+======== December 1994 ======================== Volume 2, Number 12 ========+ | | | | | | | | | | | *** *** ******** ******** ******** ******** ******* ***** *** | | * * * * * ****** ** *** * * **** * * **** * * ***** ** ** * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * *** * * * **** * * * * * **** * * **** * * ***** * * * * | | ***** * * * ** * * * * * * *** ** * **** * ***** * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | ***** * * **** * ** *** * * * * ** * * * * ***** * ** ** * ***** | | ******* ******** ******** *** **** *** *** ******* ***** ******* | | | | | | ************************************************************************ | | | | | | | | | | | | [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] | | | | | | | | | | | | Editor: Klaus J. Gerken | | Associate Editors: Paul Lauda | | : Pedro Sena | | : Gay Bost | | Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy | | European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +============================================================================+ *************************************************************************** [ TABLE OF CONTENTS ] *************************************************************************** INTRODUCTION................................The Ygdrasil Staff Still Matters...............................V.A. Blevins Ride........................................Greg Schilling Untitled....................................Greg Schilling Rat.........................................Scott Lawry Poetry......................................Scott Lawry Them........................................Scott Lawry FLOWERS OF EVIL.............................Klaus J. Gerken FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (I)..........Klaus J. Gerken KILLING FIELD (I)...........................Klaus J. Gerken and if i should.............................Igal Koshevoy midnight roil...............................Igal Koshevoy Suburbasomn.................................Igal Koshevoy Restless World..............................Terry A. Long Days of Fall................................Terry A. Long A Simple Time...............................Terry A. Long The Cultured Saint..........................Evan Light The Great Lament of Sir Vinnie Vinccenzo....Evan Light A dream that never was......................Amy St. John Friday Nights...............................Amy St. John Another Look................................Amy St. John While the eyes of heaven smile..............Nicole Eichwald You said....................................Nicole Eichwald There is something about....................Nicole Eichwald The rain is pouring down on me..............Nicole Eichwald Margie XVI..................................Vince Otten Margie XXII.................................Vince Otten Reflection..................................Jennifer Mulcahy Harvest.....................................Jennifer Mulcahy Change......................................Jennifer Mulcahy The feelings of man.........................Jennifer Mulcahy Inside......................................Jennifer Mulcahy A shallow...................................Jennifer mulcahy I won't peak................................Alvin Brinson POST SCRIPTUM...............................Igal Koshevoy ************************************************************************** [ INTRODUCTION ] ************************************************************************** This issue of Ygdrasil is a real landmark - it's our first issue to be synchronously posted into the rich expanses of Usenet's rec.arts.poems as well as our beloved Centipede network, marking it as our formal entry into the Internet community.... We proudly welcome you to Ygdrasil Press! A flourishing center for the literary arts that is dedicated to the readers. Our goal and mission is to move literature into the next generation: get it away from dusty shelves, and trashbins of publishers; and give it back to the people who love to read! And as members of the electronic community, our editor Klaus explains our position well, "There should be a more permanent place for the poems that flash on our computer screens for, what sometimes seems like, the briefest of moments. A flash of inspiration, or thought and, unless saved in a file somewhere, gone." Ygdrasil understands that literature wasn't meant to be censored - for free expression is the liberation of the soul. Not to mention, the healing powers of unhindered, artistic expression match only those of the imagination. The Arts are one of the most direct channels to the heart, and we think that's beautiful ... that's the way we want to keep it. The Ygdrasil Press is produced of a cooperative, volunteer effort from a diverse group of people, living in many countries and continents. Lead by Klaus J. Gerken, our Editor in Chief, Ygdrasil was started in May 1993 and was quickly joined by Paul Lauda lending wisdom, cheer and distribution; Evan Light with his great creativity and ideas; and Igal Koshevoy helping out with production. Pedro Sena joined soon to help rally support for the Beauty of the Word, and has helped produce many fine editions. Along with that we have Milan Georges Djordjevitch, our European Editor, from France contributing multilingual masterpieces. And with the November edition, we welcome our new associate editor Gay Bost whose poems and stories have been a regular feature of Ygdrasil. This Magazine and Press are living and breathing things - not static, listless, rusted monuments. With each issue, each poem, each word we evolve and grow. Change, metamorphoses, New Light, fresh viewpoints and artistic beauty are our only `grade' - and we only stop to make sure our product is of the utmost quality. We hope you all enjoy Ygdrasil as much as we have making and reading it! And now, since this is the Holiday Season, we would also like thank all the contributors, and all those who have supported Ygdrasil throughout the years. From all of us, to all of you, have a very Merry and Safe Holiday Season, and all the best for the coming New Year. -- Igal Koshevoy and Klaus Gerken for The Ygdrasil Staff PS: Faithful and new readers alike, please take a moment to read the new "YGDRASIL INTERNET" section at the end of the magazine, it gives a brief explanation of the new services offered to you by our expansion to Internet. ************************************************************************** Still Matters ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If even she would not stop or he would stop in some random place at the rim of that which sometimes came smoother than daybreak yet ignored true love. The lie would forevermore be no less the softness that could come between all of our monsters. But, as in such ends, like dusk in movies or gutters of city, these matters at hand engrave only dead words into some head-stone so very small, for in of all that scatters will survive catalogs of all the tatters crossing any millennium that still matters. -- V.A. Blevins ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= Ride ~~~~ take a ride my son, take a ride let the wind blow your hair and eyes pass the pastures and nose smell the air and ears hear the music in a warm summers past by marquees faintly glowing by storefronts painted glass by farmyards grazing animals in summers travelling bye so very, very fast take a ride my son, take a ride let the miles move your thoughts and mind rest at peace and soul guide at rocks and body stop to feast in a warm summers night while we travel a concrete road while we follow a gleaming light while we touch a familiar face in summers travelling bye so fast, far from sight take a ride my son, take a ride let the warmth raise your spirit and take you away and show you to fly and hold the euphoria in a warm summers day as the wind blows your hair as the work feels like play as the hour lends another turn in summers travelling bye you are riding my son, for tomorrow and today -- Greg Schilling, 1994 ============================================================================= Untitled ~~~~~~~~ Dear friend, if we were to lay on a rolling landscape with sunshine drifting from east to west, sounds of gusting breezes moving treetops and eyes lightly closed to the world; Would our burdens float away like drifting leaves with each intoxicating breath of air. Would our spirits rise back as clouds quietly changing as both moved onward. Dear friend, if there were no anger to waiver deepening thoughts of clarity, desperation of an impending night pulling colorful kites from our sky; Would we believe there still is no word or thought no idea or presence deserving to be love. Would we remember feelings of warmth from inside before the sun scorches our skin in bliss. Dear friend, if our clock slowed from a fast swoop of its hands and seconds did not melt to hours and days, age fading as photographs sealed between sheets of plastic gathering dust; Would we again stop running in place and lie down upon that rolling landscape. Would we again know what is truly love before the night erased our warm days. -- Greg Schilling, 1993 ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= Rat ~~~ the rat is back he comes every year to rest in our home the villain the slime the rotted the vile sickness he brings... never alone he pushes his way in we wait for him to go away he stays until the warmth the heat the life is free as i die with him the rat is mine i am his weak weak weakness of mind inherited the rat the vile the sick we wait for him- he stays. -- Scott Lawry ============================================================================= Poetry ~~~~~~ No words exist in poetry Poetry is a feeling a learning A continuous growth, anyone can make words anyone can make 'poems' but poetry... Who are the teachers of the world? They are dead Yet alive they are poetry Who are the rulers of the world? They are tools Not real they are poverty And as this moves Like the transient currents of the wind- I sit and listen to nothing- That is poetry, As well, to me. -- Scott Lawry ============================================================================= Them ~~~~ Dont let the dirty bastards Make you clean Dont let those rotted fuckers Turn you green Burn em hurt em take em down they are a fungus cut them back back Their blood is water pure Their thoughts are contagious lure watch them burn and learn.. watch them die and see.. Never help them never stop them no time no time live and kill walk away they are too many we are too few they are upon us we we are below low under dirt no time... no time. -- Scott Lawry ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= FLOWERS OF EVIL ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Flowers of Evil Marching along Flowers of Evil Singing this song But it's right and it's wrong Until the pain - is gone They live by the western wind And they smile when the tolling bell rings They are the Flowers of Evil They are the flowers that the murderers bring They are the Flowers of Evil They are the flowers that fill the air with the sweetness of death Flowers of Evil Leading the pack Flowers of Evil No more look back And it's right and it's wrong Until the pain - is gone They leave their mark on whoever they come And they destroy the last radiance of a decaying sun They are the flowers of the night They are the flowers of a beautiful decay They are the Flowers of Evil And that shed no tears for the ones who cannot pray Flowers of Evil Stand so proud Flowers of Evil Are fond of love And its right and it's wrong Until the pain - is gone They find love in the desert gardens They mock life, but revere heaven They are the flowers of the world They are the flowers that cannot be unheard They are the Flowers of Evil They are the flowers of the empty who have no place left to roam Flowers of Evil All alone Flowers of Evil Have no home And it's right and it's wrong Until the pain - is gone They are the flowers without a soul They are the flowers that never grow old They are the Flowers of Evil That brink society together to enslave society forever Flowers of Evil Nowhere to be found Flowers of Evil Lying on the ground And it's right and it's wrong Until the pain - is gone. -- Klaus J. Gerken, 1966 ============================================================================= FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I plumes of smoke. the city rises to address the winter in vernacular. alone, i stare out the frosted window. high stratus cloud, in variance, dome the sky. the insanity of life amazes me, i guess because i'm hardly that involved these days. a friend once said to me insane? how can we be insane? it's the world that is insane. an artist only sees reality, reflects reality in a way the world can never see... winter came early this year. officially it's still fall. i listen to the silence and wonder if the top quark really can be god. -- Klaus J. Gerken December 16, 1989 ============================================================================= KILLING FIELD ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I I'd like to kill It's superstition It's the arc in Ethiopia It's the violent solution It's the drive in some fool car It's the virgin that keeps poetry Hidden in her heart It's all, I think, a waste of time It's all a shuff-e-ling of parts I want to kill I feel it in my heart The meadow saunters in the wind And the violets are torn In retribution for the war Which war? It can't go on. I side with this indifference knowing that indifference Is nothing but a wasted heart. I want to fill my boots I want to laugh but fire embraces agony - I said that, but i guess too long ago to have an impact now I'm just a frozen monument I'm desperate for the glow Of silence that a poet gets When sacrificing his own heart. I paint a foremost train apart Apache in my soul and German in a plastic heart. I gather no incertitude Know me but stay very much apart I have no lovers but alright I live a hermit and I love my life I form a presence on a BBS I'm single and I run away - not from self But from the ones who some are the able And can face another day. I read my letters only once I find the truth just glows like fonts upon a black computer screen I hopelessly demean myself and others Do not simply tar my feathers I vanish but I vanish not I sink my teeth in a marble god- dess... did I shock? - but I did not I revolutionize this poetry But you don't understand You cannot understand this faded provincial's story. I wore my heart upon the scone of silence I wrote the song of desperate transfusion I sprouted trans atlantic wings I went to the azores and I bathed in the blue waves I met sir galahad and I spoke to him of what went wrong and why he fell in love with the kings poor daughter oh god, i mean, the kings pure love... I was respectful of his unknown age he shuffled round in silence and headed for a bar. I met my cinderella with violets of hope Einstein blew a trumpet and Dylan met the Pope It wasn't like a trip into the Paranoias It wasn't like a coffee without sugar It wasn't silent musings in an alley from afar It was rather difficult and if i was amazed don't blame it on the master, blame it on the hope I had for this disaster...know me...i would know you I was wind to your fine plaster We were never masons We never really knew what the two of us were after. I drank my Chateau Magdalene a simple wine of no illusion in a transcendental organ transplant I went to what the beatles moved into the foam of masturbated silence, i was moved..i wasn't that alone I fed the coal to stoves i knew kept lovers warm in bed I was stunted by the confused element I heard my parents crying in a raging argument I saw the light disperse that violence...i'd shout please quit please you cannot offer grief upon a silver platter...and as saint John was baptised I knew he was a thief... I prayed to Jesus' suffering...I sprouted on the cross a rose no one had wanted a final silver floss upon a staid arrangement where monks voided love of any type emotion...a level i could not gather from the fragments...this was war...not loss. I slowly sank the quicksand into books obscure I noted an arrangement...I guess i was too pure to be the evil ending god had had in mind I had hope from the beginning I guess this fool was just a fool too elemental too be blind. I want to rest...arrest the hope that there is something other than what is or seems to be this apparent. I want to wear no, but, I still wear gloves. Perhaps I'm over sensitive. I regulate my life awake at 5 a.m. I conquer an emotion. I wear the eagle crown That no one wanted but I wished to capture. I dance alone in somewhat of a forest I dance beneath the burning trees and find myself in chambers no one dare to come Into the dark intrinsic elements that touched what we have misconstrued as life... I ponder what you have to offer...I ponder what i sought to give...I give nothing and you give nothing...yet still the two of us so different manage to cohabitate this planetoid and this dimension...both manage still to somewhat live until... You were offered up my heart as goddess and I made your clay my fool I suffered in this poem you suffered in the doll I would not have murdered darkly You shook into my brain I vanished incompletely like my poison you remain I want to kill...not surely I want to somehow here remain Regaining what I lost in you Regaining confidence and hope I have no other offering This poem is my only scope I want to kill and make you live I want to kill myself and make you live Without me. How's that for this poor fool on dope? -- Klaus J. Gerken, 1992 ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= and if i should... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ straightforth execution pull the knobs unsheathe the knives and go just a hunk of flesh an image absurd projection from filthy mind can't hear can't understand stupid ... yeah stupid - that's all that's left i want to kill you want you to break me need you to smash me gotta tear you apart 6 months gone still in my eyes my lacerated world my incessant tries can't find no better disruption too far i'm doused to the roots godblessed distance spreads us apart throbvisionary circulation cutting out all so damn fuzzy oh please, i want to fade out it's not another day it's not another place it's not another life it's just another try shotgun messiah riding the growing dim haze load up another bullet for me friend -Igal Koshevoy (lh^m^jtb) November 27, 1994; 3:21am ============================================================================= midnight roil ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ take another swallow drown out the bile take another swig flood out taste o' vomit take another puff numb away the membranes shoot up another load cause i don't want to feel the same not the same not the same not the same i don't care about you cause i care too much about you gimme a break break my neck step forward now that's a step back let go the hammer just pull the trigger change me for ever not again please not again damnit, not again take a turn take a spin watch me twitch see you grin a puppet for all that's what i am pull my strings i ain't no man got no brain no one else to blame only me left to blame sleigh of hand missed my eyes i'll take the bad deal cause it's all i got she's all mine though she's ugly if only for a few minutes if only for a few dollars got no name ten wet minutes of blame just a stinking stain take another swallow drown out the bile take another swig flood out taste o' vomit take another puff numb away the membranes empty another load cause i don't want to feel the same the same the same just a crying shame in the rain draining pain sucking vein emptied stain again not again why the pain where's the gain? -Igal Koshevoy (lh) January 14, 1994; 2:32am ============================================================================= Suburbasomn ~~~~~~~~~~~ Warm cement Hailed by a rattle of air conditioners Follow the path of a lone mosquito Droning into the dark stillness A party fading into the background Stray cords wander into the night Serenaded by the humming highway Prowling engines, out of sight An outline draped against a sink A frightened figure beneath a still car The shadows in their lethargic dance Glinting past chromed bumpers Pass by a house where Someone lived Now empty like the rest to me A soul is only found when one is known But i don't know, i never did Jet flight, jet bright Oh first plane i see tonight I wish i may, i wish i might ...oh well, nevermind The dimmed light spilling from a window Inside the shifting blobs burst into recycled laughter And the glowing fingers massage the mass back into the Default An unmoving state of Neverend Basketball hoops relax in temporary abandon While their sleeping assailants doze away Hiding under sheets and plywood Their hours tick away Buzzing flies give praise to their Incandescent Angles Hovering majestically in their robes of yellow and white And above them is the vaulted ceiling Of someone else's Heaven And everything seems so far away -Igal Koshevoy (TL) September 16, 1994; 10:11pm ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= A Restless World ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Undaunting restlessness of time that never stops, Mirror images reflecting a disillusioned world of man. Many times he could have done the right thing but failed, Will tomorrow's peace be a afterthought yet to be ran. Too many deaths because some were too occupied to see, The senselessness of their actions blinded by greed. No small story, just add a few more pages to the chapter, Starvation, salvation others just waiting to be freed. Can't understand how we managed to get the world this way, Legends of their mind are sent to the seats of power. Building armies of destruction to inflict suffering pain, Raining down on the unsuspecting people like a shower. Wonder with all this going on if it makes the angels cry, A world so torn apart by the people who were to make it right. Would be difficult if it weren't so easy to make these errors, Wish I could make things different for the people who die tonight. Shadows beginning to fade as the sky turns into a darker gray, I trudge through yet another day of troubles that never ends. Make a world full of poets to see things in a different light, A brighter life of peace and happiness would be common trends. -- Terry A. Long, 1992 ============================================================================= Days of Fall ~~~~~~~~~~~~ I see the squirrels scurrying and gathering nuts, Leaves are turning colors to red, gold, and brown. Honks of geese are heard overhead flying south, The humming birds no longer come around. You can smell the beginning of fall, Farmers in the field harvesting their crops. The days have noticeably grown shorter, Also the temperature slowly drops. Last few days of fishing is coming closer, First frost isn't that far away. Halloween parades and trick or treaters, Jack o'laterns flickering joins the fray. Turkeys and Pilgrims in the school windows, Kids are having fun in a pile of raked leaves. Night air hints of wood burning from a fireplace, Hardly see anyone with rolled up sleeves. Can see through trees and see more things, Where leaves earlier blocked my view. Makes one want to go out and be part of the change, With winter approaching days of fall are few. -- Terry A. Long, 1994 ============================================================================= A Simple Time ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The stars of a dog appear in the sky, Dog days of summer have come by. Steady hum of a summer night's rain, Thunder echoing across the fields of grain. Dust on the ground is turning into a muddy mire, A wall becoming a dark and shining raindrop's lair. A breaking sky gives way to a new sunrise, Night people retreat from their nightly guise. Old machines left abandoned outside to rust, While others in buildings just collect dust. The sound of a distant train horn can be heard, An endless daily flight of a bird. Surface of a river's water lays still, Smoke eludes from a stack of a nearby mill. Sweat soaked brow from a hard's day work, Shadows of mystery always on the lurk. A dream of peace gives way to war, Happiness takes a backseat to pain and gore. An easier way of life, carries no name, The pendulum swang... then the rain came. -- Terry A. Long, 1994 ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= The Cultured Saint ~~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ My ecstasy that drips forth from your loins. pure mesmerizing life More potent than any modern elixir ever shot through my needlescarred veins. If heaven were like this, less people would burn or so would say your priest. To tire of this is to die miserable bloodied. One urge introduces a next. Now we scale mountains as if they were bedposts. -- 1994 Evan Light ============================================================================= The Great Lament of Sir Vinnie Vinccenzo ~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ In the dark corridors of South Jersey there are walls made of armadillo heads. Green Peace is on our asses Vinnie, zen monk extraordinaire, practices his art upon my weeping willow forever daring children to come and visit claims he does not molest. He rides upon an antelope down Rt. 30 through construction, smacking inmates who have behaved and now direct traffic or stand guard over land manipulators. The beast grazes in gardens of love that have been conveniently transplanted next to every other wawa on the right. Pushing, not pulling, he enters, steals Pall Malls and an apple. Telepathically, Vinnie warns the counterboy to give him all the $$$ but the boy is blind in the mind. He is now in pieces. It is pieces he is in. They are taking him on a stretcher while his brother calls for Bill. I am screaming bloody murder while I'm running down the corridor of this damnable damnable wasteland where I'm trapped and canned like campbell's like campbell's cream of mushroom not progresso though it's better maybe healthy choice or dog food pass the pringles let's get nasty 1-900 costs a fortune a damnable damnable fortune but what to do in a wasteland 'cept shoot rats in Bob's new wreckyard and bic your gas till it blows boom and like a nasa shuttle you go blasting to the moon and then we dine on cheese and crackers and a tiny spot an only spot of white rhino tea from old italy. The image here is vivid for I'm stuck here, now I'm livid cause it costs a lot for diesel and that's only what i drink I don't want your damn budweiser that makes the intestines dance and the bowels boogie down like chubby checker on speed and twist into white porcelain. In these corridors of this locale I am puking through my fingers It is now that I heave dry. -- Evan Light, 1994 ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= A dream that never was ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A dream that never was pale in my thoughts and here you are listening you breathe into me letting me touch without hands so soft your eyes and I feel every thought know every fear cherish every breath and then I'm dreaming again Tired of rainbows that I don't need I think of that wall so high and careful Broken by electric emotions racing through my head like cracks across ice and the wind is blowing cold into my eyes and then I'm dreaming again in a dream that never was. -- Amy St. John ============================================================================= Friday Nights ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ From my house I can hear the pulsating beat travelling across the island. Reggae rhythms so familiar; known by heart. Walking towards the town, the music gets louder, I soon see crowd of people dancing, laughing, a moving mass. Locals mostly, a few tourists mix in hastily. One block down, Rock Lobster. Friends wave from a table beneath a Heineken umbrella. Smaller band plays a soft reggae beat, we relax, listen, and sway to the music. Calm breezes cause napkins to flutter. Mouth-watering smells float in the warm air, carried over from Hercules' Grille. Spicy hot, and oh, so greasy! We all catch a whiff, and smile knowingly. Timid tourists enter, looking out of place. Clean white Rheboks and brown knee socks. New Island t-shirts, fluorescent shorts clashing. A rasta, dreads askew, comes up behind them, yelling with fake anger: "Meh-son! Yo' wan' move so I co' pass??!!" They scatter, regrouping elsewhere. We all laugh so hard, falling into each other! We have one another, Once again for summer, everything is alright. -- Amy St. John ============================================================================= Another Look ~~~~~~~ ~~~~ High green hills, shaping the land. Looking closer now... turquoise sea, calm, and full of motion. Smoothly sparkling, swirling, lapping the land, and glimmering. The mountains are rounded; friendly in their awesome height. Trees, bushes, vines, blended together. On occasion our soothing breeze gets bored, playfully rustles leaves all around, ant the trees between the Sunshine. All is everyday... I sit alone, watching orange, pink, purple sky streaked with pastel clouds like some frustrated painter. A bird flies low, and I smile, as the sun sinks into the sea. -- Amy St. John ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= While the eyes of heaven smile... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ While the eyes of heaven smile, and while my whole house sleeps, often I get restless, and down the stairs I creep. This pilgrimage I make often, the routine I know quite well. Quick and quiet out I slip, an no one do I tell. For this is mine and only mine. Well, I suppose it is his, too. For it was with him this memory was made When this memory was new. Down the path I hurry, the sand passes beneath my feet, until I reach the lapping waves, and their chilling liquid heat. In that same spot we stood, at that same moon we gazed. Steadily it beamed down on us, while over the ripples it played. I remember how he watched me and the light danced in his eyes. And in those eyes I knew I saw the kind of love that ties. We learned a lot that evening, while gentle blew the breeze. We learned that with each other, Our lives could be at ease. -- Nicole Eichwald ============================================================================= You said ~~~~~~~~ You said you let me go so you could keep me But you let me go altogether. "I don't want to lose you" you said. But you pushed me away. As I fell, as the sands fell, you watched. You said you'd hold out a hand, But I couldn't see it. Falling, falling, falling the sand of time around me At the very last minute, I was caught. I tried to climb back to you, but the sand swallowed me, pulled me back. And finally I grab your hand but I can't hold on And you are slipping, like sand through my fingers, And I feel you drift away. -- Nicole Eichwald ============================================================================= There is something about... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There is something about A blank piece of paper Which draws my pen to it. A feeling, a compulsion to fill it with words, thoughts, feelings. My frustrations, my emotions, my problems. Pour out my heart down my arm and out the tip of my pen. It is my therapy. -- Nicole Eichwald ============================================================================= The rain is pouring down on me... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The rain is pouring down on me, soaking my hair, running in rivets down my nose, washing away my emotions. I can't see through my tears, and the rain, and the fog. The fog that spirals me is a warm blanket, but blinds me. Then a tunnel forms in the mist, A clear path and at the end is him. Still the rain is pouring down, my hair, my skin, my clothes all drenched, but happiness returns. The sun shines through the rain, and as I walk toward him I am walking in a summer storm. The walls are vivid rainbows pointing toward their gold. But does this treasure want to be found? claimed? No - he just slips into the breeze -- Nicole Eichwald ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= Margie XVI ~~~~~~~~~~ "Am I a sweetheart, Vince?" Can you remember when I wouldn't say, "Yes;" Just because I didn't know you well enough? I think now that I really wouldn't say Because the truth is so frightening. For so many years I've done without The gentle, affectionate, casual sweetness that you simply are. Now that I've had a taste of it, How can I go back to that dusty death? How can I do without ever again? This is need. It frightens me to show you: Does it frighten you, too? -- Vincent Otten ============================================================================= Margie XXII ~~~~~~~~~~~ I awoke this morning with a happy smile. In a dream, I'd ridden my bicycle with my back to the rising sun And I came across a character of an old farm house. It was shaded by oak statesmen, but on the east side Chris Colvin had carried out stereo speakers And was teaching his young son the wonders of Handel's _Messiah_. So I wandered over to listen and add my two cents' worth When his two little daughters -- dreams have this poetic license, you know -- About the ages of Naomi and Sarah Came rushing out to greet me. The eldest threw her arms around me and said, "The strength of a loving heart Is like the strength of the burning sun: You feel it wherever you go." And I woke up And thought of you. -- Vincent Otten ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= Reflection ~~~~~~~~~~ A reflection traced in silver Apparition staring back White light's spectrum does now filter The appearance in the glass What is seen does not belong With the ancient soul inside So longing to whisper the song But ever forced to hide. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ============================================================================= Harvest.. ~~~~~~~ Silence covers me with its velvet folds And I peer outward, my face expressionless In my heart some loneliness holds A feeling strange, like emptiness... Pouring forth from within myself Selfless gaze above, beyond... Harvest time, too soon to tell- My ears strain for the sound.......... -- Jennifer Mulcahy ============================================================================= Change ~~~~~~ Ancient hymns of serenity Wash over me like the foaming sea I sit and watch the seasons change While others rush and rearrange Patience fills me as I am alone Branches bare where harsh winds have blown I see now beyond the physical world A deeper meaning has unfurled Things here matter, but not as much as one might think... Take your time to listen and think... Life is too short to be bothered by stress The more emotion you feel, you'll be burdened much less... Take a moment to hold my hand And doodle wishes in the sand Glance in my eyes before they've gone And inhale the crimson dawn Aside from all else, you have been given this day To love or to hate or to throw away Cherish life and simplicity With this, and love, your soul is free.... -- Jennifer Mulcahy ============================================================================= The feelings of man... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Frigid night air threatens to pierce my warmth As I struggle to understand How close should I stand to the fire to absorb The feelings of man..... My eyes are cast upon the ground My shoulders hunched, I stand still Whistling wind the only sound Captured between the hills..... -- Jennifer Mulcahy ============================================================================= inside ~~~~~~ As I stand facing the east I miss the sun's departure Its crimson glow the least Of what I cannot see ...forever? Is a word that is held inside blown glass Seasons change as time does pass.... Greyness overtakes the heart of the innocent As the soulless live blind and ne'er repent... To find another in this realm is a miracle... I have wept in joy and now watch the tears fall... A rain inside my swirling core This man alone can open its door. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ============================================================================= A shallow... ~~~~~~~~~ A shallow, narrow corridor With little, filtered light Keeps my inner core Trapped in endless night. Afar I saw a gleam, beyond Where and what I cannot say Perhaps a deep and endless bond Needing in the way A piece of life has bloomed inside I feel it when it's near But sometimes then it seems to hide And my heart aches from the fear..... -- Jennifer Mulcahy ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= I won't peak! ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Life is the holiday Death is the gift Lord, dear lord, When my gift I do Receive, I pray I Do not suspect what is under the wrap. -- Alvin Brinson ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= ************************************************************************** [ POST SCRIPTUM ] ************************************************************************** Nyd ~~~ "The more things change, the more they stay the same." With bright, cheerful eyes we will look apon this world this morn. Awaiting for all the goals to be accomplished; all our prayers to be answered. For hope, peace, friendship and love to spread like a flood of champagne across the lands, the plains, the mountains, valleys, and cities of this world. We smilingly remember all the promising toasts by imaginative people - saying a "A new age is ushered in, a prosperous and gleeful one." And drunkenly we return to our beds and sleep. when we awake and get up with high hopes, we look around. disappointed we are, when we see that nothing has changed except for one meaningless digit and another wrinkle on our faces. war rages across continents - murdering millions just because they were there. disease, hunger, corruption and shame run rampant through the capillaries of each land. and Mother Nature takes her toll in lives. In the end, it's all the same: "Nothing changes on New Year's Day." -Igal Koshevoy; January 1, 1993; SUFFERAGE 20:1 +=====================================================================+ | A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers | +---------------------------------------------------------------------| | - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310] | +---------------------------------------------------------------------| | (C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda | +=====================================================================+ Come one, come all! Welcome to Centipede. Established just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies. Even a chance to be published in a magazine. Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area, an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and speculated history & publishing. In all of the ten conferences, anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends. For that is what CentNet is here for: for you. Ever wonder how to accent a poem at the right meter? Well, come join our PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out. Have any problems in deciphering your dreams? Select The Dreams echo, and you're questions shall be solved. The Network was created on May 16, 1993. I created this because there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience. And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to grow, and become active on Bulletin Board Systems. I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking. Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer can now download the whole network, without phasing out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created. If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences. You'll not be disappointed! Or, check out the latest info packet being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE]. ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= ***** **** ** * ***** ***** ***** **** **** **** (tm) * * * * * * * * * * * * * *Cent ** * * * * * ***** ** * * ** * Net * * * * * * * * * * * ***** **** * ** * ***** * **** **** **** -------- A Professional Mailing NetWork -------- - A or - Welcome to Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network! Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a very special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the sharing and distribution of poetic material. It was our feeling, THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in life which should be treated with honest feeling, and not be censored, because it might have one word, or one feeling which someone did not like. When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY. But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share. Immediately a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease the needs and interests of the several members who helped place this on the map. All in all, we find that we are a group of dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of writing. And what does Centipede stand for? The body of the Centipede is made up of the Sysops who carry CentNet. These Sysops have a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM ( BBS ) which dedicates itself to carious uses depending on each individual user. There are many types of BBS's and some of them are specially dedicated to electronic mailing of messages. For this purpose several NETWORKS have been created. Centipede is one of these. These Sysops, which means they are Systems Operators, when joining a larger system, become known as NODES. And without the hard work of many of these Sysops, CentNet and any other network would not be able to flourish properly. The legs are the Users, without the users the Sysops could not move anywhere. Without the body, the Users could not interact with one another. Our NetWork offers a special program for Sysops and Users in case there may be questions or problems. A 24 hour Voice Support Line is here for your questions: (609) 895-0858. If per chance there is no one there to answer your call, please leave your name and voice phone number, and the best possible time to contact you (Eastern Standard Time), and someone will get back to you as soon as possible. We are here to help you, please feel free to call, even if it is just to say "Hello". CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would like to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are about. You may give us a call at the number mentioned above, and we will gladly find a way for you to interact with us. ** ** ****** ** ** ** [ YGDRASIL INTERNET ] **** ** ** ** ** ****** ************************************************************************** RESOURCES The collection of Ygdrasil Press is now available on the World-Wide Web, accessible as "http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil". This WWW site contains the collections in their original and untranslated formats, professionally laid out collections in Microsoft Word for Windows 2.0 format, GIF pictures, ANSI color graphics, and other goodies. Coming soon, the collection will be also be available through anonymous ftp and ftp-by-mail. Details on using Ygdrasil by e-mail will be included as soon as we're finished testing it out. WHAT THIS MEANS :) If one has "direct" (LAN, SLIP, PPP, etc), "dialin" (UNIX, VMS, etc prompt), or "e-mail" (FidoNet, Prodigy, America Online, Compu$erve, etc) access to Internet, you can get all of our magazines and literature collections viewed on screen, downloaded or delivered to your electronic-mailbox without ever having to dial long distance or figure out which BBS to call. This provides a much more intimate link to the world outside our beloved Centipede. As well, this increases the audience and broadens the coverage of Ygdrasil to better serve the readers. COMMENTS Any comments or concerns about Internet access, as well as lengthy submissions (preferably as MIME attachments) should be sent to the Igal Koshevoy, who will either give direct feedback or direct it to `someone' who's in a better position to help - Internet: igal@agora.rdrop.com Fidonet: Igal Koshevoy, 1:105/290 Comments about Ygdrasil, as well as short submissions, can be addressed to Klaus Gerken, our Editor in Chief - Internet: Klaus.Gerken@f56.n266.z1.fidonet.org Fidonet: Klaus Gerken, 1:266/56 Long submissions are considered any single post over 80 lines with headers. This is because the Internet to FidoNet gate is famous for truncating messages longer than that. We'd love to hear from you! ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= ************************************************************************** [ COPYRIGHT INFORMATION ] ************************************************************************** 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) 1994 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: +----------------------------+ | YGDRASIL PRESS *** | | 1001-257 LISGAR ST. | | OTTAWA, ONTARIO | | CANADA, K2P 0C7 | +----------------------------+ All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS ============================================================================= ***************************************************************************** ============================================================================= ************************************************************************** [ YGDRASIL PUBLICATIONS LIST ] ************************************************************************** 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, and may be ordered from: +----------------------------+ | YGDRASIL PRESS *** | | 1001-257 LISGAR ST. | | OTTAWA, ONTARIO | | CANADA, K2P 0C7 | +----------------------------+ Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press. YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $2.50 an issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems BBS (1-609-896-3256) or any other participating BBS. Revisions, though, holds the official version of Ygdrasil. =============================================================================