2178 lines
79 KiB
Plaintext
2178 lines
79 KiB
Plaintext
|
|
+======== February 1995 ======================== Volume 3, Number 2 ========+
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
| *** *** ******** ******** ******** ******* ******* ***** *** |
|
|
| * * * * * ****** ** *** * * **** * * *** * * ***** ** ** * * |
|
|
| * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * |
|
|
| * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * |
|
|
| * *** * * * **** * * * * * **** * * *** * * ***** * * * * |
|
|
| ***** * * * ** * * * * * * *** ** * *** * ***** * * * * * |
|
|
| * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * |
|
|
| * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * |
|
|
| ***** * * **** * ** *** * * * * ** * * * * ***** * ** ** * ***** |
|
|
| ******* ******** ******** *** **** *** *** ******* ***** ******* |
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
| ************************************************************************* |
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
| [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] |
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
| Editor: Klaus J. Gerken |
|
|
| Associate Editors: Paul Lauda |
|
|
| : Pedro Sena |
|
|
| Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy |
|
|
| European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch |
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
+===========================================================================+
|
|
|
|
***************************************************************************
|
|
[ TABLE OF CONTENTS ]
|
|
***************************************************************************
|
|
|
|
INTRODUCTION..............................Klaus J. Gerken
|
|
|
|
On Common Addiction.......................Evan Light
|
|
AS I SLEPT................................Martin Zurla
|
|
UNCLE SAM'S JIVE JUICE....................Martin Zurla
|
|
SMILE AT ME...............................Martin Zurla
|
|
I say.....................................David Cariddi
|
|
Lonely man in the corner..................David Cariddi
|
|
Hell, and other places....................David Cariddi
|
|
A symphony I'll always hear...............David Cariddi
|
|
Dark Angel................................David Cariddi
|
|
Dirt......................................David Cariddi
|
|
Never Forgotten...........................David Cariddi
|
|
Walls.....................................Tim Whittemore
|
|
mutterings................................Tim Whittemore
|
|
Illusions.................................Tim Whittemore
|
|
She Comes.................................Gay Bost
|
|
Where The Eagles Soar.....................Gay Bost
|
|
BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE......................Barbara Nesbit
|
|
Diamonds..................................Jennifer Mulcahy
|
|
Innocent..................................Jennifer Mulcahy
|
|
Understood................................Jennifer Mulcahy
|
|
Suicide...................................Jennifer Mulcahy
|
|
Flower Without............................Jim Yagmin
|
|
Slug......................................Jim Yagmin
|
|
holistic nul..............................Igal Koshevoy
|
|
intaglio..................................Igal Koshevoy
|
|
Moment of Truth...........................Klaus J. Gerken
|
|
Presentiment..............................Klaus J. Gerken
|
|
|
|
POST SCRIPTUM
|
|
With Still Lives.....................Martin Zurla
|
|
|
|
**************************************************************************
|
|
[ INTRODUCTION ]
|
|
**************************************************************************
|
|
|
|
In my younger years I came across this story, which may not quite
|
|
follow the proper history of Marpa and Milarepa, but nonetheless has
|
|
always stayed with me for its sheer fortitude and wisdom.
|
|
|
|
Milarepa, the great Tibetan Saint (western concept - but it serves a
|
|
purpose) and Poet (universal term - ultimately meaning only, 'talking in
|
|
rhythms', depending on the context), when a young man, and out of remorse
|
|
for exacting revenge for the slaughter of his family, he attached himself
|
|
to the Great Guru Marpa to gain the self-enlightenment, which all good
|
|
self-reliant souls must seek, to ultimately, through many life
|
|
'awareness' become a botthistatva, and therefore Buddha. Well, Milarepa,
|
|
young and filled with pride, approached Marpa in his cave on a steep
|
|
hill. 'What should I do to gain enlightenment?' he asked in youthful
|
|
exuberance. 'Build me a house.' 'But there is nothing on this hill to
|
|
build with.' 'There are rocks in the valley: gather them.' Marpa would
|
|
have no other word with the young poet. Milarepa, did not lose faith, but
|
|
went down to the valley and began gathering the rocks to build Marpa a
|
|
house. For ten years he laboriously dragged rock after rock up the steep
|
|
hill without complaint. After the ten year period, and after the house
|
|
was built, Milarepa again approached the venerated guru and prostrated
|
|
himself before him. 'Master, I have done what you requested; please
|
|
emerge from your cave and see the house that I have built for you.' Marpa
|
|
looked at the poet in disgust: 'It is an abomination. Tear it down
|
|
immediately and replace every rock where you found it.' Milarepa, bowed
|
|
and immediately began to tear down the house he had so laboriously built,
|
|
and for the next ten years replaced every stone where he had found it.
|
|
After his task was completed, Milarepa returned to the great and now
|
|
aging Marpa, 'I have replaced every rock as you requested.' 'Fool!' Marpa
|
|
cried aloud, 'No stone is returned to it's rightful place, and you have
|
|
torn my home apart.' 'Quick, rebuild it!' Milarepa, bowed reverently, and
|
|
slowly with illumination in his heart, set about his task. It was only
|
|
after Milarepa had rebuilt the house that Marpa agreed to teach him.
|
|
|
|
So what does this story tell us? Many will simply say that Milarepa
|
|
was a fool, and wasted his life. It sure sounds that way on the surface.
|
|
But when we look more closely, do we see anything different? I can't help
|
|
thinking that this is a lesson for every person who aspires to being a
|
|
poet. Not in the task as much as in the question, and especially the
|
|
conviction of the answer. Did Milarepa waste his life? Milarepa didn't
|
|
think so. Did Marpa waste his? Not at all. Because Milarepa did not think
|
|
that either his own task was purposeless, nor the reason for Marpa
|
|
requesting the task be done. So what did Milarepa learn? First he came to
|
|
an understanding of what sacrifice for a cause is. One begins by being
|
|
humble. To be humble one must sacrifice conceived notions of what one
|
|
thinks one knows and needs. One must be open to a new experience,
|
|
unprejudiced and prepared. Then through the task Marpa communicated, and
|
|
Milarepa took on willingly, he learned first of all, discipline, for
|
|
without discipline we cannot achieve a purpose we have set for ourselves;
|
|
second, he learned perseverance, for without perseverance we cannot have
|
|
hope of making a good ending, we must believe in ourselves and our
|
|
purpose, otherwise there is nothing to strive for; and third, he learned
|
|
the art of building a good foundation, without which, nothing that is
|
|
built can survive. It is said that for every stone Milarepa lugged up and
|
|
down that hill he wrote a poem, the poems of which became the 100
|
|
thousand songs of Milarepa. Which brings me to how many young people
|
|
approach poetry; through a great desire to express themselves. And how do
|
|
they express themselves? Through words and immediate emotions. This is
|
|
raw, and this is good. But without discipline, these raw expressions of
|
|
energy become only part of the moment, and they dissipate as quickly as
|
|
they are read. Many are put off be the four truths I set out earlier:
|
|
Sacrifice, Discipline, Perseverance and a good foundation. I have seen
|
|
many potentially good poets give up because they are told to be something
|
|
that will take them many years of apprenticeship to achieve. They are
|
|
sent away and told to return when they have a 'product' and are no longer
|
|
just a 'potential'. This is a sad situation and many continue writing
|
|
'poetry' when they are writing nothing at all of substance except for
|
|
their own pleasure. Milarepa saw this immediacy in his own situation, and
|
|
looked at the difference between his own self gratification and the
|
|
gratification one gets when doing something on behalf of others. While I
|
|
am not suggesting that anyone abandon their families and seek refuge in
|
|
the Himalayas, I would say that if we take this as a metaphor and realize
|
|
that a poem written for oneself may help oneself, it will also not
|
|
survive oneself. A poem written to search for a universal discipline
|
|
becomes an example. And therefore survives as the example, and spurns
|
|
others to greater heights. What this tells us is that there is nothing to
|
|
run away from. There is nothing in this world which does not exist on a
|
|
strong foundation. Anyone who thinks they can be a poet simply by
|
|
scribbling something on a piece of paper and chopping it into rhythmic
|
|
lines, or even making it rhyme, is sadly mistaken. Poetry ultimately
|
|
comes down to perseverance. It is not verbal ingenuity, and it is not
|
|
pretty rhymes. It is back-breaking labour and a lot of soul searching. A
|
|
lot. Ah, you might interject, but what about inspiration? Fine, but
|
|
inspiration without discipline, is simply inspiration, a moment, a glow,
|
|
a flash of light, or thought, a dream that fades as soon as one wakes;
|
|
only comprehensible to self. Inspiration, as a great fire needs a spark
|
|
to ignite, ignites the volatile elements which ultimately build a poem.
|
|
But it is not the poem. Ultimately inspiration does not communicate other
|
|
than to the recipient of the inspiration, to communicate this challenge
|
|
(and it is a challenge), a vehicle is needed: for engineers, a bridge;
|
|
for architects a building, for travellers, a destination, and for poets,
|
|
a poem. A means to communicate the vision. And this is where Ygdrasil
|
|
comes in. Ygdrasil is not as harsh on young poets as Marpa was to
|
|
Milarepa. But it does aspire to a certain standard. And that standard is
|
|
to try. To try and achieve the clearest possible development which
|
|
communicates a poet's vision. What inspires is within each and every one
|
|
of the poets contained herein, and it is also in each and every reader.
|
|
Perhaps a merging will develop in this communication. Perhaps one who is
|
|
inspired will inspire others; not just to write and read, but to live
|
|
each moment in the knowledge that we all contribute. Milarepa bore great
|
|
stones on his back, and through that labour achieved the enlightenment he
|
|
so sorely sought. Sometimes it is others who show us the way, but never
|
|
before we take the first step towards them.
|
|
|
|
Ygdrasil attempts to recognize not only the accomplished poets, but
|
|
also poets with potential, poets who might ultimately realize that they
|
|
have a chance at it. And through this recognition, perhaps something of
|
|
permanent value will emerge. That is also why Ygdrasil places the onus on
|
|
the poem rather than the poet. If the poem can stand on its own without
|
|
the poet's intervention, then the poet and others can learn from the
|
|
poem. A good poem requires no explanation. This is the ultimate that
|
|
Ygdrasil strives for. Those who read, be open minded; those who write,
|
|
aware.
|
|
|
|
-- KJ Gerken
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
On Common Addiction
|
|
~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~
|
|
Hellbent on coffee
|
|
the poor man's alcohol
|
|
Feeling the breeze in my hair
|
|
though I'm silently sitting indoors
|
|
numb toes and burning nose
|
|
I've awakened simply to lie again
|
|
stuck in this sleepingrisingman
|
|
my bellybuttons both mouldy
|
|
But my feet are squeaky clean
|
|
my nails freshly painted
|
|
canvas still dripping
|
|
Leaking through the ears of
|
|
a nation embodied
|
|
Humanities puddle on my solid cyprus floor
|
|
wetting my pinky toes
|
|
wrinkling them like old man's face
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Evan Light
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
AS I SLEPT
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
Are you gonna cruse me too?
|
|
say that I'm poisoned,
|
|
rotted dead,
|
|
curled up against my precious self?
|
|
|
|
Are you gonna point a finger,
|
|
laugh your silly
|
|
head off
|
|
behind my back?
|
|
|
|
Nah, you is my lady,
|
|
my woman-wife
|
|
carin', sayin' sweetness
|
|
to these, my silent ears.
|
|
|
|
But that was once upon a time,
|
|
wasn't it?
|
|
Sure it was.
|
|
|
|
It was before there was death
|
|
on my hands,
|
|
painted in my soul.
|
|
|
|
So look,
|
|
looking at me,
|
|
through me
|
|
your eyes.
|
|
|
|
You are,
|
|
yup, you are,
|
|
killing me again and again
|
|
as your words were warm
|
|
and your soul was stiff.
|
|
|
|
So where were you then,
|
|
when the noise,
|
|
the shattering tears ripped us apart,
|
|
ripped us as I came home,
|
|
landing nowhere as you walked away
|
|
leaving me, my own tears
|
|
for the dark to swallow.
|
|
|
|
And I know you where there as I slept
|
|
finally home,
|
|
but you left as I slept
|
|
went home making me wake to the nothingness.
|
|
|
|
I screamed and screamed,
|
|
again and again,
|
|
Then I knew we would never make it,
|
|
I would never be the same,
|
|
never, ever again.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Martin Zurla
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
UNCLE SAM'S JIVE JUICE
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
jumpin' jive juice
|
|
'cross my achin' head,
|
|
throbbin, poundin'
|
|
bouncin' in lead.
|
|
|
|
just look at that
|
|
stuff, man,
|
|
all hell's splittin' up,
|
|
|
|
like god don't give
|
|
a good shit
|
|
no more, anyhow.
|
|
|
|
and the rain
|
|
like grease
|
|
fillin' a vat,
|
|
|
|
a diddly-bop, be-bop,
|
|
noise of
|
|
killers and kids.
|
|
|
|
I ain't -- no way -- walkin'
|
|
no more,
|
|
you metal-plated
|
|
motherfuckin'
|
|
sin-man.
|
|
|
|
now look at that,
|
|
it's all apart,
|
|
|
|
I ain't -- no matter -- crawlin'
|
|
no more
|
|
so fuck your
|
|
Aunt Fanny and
|
|
Molly MaGee
|
|
|
|
you sent me here,
|
|
I died
|
|
no more.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Martin Zurla
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
SMILE AT ME
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
Smile at me constantly
|
|
my most ...
|
|
And in you is that one
|
|
special, oh so ...
|
|
Very, very come to me
|
|
as in dreams, as on
|
|
clouds, as
|
|
Within you is a frailness
|
|
most fragile about me, around me
|
|
your presence permeates,
|
|
Penetrates me now.
|
|
|
|
When gold so frankincense
|
|
tugs on gossamer tails of
|
|
precious pristine basilicas and
|
|
Byzantine pomegranates
|
|
i see Pisces clinging tightly,
|
|
so rightly
|
|
roundly you and i, me and oh so you,
|
|
truly ours.
|
|
|
|
(and ever so permanently you
|
|
surround, abound me
|
|
And again it's your hands,
|
|
those fingers gentle about me,
|
|
searching me;
|
|
discovering yourself in my
|
|
pressed unconsciousness)
|
|
|
|
But Saint Steven's Day was such
|
|
An oh, so very long drawn time ago,
|
|
Wasn't it. Your delicate reach that
|
|
Never -- on that day -- enclosed,
|
|
Wrapped me good,
|
|
Whitely around me not once.
|
|
|
|
Far away now (you are)
|
|
Somewhere else as we never saw that
|
|
Christ-like morning melting us
|
|
Together, wedding us forever.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Martin Zurla
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
I say
|
|
~~~~~
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"You don't have to feel like you owe anybody anything,"
|
|
But don't you owe everybody everything?
|
|
I think so. I think so.
|
|
You don't.
|
|
That's ok-
|
|
Sometimes I don't either.
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"You always have to get us fighting!"
|
|
But I think you're too excitable.
|
|
Maybe you need a valium.
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"You've wasted my time!"
|
|
But I think that perhaps your time isn't so precious.
|
|
I think you're a blowhard.
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"You can't make the simplest decisions!"
|
|
Oh? So make them yourself.
|
|
Can't, can you.
|
|
I find you so entertaining.
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"What's your problem?"
|
|
I'll tell you.
|
|
You are the problem.
|
|
You and you alone.
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"You're too weak!"
|
|
Weak?
|
|
Perhaps. But the weakest of the weak
|
|
Is so much more than you.
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"You're wrong and you know it!"
|
|
I laugh.
|
|
He's tired, and so am I.
|
|
Leave him alone.
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"Don't talk to me like that!"
|
|
Like what?
|
|
In a mature and coherent manner?
|
|
So sorry, so very sorry.
|
|
Should I talk like you?
|
|
Should I bitch and moan?
|
|
You don't stop until we're mad,
|
|
Though he shouts,
|
|
And I write.
|
|
|
|
You say,
|
|
"Now you've gone too far."
|
|
|
|
But I say,
|
|
"No. No, I've got quite a bit farther to travel."
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- David Cariddi
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Lonely man in the corner
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
I tried.
|
|
I truly did try.
|
|
Now I am done.
|
|
And what can I say?
|
|
Everything's been said.
|
|
Yet, we've said nothing.
|
|
How ironic.
|
|
How sad.
|
|
Go. Please.
|
|
I ask only one thing of you.
|
|
Remember me.
|
|
Oh, remember me.
|
|
For that which is, will never be.
|
|
And that which isn't?
|
|
Always.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- David Cariddi
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Hell, and other places
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
"You'll burn the house down
|
|
One of these days."
|
|
And that will be the day when I
|
|
Laugh and laugh and laugh and cry.
|
|
At you. For you. With you.
|
|
You don't like it?
|
|
Fool. It's all for you.
|
|
It always was, and your failure
|
|
To see that will be (is) your tragedy.
|
|
Your own personal slice of Hell.
|
|
And other places.
|
|
You'll never read this.
|
|
What a waste.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- David Cariddi
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
A symphony I'll always hear
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
Is there one for whom the angels weep,
|
|
For whom the souls of heroes seek?
|
|
For whom the birds of air do fly,
|
|
For whom; the turn of every eye?
|
|
|
|
I think I do know such a one,
|
|
And, Ah! Her beauty, bright as sun!
|
|
Her smile is my saving grace,
|
|
Captured in her shining face.
|
|
|
|
When she speaks, it's like a song,
|
|
Sweet harmony, it makes me strong!
|
|
Her voice like music to my ear,
|
|
A symphony I'll always hear.
|
|
|
|
Such caring I have never seen,
|
|
Compassionate; so like a dream!
|
|
And in her eyes there's so much light!
|
|
So deep and calling, like the night.
|
|
|
|
And in all this, there's something else,
|
|
I cannot describe it, but yet it's felt.
|
|
It is her soul, so very strong,
|
|
and with it, she can do no wrong.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- David Cariddi
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Dark Angel
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
Ah, to be one with the night!
|
|
To be free and beautiful.
|
|
To be a reaper of spirit,
|
|
And a seeker of beauty.
|
|
If only I could be!
|
|
If only I could be...
|
|
But can I?
|
|
Can I be the Dark Angel,
|
|
The eternal learner?
|
|
Could I be he
|
|
who is married to the darkness,
|
|
And all her silent children?
|
|
I want to know.
|
|
I must know.
|
|
I want the bittersweet Water of Life
|
|
To flow down my white throat,
|
|
Into my veins.
|
|
I need to be the fiend!
|
|
I need to feel the thirst!
|
|
I need to touch the pale skin,
|
|
And feel the fangs deep in my neck.
|
|
I need to be the Vampire.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- David Cariddi
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Dirt
|
|
~~~~
|
|
|
|
So, I see you've dug yourself a corpse.
|
|
Well, what's a girl to do?
|
|
Bury it- Burn it-
|
|
Ask it to leave.
|
|
Wouldn't want anyone to think it was yours.
|
|
Oh, no.
|
|
Don't forget, now!
|
|
Here, take my spade.
|
|
Cover it well!
|
|
Don't let an inch of skin show!
|
|
There, there, now hurry away,
|
|
Can't be seen here, no!
|
|
Good enough, now, good enou-
|
|
Say... Is that a finger?
|
|
Oh dear.
|
|
I suppose I should bury it...
|
|
But I rather think I won't.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- David Cariddi
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Never Forgotten
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
So what,
|
|
If I decide,
|
|
That my killing need,
|
|
Is so,
|
|
Much stronger,
|
|
Than our sacred creed?
|
|
And what,
|
|
If I need,
|
|
To go away?
|
|
To fade,
|
|
To the Darkness,
|
|
Like Blood to my veins.
|
|
|
|
Never Forgotten.
|
|
|
|
And there,
|
|
If I want,
|
|
The taste of Blood,
|
|
Who's there
|
|
To tell me,
|
|
It must not be done?
|
|
Please now,
|
|
come and hold me,
|
|
I soon will leave.
|
|
I'll take
|
|
With me only,
|
|
My need to greave.
|
|
|
|
Never Forgotten-
|
|
The first little taste...
|
|
Never Forgotten-
|
|
The warm-cold embrace...
|
|
Never Forgotten-
|
|
All of my kind...
|
|
Never Forgotten-
|
|
The words in the rhyme...
|
|
|
|
Never Forgotten.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- David Anthony Cariddi
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
Walls
|
|
~~~~~
|
|
|
|
Builders, Creators:
|
|
Carpenters all.
|
|
Each building
|
|
our individual
|
|
wall.
|
|
|
|
What magnitude we achieve
|
|
as shapes, complexities
|
|
we conceive.
|
|
Each grander than before
|
|
to hide, shelter, contain
|
|
and no more.
|
|
|
|
Variety,
|
|
spice of life,
|
|
is plentiful
|
|
as each strives
|
|
for his/her grand design.
|
|
|
|
For some,
|
|
building many small sections,
|
|
to dive into
|
|
in the midst of the fray.
|
|
They often are hit,
|
|
running to and fro,
|
|
the little ducks
|
|
all in a row;
|
|
still they come.
|
|
|
|
Others build one wall.
|
|
Resplendent in height and depth.
|
|
Brightly lit windows,
|
|
doors bound and secure,
|
|
they mat look upon,
|
|
even enter,
|
|
the world.
|
|
Taste all it offers
|
|
then;
|
|
when burdens become wearisome to bear
|
|
becomes a place to retreat,
|
|
bind the wounds,
|
|
so they never cease
|
|
to care.
|
|
|
|
A few
|
|
seem never to know.
|
|
Fearful of hearts desires,
|
|
beyond reason they go.
|
|
|
|
Domes,
|
|
massive and brittle,
|
|
they create.
|
|
Chipping at the mortar
|
|
frantically they seek.
|
|
An obvious,elusive key.
|
|
When found-again they run
|
|
entombing themselves
|
|
in the dark loneliness of the soul.
|
|
|
|
Oh!; for the courage.
|
|
To tear down
|
|
each massive block
|
|
set in anger and fear.
|
|
To use the key
|
|
open doors long closed.
|
|
Restore the vitality
|
|
to laughter
|
|
once mine.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Tim Whittemore
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
mutterings
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
O heart drenched in sorrow,
|
|
O wreckage of a fallen love.
|
|
Pitiless and fearsome,
|
|
The Nons mutter over this soul.
|
|
Where deep love, as life, has perished.
|
|
|
|
Treading currents of emotion,
|
|
from deepest shadow,
|
|
I hear
|
|
the mutterings of the nons.
|
|
|
|
Tracing first,
|
|
ascent from chaos.
|
|
Watching the spark
|
|
fanned into flame.
|
|
|
|
Listen, as it gathers about
|
|
the elements of life
|
|
upon this plane.
|
|
Becoming a creature
|
|
of blood and dust.
|
|
|
|
Revel
|
|
in the strange ecstasy
|
|
called life.
|
|
Experiencing all bright, and well travelled.
|
|
Striving to explore the dark unknown...
|
|
blazing paths
|
|
for others to follow.
|
|
|
|
Reaching beyond the bounds,
|
|
touching another.
|
|
Grasping that which is beyond
|
|
oneself.
|
|
Soaring to depths hither unplumbed
|
|
as the flames of passion
|
|
fill all horizons.
|
|
|
|
The wheel spins,
|
|
cycles turn,
|
|
that which has grown
|
|
and flowered
|
|
begins to drop petals.
|
|
|
|
Sorrows shared,
|
|
ties which bind.
|
|
Joys remembered,
|
|
as each fragment screams
|
|
toward the final end.
|
|
|
|
With each passing petal
|
|
the abyss opens,
|
|
earth swallowing maw,
|
|
life destroying...
|
|
soul-crusher.
|
|
Invites deeper visitation.
|
|
|
|
In a moment of frailty,
|
|
which is great strength,
|
|
lashing out in love and anger.
|
|
try to stop the descent
|
|
into the maelstrom.
|
|
Burning out the life
|
|
it cannot
|
|
keep.
|
|
|
|
Leaving behind
|
|
only the ruin,
|
|
of a dried, withered,husk.
|
|
Where deep love, as life, has perished.
|
|
pitiless and fearsome,
|
|
the nons mutter over this soul.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Tim Whittemore
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Illusions
|
|
~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
Illusions.
|
|
Realities we call
|
|
life.
|
|
|
|
Shadows play before my eyes.
|
|
Collocating
|
|
then dispersing.
|
|
Focusing,
|
|
but never clear.
|
|
|
|
Often
|
|
waiting for words
|
|
we will never hear.
|
|
|
|
The past
|
|
rises from the mire.
|
|
Bringing the feelings
|
|
and the pain.
|
|
Rising as specters
|
|
haunting the soul.
|
|
|
|
Each step taken
|
|
changes unforeseen.
|
|
Withholding knowledge
|
|
of destiny's dream.
|
|
|
|
Allowing belief
|
|
we are plotters of our fate...
|
|
|
|
into the mists we march.
|
|
Good little morons all in a row.
|
|
|
|
Following our brother,
|
|
the lemming,
|
|
over the cliff we go....
|
|
into the swirls and eddies
|
|
of life's uncertain flow.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Tim Whittemore
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
She Comes
|
|
~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
She rises from the earth in stretching straining branch's sway
|
|
She walks upon the surface of the lake, in mists, in sunlit day
|
|
She comes, with greening heart, and blooming fingertips into the air.
|
|
|
|
She hears as called by torment's child pounding on the church door
|
|
She comes, I say, unscheduled walker growing from a distant moor
|
|
She wakes at Winter's ingress, as she will, and where she may, a care.
|
|
|
|
She listens to lost daughters wailing 'neath the basement stair
|
|
She wonders how the Father's twisted love has brought them there
|
|
She comes, her hand extended through the cracks, and weeps, alone.
|
|
|
|
She sees the child of visions tossed into a culture's refuse pile
|
|
She wanders through 'enlighted' days of love and all the while
|
|
She watches each desert the crying child within to build a throne.
|
|
|
|
And who is She that comes without an invocation circled tight?
|
|
Without the Season's behest giving Her moon worship's right
|
|
Without the Sun to guide her steps and light her willful way?
|
|
|
|
She Is faceless, perhaps, and nameless, perchance. Just as well
|
|
She Is, and that is all I've come so far, through much, to tell
|
|
She Is and was and will be, born, yesterday tomorrow and today.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Gay Bost
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Where The Eagles Soar
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
When I missed the Eagle's call
|
|
And took that first most painful fall
|
|
Some bright sea creature reached within
|
|
And brought me from the madding din
|
|
A blue, a grey, come from the deeps
|
|
To show me that my spirit keeps
|
|
A way, a path, a conduit's note
|
|
Whether by chance, by plan, or rote
|
|
A map, in lines, writ on the stars
|
|
A diagram between the bars
|
|
Of Music sweet and song so deadly
|
|
A heartbeat felt within the medley
|
|
|
|
When I touched Grey Eagle's feather
|
|
I drew a flight within harsh weather
|
|
Dim and deep that spoke of loss
|
|
When sea and wave the sailor toss
|
|
Upon an ocean far and dear
|
|
That in my dreaming brought me near
|
|
To albatross, that fate marked bird
|
|
The mariner's lament, but not the word
|
|
For in the flight is cast the fate
|
|
For such as I who comes but late
|
|
From nature's work onto the field
|
|
Whereby nature's writ I yield.
|
|
|
|
And with the Black I saw my ire
|
|
Long waked anger my best attire
|
|
Just lament toward which I lean
|
|
Of blooded metal, cruelly keen
|
|
A match for red's most ancient sword
|
|
A writhing repast for the board
|
|
Of justice called upon a god
|
|
Whose heavy hand would wound the sod
|
|
And cage within the fitful bird
|
|
In-flights of spirit newly heard
|
|
A child's awakening, a hopeful tale
|
|
Sent in winds from inland gale.
|
|
|
|
Aquila, Golden Bird of Prey
|
|
Laid eggs of love upon the tray
|
|
Of wounded silver dreams in flight
|
|
I sailed the day and kissed the night
|
|
Anew, regrown, another leg
|
|
Another view within the egg
|
|
Becoming green took back the day
|
|
Sorrow touched where anger lay
|
|
Migrant wanderer again I knew
|
|
The soaring freedom of the blue
|
|
The flowing river rushing by
|
|
And she who ever walks the sky.
|
|
|
|
A White tailed Eagle crossed my path
|
|
And brought to me my own sweet laugh
|
|
An aviator's tail, sea salted
|
|
A wing of fogged in joy, unhalted
|
|
A wide flung span from other lands
|
|
A fisher from another's hands
|
|
And herein is my story told
|
|
Of flights diverse in nature's hold
|
|
Of varieties the Earth holds dear
|
|
If Humanity can but see and hear
|
|
For of the Eagles in the heavens
|
|
Of species there are fifty seven!
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Gay Bost
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
Black and Blue house
|
|
under your ownership;
|
|
under your care,
|
|
and your attention.
|
|
Black and blue house-
|
|
A Wrecking Ball stands poised at the
|
|
Mouth opening to demolish
|
|
Please do not
|
|
strike me again.
|
|
This black and blue house
|
|
is on the verge
|
|
of collapse.
|
|
This morning I was
|
|
a frequent victim of a
|
|
hit-and-run hello.
|
|
COLD, CRUEL, WORD WHIPPING
|
|
BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE
|
|
ENCUMBERED BY
|
|
STIFLED CRIES, AND
|
|
SUPPRESSED LONGINGS.
|
|
STRUCTURED WITHOUT
|
|
WATERPROOFING..STRUCTURED
|
|
WITHOUT PROTECTION-
|
|
AGAINST DOWNFALLS
|
|
OF SOFT TEARS.
|
|
|
|
BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE
|
|
OWNED, SOLELY BY YOU.
|
|
YOU WHO ARE OBLIVIOUS
|
|
TO NEEDED REPAIRS.
|
|
BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE
|
|
BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE
|
|
SLOWLY SUFFOCATING
|
|
IN SNOWDRIFTS.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Barbara Nesbit 1971-1992
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
--------
|
|
|
|
The coldness hits me like a stone
|
|
Too round, too smooth, too grey
|
|
I struggle to rewrap myself
|
|
Yet I, too exposed, agape-
|
|
I turn my back against the wind
|
|
Only to feel it anew
|
|
Upon my breast at every turn
|
|
Fatal gems of frozen dew
|
|
|
|
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Innocent
|
|
~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
The loss of innocence and an innocent
|
|
Death steams on snow as I repent
|
|
Memory shallow, distorted: bent
|
|
Limping, a hollow cry- regret.
|
|
|
|
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Understood
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
So red, the blood at dawn
|
|
Yet blacker than the night
|
|
Of fields and furrows, evil's pawn
|
|
Lies uncaptured, frozen flight-
|
|
The hollow sound of rotting wood
|
|
Surrounds thy fragile ear
|
|
The death of being understood...
|
|
And the raw deceit of fear.
|
|
|
|
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Suicide
|
|
~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
Thunder rolled when she opened her eyes
|
|
White clouds as dark as a raven
|
|
Fear grew cold in her eyes while he watched
|
|
For he knew, and so- she fled.
|
|
|
|
Denial of love, shoved aside in importance
|
|
Never a crime greater e'er stood
|
|
Bury truth, attempt at creation-
|
|
The suicide of the soul.
|
|
|
|
-- Jennifer Mulcahy
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
Flower Without
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
A flower grew without a soul
|
|
Beneath a blueberry bush-
|
|
As white as love, as long as death:
|
|
My tender fluttering crush.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Jim Yagmin
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Slug
|
|
~~~~
|
|
|
|
The master's words are read
|
|
But once- Then put away.
|
|
Understanding: yes or no
|
|
Has no reason in the day-
|
|
But when the night surrounds you
|
|
The smell of fear is rancid-
|
|
The Icy Snail of Death creeps
|
|
Under the half-closed eyelid.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Jim Yagmin
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
holistic nul
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
chimes
|
|
on the wind
|
|
ringing angry
|
|
furious banging
|
|
uncontrolled
|
|
loud and brutal
|
|
hot air
|
|
washing past
|
|
black night
|
|
wrapped around and flowing
|
|
a torrent
|
|
senselessness
|
|
|
|
getting louder
|
|
so loud i can feel it
|
|
it's not here
|
|
though i can see it
|
|
not there
|
|
too real
|
|
unreal
|
|
broken illusion
|
|
melted solution
|
|
alien protrusion
|
|
|
|
not there
|
|
but i can see it
|
|
not real
|
|
though i can taste it
|
|
not possible
|
|
but its breathing against my cheek
|
|
can't be
|
|
but it is
|
|
go away
|
|
it's only me
|
|
stay away
|
|
don't need more pressure
|
|
leave me alone
|
|
don't want to hear the knocking
|
|
ringing
|
|
crashing
|
|
crying
|
|
crying
|
|
crying
|
|
crying on the floor
|
|
and it stomps on me
|
|
in angst
|
|
|
|
GO AWAY
|
|
you aren't real
|
|
GO AWAY
|
|
i'm hurt enough already
|
|
tap on shoulder
|
|
bloodied cry
|
|
bells on the wind
|
|
chimes in the night
|
|
angry droning
|
|
violent thuds
|
|
not here
|
|
it can't be real
|
|
i can't believe it
|
|
i can't believe anything
|
|
GO AWAY
|
|
nothing is real
|
|
not even me
|
|
|
|
|
|
-Igal Koshevoy (tbdop)
|
|
February 14, 1994; 5:32am
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
intaglio
|
|
~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
throbbing fills this empty space
|
|
held back and holding
|
|
|
|
<hold>
|
|
<push>
|
|
<click>
|
|
|
|
lid's too tight
|
|
these bleeding stubs can't do much
|
|
|
|
. . .
|
|
|
|
expected undelivery
|
|
doesn't come this way no more
|
|
|
|
worn
|
|
worn out
|
|
and wearing
|
|
|
|
it's been so long
|
|
so very long indeed
|
|
|
|
. . .
|
|
|
|
unfraying around me
|
|
inside me
|
|
|
|
pale vines growing loose
|
|
to wait in rotting rest
|
|
|
|
it's just a moment
|
|
all things pass
|
|
|
|
i'm antiquity
|
|
praying for indifference
|
|
|
|
. . .
|
|
|
|
i want to hold you
|
|
hold you
|
|
|
|
<hold>
|
|
<push>
|
|
<click>
|
|
|
|
. . .
|
|
|
|
over the buzzing of the insects
|
|
and someone's screaming
|
|
|
|
feels like a box
|
|
|
|
. . .
|
|
|
|
formality and duty
|
|
God's dragging footprints in the sand
|
|
|
|
. . .
|
|
|
|
i miss you
|
|
you know that nothing's right no more
|
|
|
|
maybe i feel like moving
|
|
other pastures
|
|
other cares
|
|
|
|
anchors and not's
|
|
hold me captive
|
|
to your vacancy
|
|
|
|
its been so very long
|
|
|
|
small wishes, bubbling truths
|
|
|
|
. . .
|
|
|
|
i want so much to hold you
|
|
|
|
<hold>
|
|
<push>
|
|
<snAP
|
|
|
|
|
|
-Igal Koshevoy (tbdop^tr)
|
|
December 11, 1994; 2:05am
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
Moment of Truth
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
So, it's come to this:
|
|
dispassion with a vengeance
|
|
and a frightening disease
|
|
that disallows us to reveal
|
|
what has truly been our lot...
|
|
We hold on to each other
|
|
because there's nothing else.
|
|
|
|
When those we love become a shadow
|
|
And we do not see them in the light
|
|
Poison must reveal the better part...
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Klaus J. Gerken
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Presentiment
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
|
|
And as if something where to happen:
|
|
something that would desperately appeal
|
|
to those who haunt the fringes
|
|
of the violent abrasions that we feel
|
|
within the velvet wind of torture
|
|
not as sharp, but splintered bones
|
|
that choke you like a nest of robins
|
|
consumed by pollution capturing the wind
|
|
I recoil like many of no purpose
|
|
and despise the crowded violence
|
|
that others in confusion do not feel
|
|
But I feel it in my bones and in my heart
|
|
You see it on the evening news...and
|
|
disregard it...others caution...you can only nod.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Klaus J. Gerken
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
**************************************************************************
|
|
[ POST SCRIPTUM ]
|
|
**************************************************************************
|
|
|
|
With Still Lives
|
|
(A One-Act Play)
|
|
by
|
|
Martin Zurla
|
|
|
|
NANCY and STEVE are both in the thirties; a
|
|
handsome all-American couple.
|
|
|
|
AT RISE it is 8:00am on a Sunday morning in early
|
|
March, nineteen hundred and ...
|
|
|
|
The lights begin to come up very slowly as if the
|
|
sun is just breaking the horizon. STEVE BUSH has
|
|
been sitting down left looking out the livingroom
|
|
window that faces directly into the audience.
|
|
|
|
The setting is a one bedroom apartment in
|
|
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania We see only the
|
|
livingroom. It is a simple, rather sparse room
|
|
with a somewhat vague, middle-class sensibility.
|
|
There is a faded stuffed chair, a small bland sofa
|
|
and a glass top coffee table center right. Several
|
|
inexpensive reproductions of oil paintings and
|
|
watercolors hang on the walls; one of which is a
|
|
small reproduction of Vermeer's " Lady Reading A
|
|
Latter At An Open Window". There is an archway up
|
|
center; to the right, is the kitchen, to the left
|
|
an unseen bathroom and bedroom. A doorway up stage
|
|
of the archway is the main entrance to the
|
|
apartment.
|
|
|
|
After several beats NANCY BUSH enters from the
|
|
bedroom and stands in the center of the archway.
|
|
She is wearing a delicate nightgown covered by a
|
|
tattered terrycloth robe that is too large for her
|
|
small frame. She folds her arms across her chest
|
|
and leans against the archway looking at STEVE.
|
|
|
|
STEVE does not notice her at first. He is wearing
|
|
winter pyjamas and looks as if he hasn't slept in
|
|
several days. He is unshaven and somewhat
|
|
dishevelled. After several long beats, NANCY exits
|
|
to bathroom. Several seconds later we hear a
|
|
toilet flush. She reenters and stands looking at
|
|
STEVE.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
You want some coffee?
|
|
(no response)
|
|
I want some coffee.
|
|
(pause, then she exits to kitchen and
|
|
continues to speak from off stage )
|
|
You know something, Stevie, the more you keep this up, the
|
|
more you are only going to make things worse. Know what I
|
|
mean, partner? I'm getting a little tired of it. You're
|
|
getting a little tired of it. The whole world's getting a
|
|
little tired of it.
|
|
(she enters carrying two cups of coffee and
|
|
moves into the room and places one cup on the
|
|
coffee table)
|
|
It's only going to get cold sitting there all lonesome like
|
|
that.
|
|
(no response. She moves back to archway
|
|
and stands Looking at him as she sips her
|
|
coffee)
|
|
So, do we go to church this morning, or do we sit gazing at
|
|
the street?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
How's traffic? And what the hell am I doing up at eight
|
|
a.m. on a Sunday morning? I'm sipping coffee is what I'm
|
|
doing. By the way, did you come to bed at all last night?
|
|
Nah, of course you didn't. Now, how did I know that?
|
|
Simple, when I moved over to feel a warm, sweaty body all I
|
|
felt were ice cold sheets.
|
|
(STEVE stands and moves to the coffee table
|
|
and picks up his cup of coffee then returns
|
|
to the window and sits)
|
|
You don't have to say thanks, it's okay. You're welcome all
|
|
the same.
|
|
(she moves to sofa and sits)
|
|
So, big boy, what's happenin'?
|
|
(no response)
|
|
That's just great. So, can I help it if my breasts are
|
|
beginning to sag? Ah, what's having sex to such an elderly
|
|
couple like us anyway. Or is it that maybe because we did
|
|
have so much sex when we were too young to appreciate its
|
|
endearing qualities that I'm now all stretched out, maybe
|
|
worn out.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Yeah, maybe you were right last night when you expressed
|
|
your world view, your optimistic evaluation of life with
|
|
that final word of communication, actually two final words:
|
|
"Fuck it!" Steve Bush's final statement: "Fuck it!" Nice,
|
|
real nice. What's odd is, you say fuck it and then you
|
|
don't, at least not with your wife. That's rather odd,
|
|
don't you think?
|
|
(after a beat STEVE rises and begins to
|
|
move off to kitchen with cup. She stops him)
|
|
Can I have some more too?
|
|
(he takes her cup and exits)
|
|
By the way, since when don't you like me in bed anymore?
|
|
(no response)
|
|
Well, you don't have to be that articulate about it. Come
|
|
on, you can be natural with me, real honest and all.
|
|
(STEVE enters carrying two cups of coffee.
|
|
He hands one to NANCY, then returns to the sit
|
|
by the window. He sits sipping his coffee)
|
|
Thanks, champ.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
As I was saying, since when don't we make love to each other
|
|
anymore?
|
|
(no response)
|
|
Since last night? Or was it the night before? Or maybe
|
|
since our glorious wedding night thirteen years ago. Since
|
|
when? I thought that I've always treated your chunky little
|
|
rear end with tender loving care all these long years.
|
|
Since when?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Are you going to talk to me, or just sit there looking like
|
|
that?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Let's just drop it, okay.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Drop what?
|
|
(no response)
|
|
I said, drop what?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Drop that you're acting stupid? No, let me rephrase that,
|
|
acting crazy? Go on, tell me. Tell me what all this
|
|
bullshit has been about for the past two stinking years.
|
|
Why, all of a sudden, do I hear about something that
|
|
happened to you years and years ago. How come I never heard
|
|
about it when you first got back? How come? Fill in the
|
|
details, I seem to have lost something in the translation.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
And what does that stupid ass crack about "fuck it" mean
|
|
anyway?
|
|
(no response)
|
|
It means that we don't sit and talk things over anymore.
|
|
Steve, you know how I hate this crap when you just sit there
|
|
and say nothing. I mean, don't you know that about me?
|
|
(to herself but for his benefit)
|
|
What is this Nancy, forty questions to a mute?
|
|
(she stands and is about to exit but stops
|
|
in the archway and turns to him)
|
|
Is that it, you want me to leave you alone this morning!?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Yeah.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Why?
|
|
(no response)
|
|
Well, buster, I live here too. I cannot walk around here
|
|
avoiding you, being like a damn shadow, now can I? I don't
|
|
want to leave you alone this morning, I need you this
|
|
morning, need you to talk to me, be my goddamn husband or
|
|
whatever it is you're suppose to be for me.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Drink your coffee, okay.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
I don't want the damn coffee! I want you to say something
|
|
to me, to be with me.
|
|
(STEVE stands and exits to kitchen. NANCY
|
|
moves to the chair STEVE was sitting in and sits)
|
|
Oh boy, this is going to be another one of those peachy
|
|
Sunday mornings.
|
|
(STEVE reenters carrying another cup of coffee.
|
|
He reacts to her sitting in "his" chair)
|
|
Does it really bother you so much that I nag? I mean,
|
|
really. You call it nagging, and I call it being very
|
|
interested. Maybe I shouldn't care, shouldn't be interested.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Don't be.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Oh, I see, I should leave you alone so you can piddle around
|
|
in your own self-serving pity. You'd like that, wouldn't
|
|
you.
|
|
(STEVE moves to window and stands looking out)
|
|
You want to know something handsome, your so-called problems
|
|
- the ones you think you suffer more than anyone else - are
|
|
getting to be a very large pain in my ass. You know what I
|
|
mean, Stevie? Hasn't this state of selfish depression been
|
|
going on just a little too long these days?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Okay, I want to know just how long you intend to keep this
|
|
up this time. Just how long is this war bullshit going to
|
|
last!
|
|
(he quickly turns to face her)
|
|
I didn't mean it to sound like that. I'm sorry. Now don't
|
|
go looking at me like that. You're the one who keeps
|
|
bringing it up every day for the past couple of years, and
|
|
without saying a solitary word. What do you expect me to do
|
|
when you don't say a thing, only that I should understand.
|
|
Good Christ, understand what? All you said last night -
|
|
other than fuck it - was that I would never understand. Well
|
|
explain it to me in words that I can understand. I'll
|
|
listen. I want to listen. But I can't listen anymore to
|
|
just one simple phrase: "it was the war." And how come I
|
|
hear all these ugly stories from books and magazines, from
|
|
everywhere but from the mouth of my own husband? No, all
|
|
you do is lock the bathroom door, punch holes in walls, etc.
|
|
... etc. And you wonder way I don't understand. How can I
|
|
understand refrigerators being turned over, windows being
|
|
smashed? And when I say let's try and start all over again,
|
|
you just laugh and look right through me. Well, for
|
|
Christsakes, how long do I have to stay empty?
|
|
(she slams her coffee cup down on table)
|
|
DAMNIT STEVE, I CANNOT TAKE THIS BULLSHIT ANYMORE!
|
|
(calming herself as STEVE stands and moves
|
|
off to kitchen. He returns with a dish rag and
|
|
begins cleaning up)
|
|
I touch you and it's like touching an ice tray, that or a
|
|
fish.
|
|
(he exits to kitchen)
|
|
Don't you think that after thirteen years we could at least
|
|
talk this out, finalize something in our goddamn lives.
|
|
(STEVE enters and moves to chair and sits)
|
|
We were suppose to be buddies, right? Just you and me, you
|
|
promised. Don't you understand, I need you now. Always
|
|
have.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I'm sorry about the screaming before, real sorry. It must
|
|
be time now, right? You know I just can't do it myself.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
I can't.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Sure you can. I mean, Christ, you're suppose to be my
|
|
buddy, right?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Right.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
I just can't do it myself. You have to help me out, you
|
|
promised. Just once more and that'll be it. I'm hanging
|
|
here by a thread. I'm asking you and I know I shouldn't,
|
|
but I have to.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Steve?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
No, never mind, it passed. Let's talk, okay? It must be
|
|
time now, Steve. It's only been a week so far. A week,
|
|
that's all. I've been good all these years, ten years,
|
|
right? But I just couldn't help myself last week. It's all
|
|
this stuff coming back to you, back to me. It'll be easy to
|
|
get rid of this time. Only a week.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Just a light touch is all I need. Just a drop or two. You
|
|
know I can't do it by myself. You have to help me in this.
|
|
I don't wanna take too much like I almost did that first
|
|
time. I always take too much, you know that, you've seen
|
|
that.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Maybe we can wait.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I'm gonna go nuts! SHIT!
|
|
(pause)
|
|
LISTEN MOTHERFUCKER, YOU'RE SUPPOSE TO BE MY FUCKING BUDDY
|
|
IN THIS!
|
|
(pause, then STEVE stands and moves to her,
|
|
he calmly stands looking down at her)
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Could you stand up for a second.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
I wanna stay right where I am.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Please.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
No.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
(gently taking hold of her arm he lifts
|
|
her to her feet)
|
|
Please stand up for a second.
|
|
(pause as they both stand looking into
|
|
each other's eyes)
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Just wait a few minutes. Wait until we talk some more, okay?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Do you want to wait?
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
I got a little excited before.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Just whisper.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
(whispering)
|
|
Do you like the sun this morning? Isn't it nice coming
|
|
through the window like that?
|
|
(STEVE reaches to the sofa and pulls out a small
|
|
dark brown leather bag. He then gently sits NANCY
|
|
back down)
|
|
I saw the sun come up this morning. It was the first thing I
|
|
saw when I opened my eyes. That's nice, don't ya think?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
(moving back to the chair by the window, he sits)
|
|
Real nice.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Yeah, real nice.
|
|
(she stares at the leather bag. As she speaks
|
|
during the following, her voice will, for a time,
|
|
grow deeper, hoarser)
|
|
You remember Dorothy? The one from the "Wizard of Oz"? You
|
|
know, the Judy Garland character who had this silly little
|
|
dog? Sure, you remember.
|
|
(long pause)
|
|
Now?
|
|
(pause. We begin to see a very small, yet
|
|
perceptible shaking of NANCY's hands. Her eyes
|
|
seem to widen)
|
|
You know something, Steve, I use to think it would be great
|
|
to be Dorothy. You know, searching around looking for the
|
|
right way to go home, the right way to the Emerald City and
|
|
all. That sort of thing, ya know.
|
|
(STEVE continues looking at the unopened bag in
|
|
his lap. NANCY begins to show signs of some inner
|
|
fear.)
|
|
You do know that I didn't do the things you did. I never had
|
|
to kill anybody. You know that, right? I never killed
|
|
anybody, not once.
|
|
(she slowly walks around the room, her eyes
|
|
constantly going back and forth between STEVE and
|
|
the leather bag in his lap.)
|
|
So I can't really know what you know. But I know me, know
|
|
what I had to go through. What I had to do.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
(reassuringly)
|
|
I know.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
You like talkin' with me?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Yes.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Me too. I mean, I like talkin' with you too. We're
|
|
buddies, right?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
(the word "buddy" seems to have an effect
|
|
on him)
|
|
Right.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Just like your buddies in the war? Just like them, right?
|
|
I mean, I fight just like you do, right? And I had my
|
|
sinkin' in ta the mud, right? We're buddies and we're not
|
|
gonna forget that neither, right?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Right.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
I like that Steve. I like when we talk like buddies, real
|
|
honest-ta-God war buddies.
|
|
(after a beat, STEVE opens the bag and removes
|
|
a hypodermic needle, a bent spoon, a three
|
|
foot piece of rubber hosing, and a small, clear
|
|
plastic bag that contains a soft, white
|
|
powder. He then takes out a small candle and
|
|
lights it)
|
|
Sometimes, like right now, I picture myself like I'm sitting
|
|
inside a coloring book with all these furry little animals
|
|
around me. Ya know what I mean?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Yes.
|
|
(STEVE pours some of the white powder into
|
|
the spoon and heats it to a liquid. All
|
|
through this process, NANCY is looking intently
|
|
at STEVE's every action)
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Buddies, right? Buddies like I meet walkin' along that
|
|
yellow brick road. I meet the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion,
|
|
persons like that. And there's other creatures too. The
|
|
Walt Disney kind of creatures that are always smilin',
|
|
smilin' that vacant smile with those white, white teeth.
|
|
But I'd color their teeth orange, or maybe purple. And I'd
|
|
be painted too, filled in between the thick, black lines.
|
|
I'd be filled in by all sorts a colors. But never pastels,
|
|
never that.
|
|
(once the powder has transformed itself
|
|
into a clear liquid, STEVE fills the needle.
|
|
They both look at each other)
|
|
Ya know the kind a colors I'm talkin' about, Steve?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
I know.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
(she slowly moves near him and slides to
|
|
the floor on her knees sitting like a
|
|
small child)
|
|
Ya know, sometimes your eyes are like great big pink and red
|
|
forests, with real tall pine trees, the kind that smell like
|
|
Christmas, the real thick, dark green kind.
|
|
(STEVE stands holding the needle. He moves
|
|
to NANCY, bends and rolls up her left sleeve)
|
|
And when I look at this coloring book, I see myself meetin'
|
|
up with all these Disney characters: lions and tigers and
|
|
stuff like that. And I'm ... I'm walkin' along ... just
|
|
walkin', like now ... walkin' and thinkin' a colors, of
|
|
fine, clear, sharp colors.
|
|
(STEVE wraps the rubber hose twice around
|
|
NANCY's upper arm, slaps the arm several
|
|
times causing her to wince, then he quickly
|
|
injects the liquid. After the process is
|
|
completed he withdraws the needle and removes
|
|
the rubber hose. He stands looking down at
|
|
her. A sad, almost forlorn expression crosses
|
|
his face. NANCY reaches up to him and holds
|
|
on to his arm and slowly pulls herself to
|
|
her feet)
|
|
Ya see, I'm there followin' this dumb road to paradise, and
|
|
I'm movin', shufflin' my little red glass slippers until
|
|
all of a sudden I fall into this very large hole in the
|
|
ground, a well or somethin' like that.
|
|
(STEVE moves back to window, puts equipment
|
|
back in the leather bag, then sits looking
|
|
at NANCY)
|
|
And I'm fallin', and as my body gets lighter and lighter I
|
|
fall past this little white rabbit, one with a pink and
|
|
purple nose. And this dumb rabbit is clutchin' a great big
|
|
grandfather clock in his little paws.
|
|
(she slowly moves to STEVE, lifts her leg
|
|
up and climbs on the back of his chair, sitting
|
|
on the chair's back. She slowly begins to
|
|
wrap her legs around his waist, pulling him
|
|
close to her, she takes his head in her
|
|
hands and begins to stroke his hair)
|
|
All of a sudden I'm realizin' that I'm confusin' two
|
|
different fairy tales, mixin' 'em up, ya know.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I'm mixin' up fairy tales, Stevie. And before I hit the
|
|
bottom of this well I see a giant house with a great
|
|
over-sized fireplace with warm thick carpets and beautiful
|
|
cut-glass chandeliers. And stain-glass windows too.
|
|
(she takes his head and looks into his
|
|
eyes)
|
|
Ya know, sometimes your eyes are like forests.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
And all these stain-glass windows have pictures that show
|
|
the Child Jesus sucklin', no, pinchin' his Mama's breast,
|
|
the one that's bare, her clean white, ever so holy breast
|
|
with its rounded gray nipple. And she hurts, Stevie. She
|
|
hurts 'cause he's bitin' so damn hard, suckin' so strong.
|
|
He's suckin' so hard that she's bleedin', but she's bleedin'
|
|
from her eyes, not her nipple. Tears of red blood are
|
|
runnin' gently down her China-doll face. I can see she can
|
|
sense where things are gonna go with her white porcelain
|
|
little boy baby. And all she does is smile, smile that
|
|
pained, seamless smile. Ya see, she's sacrificing
|
|
somethin', somethin' that she's not even sure of. A mission,
|
|
yeah, that's it, a mission. She's carvin' the way for her
|
|
boy baby to die, to be torn to shreds by small cartoon
|
|
animals.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Oh, and ya know what he's gonna do? He's gonna plead with
|
|
his Papa not to let him go that way. But Papa is very old
|
|
and very deaf. Mama's the one that'll have to taste her
|
|
son's tears. And she prays desperately, so earnestly the
|
|
prayers of the almost dead. She wants to tell her son of
|
|
the night that was covered in blackness when his Papa came
|
|
to her dressed all in gold and silver, smelling of
|
|
frankincense, wrapped in a thunderstorm. Tell her son of
|
|
how Papa tore off her robes and dug his large marble hands,
|
|
his steel-coated arms up inside her; grabbed onto her womb
|
|
and yanked so hard, with so much force that he pulled her
|
|
inside out, ripped her womb from her belly and threw it to
|
|
the stone floor, smiling all the while. And then he wiped
|
|
his wet, dripping hands on her thighs and in her
|
|
golden-brown hair, rubbing away the holy salt water.
|
|
(she begins to rock his head with more
|
|
force)
|
|
And the Papa bear just laughed and said now Mama bear was
|
|
clean, finally clean enough to have his son belch forth upon
|
|
the earth, and that she would have to cry but once. And
|
|
Papa bear stood there screaming with such a mighty force
|
|
that the sky blurred and the sea turned white. He shouted
|
|
so loud, so distant: "When you give life you must also give
|
|
death." And then she knew that she would have to send her
|
|
son far, far away to a place built of rust and fire where
|
|
there are no prayers, where the land is soaking wet from
|
|
tears.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Are ya feelin' inside yourself now, Stevie? Do you like the
|
|
way I am? DO YOU!?
|
|
(softly)
|
|
Like forests sometimes. Yeah, your eyes, they are. They're
|
|
like steep cliffs hoverin' over an ocean too. And what do
|
|
ya see in my eyes, Stevie?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Glass.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Glass, sometimes.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Glass?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Nothin' else? Glass? You mean like in tall buildings, or
|
|
glass like in looking-glasses? Or picture frames, or
|
|
department store windows? Is it pink glass, cut glass, or
|
|
polished glass? What kind, Stevie? LIKE FUCKING GLASS THAT
|
|
DOESN'T BREATHE? I WANNA KNOW! WHAT KIND DO YA SEE!
|
|
(she violently shoves him to the floor)
|
|
YOU NO GOOD ... YOU CARTOON OF A HUMAN BEING! GODDAMN YOU
|
|
AND GODDAMN THE DAY I LAID EYES ON YOU!
|
|
(she begins to move around the room always
|
|
looming at STEVE)
|
|
YOU AIMLESS, SELF-CENTERED HUMPING CREEP OF A COW THAT STOLE
|
|
MY LIFE, THAT FUCKED ME GOOD ... THAT SPIT ON ME ... THAT
|
|
SPEWED YOUR ROTTEN SCUM OUTSIDE MY BELLY ... MY BELLY THAT'S
|
|
EMPTY, VACANT BECAUSE OF YOU, BECAUSE OF YOUR MINDLESS
|
|
SELF-PITY!
|
|
(she falls to her knees and speaks to him)
|
|
You're a real fucker there, Stevie boy, a real peach of a
|
|
find. Look at what you're makin' me do. Just take a good
|
|
look. Listen to my ugly mouth screamin' at ya, hatin' your
|
|
every breath. Do ya see me?
|
|
(she begins to crawl toward him. He has
|
|
remained motionless throughout)
|
|
For God sake, Stevie, look at the two of us.
|
|
(she reaches out and touches him gently)
|
|
For cryin'-out-loud, I'm tryin' to reach out to you. Do ya
|
|
see that? I don't wanna stop us from bein' us.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
But I feel okay now. It's just that the stupid fairy tails
|
|
I have come true sometimes, or seem too. Stevie, ya gotta
|
|
know that you didn't fight nothin' alone, ya didn't do
|
|
shittail alone. Ya see, when you left, you left me here to
|
|
my memories of you, left me to my imaginations.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
So I found my little white friend. Or it found me, no
|
|
matter.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I'm sorry, really sorry that you had to come home to this.
|
|
I am, really. But we were doin' okay there for awhile. I
|
|
did stop. You helped me stop. But last week ... all these
|
|
things comin' back ... to you, to me. All our glorious
|
|
ideals, all that we had been taught, all that we were to
|
|
told to believe, all shot ta shit. All of a sudden, you and
|
|
your buddies became the villains.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
And I was clean for so damn long. It was good, real good.
|
|
(she looks at him)
|
|
You don't hear a word I'm sayin', do ya?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
I hear you.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Do you really? I wonder.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
But we'll clean it up again, that's all. You'll see. But
|
|
we can't bring that time back no more, no more about over
|
|
there, that time. If you do, I'll never be able to see
|
|
myself again, know who I can become.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Yeah, let's let it lie.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
Yeah, let's do that. We'll make great love to each other
|
|
again. We'll fornicate 'til our eyeballs fall out. We'll
|
|
have parties like we use to. See other people. Talk with
|
|
friends. Do we have any friends left these days? No
|
|
matter, we'll just make new ones.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Right?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Right.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
(she slowly stands, but with some trouble.
|
|
She then begins to walk toward STEVE, stumbling
|
|
every so often.)
|
|
And I won't mix fairy tails anymore. I promise. But you
|
|
see, I couldn't take hearin' ya say nothin' and all the
|
|
while knowin' that inside you were hurtin' like you was, I
|
|
mean were.
|
|
(she reaches HIM and stands there
|
|
stroking his hair)
|
|
We can tell good stories and stuff. Right?
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Right.
|
|
|
|
NANCY
|
|
(she moves to his side and stumbles
|
|
over his foot and slowly slides down to
|
|
the floor holding on to HIS leg. She
|
|
nestles next to him.)
|
|
Whooooopssssssieeeeee. I know that sometimes things'll pop
|
|
up here and there, memories and all, but it's all in the
|
|
past, in our little tiny histories, right?
|
|
(HE slowly touches her gently. She does
|
|
not seem to feel his touch.)
|
|
And we won't mix up fairytales up anymore. And ... and we
|
|
can still be buddies and stuff, real friends and all. And
|
|
kids, we'll have kids, lots. We'll name 'em little so and
|
|
so and such and such. Right?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
And I can be a woman.
|
|
|
|
STEVE
|
|
Nancy?
|
|
(no response. She's fallen asleep.)
|
|
Nancy?
|
|
(HE realizes that she's drifted off.
|
|
He moves slowly so that he can take
|
|
her up in his arms. He then carries
|
|
her to the sofa and lies her down.
|
|
She rolls over hugging the pillow.
|
|
STEVE stands there looking down at
|
|
her for a long moment, then he takes a
|
|
chair and places it beside the sofa
|
|
and sits.)
|
|
I sometimes hear music, a distant kinda music. Like a jazz
|
|
piece, a delicate horn whispering off somewhere.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I use to hear it all the time. Not much lately, not until
|
|
this mornin'. It's comin' back to me.
|
|
(HE looks down at HER)
|
|
I think maybe you're right. You had your own war.
|
|
Somethin' I never saw before, somethin' I never thought
|
|
about before. Everybody has their own wars. I guess I
|
|
wanted mine to be the biggest, the best, the most special
|
|
war.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
It wasn't, not really.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Yeah, we'll clean it up again. A little bit less each time,
|
|
just like that first time. Less and less.
|
|
(HE touches HER gently, tenderly)
|
|
I love you.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Buddies. You and me. I just don't know what to say
|
|
anymore. It's not you, it's not us ...
|
|
it's ...
|
|
(HE'S lost for words)
|
|
But maybe we can forget all that bullshit. Can we do that?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
All that killing, all that pain, all for nothing.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
But we'll make it. We will. Buddies.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I love you more than anything in my fucked up life, and when
|
|
... and ... and I began to think I lost you, you'd given' up
|
|
on me.
|
|
(HE starts to cry very softly)
|
|
All our fairytales are mixed up, they always were but we
|
|
never saw it 'til now. I guess I'm that dumb white rabbit
|
|
holdin' on to that clock, a clock that stopped too many damn
|
|
years ago.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Ya know, I just realized somethin'. You're that music, that
|
|
distant music I use to hear. It was you all the time, no
|
|
matter where I'd go, that music would be there. Think I'll
|
|
be able to hear it again, hear that soft jazz playin' softly
|
|
somewhere?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Yeah, maybe if we work at it ... do a few things ... kids
|
|
aren't such a bad idea. Just as long as they don't have the
|
|
same screwed up world we had, that we were brought up in.
|
|
Yeah, maybe than. Why not.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Sometimes I'm afraid. Yeah, I am. I'm afraid. I'm afraid
|
|
'cause I love you so much, that if I hold you too close, too
|
|
tight, I'll squeeze you to death.
|
|
(HE sits back and just looks at
|
|
HIS sleeping wife)
|
|
I like talkin' with you. You like talkin' with me? We'll
|
|
make it. I promise.
|
|
(the lights begin to FADE)
|
|
And we'll make up new fairytales, just our own, nobody
|
|
else's. Yeah, our own private fairytales, just you and me.
|
|
Buddies.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Ya see, once upon a time, in this great big pink and green
|
|
forest, there lived a Mama and a Papa, two nice kinda
|
|
people. And these two nice kinda people had two kids, a boy
|
|
kid and a girl kid. And they didn't have a lousy two car
|
|
garage either. None a that stuff for these two real nice
|
|
people. And one day ...
|
|
(HIS voice trails off as the lights
|
|
go to BLACK)
|
|
|
|
END OF PLAY
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
+=====================================================================+
|
|
| 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].
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
|
|
** ** ******
|
|
** ** **
|
|
[ YGDRASIL INTERNET ]
|
|
**** **
|
|
** **
|
|
** ******
|
|
|
|
**************************************************************************
|
|
|
|
RESOURCES
|
|
|
|
The collection of Ygdrasil Press is now available on Internet through
|
|
the World-Wide Web, accessible as "http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil".
|
|
This site contains the collections as: 8-bit MS-DOS ASCII text,
|
|
universal 7-bit ASCII, ANSI color graphics, GIF pictures, word-processor
|
|
laid-out files and other goodies. The entire collection can also be
|
|
accessed by FTP as "ftp://ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil". Each
|
|
month, the Ygdrasil Magazine is posted to the Usenet newsgroup
|
|
rec.arts.poems.
|
|
|
|
We hope this will give readers a break from having to dial long distance
|
|
and figure out which BBS has Ygdrasil available for them; provide a more
|
|
intimate link to the world outside our beloved Centipede; and increase &
|
|
broaden the audience & coverage of Ygdrasil to better serve the readers.
|
|
|
|
E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL
|
|
|
|
Any person that can access Internet e-mail (ie. FidoNet, Prodigy, AOL)
|
|
can access Ygdrasil's online resources. To get a E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO
|
|
YGDRASIL GUIDE, send e-mail to the Internet address
|
|
"listproc@www0.cern.ch" (if you don't know how to send Internet e-mail,
|
|
please ask your system administrator for instructions). In the message,
|
|
leave the subject line blank, and in the body enter two lines into the
|
|
message: "www http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil/wwwmail.html" and on
|
|
the second line "quit". The Guide will be waiting in your e-mailbox
|
|
within a day. NOTE: CASE IS SIGNIFICANT - "www" is not the same as
|
|
"WWW"; if you don't type it the exactly same way, your request will
|
|
fail.
|
|
|
|
COMMENTS
|
|
|
|
Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
|
|
submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
|
|
contents:
|
|
Internet: klaus.gerken@bbs.synapse.net
|
|
|
|
Igal Koshevoy, Production Editor and Web Coordinator - for submissions
|
|
of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs,
|
|
wordprocessored files) in any standard Unix & MS-DOS way, and Web
|
|
specific messages. Use Igal's e-mail address for commentary on
|
|
Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access; or you may send
|
|
files via FTP to "ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil/uploads". Igal's
|
|
PGP key is available on request to ensure privacy of transaction.
|
|
Internet: igal@agora.rdrop.com
|
|
Fidonet: Igal Koshevoy, 1:105/290
|
|
|
|
We'd love to hear from you!
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
**************************************************************************
|
|
[ 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. 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.
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|
|
|
|
**************************************************************************
|
|
[ 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) 1993, 1994 and 1995
|
|
by Klaus J. Gerken.
|
|
|
|
The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS:
|
|
No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from
|
|
there.
|
|
|
|
All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS
|
|
|
|
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 |
|
|
+----------------------------+
|
|
|
|
============================================================================
|