




 September 1994  Volume 2, Number 9 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
  Ŀ              Ŀ    Ŀ ķ  Ŀ               Ŀ Ŀ  
  Ĵ                          Ĵ                       
                                             
                                                                            
  Ŀ    Ŀ    Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ    Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  
       Ĵ                             Ĵ       Ŀ  
                                          
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      
                    Associate Editors: Paul Lauda                           
                                     : Pedro Sena                           
                    Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy                        
                      European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch           
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
ͼ



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

      INTRODUCTION................................Klaus J. Gerken

      Manarche....................................Liz Willow
      Menopause...................................Liz Willow
      Hrothgar the Hrotten........................Liz Willow
      Soft........................................Liz Willow
      Sunwary.....................................Liz Willow
      Like a Ghostly Cricket......................Liz Willow
      Prone.......................................Liz Willow
      Incantations Faire..........................Jim Harding
      Reflections.................................Heather James
      Margie XV...................................Vince Otten
      Life at Times...............................Terry A. Long
      Life Time...................................Terry A. Long
      Another Day.................................Terry A. Long
      Storm.......................................Terry A. Long
      Turns.......................................Terry A. Long
      It's Time...................................Terry A. Long
      Thoughts Alone..............................Terry A. Long
      SweatStorm..................................Igal Koshevoy
      In this place...............................Gay Bost
      Hellish Pages of Songs of Pain..............Joe Hope
      "Requiem"...................................Becke Jones
      The Hot Shepherd and I......................William Gust
      My Commodore................................Emily Dare
      Morning Train...............................Emily Dare
      Tough Day at the Office.....................Emily Dare
      Thinking of You.............................Emily Dare
      Beneath White Cougaress Falls...............E. Joseph Schuh
      Spirit Dancer...............................E. Joseph Schuh
      A Proffered Hand............................Marilyn Hutchins
      For anyone who has been in Lust.............Marilyn Hutchins
      A Feather...................................Marilyn Hutchins

      POST SCRIPTUM...............................Jim Yagmin



                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

      Having heard the word 'Genius' bantered around so much lately in the
   Artistic (Visual and otherwise) media, it seems right to quote this essay
   by Addison from the Spectator of Monday, September 3, 1711 in full:

              "...Cui mons divinior, atque os
               Magna sonaturum, des mominis kujus honorem -- Hor.

   "There is no Character more frequently given to a Writer, than that of
   being a Genius.  I have heard many a little Sonneteer called a fine
   Genius.  There is not an Heroick Scribler in the Nation that has not his
   Admirers who think him a great Genius; and as for your Smatterers in
   Tragedy, there is scarce a Man among them who is not cried up by one or
   another for a prodigious Genius.

      "My Design in this Paper is to consider what is properly a great
   Genius, and to throw some Thoughts together on so uncommon a Subject.

      "Among great Genius's, those few draw the Admiration of all the World
   upon them, and stand up as the Prodigies of Mankind, who by some mere
   Strength of natural Parts, and without any Assistance of Art or Learning,
   have produced Works that were in Delight of their own Times and the
   Wonder of Posterity.  There appears something nobly wild and extravagant
   in these great natural Genius's that is infinitely more beautiful than
   all the Turn and Polishing of what the French call a Bel Espirit, by
   which they would express a Genius refined by Conversation.  Reflection,
   and the Reading of the most polite Authors.  The greater Genius which
   runs through the Arts and Sciences, takes a kind of Ticturne from them,
   and falls unavoidably into Imitations.

      "Many of these great natural Genius's that were never disciplined and
   broken by Rules of Art, are to be found among the Ancients, and in
   particular among those of the more Eastern Parts of the World.  Homer has
   innumerable Flights that Virgil was not able to reach, and in the Old
   Testament we find several Passages more elevated and sublime than any in
   Homer.  At the same Time that we allow a greater and more daring Genius
   to the Ancients, we must own that the greatest of them very much failed
   in, or, if you will, that they were much above the Nicety and Correctness
   of the Moderns.  In the Similitudes and Allusions, provided there was a
   Likeness, they did not much trouble themselves about the Decency of the
   Comparison: Thus Solomon resembles the Nose of his Beloved to the Tower
   of Libanon which looketh towards Damascus; as the Coming of a Thief in
   the Night, is a Similitude of the same Kind in the New Testament.  It
   would be endless to make Collections of this Nature: Homer illustrates
   one of his Heroes encompassed with the Enemy, by an Ass in a Field of
   Corn that has his sides belaboured by all the Boys of the Village without
   stirring a Foot for it; and another of them tossing to and fro in his Bed
   and burning with Resentment, to a Piece of Flesh broiled on the Coals.
   This particular Failure in the Ancients, opens a large Field of Raillerie
   to the little Wits, who can laugh at an Indecency but not relish the
   Sublime in these Sorts of Writings.  The present Emperor of Persia,
   conformable to this Eastern way of Thinking, amidst a great many pompous
   Titles, denominates himself the Sun of Glory, and the Nutmeg of Delight.
   In short, to cut off all Cavelling against the Ancients, and particularly
   those of the warmer Climates, who had most Heat and Life in their
   Imaginations, we are to consider that the Rule of observing what the
   French call the Bienseance in an Allusion, has been found out of latter
   Years and in those colder Regions of the World; where we would make some
   Amends for our want of Force and Spirit by a scrupulous Nicety and
   Exactness in our Compositions.  Our Countryman Shakespeare was a
   remarkable Instance of this first kind of great Genius.

      "I cannot quit this Head without observing that Pindar was a great
   Genius of the first Class, who was hurried on by a Natural Fire and
   Impetuosity to vast Conceptions of things, and noble Sallies of
   Imagination.  At the same time, can any thing be more ridiculous than for
   Man of a sober and moderate Fancy to Imitate this Poet's Way of Writing
   in those monstrous Compositions which go among us under the Name of
   Pindaricks?  When I see People copying Works, which, as Horace has
   represented them, are singular in their Kind and inimitable; when I see
   Men following Irregularities by Rule, and by the little Tricks of Art
   straining after the most unbounded Flights of Nature, I cannot but apply
   to them that Passage in Terence.

          "...incerta haec si tu postules
           Ratione certa facere, nihilo plus agas,
           Quam si des eperam, ut cum ratione insanias.

      "In short a modern Pindarick Writer compared with Pindar, is like a
   Sister among the Camisars compared with Virgil's Sybil: There is the
   Distortion, Grimace, and outward Figure, but nothing of that divine
   Impulse which raises the Mind above it self, and makes the Sounds more
   than Human.

      "There is another kind of Great Genius's which I shall place in a
   second Class, not as I think them inferior to the firsts, but only for
   distinction's sake as they are of a different kind.  This second Class of
   great Genius's are those that have formed themselves by Rules, and
   submitted the Greatness of their natural Talents to the Corrections and
   Restraints of Art.  Such among the Greeks were Plato and Aristotle, among
   the Romans Virgil and Tully, among the English Milton and Sir Francis
   Bacon.

      "The Genius in both these Classes of Authors may be equally great, but
   shews it self after a different Manner.  In the first it is like a rich
   Soil in a happy Climate, that produces a whole Wilderness of noble Plants
   rising in a thousand beautiful Landships without any certain Order or
   Regularity.  In the other it is the same rich Soil under the same happy
   Climate, that has been laid out in Walks and Parterres, and cut into
   Shape and Beauty by the Skill of the Gardener.

      "The great Danger in these latter kind of Genius's, is, least they
   cramp their own Abilities too much by Imitation, and form themselves
   altogether upon Models, without giving the full Play to their own natural
   Parts.  An Imitation of the best Authors is not to compare with a good
   Original; and I believe we may observe that very few Writers make an
   extraordinary Figure in the World, who have not something in their Way of
   thinking or expressing themselves that is peculiar to them and entirely
   their own.

      "It is odd to consider what great Genius's are sometimes thrown away
   upon Trifles.

      "I once saw a Shepherd, says a famous Italian Author, who used to
   divert himself in his Solitudes with tossing up Eggs and catching them
   again without breaking them: In which he had arrived to so great a Degree
   of Perfection, that he would keep up four at a Time for several Minutes
   together playing in the Air, and falling into his Hand by Turns.  I
   think, says the Author, I never saw a greater Severity than in this Man's
   Face; for by his wonderful Perseverance and Application, he had
   contracted the Seriousness and Gravity of a Privy-Councellour; and I
   could not but reflect with my self, that the same Assiduity and
   Attention, had they been rightly applied, might have made him a greater
   Mathematician than Archimedes."



                                                          
                                        з           ַ ַ ַ / ַ ַ
                                             Ľ       Ľ      



          MENARCHE
          ~~~~~~~~

   ashamed of my fat, ashamed of my odour,
   humour impaired in the fun house,
           (why is this night different from all other nights?)
   abundant with meaning and purpose,
   i find a master drawing:
            shadows run away, crashing through the underbrush:
                   sexuality
                           (the usual thing).


                            -- Liz Willow




          MENOPAUSE
          ~~~~~~~~~

   hang by your thumbs, my dear, and
   blow like the wind, suck like a tenor;
   examine the fly in the wine.
   apparently
   (for we are run by our compulsions),
   cryptic subterranean couplings
   will appear in my poetry from time to time.
   but there is no harm in being happy;
   your face refreshes me
   in the faint moonlight.


                            -- Liz Willow




          HROTHGAR THE HROTTEN
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   ordinary decent folk
   respond to
   bits of colored glass.
   hrothgar the hrotten waits.
   in a twinkling second
   hrothgar the hrotten
   has a bad cold
   and has done something with the money.


                            -- Liz Willow




          SOFT
          ~~~~

   my broken comrades
   offer no promise in
   catalogues of ancient perversions.
   hrothgar the hrotten pleads for solitude;
   just as the heat goes off
   king eadgils
   stops to think
   and looks for the whiskey.


                            -- Liz Willow




          SUNWARY
          ~~~~~~~

   outcasts
   can remember nothing but
       folliculitis
           (the butler won't leave them alone).
   while half asleep,
   hrothgar the hrotten
   indistinctly
   gets out the chess board
   and is perfected.

   (bravo).


                            -- Liz Willow




          LIKE A GHOSTLY CRICKET
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   dream of the moment of release
   like a ghostly cricket
   as if the street were time
   while the rainbow comes and goes;
   dialogues of business
   emerge from the swamp of my mind.
   your reasoning tells you nothing here;
   you don't seem to remember my name,
   as the tide
           s  l  o  w  l  y
   turns.


                            -- Liz Willow




          PRONE
          ~~~~~

   lear's daughters
   see
   prince charming
   adjacent to
   the jungle
   in a dark hour.

   soft mathematics
   is perfected.


                            -- Liz Willow






          'INCANTATION FAIRE`
           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   The essence of beauty, sheer joy the Sight,
   this weaving of wonders, this congress of Light.

   An astral conception, Incantation Faire,
   hand sculpted gestures, alive in the Air.

   Elemental state craft directing the Birth,
   awakening dreamers to dance with the Earth.

   Till Darkness's end the dancer's Conspire,
   to enter the Void and blaze in white Fire.

   Swirling Shadow, the Meldings ethereal Daughter,
   protecting this spark from Void's Stygian Water.

   For when One becomes Many, and the Many are One,
   There is nothing in Heaven that cannot be done.

   This chorus, Enchantment's harmonious Ark,
   such a beautiful Spell, all alone in the Dark.


                            -- Jim Harding






          REFLECTIONS...
          ~~~~~~~~~~

   She walks along alone into the night,
   As the stars twinkle on her so bright,
   They keep her warm as they become her only friend,
   Wondering when her broken heart will mend,
   She feels so alone as she reflects her past,
   Wondering why the years always go by so fast,
   She finds some comfort reflecting times long ago,
   Trying to keep strong inside and not let the feelings flow,
   The darkness is illuminated with the stars above,
   As she finds comfort reflecting back her first love,
   He was charming and always has a place in her heart,
   Now she has to in life make a new start,
   Confusion and aloneness fills her mind,
   Her own way in something she is trying to find,
   The sky twinkles so brightly with the stars in the sky,
   As a teardrop softly falls from her eye,
   Where did the years go?,where does she start,
   Is she forever in her friend long ago's heart?
   Where is he now and what does he do,
   She feels that will his memory she must let go,
   Have the years closed his heart,too much time apart,
   Or are the always forever joined at the heart?,
   She wonders if he ever remembers her anymore,
   Or has the years on his heart shut the door.


                            -- Heather James






          Margie XV
          ~~~~~~~~~

   My heart is too full
   And the bounds are too many.
   I did what I was told to:
   I loved you.
   It hurt, and I felt stupid, and exiled, and lost...
   And I loved you.
   And all the while, each time, you dared step one more space
   Outside your cold cell. Toward me. Your friend.
   With all the horrors you have endured
   It is no wonder that you've found
   "All men are dirt." "All men are rats." "All men are liars."
   You could never trust one again.
   So why, when I never expected you to,
   Did you choose to trust me?
   Each time you showed yourself--unarmed, unhappy, unsettled--
   You knew I could misinterpret your trust.
   You knew I was halfway there, mere inches from falling in love,
   Tottering away from the pillar of friendship.
   Your very trust pulled me back.
   And now, when you let me tell you the things you need to hear--
   That you're lovely, and kind, and sweet, and intelligent--
   How do you know I'm not trying to win you?
   How do you trust me to be a friend only, when we both know
   How beautiful you are to me?
   (Or do you really know?)
   Your laughter, and your eyes, and your smile, and your thoughts,
   And your tears, and your pain, and your long, slender, gracious soul...
   I've never had anyone so trust the things I say
   At so great risk.
   Friend.


                            -- Vincent Otten






          Life at Times
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   The disarrayed problems that plague the world,
   A forgotten drawer full of one's ideals and dreams.
   Reality sets in and changes our views to different visions,
   Rich in fortress like mansions, the hungry kid who screams.

   Fleeting images of a way of life that never was,
   Seem like only a few certain aspects that we save.
   Not able to change the bad ones and make them right,
   One against the world shouldn't be how we behave.

   Millions spent on a drug war that no one wins,
   Trying to ban guns although it's not the gun that kills.
   Criminals freed from prison to commit crimes again,
   Kids all trying to get their own cheap thrills.

   Money seems to be the answer and the problem,
   If you have it, the more of it you seem to need.
   The penniless can't seem to get a dime for some reason,
   Can buy weapons that kill but the hungry we can't feed.

   More mass destruction of other people's lives,
   Some don't want to settle for what they got.
   Cancer sometimes is more than just a disease,
   Eats away at everything, for it cares not.

   Mirrored images reflecting a uncertain fate,
   Hope we all will wake up before its too late.
   There has to be an answer to the insanity of man,
   A cure for evil could be something to plan.


                            -- Terry A. Long




          Life Time
          ~~~~~~~~~

   A new ship sets sail on the sea of life,
   While another that has sailed the sea quietly docks.
   Life's up and downs like waves upon the shore,
   Vision of a dream cast on the distant horizon breaker rocks.

   Pressed through the realm of complexity,
   Not knowing what is fact from truth.
   Sometimes settling for the crook who seems right,
   Vote for the lesser of two evils at the polling booth.

   Solitude left to the few who have found peace of mind,
   Some trying to figure out what reality is all about.
   Peace through war, why not love through valor?
   A glow from a light, dark shadows begin to sprout.

   Another plain offers another point of view,
   A glimpse through a reflecting past of long ago.
   Valiant efforts that fell like icicles upon the snow,
   Affairs of the heart that makes life so.

   Driving force that fuels the the fire through a storm,
   All the glory to the medals of those who have fallen.
   Nightmares of the pain and agony that once were,
   The Grim Reaper once again comes a callin'.

   Mindsets of those who decide to tempt fate,
   The crest of someone's illusion grows faint.
   Liberation of one's ideals seem to grow stronger,
   Not always a perfect picture we paint.


                            -- Terry A. Long




          Another Day
          ~~~~~~~~~~~

   A thought of a poet,
   The vision of a painter.
   An image from a future passed,
   Invoke memories that seem fainter.

   Moonbeams upon the night's landscape,
   Things that go bump in the night.
   Predawn's eerie light spread over the land,
   Orange skies, blue clouds, from the sun's light.

   Commuters on their way to their jobs,
   Cars flow like blood in our veins.
   Looks almost like a neverending sea,
   The dark of night now wanes.

   Hope upon a dream of a better day,
   Not much of anything changes this day.
   Tomorrow it seems never does end,
   Funny what the children say.

   A day's work is finally done,
   All journey to the safety of home.
   Some look for love, some solitude,
   The night begins to roam.


                            -- Terry A. Long




          Storm
          ~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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


                            -- Terry A. Long




          Turns
          ~~~~~

   A distant light, on a distant shore,
   So close, but yet remains so far.
   Another spin, still the same ride,
   Scenic view, in a different car.

   A sunset, brings another sunrise,
   Fall ended, then summer began.
   Seasons change, the world still stands,
   Rivers flow, not knowing how deep it ran.

   Warm sunbeams, shadows grow shorter,
   Clouds move, the sky a deeper blue.
   Wind chimes, ring on a gentle breeze,
   Dawn comes, grass shines from the dew.

   Placid scenes, lake remains ever calm,
   Fish jumping, fisherman in their boat.
   Rocky shores, thick wooded forest,
   Kids playing, each a different colored coat.

   Autumn leaves, blanketing the ground,
   Sleeping outdoors, campfires that burn.
   The smoke, smells of burning wood.
   The world, with time it still turns.


                            -- Terry A. Long




          It's Time
          ~~~~~~~~~

   It's time for the devil to play his fiddle,
   It's time to end all mindless riddles.
   Self destruction man has set upon this world,
   A flag for a coffin is now unfurled.

   My being on the wings of another day,
   My spirit upon a valley of hope, finds its way.
   The surreal sound of nature beating on,
   Mysterious ways of the night, another child born.

   Grasping at the straws of reality,
   Another wave on a sometimes stormy sea.
   Lovers who become one in the same,
   Intense desire fans passion's flame.

   No peace of mind for the weary,
   The day seems to grow longer and dreary.
   Clouds forcing their way from the west,
   Thunderstorms are beginning to crest.

   Ways of the world bring fortune to some,
   Soul searchers looking for answers that don't come.
   Walls show the streaks of the factories grime,
   Lost in a thought, maybe it's time.


                            -- Terry A. Long




          Thoughts Alone
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Have grown so accustom to being alone,
   Think how things just might have been.
   When about everything you loved is taken away,
   Feel like the loser who never gets a chance to win.

   All the close people taken away from me,
   Makes so afraid to get close to anyone.
   I don't know if I could stand the pain again,
   It seems like a neverending rerun.

   Although I don't get to share any happiness,
   It's a way to spare myself anymore pain.
   Never is a easy price for one to pay,
   Keep walking down this oneway lonely lane.

   Feelings now clouded by shadows of uncertainty,
   A deeper conviction keeps them in the background.
   Haunts of the past always there to remind me,
   Emptiness within defines the limits of the playground.


                            -- Terry A. Long






    SweatStorm
    ~~~~~~~~~~

    Steamroom-hot hall,
     tar black,
      capacity packed -
       sweating humanity,
        exposed flesh.

    Flashing teeth,
     flashing lights
      pounding on with
       the rhythm
        of the unity -
         the mass of people
          throbbing
           to its pulse.

    Half-concealed,
     half-naked forms
      slam along
       with the beat -
        a melting and
         converging
          into a singleness
           of wet flesh,
            racing hearts
             and hot tongues.

    Shifting
     at the blazing speed
      of the music,
       the maddened masses
        pushing along
         and pushing together -
          pushing closer,
           closer ...
            coming
             closer....

    A constant climax,
     exploding ever stronger
      in the view of hungry eyes
       and unquenched thirsts
        let loose into the night.

    On one side she dances,
     her tiny dress covering
      less of her burning
       n' throbbing libido
        than her blazing eyes -
            slamming,
             ramming ...
               full force.
                   A toothy smile
                    of animal-need
                     on her moistened lips
                      laced with wired,
                       desperate greed.

    On the other side,
     she's grinding herself
      into him with
       a smooth,
        gargoylish
         flowing
          beauty.
              A dress so tight
               you can see her pulse ...
                    hands,
                     all over
                      rubbing -
                           all moulding into each other
                            with lust-filled
                             power and necessity.

    Moving so fast
     seems that Time itself is
      shooting bullets at their feet ...
       so little time left to live -
        so much living left to do ...
         living at a million miles an hour.

    And there
     in the monsoon
       of wet passion
        we slither like hungry aliens...

    Watching the hurricane's hot rains pour down,
     tearing away with the sex-storm's winds -
      trapped between so many worlds.

        Smoothly enfold into the mass ...
         drowned in toxication,
          individuality and personality tossed aside
           like those clothes soon after ...
            when the soothing of the firestorm
             comes.


                                                -Igal Koshevoy (AT^TR)
                                                 January 21, 1994; 10:49pm






          In this place...
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   A moment an hour, did we speak
   of things and realities beyond,
   before we, each, in our own way
   took the paths back to the battles
   and pleasures of life.

   How, so divergent, did we retain
   peace and harmony in that time
   while those with which I claim
   'same'
   rale at the minute differences
   with such righteous vigor?

   Here in this space, is there 'friend'?
   Perhaps. Today I have no poetry to give.
   And today I am allowed that
   while others give in form.
   But, Oh! Friend, what wondrous
   wordless poetry has been felt
   in this place, this Revision Systems
   by this wordless poet.


                            -- Gay Bost






          HELLISH PAGES OF SONGS OF PAIN
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   My blackened heart
   Is too misshapen
   Because of love gone wrong
   I've seen too much
   Death and destruction
   I've been alone too long
   Images of friends
   Pass through my mind
   And I pause to see each face
   Lost in a sea
   Of broken dreams
   My soul floats in this black damnation
   Love is not
   My forte
   It's something that has escaped
   And eluded my grasp
   Too often
   And my heart has become battered and torn because of it
   Tell me
   You hate me
   Be like the others
   Run away in fright
   Scared of love
   The love you thought you sought
   But were too scared to find
   And I'll sit in the dark
   My lonely hell
   My everyday visage
   And cry out loud
   At every song
   I pour onto the page


                            -- Joe Hope






         "Requiem"
          ~~~~~~~

   Finger to breast
   brings back lust
   long forgotten
   Lust known only
   by the touch
   of my own hand

   I had almost forgotten
   what it felt like
   the last first time
   we were together like this
   Clothes tossed aside,
   the mask of my venerability
   laid to rest
   in ceremonial ritual

   Raw, pure animalistic instinct
   overpowers as you take me
   in every way possible.
   The smell of our sex
   filling the air
   the same way your hardness
   fills me
   Wholly, fully.
   If only for a while

   I pinch myself
   to make sure its real.
   I long to stop the clocks
   if only for a second.
   I want to freeze
   this one moment in time.


                            -- Becke Jones
                               5/24/93
                               for rpb






          The Hot Shepherd and I
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Curse the blue void and its hot tempered shepherd.
   Are we mourning a death that we must wear
   This blank shroud, where naught is heard
   But green applause in a copse of wooden hair?

   Duty demands I yoke this pallid beast,
   Gather its hot breath to forge a ripe award
   For my contest, or perhaps another's feast,
   Yet at such a cost my soul cannot afford.

   For as shadows mark the progress of my toil,
   Their master burns the nectar from my mind
   And crusted fingers lose their scribblings in the soil
   Where lies the womb of mine and my kind.

   Pity that I must bring life forth from below
   Only to witness its final desiccate fate.
   Am I not a being of fire, then, to bestow
   Existence in a world where the hungry await?

   The hot shepherd and I are atomic brothers
   At odds over the end justifying the means.
   Although we hover over our children like mothers,
   We quarrel over the carcass of lettuce, okra, and beans.


                            -- William Gust






          My Commodore
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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


                            -- Emily Dare




          Morning Train
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   With a violent shudder and sick'ning gasp
   Its' iron wheels lurch around the curve causing
   The tiny room to cry in pain at the noise.
   Too engrossed in each other to notice;
   His mouth buried in my moistened triangle,
   While my mouth was engorged with him.

   Our heated bodies engaged together
   In passionate enjoyment of ourselves.
   His scratchy beard tickling the tender skin
   Of my inner thigh, tongue on my charms.
   Glistening in early morning light,
   One body sliding over the other
   To gain a position; promote a touch.
   It will be a hot day, and sweat pours
   Off his face and chest dampening me.

   The grisled legs thrust his bony hardness
   Into my alabaster throat, gagging me;
   Filling me and my appetite with his bulk.
   I devour hungrily my morning sausage,
   And he laps at my pink and frazzled lips.

   His sac hangs above my face, bobbing,
   As the rapture begins for me.. deep down.
   I sense the sudden contraction of his sac
   And then, a violent short thrust impales me.
   Together we explode in ecstasy,
   His fluid filling me and spilling out
   As I scream loudly, filling the dawn's air
   With the guttural screams of satisfaction.
   The loud screeching sounds of a commuter train
   Fill the room with noise and pounding vibration.
   I see the startled faces of some morning
   Commuters as I pull him from my throat.


                            -- Emily Dare




          Tough Day at the Office
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   My mind is racing.. so many things..
   But the day is over and I return
   To the cell I call an apartment.
   So concerned for the course of my business.
   Needing the touch of a lover to soothe me.

   Just a touch at my shoulders and a rub.
   Stretch out the aches in the back of my neck
   And to hold me when I need the comfort so.
   But there is only Kitty, wanting food
   And demanding the touching that I desire.

   Perhaps a bath to soak away tension.
   Prepare it with oils and lots of bubbles.
   Set out scented candles and light them all.
   Start the music, way down low, something soft.
   A tough day has come to a pleasing end.

   I need the touch of a lover, loving me.
   Someone to come home to and who needs me.
   My fingers, wet and soapy, touch the lips,
   Caressing the folds, looking for release.
   From the worry and tension of the day.

   Candles flicker dimly in the half dark,
   As my head tilts back, fingers stroking,
   Back arching as the sensation increases.
   Conscious thought leaves my mind; Rapture coming.
   Screaming in the night, I gain my release.

   My heaving breasts and thrusting body
   Cause tidal waves of bubbles and suds
   As the waves of passion take control.
   Quietly, my breathing returns to normal
   And I am still alone, Needing the touch.

   Me and Kitty purrr..


                            -- Emily Dare




          Thinking of You
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Remember when we walked on the white sands
   Of the sunset cove, and I felt the pressure
   Of your hand on my thigh and was startled to
   Feel the entrance of fingers deep inside?
   The hairs on your wrist suddenly stricken
   By the brilliance of setting sunlight.

   I remember the strong scent of myself
   On your fingers as you held my head and
   Kissed me so deeply, your tongue probing,
   With your hardness growing next to me.
   And the sudden fury of your passion
   As my legs were raised up to my chest,
   And you drove yourself into me plunging,
   Thrusting, deeply to my very core.
   The quiet scream as the incredible strength
   Of your member entered me, pounding
   My body into the alabaster sands.

   I remember the way your eyes widened
   When the lace fell away from my breasts,
   And the orange sunlight cast an eerie,
   Lusty glow on your slickened hardness
   As it withdrew, then entered me again.
   The way the palm shadows cast over us,
   Delicate, lacy, traces of light and dark
   On feet that framed your straining neck.

   I remember when the arch of our backs
   Betrayed the arrival of our release.
   The sweat building on your brow dripping
   Onto breasts, moistened with my passion,
   Splashing into pools near my navel.
   The grunt and groan of your release and mine
   Beginning together as screaming voices
   Raised to the setting sun, and your bone
   Slipped out, spewing semen across my chest,
   Watching it turn orange in the sunset.

   Some people write poetry to discover
   The beauty in the wondrous things they love.
   And some write to discover the love
   They have found in that special one.
   I, to find what I have been thinking of.

   I'm looking for a friendly voice again.
   A person who I can remember with.
   But most of all, a voice that yearns for me
   As I, yearning for him, discover that
   I have been thinking of him too much.


                            -- Emily Dare






          Beneath White Cougaress Falls
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   The silence burns his spirit,
   As it echoes from the walls:
   The boulders seem to mock him,
   There beneath White Cougaress Falls.

   Many times an autumn passed,
   Since the day he'd seen the face,
   of White Cougaress in her passing,
   Beside the waters of this place.

   He'd been high up in the mountains,
   Where in summer, cold winds blow,
   Hunting with his brother wolves,
   On the blanket of first snow.

   The Bluecoats came with autumn,
   To the valley they called home,
   While the Lakota men were on the plains,
   Where the mighty buffalo roam.

   The old ones and the women
   Stood to the bullets hail,
   As they tried to save the children;
   An effort doomed to fail.

   But, White Cougaress, among the women,
   Stood more defiant than the rest,
   And she leapt upon her ponies back,
   To put these soldiers to the test.

   War arrows flew from a mighty bow,
   That was her proud fathers long before:
   They struck the Bluecoats as lightning bolts,
   And, many soldiers rode no more.

   She saw the soldiers were too many,
   As she raced upon her steed;
   From deep within her, decision came,
   To undertake a perilous deed.

   With screaming rage to shield her,
   She galloped through their broken ranks,
   Away from the Lakotas valley,
   Away from the rivers banks.

   Enraged the soldiers followed her,
   Far to the rising peaks,
   Where the first snow capped the mountains,
   Where the cold wind ever speaks.

   She rode as the rolling thunder;
   To draw them her only care,
   'Til, at last her ponies burden,
   Became more than he could bear.

   His heart rent by mighty effort,
   Her noble steed fell to the ground:
   From somewhere far above them,
   Grey Feather felt the sound.

   When he came upon the high plateau,
   Her blood had stained the snow,
   And a white rage fell upon him,
   As he fit the arrow to the bow.

   The Bluecoats never saw his face,
   Nor, heard they, the arrows sound,
   Ere their bodies fell to join
   White Cougaress on the frozen ground.

   The years might heal some sorrows,
   But within, her spirit calls,
   And his tears add to the waters,
   There beneath White Cougaress Falls.


                            -- E. Joseph Schuh




          Spirit Dancer
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Alone he stands, untouched by the wind,
   His Eagle feather badges unyielding.
   Eternally, he sighs, and cries, and bleeds,
   Silently weeping for his dwindling race.
   He is the final breath of a bygone era:
   He is the Buffalo, thick upon the plains.
   His is the vigil of a dying custom,
   Which teaches the love of all living things.
   Where shall he roam, this banished shaman,
   Now that the land itself is scourged?
   Where shall he rest, The Spirit Dancer,
   Now that his age of power is gone.


                            -- E. Joseph Schuh






          A Proffered Hand
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Friendship's hand is soft
   Smooth and comforting.
   No one need fear.
   All may come near.

   Friendship's hand is safe
   No demands or controls.
   All is freely given
   No trust or faith is riven.

   Friendship's hand touches
   Gently, lovingly
   Taking part of the strain
   Easing a bit of the pain.


                            -- Marilyn Hutchings




          For Anyone Who Has Been In Lust
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Take me into your gaze
   Let me fall into your soul
   Feel the lightning graze
   Shiver with the power.

   Take me into your arms
   caress me, surround me, engulf me
   Envelope me with your charms
   Lips warm and moist, soft and tender.

   Take me into your heart
   Speak to me without words
   Feel the beat of my heart
   It beats out your name.


                            -- Marilyn Hutchings




          A Feather
          ~~~~~~~~~

   Rainwashed ground thirsts
   Sun-baked and cracked
   Northwind-blown and cold
   Craves a touch, downy, light and soft.

   Above the ground--in a stream
   A feather begins its pendulum path
   Slowly comes to rest on the ground
   Rocked to and fro by currants unseen.

   Parched earth, soothed by a feather
   Gifted by the gods--surcease
   No demands, no recriminations
   Communion, spirit soars with spirit.


                            -- Marilyn Hutchings






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



                      Enchantment by the moon
                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Blue, blue, blue.  Warm, surprisingly, warm and blue.  Light pours
   forth with a glimmering twinkling grace, the moon envelopes me, body and
   soul and whatever else that I can call my own.  I am complete, gathered
   by the warm magic of the deep light blue.

     I feel I can now go on, I have dallied long enough at this sacred cove.
   Her crystal light beckons my voice, calling me to call to her, asking my
   reply.  Yes.  Yes, yes YES!  I accept your challenge, o warm basking
   never burning, blue but never sad; I accept this challenge you offer, I
   would accept any offer, I am disarmed, at last, disarmed.

     But the sun burns me too bright, o moon, the sun burns me red.  But
   you, you give me the blue life, I am the single flower blooming under the
   full midnight's shadowy blue.  And I forsake all others, o moon, those
   red and yellow, those who contrast with the green of nature, the blue of
   night.  Can you help me o moon, I know you can, why do you not help me?
   Where is the green now, o moon, where does he lie?  I need him, o moon, I
   need him to survive, to eat and nourish.  But you, you o moon, you give
   me the air to breathe and the cool liquid to drink, you give the sea's
   waves to cleanse and the silence to think.

     Yet...  I question, o moon, I question the need of this.  Why must the
   reds and the yellows exist, o moon, why must we hide away like this, like
   shivery weather?  Why this shaky journey o moon?

     Where do you go, sweet moon?  Why do you breathe away from me?  The sun
   is coming again, o moon, the sun is coming.  But I will not stay inside
   again, o moon, I understand you now.  I will rough the angers and
   anxieties you demand o moon, I will survive this wicked rainbow, but
   won't you wait for me, my moon, wait for me as I water my cheeks with
   your gift, o moon?  The sun burns so hot, I thirst, I thirst for you.  I
   thirst and I burn and I peel to the core.  This is not what is meant for
   me, o moon, I am meant to opened slowly like a budded flower o moon, not
   pried apart like a turtle from his shell.  This heat is turning me red, o
   moon, I am red.  Where is my blue cool warmth now, o moon, now, when I
   need your comfort?  Where is night's shadows, o moon, where?

     I am dying, o moon, you must believe me, come back to me, moon, I ask.
   Moon, I demand you come back to me, I demand it o moon!  I am red and I
   am yellow and I am open and I am raw.  I have been whipped and beaten o
   moon, and you have not come to comfort me, I am dying o moon, dying.

     I forsake you, o moon.  I forsake your blueness and your soothing
   light, moon.  You gave me nothing, nothing.  I asked for your help and
   you left me to dry up o moon, dry like a rotted corpse.  Leave me to my
   doom!  Why are you here again o moon, why have you come?  Where are you o
   moon, where are you shining?  I feel you above me, but I cannot see you;
   I have forsaken you so you have forsaken me?  This is unfair, o moon, I
   am loyal.  Please accept me back to your light, I need it now, I am
   reddened I am burnt.

     But you do not come back o moon, and why?  Why o moon have you left me
   to this most miserable of fates?  Why can't I feel your gift again, your
   soothing rain upon my cheeks, your warmth inside myself?

     I understand now o moon, o, I understand what I have done.  Too late o
   moon, too late.  I have taken your test and failed o moon, failed.  I
   have forsaken which cannot be forsaken.  I am dry, o moon, dry from all
   that is true and right, dry from all that is pure and clear, dry from all
   that is wet with thought.  But what is this curious development upon my
   cheek, o moon?  What is this sacred so sacred and blue, blue, blue.

     Blue!  My moon!  My moon unforsaken, my moon and my faith!  O, little
   body little mind, how have you weathered!  Safe again, safe, with blue
   wetness upon my cheek and a cool warmth in the berth, I am once again
   complete, more complete, complete with more than myself, complete within
   my moon.


                           -- Jim Yagmin






   ͻ
       A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers    
   Ķ
        - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet   [9310]     
   Ķ
    (C) CopyRight     "I Write, Therefore, I Develop"     By Paul Lauda 
   ͼ

       Come one, come all! Welcome to Centipede. Established just for
       writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place
       for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn
       from all.  A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
       Even a chance to be published in a magazine.

       Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area,
       an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and
       speculated history & publishing.  In all of the ten conferences,
       anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends.
       For that is what CentNet is here for: for you.  Ever wonder how
       to accent a poem at the right meter?  Well, come join our
       PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out.
       Have any problems in deciphering your dreams?  Select The Dreams
       echo, and you're questions shall be solved.

       The Network was created on May 16, 1993.  I created this because
       there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience.
       And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to
       grow, and become active on Bulletin Board Systems.

       I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
       specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
       Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most
       nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest
       to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in!  No more fuss.
       A writer can now download the whole network, without phasing
       out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to
       the writer's interests.  This means that Centipede has all
       the active topics that any creative user seeks.  And if we
       don't, then one shall be created.

       If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call
       at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences.  You'll
       not be disappointed!   Or, check out the latest info packet
       being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE].






                        (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.




  
                 Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ    Ŀ      Ŀ
                         Ĵ      ڿ Ĵ   
                                 
            ķ  Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ ķ 
                           Ĵ              
                                   
  


  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors.   Any  reproduction  of
  these  poems,  without  the  express written permission of the authors, is
  prohibited.

  YGDRASIL A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Copyright (c) 1993 by KJ Gerken

  The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS:
  No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from
  there.

  Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or
  anything else  appropriate  should  be  addressed,  with  a self addressed
  stamped envelope, to:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS







                  
                      
                   
                          
                                       
                             
               
                   
              
      

  
            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
            THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

                And coming soon:

            THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
            THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
            INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena

  

    All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each, and may be ordered from:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will
  be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press.

  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from  the  same  address:  $2.50  an
  issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac),
  operating  system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for
  delivery.

  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems
  BBS (1-609-896-3256) or any other participation BBS. Revisions, though,
  holds the official version of Ygdrasil.


