1878 lines
63 KiB
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1878 lines
63 KiB
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+======== December 1994 ======================== Volume 2, Number 12 ========+
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| ***** * * **** * ** *** * * * * ** * * * * ***** * ** ** * ***** |
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| ******* ******** ******** *** **** *** *** ******* ***** ******* |
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| [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] |
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| Editor: Klaus J. Gerken |
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| Associate Editors: Paul Lauda |
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| : Pedro Sena |
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| : Gay Bost |
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| Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy |
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| European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch |
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+============================================================================+
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***************************************************************************
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[ TABLE OF CONTENTS ]
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***************************************************************************
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INTRODUCTION................................The Ygdrasil Staff
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Still Matters...............................V.A. Blevins
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Ride........................................Greg Schilling
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Untitled....................................Greg Schilling
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Rat.........................................Scott Lawry
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Poetry......................................Scott Lawry
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Them........................................Scott Lawry
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FLOWERS OF EVIL.............................Klaus J. Gerken
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FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (I)..........Klaus J. Gerken
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KILLING FIELD (I)...........................Klaus J. Gerken
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and if i should.............................Igal Koshevoy
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midnight roil...............................Igal Koshevoy
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Suburbasomn.................................Igal Koshevoy
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Restless World..............................Terry A. Long
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Days of Fall................................Terry A. Long
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A Simple Time...............................Terry A. Long
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The Cultured Saint..........................Evan Light
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The Great Lament of Sir Vinnie Vinccenzo....Evan Light
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A dream that never was......................Amy St. John
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Friday Nights...............................Amy St. John
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Another Look................................Amy St. John
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While the eyes of heaven smile..............Nicole Eichwald
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You said....................................Nicole Eichwald
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There is something about....................Nicole Eichwald
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The rain is pouring down on me..............Nicole Eichwald
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Margie XVI..................................Vince Otten
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Margie XXII.................................Vince Otten
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Reflection..................................Jennifer Mulcahy
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Harvest.....................................Jennifer Mulcahy
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Change......................................Jennifer Mulcahy
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The feelings of man.........................Jennifer Mulcahy
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Inside......................................Jennifer Mulcahy
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A shallow...................................Jennifer mulcahy
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I won't peak................................Alvin Brinson
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POST SCRIPTUM...............................Igal Koshevoy
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**************************************************************************
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[ INTRODUCTION ]
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**************************************************************************
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This issue of Ygdrasil is a real landmark - it's our first
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issue to be synchronously posted into the rich expanses of
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Usenet's rec.arts.poems as well as our beloved Centipede
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network, marking it as our formal entry into the Internet
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community....
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We proudly welcome you to Ygdrasil Press! A flourishing center for the
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literary arts that is dedicated to the readers. Our goal and mission is
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to move literature into the next generation: get it away from dusty
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shelves, and trashbins of publishers; and give it back to the people who
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love to read! And as members of the electronic community, our editor
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Klaus explains our position well, "There should be a more permanent place
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for the poems that flash on our computer screens for, what sometimes
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seems like, the briefest of moments. A flash of inspiration, or thought
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and, unless saved in a file somewhere, gone."
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Ygdrasil understands that literature wasn't meant to be censored - for
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free expression is the liberation of the soul. Not to mention, the
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healing powers of unhindered, artistic expression match only those of the
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imagination. The Arts are one of the most direct channels to the heart,
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and we think that's beautiful ... that's the way we want to keep it.
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The Ygdrasil Press is produced of a cooperative, volunteer effort from a
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diverse group of people, living in many countries and continents. Lead by
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Klaus J. Gerken, our Editor in Chief, Ygdrasil was started in May 1993
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and was quickly joined by Paul Lauda lending wisdom, cheer and
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distribution; Evan Light with his great creativity and ideas; and Igal
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Koshevoy helping out with production. Pedro Sena joined soon to help
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rally support for the Beauty of the Word, and has helped produce many
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fine editions. Along with that we have Milan Georges Djordjevitch, our
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European Editor, from France contributing multilingual masterpieces. And
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with the November edition, we welcome our new associate editor Gay Bost
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whose poems and stories have been a regular feature of Ygdrasil.
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This Magazine and Press are living and breathing things - not static,
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listless, rusted monuments. With each issue, each poem, each word we
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evolve and grow.
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Change, metamorphoses, New Light, fresh viewpoints and artistic beauty
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are our only `grade' - and we only stop to make sure our product is of
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the utmost quality.
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We hope you all enjoy Ygdrasil as much as we have making and reading it!
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And now, since this is the Holiday Season, we would also like thank all
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the contributors, and all those who have supported Ygdrasil throughout
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the years. From all of us, to all of you, have a very Merry and Safe
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Holiday Season, and all the best for the coming New Year.
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-- Igal Koshevoy and Klaus Gerken for
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The Ygdrasil Staff
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PS: Faithful and new readers alike, please take a moment to read the new
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"YGDRASIL INTERNET" section at the end of the magazine, it gives a brief
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explanation of the new services offered to you by our expansion to
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Internet.
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**************************************************************************
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Still Matters
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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If even she
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would not stop
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or he would stop
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in some random place
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at the rim of that
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which sometimes came
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smoother than daybreak
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yet ignored true love.
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The lie would forevermore
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be no less the softness
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that could come between
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all of our monsters.
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But, as in such ends,
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like dusk in movies
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or gutters of city,
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these matters at hand
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engrave only dead words
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into some head-stone
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so very small, for in
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of all that scatters
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will survive catalogs
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of all the tatters
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crossing any millennium
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that still matters.
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-- V.A. Blevins
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=============================================================================
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*****************************************************************************
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=============================================================================
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Ride
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~~~~
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take a ride my son,
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take a ride
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let the wind blow your hair
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and eyes pass the pastures
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and nose smell the air
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and ears hear the music
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in a warm summers past
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by marquees faintly glowing
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by storefronts painted glass
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by farmyards grazing animals
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in summers travelling bye
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so very, very fast
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take a ride my son,
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take a ride
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let the miles move your thoughts
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and mind rest at peace
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and soul guide at rocks
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and body stop to feast
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in a warm summers night
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while we travel a concrete road
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while we follow a gleaming light
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while we touch a familiar face
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in summers travelling bye
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so fast, far from sight
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take a ride my son,
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take a ride
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let the warmth raise your spirit
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and take you away
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and show you to fly
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and hold the euphoria
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in a warm summers day
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as the wind blows your hair
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as the work feels like play
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as the hour lends another turn
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in summers travelling bye
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you are riding my son,
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for tomorrow and today
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-- Greg Schilling, 1994
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=============================================================================
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Untitled
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~~~~~~~~
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Dear friend,
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if we were to lay on a rolling landscape
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with sunshine drifting from east to west,
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sounds of gusting breezes moving treetops
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and eyes lightly closed to the world;
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Would our burdens float away like drifting leaves
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with each intoxicating breath of air.
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Would our spirits rise back as clouds
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quietly changing as both moved onward.
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Dear friend,
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if there were no anger to waiver
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deepening thoughts of clarity,
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desperation of an impending night
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pulling colorful kites from our sky;
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Would we believe there still is no word or thought
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no idea or presence deserving to be love.
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Would we remember feelings of warmth from inside
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before the sun scorches our skin in bliss.
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Dear friend,
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if our clock slowed from a fast swoop of its hands
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and seconds did not melt to hours and days,
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age fading as photographs sealed between
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sheets of plastic gathering dust;
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Would we again stop running in place
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and lie down upon that rolling landscape.
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Would we again know what is truly love
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before the night erased our warm days.
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-- Greg Schilling, 1993
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=============================================================================
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*****************************************************************************
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=============================================================================
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Rat
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~~~
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the rat is back
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he comes every year
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to rest in our home
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the villain
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the slime
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the rotted
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the vile sickness
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he brings...
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never alone
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he pushes his way
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in
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we wait for him
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to go away
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he stays
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until the warmth
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the heat
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the life is free
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as i die
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with him
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the rat
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is mine
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i am his
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weak
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weak
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weakness of mind
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inherited
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the rat
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the vile
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the sick
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we wait for him-
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he stays.
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-- Scott Lawry
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=============================================================================
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Poetry
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~~~~~~
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No words exist in poetry
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Poetry is a feeling
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a learning
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A continuous growth,
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anyone can make words
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anyone can make 'poems'
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but poetry...
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Who are the teachers of the world?
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They are dead
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Yet alive
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they are poetry
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Who are the rulers of the world?
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They are tools
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Not real
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they are poverty
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And as this moves
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Like the transient currents of the wind-
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I sit and listen
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to nothing-
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That is poetry,
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As well,
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to me.
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-- Scott Lawry
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=============================================================================
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Them
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~~~~
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Dont let the dirty bastards
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Make you clean
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Dont let those rotted fuckers
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Turn you green
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Burn em
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hurt em
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take em down
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they are a fungus
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cut them back
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back
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Their blood is water
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pure
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Their thoughts are contagious
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lure
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watch them burn
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and learn..
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watch them die
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and see..
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Never help them
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never stop them
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no time
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no time
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live and kill
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walk away
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they are too many
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we are too few
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they are upon us
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we
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we are below
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low
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under dirt
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no time...
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no time.
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-- Scott Lawry
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=============================================================================
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*****************************************************************************
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=============================================================================
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FLOWERS OF EVIL
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Flowers of Evil
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Marching along
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Flowers of Evil
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Singing this song
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But it's right and it's wrong
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Until the pain - is gone
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They live by the western wind
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And they smile when the tolling bell rings
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They are the Flowers of Evil
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They are the flowers that the murderers bring
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They are the Flowers of Evil
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They are the flowers that fill
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the air with the sweetness of death
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Flowers of Evil
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Leading the pack
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Flowers of Evil
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No more look back
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And it's right and it's wrong
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Until the pain - is gone
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They leave their mark on whoever they come
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And they destroy the last radiance of a decaying sun
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They are the flowers of the night
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They are the flowers of a beautiful decay
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They are the Flowers of Evil
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And that shed no tears
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for the ones who cannot pray
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Flowers of Evil
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Stand so proud
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Flowers of Evil
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Are fond of love
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And its right and it's wrong
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Until the pain - is gone
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They find love in the desert gardens
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They mock life, but revere heaven
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They are the flowers of the world
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They are the flowers that cannot be unheard
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They are the Flowers of Evil
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They are the flowers of the empty
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who have no place left to roam
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Flowers of Evil
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All alone
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Flowers of Evil
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Have no home
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And it's right and it's wrong
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Until the pain - is gone
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They are the flowers without a soul
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They are the flowers that never grow old
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They are the Flowers of Evil
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That brink society together
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to enslave society forever
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Flowers of Evil
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Nowhere to be found
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Flowers of Evil
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Lying on the ground
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And it's right and it's wrong
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Until the pain - is gone.
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-- Klaus J. Gerken, 1966
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=============================================================================
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FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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I
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plumes of smoke. the city rises
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to address the winter in vernacular.
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alone, i stare out the frosted window.
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high stratus cloud, in variance, dome the sky.
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the insanity of life amazes me, i guess
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because i'm hardly that involved these days.
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a friend once said to me
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insane? how can we be insane?
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it's the world that is insane. an artist
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only sees reality, reflects reality
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in a way the world can never see...
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winter came early this year. officially
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it's still fall. i listen to the silence
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and wonder if the top quark really can be god.
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-- Klaus J. Gerken
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December 16, 1989
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=============================================================================
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KILLING FIELD
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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I
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I'd like to kill
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It's superstition
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It's the arc in Ethiopia
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It's the violent solution
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It's the drive in some fool car
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It's the virgin that keeps poetry
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Hidden in her heart
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It's all, I think, a waste of time
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It's all a shuff-e-ling of parts
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I want to kill
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I feel it in my heart
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The meadow saunters in the wind
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And the violets are torn
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In retribution for the war
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Which war? It can't go on.
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I side with this indifference
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knowing that indifference
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Is nothing but a wasted heart.
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I want to fill my boots
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I want to laugh but fire
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embraces agony - I said that, but i guess
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too long ago to have an impact now
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I'm just a frozen monument
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I'm desperate for the glow
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Of silence that a poet gets
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When sacrificing his own heart.
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I paint a foremost train apart
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Apache in my soul and German in a plastic heart.
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I gather no incertitude
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Know me but stay very much apart
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I have no lovers but alright
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I live a hermit and I love my life
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I form a presence on a BBS
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I'm single and I run away - not from self
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But from the ones who some are the able
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And can face another day.
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I read my letters only once
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I find the truth just glows like fonts
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upon a black computer screen
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I hopelessly demean myself and others
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Do not simply tar my feathers
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I vanish but I vanish not
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I sink my teeth in a marble god-
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dess... did I shock? - but I did not
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I revolutionize this poetry
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But you don't understand
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You cannot understand this faded provincial's story.
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I wore my heart upon the scone of silence
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I wrote the song of desperate transfusion
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I sprouted trans atlantic wings
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I went to the azores and I bathed in the blue waves
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I met sir galahad and I spoke to him of what went wrong
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and why he fell in love with the kings poor daughter
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oh god, i mean, the kings pure love...
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I was respectful of his unknown age
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he shuffled round in silence
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and headed for a bar.
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I met my cinderella with violets of hope
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Einstein blew a trumpet and Dylan met the Pope
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It wasn't like a trip into the Paranoias
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It wasn't like a coffee without sugar
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It wasn't silent musings in an alley from afar
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It was rather difficult and if i was amazed
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don't blame it on the master, blame it on the hope
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I had for this disaster...know me...i would know you
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I was wind to your fine plaster
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We were never masons
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We never really knew what the two of us were after.
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I drank my Chateau Magdalene
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a simple wine of no illusion
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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
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ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
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THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
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THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
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THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
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INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena
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POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn
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All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each, and may be ordered from:
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+----------------------------+
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| YGDRASIL PRESS *** |
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| 1001-257 LISGAR ST. |
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| OTTAWA, ONTARIO |
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| CANADA, K2P 0C7 |
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Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be
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forwarded by Ygdrasil Press.
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YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $2.50 an
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issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM or
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