




 June 1995  Volume 3, Number 6 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      
                    Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy                        
                    Associate Editors: Paul Lauda                           
                                     : Pedro Sena                           
                                     : Gay Bost                             
                      European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch           
                 Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla                         
                                     : Evan Light                           
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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     INTRODUCTION

     Owner's Boner...................................Gay Bost
     Strange Love....................................Gay Bost
     Retrospect on Emma..............................Gay Bost
     from The Breaking of Desire XVII................Klaus J. Gerken
     Mist........................................... Andy Odendhal
     Storm...........................................Terry A. Long
     Chapter IV: Awaking in the Rapture Field........Greg Shilling
     Understood......................................Jennifer Mulcahy
     The Night.......................................Jennifer Mulcahy
     SnowShine.......................................Jennifer Mulcahy
     Apprentice to Deception.........................Jennifer Mulcahy
     Necco Wafers....................................Jim Yagmin
     March...........................................Emily Dare
     The Swordmaker..................................Emily Dare
     Toast the Mariner!..............................Emily Dare
     All my precious days............................David Anthony Cariddi
     On a cold February morning-.....................Jennifer O'rourke
     Where is my red crayon?.........................Jennifer O'rourke
     THESE HILLS.....................................Igal Koshevoy
     A Drum For each God.............................Ron Tisdale
        Kingdoms Edge  (selections)
           * Resurrection
           * Champagne and Coltrane
           * Cat
           * Wonton Recipe
           * Musicians: Glass Harpist and Fiddlers
           * Giza Lingia (swahili for Darkness Enters)
           * Ocarina

     POST SCRIPTUM
        Sandy, A Monologue...........................Martin Zurla



                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

   A dialogue between Klaus Gerken and Henry Leirvoll:

   Klaus Gerken:    A teacher can only teach those who have a burning 
        desire to learn.  When you surpass the teacher, then the 
        roles will be reversed.

   Henry Leirvoll:  Yes, I can agree to that - but I also heard somewhere 
        that you should not change a single word of your poem once it is 
        written, because those were your original thoughts at the time, and 
        if you change that you change your thought. This man literally 
        described it as "raping your mind".  I don't know if I agree, but 
        the principle has a "cling" to it..

   KG:  That's the old adage that the artist is somehow "supreme";
        that whatever an artist touches becomes art; that being an
        artist is in itself art; that an artist changes perceptions just
        by being.  Perhaps.  But that can be said of any occupation; any
        title.  When we are introduced to a person who bears the title
        of Doctor or General, right away, we change our attitude towards
        them, whether or not they have done anything to deserve the
        title.  I think when someone says "there goes an artist", people
        have certain expectations: they say, "so that is what an artist
        looks like!".

        I used to feel that way towards my early poems.  Never change
        them, even though I know how to improve them now.  Should I
        violate the right of the poem to be as it was first written,
        even though imperfect?  And it can feel like a violation.  But I
        now routinely change those poems.  I continuously revise.  And it
        fascinates me how the poem changes through the years.  It
        actually grows with me.  I always come to the line that Bob
        Dylan wrote in "Like a Rolling Stone":

                  "Once upon a time you looked so fine,
                   Do the bumps and grinds, in your prime..."

        Of course everyone thought he wrote,

                  "Once upon a time you looked so fine
                   Threw the bums a dime..."

        When the first sheet music of this song came out in 66 it
        actually contained the phrase "bumps and grinds", but when I
        bought a copy of Dylan's collected songs I noticed he had
        changed it to "threw the bums a dime".  That's a poems
        evolution.  The artist isn't always right or inviolate.
        Sometimes the audience gets in on the act, and the artist just
        has to acknowledge the fact.  Stand back and accept it all.
        Still, if Dylan hadn't written the song in the first place...

   HL:  But .. When I write poetry I seldom think of which thoughts 
        I want to express - I rather think about the lines all from 
        the beginning.

   KG:  That is fine.  I write a lot like that myself.  But what I am
        saying is to conform the words to the expression.  To shape the
        poem around those thoughts.  Thoughts don't always come as
        poetry; thoughts are oft times rambling and incoherent.  What
        one has to get out of is the act of knowing what one says from
        an insiders view.  I know what I mean, therefore others should
        also.  That is where revisions come in.  Many times I throw away
        what I think is the best part of the poem.  That is the hardest
        part a poet has to do.  I often find that people like those
        poems I despise the most.  It's much the same with my paintings,
        people admire those I think have nothing much to offer.  I find
        that they wildly personal and experimental canvasses appeal to
        me the most.  But that is only because I see something in them
        only I can see.  Poetry is much the same.  The poet reads
        between the lines, the reader doesn't.  This is a great fault
        with poems such as Pound's Cantos, Zukofsky's A, Olson's
        Maximus, or Joyce's Finnigans Wake.  These works inhabit the
        poet's own psyche. They are great because of their
        complexity and use of language, but to understand them takes a
        great amount of effort and many years to accomplish.  But also
        remember, that these works are there only after the other more
        accessible works of these writers.  Even Picasso at first
        painted "like Raphael" before he created his more personal
        vision.  We must all do our apprenticeship before we can attempt
        such a personal vision.  The poet may exist without an audience,
        but them poem ultimately can't.

   HL:  I agree when I think that it would probably be 
        better if I tried to express a feeling, or a story, or something 
        I had in my mind.

   KG:  Expression is not a poem.  The poems has a form, and thereby the
        poet is required to revert to a craft.  A poet must learn his
        craft also.  If not to prove something to the world, but to
        himself.  Can I call myself a poet if I do not know how to write
        a sonnet, pentameter, a perfect couplet?  To me,
        the past is indispensable.  Even punk and Heavy Metal had it's
        roots in Rock 'n Roll. And Rock 'n Roll had it's roots in other
        popular music of the 40's 30's and 20's, and even then you
        can actually trace the roots farther back through classical
        music.  It may sound strange to say, but Gay's Beggar's Opera
        and The Who's Tommy are not very far apart.

   HL:  That is so correct! This I have experienced to be a waste of 
        time, since you can never be sure if the reader understands 
        what you have written.

   KG:  But that is where the craft or poetry comes in.  You can make
        the reader understand.  You can nudge the reader beyond what the
        reader wants to see.  I am not speaking here of giving the
        reader what he or she wants.  Nor am I speaking of any type of
        compromise.  A poet should never compromise.  But when a poet
        expresses something new, it should be to teach.  If the
        contemporary reader cannot "get it", then perhaps someone in the
        future will.  A poet should write because he has something to
        new say.  A new vision.  A poet is a visionary and a seer.  A
        poet must also be a shaman.  A bridge between what is perceived
        by the audience and what is perceived by the poet.  A poet is
        like a man on top of a hill shouting what he sees other
        side to the people below.  The poet, being privileged to see
        something others cannot, must be true to what he sees.  A poet
        never creates fantastic tales.

   HL:  This makes it a challenge, though, to write it so that people can
        understand it.

   KG:  Precisely.

   HL:  Yet, I also like to write metaphorically just to see how people 
        react to it differently. To see how people interpret it differently.

   KG:  And that is where a poem gains its strength.  Always to suggest
        something more.  Always to tantalize...

   HL:  I don't think that the reader should always try to find out 
        what the writer was thinking when he wrote it, but also to 
        try and to find an interpretation for him/herself.

   KG:  Oh yes...but it is the poet who manipulates this.  It is how the
        poet writes the poem, and what the poets wants the audience to
        perceive.

   HL:  When I write poetry, it is always personal, but it doesn't 
        necessarily have to be that way. If I can hear that people 
        have read my poetry and say that the way they understood 
        it contributed to their thoughts, then I consider that as 
        a success. What do you think?

   KG:  And that is perhaps the best success you can have with poetry.
        When you contribute something to another person's development.
        Not just "entertainment" value.

   HL:  Yes, I couldn't agree more. The ultimate way I see it, is to write
        what you feel. Is it right? Is it good? This should never be your
        main concern.

   KG:  Ultimately you must always be true to yourself, true to your own
        vision.  "Is it right?" it is right when you feel it is right
        for you.  "Is it good?" that is only determined when you step
        back from the poem and treat it as an outside entity.  One
        reason I sometimes leave poems for years before coming back to
        them.  If the poem still says something to me years later, then
        it is good.

   HL:  To write - to be able to express your thoughts lyrically or 
        poetic is just a love that I can never show, never explain, 
        or never teach. That is something one must find for oneself.

   KG:  The spark that sets a poem in motion; that first stirring of the
        lyrical.  What is it?  I don't know.  A feeling?  An emotion?
        Something from beyond? A voice only you hear and which dictates
        to you?  I don't know.  It's something I think no one can
        define.  But I always say that if you look hard enough it should
        be in the first poem you ever wrote.  That first line which
        awakened poetry in you.  That is perhaps the closes you will
        ever get to knowing what opened this door to you.  What made you
        be a poet.

   HL:  Also something which I think can be very different from 
        individual to individual.

   KG:  As any individual is different from the other; but also as they
        are the same.  There is a universal appeal in poetry, as there
        are infinite experiences.

   HL:  Intelligence is very different from wisdom, this we must also 
        remember.

   KG:  Couldn't agree with you more.

	* Henry Leirvoll is the Manager of the Norwegian Heavy Metal band
	  Enslaved.



                                                       
                                     з           ַ ַ ַ / ַ ַ
                                          Ľ       Ľ      





   Owner's Boner
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Ah, the dream gone stale
   'neath the dreamer's lids.
   Screwed on tight,
   the quick-cook Knight
   took charge of the pantry self

   "All's Right!"

   The kettle bubbles
   with toil and troubles
   and soup spills to the floor
   Cat and dog
   squirrel and frog
   and beasties from the glen
   fairy wings
   and horny things
   come taste
   the waste

   "All's Right!"

   Control and command
   weigh the heavy hand
   and blades flash
   mirror bright.
   Pour, Knight's plight
   Command?
   The bitch won't even come!

   "All's Right!"

   Scream, Knight
   Deny the fright
   Of a world outside your hand.
   And fight.
   Oh, yes...
   and fight.
   Poor night.

                                        -- Gay Bost



   Strange Love
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Strange love beyond time's marching legions
   what winding paths your shadow takes
   in form and thought,
   if these are naught
   why take them?

   Why come and go on legend's endless rounds
   through eons tramping thievery
   through deed and wall
   if these be all
   why make them?

   Lasting ever fading dreams returning now
   in mirrored halls unbuilt
   of glass and shattered
   mind's fabric tattered
   why weave them?

   Seek and shower loveless power everliving
   by solitude's unbinding
   threadbare runners
   weaponless gunners
   why bear them?

   Symbols pulsing in the child's visions
   by way of the woman's body
   passions power
   sweet flower
   why pluck them?

   Strange love a glove ill fitting to your hand
   fingers trapped wrapped
   in death's sucrase
   forbid release
   why have them?

                                        -- Gay Bost



   Retrospect on Emma
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   There's a woman with mahogany hands watching two segments of a dream.
   One the far and distant reality of her own world, a televised scream.
   The other, daughters, sisters of the heart, a hope-two hands entwined.
   A cookie platter shatters, dropped, a battle waged within the mind.

   They turn, the blue eyes and the brown, to focus on the sudden noise
   Tears shed on hands held tight are no longer shed for little boys.
   So sudden, the expected comes, a change blown through the calm.
   So near, so far, the raging center of the storm, ignited by a bomb.

   Bitter anger, walk away, sweep up the shattered platter of delight
   Little girls, your time has come; it walks in anger, dreams in light
   Honey hair and honey skin, daughters, sisters of the weeping heart
   As hatred touches deep and rips your lives, what will be your part?

                                        -- Gay Bost



   from The Breaking of Desire
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   XVII

   I would like to tell you a story
   Of these lonesome men courting despair
   Driving their demons before them
   With scars that no time will repair
   They live in a smoky destruction
   Their minds in a tangled up web
   Who drink up their brandy and wager
   Their indifference away with each bet

   You ask how they came to this living
   Hell that they dubbed paradise
   Irony raised on their shoulders
   Like so much discarded advise
   When love formed a scar on their ego
   They rejected the good with the bad
   These lonesome men plead to the silence
   To offer what they never had

   A toss of the dice they've collected
   Each woman they hold is a threat
   With blood on their manhood exacting
   The ransom of thorns on each bed
   Their future looks bleak so they promise
   Themselves that there shall be no cure
   For shutting away all their feelings
   They thought would make martyrdom pure

   Each drop of this blood they've collected
   In a vessel of mud and of clay
   Performing the rites of spring passing
   Whenever the dust blows away
   So this is the story deflected
   From one broken stone to the sky
   So listen who have heart to listen
   Do not let the message go by.

                                        -- Klaus J. Gerken



   Mist
   ~~~~

   Hurtling thru the mist.
   A grey wall rushing toward me.
   Taking the wrong way round.
   I've got to get home on time.

   Hurtling thru the mist.
   I stayed too long and left t0o late.
   She's waiting for me in bed alone.
   I've got to get home on time.

   Hurtling thru the mist.
   I shouldn't have lingered.
   She'll know why I'm away.
   I've got to get home on time.

   Hurtling thru the mist.
   Dark shapes leap out at me.
   I them dodge left and right.
   I've got to get home on time.

   Hurtling thru the mist.
   The wall turns solid.
   Blood, gas, fear, and fire.
   I'll never be home on time.

                                        -- Andy Odendhal



   Storm
   ~~~~~

   Rain falling down on the parking lot,
   Grey clouds passing over leaveless trees. Winds pushing the
        clouds ever faster,
   The air cool and damp from the breeze.

   Headlights reflecting the light from the roads, Making it ever
        harder to drive
   and to see. Animals have all seeked shelter from the storm, The
        fog and mist
   roll in, it seems lost and free.

   The day becomes so dreary outside,
   Perfect for a funeral today.
   Don't feel like doing much of anything,
   Stay inside where its warm this day.

   Hear the thunder off in the distance,
   Streaks of lighting can be seen as well. Rain its coming down
        even harder now,
   Water on the lake begins to swell.

   Hope the rain doesn't effect anyone,
   Flashes of lighting, on a night dark and deep. Its time now to
        call it a night,
   The sound of the rain puts me softy to sleep.

                                        -- Terry A. Long



   Chapter IV: Awaking in the Rapture Field
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Where are my summer days of a wondering boy?
      there i drank from tepid park fountains
      lost in oblivion while peddling endless
      streets past high school marching bands
      which played proudly.
      there i walked through smalltown alleys
      lost in innocence and daydreams of what
      awaited men who kept their heart strong
      during stormy nights.
   This was my rapture field,
      the sanctuary of its muddied footprints
      hidden beneath tall rows of summer corn.

   Where are my summer days of a wondering boy?
      are they frozen by a cold winters past
      lost in the palette of colors falling
      from trees who have drawn a last warm
      breath of air.
      are they frozen by a cold ghostly fear
      lost in the cover of frost held still
      on rooftops by an Octobers dark night
      which lingers quietly.
   This was my rapture field,
      the whirlwind of its broken promises
      hidden under fallings of blight snow.

   Where are my summer days of a wondering boy?
      i too have awakened in the rapture field
      only to have a bittersweet taste of life
      stagnate amongst the boyhood reflections
      which ripple softly.
      i too have awakened in the rapture field
      only to sow more and more seeds before a
      bold winters death reappears to taunt us
      with its cruelty.
   This is our rapture field,
     though we all wish to wonder in summer
     though we all wish to frolic in spring,
     though we all wish to stave off winter
     though we all wish in bucolic fondness-
      so many dream field things.

                                        -- Greg Schilling



   Understood
   ~~~~~~~~~~

   So red, the blood at dawn
   Yet blacker than the night
   Of fields and furrows, evil's pawn
   Lies uncaptured, frozen flight-
   The hollow sound of rotting wood
   Surrounds thy fragile ear
   The death of being understood...
   And the raw deceit of fear.

                                        -- Jennifer Mulcahy



   The Night
   ~~~~~~~~~

   Dark, damp and cool
   Moss surrounding
   I enter her
   Stepping first-
   then floating...
   I feel her thoughts,
   I venture deeper
   Deeper, darker
   Breeze as black as pitch-
   She envelopes me, caresses me
   ..then enters me.

                                        -- Jennifer Mulcahy



   SnowShine
   ~~~~~~~~~

   Snow shine, too bright
   to see, ice-light
   too free...
   Shiver, coldfear
   too old, ice-tear
   We hold...
   No ties, unstable
   to stay, ice-able
   We fray...
   Empty, no spring
   unmade, ice-wings
   We fade.
             .
                  .
                       .

                                        -- Jennifer Mulcahy



   Apprentice to Deception
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   An Apprentice to Deception
   By the Learning of the Loom
   Weaving patterns out of pictures,
   Out of treacherous perfume

   The Pretence of a Pretender
   With his eyes of sugared glass
   Uses venomous charisma
   Dissect target, capture fast-

   Enemy to Intuition
   Muffling its warning cries
   With a dance of cold seduction
   Promised Love that buries Lies..

                                        -- Jennifer Mulcahy



   Necco Wafers
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Damn those Necco Wafers!
   Tight and colorful
   Hidden on the bottom shelf
   Where only the small kids can see

   They're wrapped in wax paper
   Like memories
   And occasionally
   Every now and then
   I'll see them tucked there
   The same package since Grandma was a kid
   I'll pick up the roll
   And bring it to the counter
   But when I get them outside
   And I tug the wax paper off
   And taste the first powdery one
   I realize once again
   Why they're kept on the bottom shelf
   And why I'll always say:
   "I'll never buy those again!"

                                        -- Jim Yagmin



   March
   ~~~~~

   He and I and March are dawning.
   Slumber leaves our sore bodies
   After a stormy night that left
   Icy tree branches and stiff limbs
   Our hope for a fertile spring
   is cherished most by me
   Our hope for lots of freedom
   is cherished most by him.

   Crystal branches melting in the sun
   Stiffened limbs coming slowly to life.
   His kiss (so warm) awakes as a fist
   and frightens the promise from the day.

                                        -- Emily Dare



   The Swordmaker
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   The work of a fine swordmaker
   is fraught with love of steel
   as she removes the flame gorged
   member from the coals of its forge
   and thrusts it fully into the
   throat of the quenching chamber
   filling the air with hissing sighs.
   And so the sword is forged and tempered
   and its camber and bend made just so,
   as lavish annealing and stroking,
   yea, and furious polishing too,
   bring it to it finest lustre.

   A weapon of such fine tempre
   would be a prize for any woman.
   Slowly quenching its fire and
   Annealing the long sweeping blade
   would be a swordmaker's masterpiece.
   Finishing the hilt of such a blade,
   adorning it with chain and jewels,
   requires a night-time of caresses.

   What is a sword, made is such a way,
   if not plunged to the hilt in flesh,
   extracting sighs and moans of submission
   from the victim of its raping thrust?
   Are not the screams and moans the just
   and fitting reward for such a steel?
   Are they not the sounds of ecstasy?
   As the victim's arching back
   and firm, jutting breasts
   .... submit ....
   to the rapid thrusting steel,
   and the furious penetrations
   release the willing spirit
   to the vapour of rapture.

                                        -- Emily Dare



   Toast the Mariner!
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Glancing slowly about the bar,
   Looking for a friendly face;
   One of whom I used to know
   But who is gone far away now.
   My Commodore sailed on the tide
   A year ago and I have seen
   Naught of this hardy mariner.

   Perhaps a stranger in this bar
   Will show this saddened lonely lass
   A good time, and dance, kiss and sing
   And make me smile until he comes
   Back from the sea, eager to greet me.
   So, hoist your mugs and be merry
   With me, while I sing you some songs
   Of love and passionate lovers,
   And keep one eye on the sea beyond.

   My commodore will come back to me
   On the morrow.. perhaps the next.
   I will give him reason to linger,
   This time, so he stays in my bed,
   And shares my charms, seeking joy,
   To race the wind yet another day.

                                        -- Emily Dare



   All my precious days
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   It seems to me, when I was young,
   The days would always last.
   Their light would n'er escape my eyes,
   Nor sliver from my grasp.
   Sunset, it felt, would never come,
   And surely not the moon!
   And even when the darkness came,
   The light would be back soon.

   But surely now it cannot be,
   That time has gone awry.
   Though somehow all my precious days
   Are passing me right by.
   It feels I've lost a right-of-birth--
   To revel in the day!
   The nights, it seems, will never end,
   The sun n'er pass my way.

   I wonder if, when I am old,
   The light will never come.
   If I'll be always trapped in night,
   Devoid of any sun.
   If dawn will never break again,
   To 'luminate the sky.
   If lives will slowly fade away,
   Whisp'ring quiet goodbyes.

   To all the young ones, Take your days!
   Rejoice within their span!
   The time will soon be taken back,
   As it is with all man.
   And when I'm old and feebly built,
   During the night I'll say,
   When I was young, the days were years-

   And now the years are days.

                                        -- David Anthony Cariddi
                                           27 March 1995



   On a cold February morning-
   I awoke
   Shivering under my own skin
   Cold with confusion, I rose
   Went through the motions
   Of the day - Every day
   There was nothing
   Extraordinary
   About that day
   Except, of course, the fact
   That you coexisted on this Earth
   With me

                                        -- Jennifer O'rourke



   Where is my red crayon?
   Gone
   Rolled away
   All that is left
   Are its markings on the page
   I tore the wrapper off
   Its minuscule pieces
   Were carried away in a breath
   The crayon itself
   Was smashed to smithereens
   And swept under the rug
   Under the rug
   Where all the unspeakable secrets are kept


                                        -- Jennifer O'rourke



    Israel....

                                      

    THESE HILLS
    ~~~~~~~~~~~

    The warm wind blows;
        a dry, dusty and ancient scent to it.

    Small grains
        bombarding skin;
            softly,
                kindly,
                    gently.

    Standing on the hills,
        those same hills
            that so many nameless souls
                have stood on before.
            Looking onto the desolate landscape.

    Brown-grayish hills
        rolling into eternity -
            as far as the eye could see,
                fading into a sandstorm
                    in the distance.

        Ancient life,
            flowing
                lazily along.


    These smooth hills hold so much
        in their silent grainy solitude....


    Naked, grey sand.
        Soft and hot.
            Pick it up and hold it -
                feel the heat,
                    the warmth.

    Grind it around
        till it's dusty residue collects
            under fingernails.
    Then slowly let it go,
        watch it
            slowly,
                noiselessly
                    settle back
                        to its resting place -
                    not to be disturbed
                for another few million
            years.

    A small bug-eyed and colorless lizard
        scuttles from a small clump
            of thin wispy grass to another.
    Quietly, it disappears again,
        into the hills,
            the hills,
                the hills....

    I breath in the essence,
        the warmth of the air...

    One single word unfurls in my mind,
        the word is
            "home."


                                        -- Igal Koshevoy
                                           February 16, 1993 & June 20, 1995
                                           SOCIOPATHS Ju.3b



   A Drum For each God
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   In West African tradition a ritual drum exists for each known spirit
   in the spirit world. Only one rhythm is played on each drum -- the
   one rhythm that will reach the specific god the drum was made for.
   I think that poems can be like drums. Instead of making pathways to
   specific gods, however, I would like to make pathways in time and
   space, and between people; pathways between this world and some
   other. And perhaps, even the odd pathway to a god. Listen, while
   I play my drums.

   Kingdoms Edge  (selections)

   ". . . On the Plains of Heaven . . ."


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   Resurrection
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Out of the eater something to eat,
   out of the strong something sweet.



   two seasons
   -----------

   A dead lion, bees nesting
   among his ribs. Amber dripping
   from white bone, amber sealed
   in wax.

   Honeybees have also nested
   in a tree outside my window.

   Sometimes they climb inside glass panes,
   pace and wait on wood frames,
   their wings shiver and sustain
   a noise a sound a hum.

   Insects create new words
   in summer: they speak in Xhosa,
   a language of clicks and whistles.

   I watch them build their nest,
   fortify it against the coming cold
   with honey, their dead, and wax.

   In the fall I watch them die,
   thorax, abdomen, slowly working
   beating a pulse without veins or blood.

   Enough of empty shells rustling
   echoes on the sill,

   I leave when it is fall,
   no longer stay at home nights
   to watch them work

   I make my paths through beds
   of leaves and ash

   walk down autumn streets
   and when lights illumine leaves
   I dream the yellows of bees
   honey; dream the creamy white
   of wax.

   II
   --

   Voices sounds drums
   awaken the dead.

   Chainsaws with their sound
   of a million hives
   were made for this awakening,
   this opening of a tomb.

   Dig through leaves at the base
   of a sycamore, sift loam,
   lift stones; dirt cemented
   by the blood of time and trees.

   When the tree is wider than your arms
   ask if there's some spirit
   you should pray to before

   you start the first cut;
   horizontal, to show the tree
   where to lay its bones

   then to take the wedge;
   diagonal cut from above
   to just beyond the center

   backcut; horizontal again,
   the plane defined by the chainsaw's
   blade, sawdust, smoke; your sweat
   and the tree's sap.

   All intent on two dimensions
   the plane of the blade against the tree
   for the final cut.

   This sycamore was hollow;
   at its center a skull, some teeth,
   vertebrae, the bones of a coon
   settled through the trunk
   from his grave in the branches above.

   I keep the skull and some of the bones,
   glue the jaw together, the teeth
   in their places. I call the skull

   "Lazarus".
   ---------

   Last summer I sought out that tree
   in six hundred acres of woodland,
   found it tapped it played it
   for a drum.

   Put my voice inside
   called, "Lazarus, come out"
   put my hand in, brought forth
   bees and honey, pain and wax.

   That night, with my hand wrapped
   in linen, still swollen,
   I dreamt the amber of bees
   honey; I dreamt the creamy white
   of wax

   the carcass of a lion
   which gave shelter to a bee hive

   bones sleeping in a wooden tomb,
   the rustling echo of a voice:

   "take the grave clothes off
   and let him go."


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   Champagne and Coltrane
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Champagne and Coltrane ease the darkness
   smoothly into rooms of light, warmth...
   the warmth remains and light is chased,
   placed in waiting for the rising of a
   silver moon.

   II
   --

   Moonlight shifts on my wall
   the shapes of ice in water and
   whiskey. Cold swirls of light
   and cubes, cylinders; whiskey snakes
   and eddies.

   III
   ---

   In the morning, light enters warm,
   air cool through the window; they
   touch, caress, tongue our bodies.

   Outside, green hills grown with trees
   are rolling, curving into sky.
   They buck and turn, slope and reach
   for heights: perpetual motion held
   in their stillness.

   IV
   --

   On your way from the kitchen, the glasses
   in your hands shift cubes in whiskey and water:
   motion, light, and shapes words can't obtain.


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   Cat
   ~~~

   A cat of granite tongue
   roughs my finger,

   rubs against my boot toe
   and the concrete step.

   It will not have its softness
   come between us

   it keeps the distance clear,
   unsullied; the closeness clean, like
   the leafprints drawn
   on a sidewalk, left
   by September rain.



   Wonton Recipe
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   The subtle curves
   of hip and breast

   align themselves amidst
   the kitchen clutter:

   seasonings, empty bottles, a
   vase with dried flowers,
   bowls of chopped meat and spices.

   Palms work flour into dough,
   dough into patties.

   II
   --

   To knead:
   The pressure starts in the shoulders,
   works down through arms. Muscles
   in the hands do a slow turn
   from push to pull, push to pull.

   Squares of dough enfold meat and spices.
   Pinch corners, drop into cooking oil.

   III
   ---

   Each bite crushes the shell,
   breaks into pelvic softness:

   Motions of jaw, tongue and throat
   bring sustenance to my belly.


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   Musicians: Glass Harpist and Fiddlers
   Newmarket Square, Phila.
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Crystal speaks at his gesture.

   Fingers tapered, kept smooth by lotion
   and water, he dips them into china bowls
   then touches rims of glass

   strokes them; evokes
   notes, sighs, whispers:
   the crystal chime extends.

   Across the street, under neon signs,
   fiddlers feel the curves of the bows
   viols, basses; feel the depth

   and breadth of sound rumbling
   in bellies of wood, on iron strings,
   on hair from the tails of horses.

   Under the pavilion a listener shifts,
   admits the light and neon of cafe and shop

   color and clarity eclipse themselves
   in goblets brimming with water, light,
   a sound that tastes of raw honey;
   first roughness, then amber smooth.

   In this place of fingers
   touching curved glass and crystal,

   trinkets strewn on tables; belt buckles,
   boxes inlaid with brass and ivory,
   china cups and plates,

   myself in the angle of a brick floor and a pillar,
   a fiddler's voice in the belly of his fiddle:

   water, an audible crystalline honey, light,
   rest in the hollow of a glass.


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   Giza Lingia (swahili for Darkness Enters)
   ~~~~~~~~~~~

   Darkness enters
   through a dusty pane
   the moonlight passes
   from the picture on
   your dresser

   I wish telephone wires
   and kite strings
   wouldn't catch so often.

   Spiderwebs are silver, hung in air
   in the morning my breath clouds
   when I breathe on the webs
   they glisten and drop dew
   to the grass and my breathing
   the webs hold and pulse

   An hour later the gas man comes
   to check the meter
   and brushes away my lungs
   with his hat.

   The picture on your dresser
   is a street a telephone line
   a kite still sailing it's string hanging
   empty no child to hold up straight against the push
   empty except for the telephone line

   an empty street except for some houses,
   a dog, a telephone line, a kite
   and a gas man's cap
   blowing down the street.


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   Ocarina
   ~~~~~~~

   I took my Wind-maker
   I went to a pine tree
   the one with soft cones
   I took the fertile cones
   took the pollen holding cones
   I took them and
   rubbed them released
   their pollen
   blessed the wood of my Wind-maker,
   my song maker, my flute
   which has two chambers and
   sings in a double-kiva voice.

   I went then, left out
   from where I was standing,
   went into the stone building
   the stone house where the man hangs

   I went there
   I stood in the light
   the blood light;
   damu iliyotoka Juani ilikuwa nuekundu
   blood which came from the sun was red,
   blood which came from the sky was blue,
   blood which came from the trees was green,
   blood which came from the earth was brown,
   and yellow.

   Standing in this blood I breathed.
   I put my breath into my flute
   my double-fluted-kiva voice
   blessed with pollen, made fertile in its
   sounds.
   Niliicheza.
   (I played it.)


                                        -- Ron Tisdale






   ͸ ͸ ͸ ͸        ͸ ͸ ͸  ͸ ͸    ͸
   ;    ͸       -ps-  ͸     Ѿ    ;           
       ; ;             ; ;             ;   
  

                                    SANDY
                                    ~~~~~
                                (A monologue)

   TIME: The present.
   PLACE: Sandy's one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan
   AT RISE: it's late at night on a weekend. Sandy has just brought home a
   new friend.
   
                                    SANDY
   I'm always trying to deal with this ... this ...
    (a smile)
   How do you think I felt when I woke up one day and realized my name was
   Sandy, Sandy Beaches?   Huh?   Tell me.   No, you don't have to tell me,
   I know what I felt.   I felt absolutely ridiculous.   Wouldn't you?
   Sure you would.   My parents had what you might call poetic
   sensibilities.   It wasn't all that bad when I was maybe nine, ten, even
   into my teens.   But, my goodness, I'm a fifty year old woman and I
   still have that name.   Why don't you sit down.
    (pause)
   That chair isn't the most comfortable.   You'd probably be better on the
   sofa.
    (pause)
   Suit yourself.   Anyway, my parents had some sense of humor, right?   I
   always wanted to ask them why they named me that.   Never did.   Hell, I
   sure hinted around enough times.   I would do things like ask them,
   "What's in a name," or "a thing by any other name is just any other
   name," I started bringing home these stray animals just to see what my
   parents would name them.   They came up with things like:  our cat was
   called, Steven; our dog, Phyllis; our bird, who died two days after I
   brought him home, was called Napoleon.   I even brought home a gold fish
   one day and asked them to name it.   They didn't even ask whether it was
   male or female.   They named it, Warren.   Warren!   Warren was a fish
   and it had a normal name!   I was a human being and was named after a
   geographic terrain.   Thank God our last name wasn't "range," they might
   have called me "Home On The," -- my father liked westerns -- or thanks
   be to God it wasn't "Forest," or "Mudd.   We did know some people from
   Framingham, Mass, called Mudd.   Ethel and Fenton Mudd.   Maybe Sandy
   Beaches isn't all that bad when compared to Fenton Mudd.   But I never
   had the guts to come right out and ask why they named me what they named
   me.
    (pause)
   You're sure you're comfortable?   Something to drink?
    (pause)
   Am I hogging the conversation?
    (the unseen Harry, smiles)
   I know that I can change it.   My name, I mean.   Make it legally
   something else.   But the thought of doing that always bothered me for
   some reason.   It's like hiding out or something akin to that.   A name
   is a person, right?   It kind of defines us in a strange sort of way.
    (pause)
   Take your name, for example.   Harry.   HAA-RRRRRRR-YYYY.   Harry!
   Harry.   Harry is a nice name.   It doesn't scream out at you.   It's
   just what it is -- Harry.   And Harry's a good name for a guy just
   breaking forty years old.   Funny, but some people have to grow into a
   name.   Like seeing a young kid who's called Seymour.   It doesn't look
   right.   "Hey Seymour," somebody yells and a small, two foot tall, blond
   headed kid turns around and says, "Yes, mother.   He would never say,
   Mom, or Mommy.   Seymours all say, mother, mother or father.   But like
   Jane, Janes always say -- in a very ladylike way, "Yes, Ma'am, no Ma'am,
   why yes Sir, why no Sir.   And Billys, oh yeah, you can always tell a
   Billy or a Hank.   A Hank would never say, "Mother, would you please
   pass the butter," or "Why Father, what a nice pipe you're smoking.
   Hell, Hank would probably say -- no matter how old, "Pass the Goddamn
   spinach, will ya!   or "Move the hell over, buddy.
    (pause)
   Sure you're comfortable?   You have a nice smile.
    (pause)
   You see what I mean, Harry?   A name sort of defines who you are.  The
   name Harry kind of defines you.   You're not too tall.   And you're not
   too short.   In between.   And you want to know something else, thinning
   hair becomes you, is very becoming to a man named Harry.   And your
   hands, they're kind of small, delicate.   That'd be the only aspect of
   you that I would say doesn't really fit.
    (pause)
   Harry and Sandy.   Sandy and Harry.   Kind of has a ring to it, don't
   you think.   Sure you wouldn't like a drink?   I think there's vodka.
   A Diet Coke?
    (pause)
   Listen, ah, Harry, I'm really glad I invited you over tonight.   Really.
     You go to that place often?   I mean, you hang out at that particular
   bar?   Me, it was my first time.   This friend of mine, Crystal -- a
   girl I work with -- she goes there.   Told me I should stop by and check
   it out.    (laughs a little)
   Never thought I'd ever ask a fellah back to my place.   Especially a
   fellah who  ...  never mind.   So, how do you like my "digs" as they
   say?   It's a real bargain in this day and age.   It's truly difficult
   to find a large studio apartment like this for under a thousand dollars
   in this day and age.   Great location, right?   Upper East side is so
   much nicer than say, the West Side with all those joggers and dog
   walkers.   The only damn thing that's killing this neighborhood are the
   lousy condos and co-ops.   These Godawful real estate people, these
   developers.   All they do is make it ugly.   I mean, just how greedy can
   you get.
    (pause)
   Oh, that picture there, that's my parents, their fiftieth wedding
   anniversary.   I know, a lot a photographs, right?   I guess there's
   over a hundred in this room along.
    (pause)
   I don't know, I guess I just like good memories from when I was small.
    They help remind me.   And my parents, as you can see, were very
   photogenic.   That one is when they were on a trip to Las Vegas.   Here
   they where in Florida -- Disney World.   Oh, I guess you guessed that
   from the large Mickey Mouse guy standing next to them.
    (another nervous laugh)
   Can I get you something, a gingerale, something?   You're the first
   fellah I ever had back to my apartment.   Most of the time we end up
   ..  ah.   Geez, never expected to have somebody stop by.   Hope you
   don't mind the mess.   Now come on, sit on the sofa.   I can see that
   you're uncomfortable.   That's it.   Better, right?
    (pause)
   So, ah, you sell insurance?   Must be  ...  that's right, you don't sell
   insurance.   I get confused.   You sell real estate!   How could I ever
   get those two professions mixed up.   Oh, by the way, what I said before
   about developers and all, there are probably a lot of real estate people
   who truly care.   How's business?   Must be pretty good in this day and
   age.   Especially in a city like New York.   A lot of people.   And they
   all need a place to live.   I guess you must feel that you're doing
   something very important with your life; you know, providing people with
   shelter and all.   Must make you feel good inside.   Me, heck, all I do
   is sell jewelry at Macy's.   "Yes Ma'am.    "No, Ma'am.   " "How about
   this, Ma'am?   Oh darling, it was made for you!   Well, one has to do
   something in life, right?   Do something to fill the time.
    (pause)
   Mind if I sit next to you?   It's the only real comfortable sit in the
   entire house.
    (long pause)
   Listen Harry, why beat around the bush.   You mind If I just reach over
   here and put my hand  ...  I know it might be acting a little forward
   and all  ...  but  ...  I never minded a man's penis and  ...
   (she watches the unseen Harry stand)
   Did I say something wrong?   You don't have to leave.   I'm sorry.   I
   really didn't think it would bother you.   Hey wait, I was only joking.
     The whole thing was a joke.   I'm a real comedian.   You have to know
   that about me.   Harry?
    (it's obvious she is now alone)
   So, ah, it was real nice talking to you.   Never even got his last name.
     Can you imagine that.   Any other guy half his age would've jumped at
   the chance.   Maybe I should have eased into it.
    (pause)
   Damnit, isn't that the way it's suppose to be done these days!   You
   play hard to get and they never call again.   You say, okay, let's do it
   and they're out of here like a shot from a canon.   What's the damn
   answer!
    (pause)
   Maybe I should've worn the other dress; the low cut one.   And these
   flats, should've worn heels.   Hell, I thought modern men were suppose
   to like aggressive women these days.
    (pause)
   Maybe he didn't like the way I said his name.
    (pause)
   Guess I can't go back to that bar.   Harry will certainly fill them in
   on good old Sandy Beaches, the over-the-hill broad who likes penises.
    (pause)
   Oh my God, did I make a fool of myself.
    (pause)
   What'd he come back here for: tennis, a little pin the tail on the
   donkey, scrabble, what!   If he wanted something else, why didn't he
   just say it!   He should've been up front, told me right off I was too
   old, said right away that he wanted a "younger" woman.
    (she starts to softly cry)
   This is it.   Here it is.   Nothing.   I have maybe ten, twenty years
   left before I die and I'm going to spend them alone.   That's it.   Not
   a damn thing to do about it.   My whole life by myself.   Damn.   Sandy
   Beaches, you are a looser, an old lady who'll die and no one will know
   the difference.   Funny in a way.   Men.   Who do they think they are.
    And all these photos.   Look at them.
    (she smiles and wipes away the tears.   As if she were talking
   to someone in the room)   Remember this picture, that trip we all took
   to Niagara Falls in fifty-three?   What a time.   And that Godawful
   motel with the bugs and leaking shower.   Remember?   Harry and I
   could've driven up there next year.   We'd stay at the same place,
   remember the time in fifty-three.   Oh, and Harry and I would make love
   twice, maybe three times a day like it was our second honeymoon.   And
   the kids, our kids, would laugh when we told them of our adventure.
   And that summer we'd go to Disney World, maybe Coral Gardens.   And buy
   that house we always wanted in Vermont.   Harry's good that way.
   Always was a big spender with a huge heart, a giving nature.   Harry and
   Sandy, Sandy and Harry.
    (pause)
   I like the way you hold me, Harry.   Your arms always feel so good
   around me, holding me so I don't fall into a million pieces and be blown
   away by the wind, blown higher and higher 'till Sandy is no more, 'till
   Sandy is part of the sky, part of the sun, part of everything, part of
   nothing.   Hold me Harry so I don't blow away and disappear.
   
                           SLOW FADE OUT


                                        -- Martin Zurla





   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.
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       Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area,
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       The Network was created on May 16, 1993.  I created this because
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       And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to
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       I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
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       Feel free to drop by and take a look at Centipede; simply dial up
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       and "guest" as the password for fast access.

       If you are interested in joining Centipede, please fill out the
       following form and email it to Tom Almy at 1:105/290.

     +---------------------------------------------------------------------+
     | THE CENTIPEDE NETWORK APPLICATION FORM                              |
     +---------------------------------------------------------------------+
     | Systems Name: system's name                                         |
     | BBS Software: system software & version                             |
     | Main Board #: full public main data number                          |
     | Modem Speeds: protocol & uncompressed modem speed                   |
     | Fidonet Adrs: system's Fidonet address                              |
     | Sysop's Name: full real name                                        |
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            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 (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
            BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
            ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy

            THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
            THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
            THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
            INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena

            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

  All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each. Checks should be made out to the
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  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from  the  same  address:  $2.50  an
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            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
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  YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994 and 1995 
  by Klaus J. Gerken.

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