   on the Centipede PoetryForum, in French, all the way from France.  It
   was a poem about war and the screaming that goes on within the mind
   wanting it to stop, and yet also the apathy felt while watching it on TV.
   I would have liked to include the poem in this issue, but have not yet
   finalized the translation, nor gotten the author's permission - hopefully
   it will appear next month ... but such is the power of poetry.

      One more thing I wanted to say: a few words about my Production Editor.
   In the beginning when Ygdrasil was just a jumble of mad pages without
   form or substance.  Igal Koshevoy undertook the shaping of what was then
   just a long strung out roll of poems, it was he who made the logo, built
   the graphics, and made sure my fifty thousand spelling errors were
   corrected.  The magazine that you see today, is his visual work, and
   without him would probably never gotten to where it is today.  Thanks
   Igal, although you might not think so, this journal is as much your
   creation as mine.



                                                          
                                        з           ַ ַ ַ / ַ ַ
                                             Ľ       Ľ      



  not nor
  ~~~~~~~

  I wish you were
  coming to save me
  from destruction's sweetest lure.

  Born a whore
  beg and plead for the air I breath
  that's what I'm for.

  Just as the sparrow crests the wind
  The eagle's claws
  gather and 'rind.

  Maybe like the Phoenix
  I'll burn then return
  like a thousand flickering candle wicks.

  No hero's gonna come
  and possess my space
  nor fill my heart, nor my play drum
  not nor take my name, not nor use my face.
  no, no hero's gonna come
  and take my place
  I'll fight my fights
  and I'll live my life
  and I'll live my life!!!!


                                            - Jari Winter






  AWAKE
  ~~~~~
  in the last part of the dream
  when the walls are dripping daylight through the seams
  your big black shadow disappears
  and you know every atom is an eye to see you here

  this is bright white awake
  when you link with the thought of a union that might break
  you better give energy to make it clear
  cos you know it's a matter of mind to create fear


                                            - Gerald DeJong
                                              March 1993






  k'trs   n. (1) A female theatrical performer.  (2) One who takes part:
  ~~~~~~~   participant.   Slang: an undesirable person.

  An actress - that's what you are.
   Desperately trying to play the lead role,
           [...in a comedy of errors]
           [...in a drama]
           [...in a documentary]
           [...in a horror film]
           [...in a tragedy]
        but you can't get away from the faceless masses,
         can't break away to show your skill and talent to the world.

  You're trying so hard
   to show the world that you that you're so good (at the role you play).
        [That no one can even tell when you're acting.]
         [...or when you really are crying.]
     So lost, in your spinning dervish
          [...a tornado - tearing you apart]
      that not even you can tell when you're acting.

  To you * nothing is real.
   Not the audience,
        [...can't hear their cheers]
    not the other actors that surround you,
         [...can't hear their cries]
     not even the floor you stand on is real to you.
          [...fell through - no one could catch you]
      Nothing is real * to you but * the stage
       and the searing hot spotlight in your face.
        And the spotlight that you feed off of, has burned you away,
            [...like a tissue paper fairy in a furnace]
         and baked you dry, as the desert sands,
          dehydrated you of your feelings,
           boiled you, till the salt collected at the bottom of the glass.
             ["...the dregs remain, bitter as salt as pain."]

  maybe one day,
  the drunk director will come to his wits
        and give you the role
        that you deserved all this time.
                i wish he would,
                i wish you the best of luck.
                      but he's too damned busy,
                      shooting you down.


                                              -Igal Koshevoy; March 6, 1993
                                               METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE 19:8




  FADED PICTURES
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  Ghosts, ghosts, mist and fog
  floating through the night.

  Pretty pictures, molasses memories
  flying away - leaving me behind.
  In my hands, I watch them
  as their chroma fades, hues dissipate,
  and the resolution turns them to a grainy blotch.

  Then the night's wind tears them
  out from my clutching hands.
  I chase them as fast as I can run,
  till I drop to the ground with exhaustion,
  just trying to catch their faded goodness.

  The wind keeps taking my pictures,
  my albums, my words, my songs, my breath.
  Sucking me dry of their feelings of joy,
  of exhilaration, of happiness, of beauty and of kindness.

  And what fills their place?
  The wind.
  The cold empty wind that billows
  across the empty highway I lay crumpled on.

  Cold, empty wind of the night -
  blowing me around.
  Tearing me apart
  till I'm transparent - then invisible....

  "Ghosts aren't real!" someone said.
   But I believe.


                                             -Igal Koshevoy
                                              March 6th 1993
                                              TIN-FOIL GHOST 1:4






  Happy Poem
  ~~~~~~~~~~
  Have you seen fear
  Have you smelled its decaying breath
  Have you seen the darkness of death on your shoulder
  Standing in the cold breeze on a sunny day
  Waiting patiently for the right person to take at the wrong time
  Have you felt the anger and frustration they bring to my heart
  I wish to know what they see
  I wish to see the pain of the death and fear of the dark
  Darkness spreads over me as I wander through life
  "Fear is the mindkiller"
  Suffering under the reigning god
  Despots of death and destruction of society
  Anarchists for christ
  Beckoning for a place and wish they were here
  Standing on the threshold of my kingdom
  I survey all I see
  I see nothing but the darkness of the blindfold
  But imagine what a great place it must be
  I wonder how you live with this destruction
  And how you cope with yourself
  Your quick and squinty glaring personality
  Can see right through my disguise
  and I wish I was naked once more!


                                            - Joe Hope, 1993




  RAIN
  ~~~~
  The rain streams down
  Soaking me to the skin and deep into my soul
  As the drops fall around my ankles
  Tears stream from my eyes
  Nobody notices
  Nobody cares
  Though I feel alone people are all around me
  Searching for shelter
  Never talking to me
  Just rushing here and there
  The lightning cracks the sky
  Lighting my darkened view of the world
  Only showing how devastated our world really is
  I look around at the naturally lit world
  I see poverty and hunger
  Death and murder
  Capital gain
  And capital punishment
  Kill he who kills
  And all of us should die
  We all pollute and turn the other cheek
  The man asks for change and we walk on by
  We call ourselves a civil society!
  I turn in shame
  And walk in the rain
  And weep as I beg for change.


                                            - Joe Hope, 1993
                                              Madness 01:01






  The Cubists Circle
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  They looked into the room,
  saw cubes and circles,
  great cylinders.
  The torment of such a cruel device
  no canvas to capture.
  White, more torture.
  Both beauty and torment.
  Blank canvas of possibility,
  blank canvas of uncreativity.
  Explosion in a shingle factory;
  what trife.
  A beautiful array a planes and
  shapes.
  Squares, circles, triangles, lines.
  The cubists lifeline.
  The dissector of the subject:
  analyzing with intensity.
  Why do they criticize what they
  do not understand?
  Why can they not open their minds?
  It is our job to open the gates
  of creativity to them...
  or become the subject of our
  geometrical massacre.


                                            - Shawn R. Tribe
                                              August 25, 1993; 1:38am




  Cubist Vision
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Can you imagine what I see?
  To look at an object,
  not seeing its depth or mass,
  merely seeing the bold lines of its
  creation.
  To look at a floor and see the
  intricate patterns of geometrical
  lines.
  Tall buildings, people, trees, all
  become mass components of lines,
  cubes, and circles.
  My world is analytical, and two
  dimensional, the demented vision
  of an artist?
  Or merely the world of creativity?


                                            - Shawn R. Tribe
                                              October 16, 1993; 7:04pm




  No. 16
  ~~~~~~

  Fools will never understand,
  scholars try,
  only artists know.

  For the public criticizes.
  How can one criticize what one does
  not understand?
  For they say:
  "My child could do it!" or
  "It is just lines!"
  The newspapers hold their silly little contests,
  with kids entering it unaware of their fallacy.
  Perhaps I should say, blasphemy?
  Editorialists poke fun of it,
  while cartoonists make a mockery of it.

  For those of us,
  who do understand,
  we certainly wonder why they cannot.

  Rothko. A genius.
  The etherial quality of his works astound,
  as if you could see God eminating from them.
  The omnipresent being, with no true form.

  $1.8 million dollars?
  A bargain.


                                            - Shawn R. Tribe
                                              August 12, 1993; 10:40pm






  home is Where the Hell is
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  home
  was always
          far away

  warmth and love
  were always
          for others

  parents
  were always
          strangers
  a love taken
          ungiven
          unforgiven

  the hand
  that rocked the cradle
  that held the hand
  that wiped the tears
  that kept the ghosts
          at bay

  few and far
          away

  so was
  the hand
  that raised above
  that fell upon
  that caused the tears
  that kept the hope
          at bay

  another bruise
  on my coat of arms
  I wait
          without hope
  as His belt
  announces
  the coming
  of
  night


                                            - John David Hickey






       Shadows...
       ~~~~~~~
  She searches for something that she can give to him
  As the light ahead of her begins to slowly dim
  His shadow appears in front of her before her eyes
  As she begins to ponder the answers to all of her why's
  Does the answers lie within him or does he not know?
  For he will be together with her now wherever she will go
  His shadow will appear before her eyes only for her to see
  As his shadow embraces her as together in the night,they flee
  Fleeing away from all of their cares in the still of the night
  As they travel far away together soaring together,taking flight
  She ponders once again what she can give to him as she searches her
       heart
  For he has come to be with her and as they join in darkness,never will
       they part
  For she is now a part of his shadow as the two shadows now become one
  As they play in the sky together dancing under the stars and the sun
  She hands him her heart as a token of her love for him so true
  For all the times that his shadow in the darkness comforted her and love
       grew
  Their heart from this day on for them will always beat together as one
  As they look up in the sky together,for them they begin to see the sun
  The sun for them together will always light their way wherever they go
  As the wind will whisper their names together and love will always
       grow
  Growing each day as the two shadows joined now when the darkness falls
  To be there for each other in the darkness when the other shadow calls


                                            - Heather James
                                              August 1993




       Reasons...
       ~~~~~~~
  Don't worry,the candle will light our way in the darkened sky
  The waves will collide against the shore as we wonder why
  Some things have no answers for them to happen,they just do
  We may ask ourselves too many questions our whole lives through
  Sometimes it is just destiny and fate that carries us along the way
  Sometimes we think back at our childhood when we watch children play
  Sometimes things in life for us never make sense to us at all
  We wonder in life why someone in our life has somehow broken the wall
  The wall where we felt we were protected and someone breaks it down
  As we feel all the emotions and feelings filling up as we feel we drown
  Overwhelmed with feeling alive once again and someone touched our heart
  As we all know that we have to let go of insecurities and make a new
       start
  Fear may stop us from getting too close though we somehow do
  As we find out in life that they are the finest friend we ever knew


                                            - Heather James
                                              August 1993





       Come Dance With Me...
       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  Dance with me now under the moon so bright
  Take me in your arms now and hold me tight
  Tighter and tighter like no other before
  Take me higher and higher, where the thunder will roar
  Where the streams divide into a small stream
  As we are sharing this same wonderful dream
  Shattered dreams as I awaken into the night
  Feeling you close and holding onto me so tight
  There is comfort in feeling you so close and so near
  I love you and hope that wherever you are you, will hear
  The stars for us will always shine as you will now sleep
  But since I have met you,you are forever in my keep
  Come dance with me once again in the moon,it will never burn out
  Come ease my pain and let me ease in your mind, your doubt
  Your doubt that I am sincere,you will see in time I am still around
  Because I can never lose the friendship with you that I have found.


                                            - Heather James
                                              August 1993






  Dedicated to the reader Kimberley Ann Jackson,
  who is truly a beautiful spirit of many sorts...

                                      

  October 1990
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The soft folds of dawn
  appeared
  ...
  in the horizon.

  And I turned my face,
  one more time
  ...
  to look,
  at the soft curves
  which rested peacefully
  ...
  I thought
  ...
  and she spoke softly
  and keenly
  about what perception
  appeared in her vision.

  And I sat...
  couldn't think...
  much...
  but...
  I could see...
  the soft curls...
  and the clouds...
  manifest themselves
  into a cohesive whole
  ...
  as she spoke
  ...
  firmly
  ...
  neatly
  ...
  carefully.
  
  As the soft lights
  curled themselves
  in her horizon
  her words floated
  musically
  over the salty waters
  of our hearts.

  And it soothed
  as if a magickal lullaby
  had donated its caressing
  wisdom over the bodily features
  which covered this earthly soul
  ...
  to whom she spoke.

  The soft folds of dawn
  appeared
  and as it converged
  its light into one life
  it also reminded me
  us, that we must live
  yet again
  to clarify
  that which can't be
  said or heard,
  very well...
  but felt all over,
  and it's called
  a special kind of love.


                                            - Pedro Sena




  December 16, 1987
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Forgive me not the greatest sins
  if I wish to outdistance my whims
  for knowledge...
  for love...
  for care...
  beware...

  Forgive me not, if I never listen
  to many words that might glisten
  with some color...
  and meaning...
  longing...
  a touch...

  Forgive me not, if I can never love
  that light, heat, message from above
  in humble spirit...
  must see it...
  and know it not...
  can't hesitate...

  Quickly the pen appears, and strikes
  and paper, so glad it is here, enlights
  before the feeling fades
  into a spec...
  of oblivion...
  did it exist?...
  how did it come...

  Be ready, when your door also opens
  and pass thru into many great oceans
  in thought...
  in life...
  of life...
  all true...
  and necessary,
  also unnecessary,
  but I record it,
  here...
  beware...
  for...
  I am ready to write.


                                            - Pedro Sena




  January 4, 1988
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The throes of a lonely time
  like grapes to a sour wine
  stands at the tip of my tongue
  as I hope, pray, for the wrong
  I may have never done.

  And as that time passes by here
  I remember the things I revere
  love, desire, vanity and more
  all too true, here sitting before
  my very own eyes.

  One day passes, the second dies
  the passion, the care, the gall,
  willing wasteful times and thoughts
  of what might have been and is not
  but what is here is true, and
  there is some wine left.

  And some poet sits and cries
  begging for mercy, new highs
  for his spirit, poems and rhymes
  that often taste like bitter limes
  from the gardens
  to our own cups.

  One day I will wake up, I'm told
  revitalized, weak body, but bold
  with letters of care and definition
  for what has been called derision
  of some life
  bitter taste.

  And the last drop fell from the cup
  running from the glass into my gut
  hoping that in my body it will live
  once again for hope, lest it forgive
  my, your, pain
  anyones.

  The throes of a lonely time
  like grapes to a sour wine
  stood at the tip of my tongue
  hoping to cease all the wrong
  ...
  and I laughed,
  and I cried,
  it was good wine,
  and I cried no more,
  but had words galore.


                                            - Pedro Sena






  "Tis vain to expect," he said,
  Looking toward the horizon absent-mindedly.
  "Everything I value is something I've lost."
  I replied (something trite, I'm sure),
  But he missed my answer, muttering to himself,
  As he stilled gazed away.

  Meanwhile, happiness appealed to us both in vain.


                                            - Vincent Otten




  Homecoming
  ~~~~~~~~~~

  I forgot you.
  They loved me --
  Or at least
  What I had.

  Now it's gone,
  And I've come
  back to myself,
  but to you?

  How can I?
  The tie's gone.
  But who else
  For my heart?

  As friend? No.
  As beloved? Ha.
  With head hung
  I still come.

  A one-man race?
  I step aside,
  But you run
  Right into me.

  Arms 'round me,
  Tears on me,
  Kisses for me,
  And laughing!  Laughing!


                                            - Vince Otten






  Regenerative
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  You cannot ask, "are you well?"
  your muffled tone, a muscle ache
  and sight fogs in the low wake,
  this beard, know me and pray, do
  and I feel the weak drummer in my chest.
       Satin white with a pillow,
       oak and silver buckles & trim
       the smooth skirt ruffles and
       something down by my feet,
       something crowns my head.
  It is tight, black metal lung
  for the constellation of Orion,
  behind him is Cancer the triad
  where hand in hand is Gemini,
  Venus and Saturn so align.
        The quieting parade of darkness
        sad men, sad ladies, children
        they take the fork in the road,
        my husk to the dirt field dust
        of white wooden crosses that peel.
  Go on! It is over, there it is,
  it is mostly over, I want dust
  and where there can be no tears
  for a dust-bowl martyr, be gone
  to deep throated owls of brown.
       The separation of church and state,
       the poem on my headstone, carved
       by mother nature, my father
       rolling, like thunder bolts
       and his bad back broken farm
       I bleed across and below,
       no longer from above my tears
  Clock me to the anthropology--
  Forgive your long gone wishing well--
  Paste me in library microfiche memory--
  Annunciate me over wine from the big find,
  under the city that rose and fell quick
  over my beaten shack strike, where someone
  may ask some part of me --I hope--
  anything they like...


                                            - V.A. Blevins
                                              March 2, 1993




  Common Rivers
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  We have come
    from life out of common rivers
      Where it is we find the barnacles of love,
  And attach ourselves
    under soft inconvenience
      As not to perform those gestures in gloves,

  Dripping blood into the rainbows on the ocean--
  Giving our organs to the least of scarecrows--
  Marking our mantelpiece with melted trophies--
  Singing joyfully in the presence of moans--

  And because we haggle
   long against the incomplete,
     There is where we compete only
                   in deep premonition.

  But experience can tune jackass sixth sense
  For nighttime dream theaters of the sinful
  Recollection and desires of the holy flesh
  And leave ourselves in residues of coincidence,
  Where to feel is the core of a universe, alone
  Spent in the morning dewdrop meadows of crying.

  But there comes a peaceful wisdom in age,
    Like roses that curl up in brown patches
      Dumping seeds in vessels back to the river--
        Flowing long into the grottos of dispair--
           Leading into the outer crust of death--
              And so marked by the will of the prayer.


                                            - V.A. Blevins
                                              June 15, 1993






  IMAGE
  ~~~~~

  We can understand and sometimes even listen
     to words so often spoken, yet seldom heard
     reality astounds, even the smallest ones of us
     soon...a light that somehow saw one day
        appears on your window sill of dreams
     as if real...some mirages seem to exist
        but then, so quickly vanish again into nothingness
           lost facts hidden from future generations' thoughts
              cycles of falling feeling becoming so strong
                 in the minds of faithful following friends,
              friends to the one beginning apparition of time
                 without any loss of hope...fear itself is gone
                                    only love exists   together.


                                            - Franz Zorn






  I love
       The day dying with a silent fall, like a rose,
       Birds ringing in the dawn, welcome upon the clear air.

  I love
       The stars at night, like so many
       Piercing thoughts in the back of my mind.

  I love
       So many things, this little little planet, sweetly,
       The people on it, and life, the
       Small creatures of God, our children.

  I love
       Dreams so like this waking life, that returning,
       I do not know if they have passed or not,
       You,
       Words and sounds I hear like poems,
       Time flowing around us, fast and slow,
       Sifting our beloved memories into the past.


                                            - David Parton




  I FEEL GOOD CAUSE WE ALL ARE GOOD
        AN I CAN PUT YOU ANYWHERE
                         ANYTIME
                        ANYONE.

  CAUSE I'M OUT HERE AND WE'RE
          ALL PEOPLE
     AND EVERYTHING ANYONE
            EVER DOES
       RATTLES THIS LITTLE UNIVERSE
                 OR THAT ONE.


                                            - David Parton




  Were ever the skies so clear or blue
  Or air so crystalline.
  Oh God, to the peak of the stars, the vault
  God and Godhead
  Dripping ruby-eyed goblets of pouring down Christblood.

  Had we but world enough enough
  had we but world & time
                   & time
  And ringing circles mixed with mind

     singing.


                                            - David Parton






  SO MANY DAYS
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  So many days
  And so many tears
  So many ways
  Through so many fears
  The flaring of anger
  The tearing away
  What love never conquers
  Hate holds at bay

  So many reasons
  That fall to the side
  When saying I love you
  While trying to hide
  The torment collected
  Through suffering alone
  When both must be silent
  While throwing a stone

  So many regrets
  That shadow the fall
  We see neither abyss
  Or mountain at all
  With nothing ahead of us
  And nothing behind
  We search for that limbo
  That no one can find

  The eyes will be opened
  By blind men who see
  What terror it brings us
  When we are too free
  With no one to guide us
  And no one to care
  Whatever we have
  Is all on a dare

  Those bountiful shadows
  That some call obscene
  Refuses to deter
  Whatever they mean
  From windows to vio
  lent reformations
  To perfect conceptions
  That help no one dream

  Whatever we do
  Whatever we don't
  The game in perfection
  Like love is a wound
  That throughout the rain
  Will stain with the blood
  Of innocent virgins
  That drag you through mud

  Accepting the poison
  That each of us drinks
  With perfect acceptance
  Refusing the link
  That violates passion
  And undermines doors
  Where walls only anchor
  What wasn't before

  So many failings
  And so many binds
  So much rehearsal
  With so little time
  So much refusal
  That...Well never mind
  So many reasons
  We never can find

  So hard the distance
  Between lover's eyes
  So hard the solitude
  They despise
  But sometimes the silence
  Is there for the good
  Sometimes the anger
  Is love's hard earned truth.


                                            - Klaus J. Gerken






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


      Some space ago, everything was one and together.  All matter
  thought distance time and spirit was resolved into a dimensionless
  entity, as there was no difference to disunite, and no dimension to
  seek solitude in.

      Matter was the essence of existence and its manifestation.  Matter
  was to mold the cosmos into the vessel we now behold.  Inherent in
  matter were the natural forces which we were to call laws.  As it came
  to be, the nature of matter became these forces, and without
  non-existence, except that it possessed properties by its very nature.
  Do not think of nothing as being the absence of matter, but of matter
  as the absence of nothing.

      The universe is a vast collection of places, things and times.
  Places are occupied by things at certain times.  Things exist in many
  forms, and do many different functions from time to time.

      Some things are universes in themselves.  These things turn
  back on all things and themselves to encompass all things, places and
  times.

      The universe is a group of things.  What these things are made of
  is open to speculation, as their existence absolutely establish their
  identity, and knowledge of other than ones own reality is pointless as
  one encompasses the entire realm of existence, from either extremes of
  time and space.


                                            - David Parton






   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].









                  
                      
                   
                          
                                       
                             
               
                   
              
      

  
            THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
            FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken
            THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
            DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
            FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
            KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
            ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
            FURTHER SONGS 1986, songs by KJ Gerken
            THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
            POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn
            THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
            STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            BLATANT VANITY, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            ALIENATION OF AFFECTION, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE, poems by Igal Koshevoy
  

    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




