| [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] |

+======== January 1995 ==================== Volume Volume, Number 3 ========+
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| [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] |
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| Editor: Klaus J. Gerken |
| Associate Editors: Paul Lauda |
| : Pedro Sena |
| Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy |
| European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch |
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+===========================================================================+

***************************************************************************
[ TABLE OF CONTENTS ]
***************************************************************************

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

Winter....................................Klaus J. Gerken
Medic'in..................................Tim Whittlemore
More stuff and nonsense...................Tim Whittlemore
Here it comes!............................Tim Whittlemore
Dags......................................Tim Whittlemore
old stuff.................................Tim Whittlemore
Old stuff.................................Tim Whittlemore
"Salvation"...............................Tim Whittlemore
Even as...................................Tim Whittlemore
dark musings..............................Tim Whittlemore
A question................................Tim Whittlemore
Old wedding rings.........................Tim Whittlemore
remembrances..............................Tim Whittlemore
Clock.....................................Jim Yagmin
setting suns..............................Jim Yagmin
Her face is water, clear and cool-........Jim Yagmin
110994, in part...........................Jennifer Mulcahy & Gay Bost
Sweet November's.........................Gay Bost
I Want, My Friend, I Want.................Gay Bost
English teacher anthem....................Michael Kelly
Personal Statement........................Michael Kelly
requiem to my southern belle..............Evan Light
riding out the storm......................Igal Koshevoy
When I upon my deathbed lie...............David Cariddi
Drip......................................David Cariddi
Rust......................................David Cariddi
The Fence.................................David Cariddi
Journeys..................................Earnest Russell

POST SCRIPTUM.............................Gay Bost

**************************************************************************
[ INTRODUCTION ]
**************************************************************************

The heavy January consumes my thoughts like the musty smell of dry
wood in a shed. The shed is like our shelter from the elements. Cozy,
warm and intimate. Venturing outside we find ourselves confronted with an
expanse of zinc white and cerulean blue and vastly different reaction
than what the safety of the shelter will provide. Here, outside, we see
ourselves, not as a personal entity, but as an entity evolved from other
entities. Yet knowing that we are a part of a greater vaster entity, we
also feel more vulnerable, and most of all, we feel alone.

The safety of the shelter provides a comfort, where we merge with
others within ourselves: we become part of our comfortable surrounding.
The shelter becomes us. Outside of the shelter we confront ourselves, not
as beings internal to ourselves, but beings internal to our environment.
The shaman knows this and creates a "comfort zone" through which the
outer can be integrated with the inner. The Poet likewise must confront
this when dealing with "reality"; a reality built from observations and
theoretical and mathematical formulae, but still a reality which we
inhabit. As the shaman heals through comforting and integrating all the
elements, the poet explains by integration all these elements into one
clear assault upon the senses.

A Zen monk claps to startle potential initiates, and says this
startling must not startle, but must be understood as the illusion of the
startling, thus the poet uses words and expressions to do much the same,
yet it is the potential "initiate", the reader who must conform his or
her own reality. One cannot be outside looking in. One must be involved
with one's whole being: body and brain.

The shaman, the poet and the zen monk each confront reality and
introduce others to its potential. Yet those who would not be healed
cannot be healed, and those who would not be startled, cannot be
enlightened, and thus also those who do not have an open mind cannot read
and gain from the expression of poetry. These are the people who rely on
others to tell them something. And they refuse to listen when they are
told something which does not conform to what they have been taught.

Let us hope each one realize their own ability through others. Words
and thought is a process of communication, it is not aloneness. Poetry
shares; and through poetry, let others share also.

-- KJ Gerken

============================================================================

riding out the storm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the city passes through glass reflection
thousand pointed lights suspended in vacuum stasis
each faint glimmer of transparent mystery
an opportunity
not taken

hesitation on the outskirts of the glowing city
and mind redefines the distance between us:

on the outskirts - because i don't want to enter
on the edge - because i don't want to leave

staring face-to-face into countless emerald eyes
blinking embers malnourished
into disagreed acceptance

starving under dim illumination
one from lack of misunderstanding
and the other from too much
with neither knowing who they are
nor who they should be

-Igal Koshevoy (m)
March 18, 1994; 10:24pm

��
��
��

Winter
~~~~~~

Incense burns deep sandlewood,
cedar, pine. Civilisation turns
upon its axis. Poets prose inadequate
things more meaningful thereof.
Outside ice forms on roads
and squirrels argue amongst
each other for peanuts and
sunflower seeds strewn around
the yard. Trees perform a pantomime
against the backdrop
of the cabalistic sky Powder puffs
of clouds create themselves anew.
(Who says they have no entity?)
A Van Goth lithograph hangs on the wall
- flowers in a vase -. The yellow
blinds the eyes, glowing like
the Auvers' sun which so much
the earless painter loved.
A chessboard stands on a side table
in the corner: pieces strewn asunder.
Books of sullen moods
are piled haphazardly on the shelves.
A canvas propped against the wall:
empty now of images. The expectation
of the new... Old and dusty manuscripts
lie dormant and untyped,
hidden in a clothes closet:
Memories of long ago. Thoughts consumed
in confidence. Shattered dreams;
the monuments of hope. And old and
broken down typewriter on the desk:
scratched with marks of nervousness.
Empty pens; scattered words...
Exhausted themes like Masks that are
no longer Masks. Silence which we
might yet come to her hear...
The incense burns sharp,
like the shadows on the snow.
Can we really know what we have known?
Or is it that to us poor souls
the truth is never shown?

-- Klaus J. Gerken

��
��
��

Medic'in
~~~~~~~~

I am a professional.
The stains are gone from my jacket,
the glass brushed from my pants.
The cut on my hand will heal,
given time.
I want to forget....
Crushed car seats,
...and scattered toys.
Why?
Why am I surprised and cry
at a blood-spattered teddybear?
I suppose the cuts that don't show,
hurt the worst.

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

More stuff and nonsense...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silhouetted against the sunset,
and purple low clouds;
I pace another candle in the holder.
I wait for morning,
as the house slides into the dusk.
Violets,
She gave to me this morning....
I will never be lost enough to forget her,
Our love lasts.

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

Here it comes!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Make yourself beautiful with laughter,
under a cloud-swept sky.
With a full heart,
ignore the storm's warnings...
For a rain soaked, passionate kiss.
You make me tremble.
We never guessed this would happen,
as my hand soothes away your dress,
to the sparkling grass.

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

Dags..
~~~~

I am tired.
And your beauty is more than I can bear.
I must look away to the stars.
Even as you do, and hold my hand.
Your kiss comes,
as silently as the descent of a tear.
Until my strength returns within your trembling arms;
and then,
there is no reason to stop.

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

old stuff
~~~~~~~~~

How could I know you were sunshine,
until the rainclouds came?
How could I know things were different,
till they couldn't be the same?
How could I know you were laughter,
Till it wouldn't come today?
How could I know you were love,
till you went away?

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

Old stuff
~~~~~~~~~

You came to me like summer storm,
white lightening in the sky.
A potent warning in the stillness
of a love that cannot die.
The stifling heat,
the silence await with hope and dread.
The thunderclouds of passion,
the pain of things unsaid.
You came with wind and thunder to sweep away all else.
An all-enveloping deluge, warm as sand,
and death.
Like summer storm you went away and left me shaken, still.
Yearning for the summer rain, the lips that kiss or kill.
What remnant of our love is left?
Memories that will not die.
The warmth, and smell of summer rain...
and white lightening in the sky.

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

"Salvation"
~~~~~~~~~

Shrouded,
in the temple of unreason;
the old priests in television clownface,
have you on their list, son.
Even though you pretend to believe
in the priests of confusion,
and the polyester singers...
seeking fame---
Unless you run without looking back,
their manicured, lacquered, talons will hook you--
and you'll love them even more from beneath your
decaying mask of "Salvation."

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

Even as
~~~~~~~

Even as
Bronze wind chimes play in the wind;
your fantasy lovers,
know exactly what you want.
They never tire,
they have no morals,
and no remorse.
The nights are brighter than the days,
while you dream.

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

dark musings
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lightening flashes, illuminating my face.
Within the glass I hold, in this empty, cold place.
I cannot sleep. I close my eyes and you are there.
I hold my sanity in an icy, clenched fist...
Were I to open it, I would scatter like the autumn leaves in this storm.
The thunder echo's my soul's dark rumblings, now that you are not here to
balance me...
Why do I remember so well?
Let me sleep. Oh let me sleep forever...

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

A question...
~~~~~~~~~~

Dream fantasy, landscape of ombre shadows, unreal light.
Illume the philosophic question: Can self and soul be so divisible?
Among the fallen idols roams the mindless flesh,
carrying the skin of a soul.

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

Old wedding rings
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What can you do with old wedding rings?
Too precious to throw out in anger--
Too painful to wear in remembrance or honor.
So they sit in odd places in your drawer,
to surprise you at odd moments, with memories
that shoot arrows into odd places in your heart.

-- Tim Whittlemore

��

remembrances
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even now, I peer out the window and expect to see you running through
the fields, coming home.
At night, I listen for you. All the sounds so loud outside my window.
But you never come running to me, and my nights are awesomely silent;
your chair sits waiting, empty. And a part of me sits waiting more
empty than the chair...

-- Tim Whittlemore

��
��
��

Clock
~~~~~

His bitter sway-
arcs-
clocking the pendulum
-dignified-
pennilessly,
he alone-
counting the seconds-
our lives-
An occasional glance
from All,
that is his purpose.

a Wise Man-
follows his swing,
meditates the antique wood,
swallows the bitter note
of his clocking pendulum-
Then moves on,
Never looking to him-
never again-

-- Jim Yagmin

��

setting suns
~~~~~~~~~~~~

and i forgot
just why i'm here-
once again
i've gone searching-
nothing new
my train of thought-
no destination
that i sought
endless nameless
living on-
walking miles-
setting suns-
endless ocean
ridden waves
to the shore
on land- the slaves.

-- Jim Yagmin

��

Her face is water, clear and cool-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her face is water, clear and cool-
Body- A lithe birch, bending
With wind from all directions,
Holding her straight, white
As the moon on the darkest eve-
Dark eyes- a pool of shimmering light,
Reflecting all kindness
Absorbing all wrong,
Lips- red as death,
Transparent; showing her warm blood
Swirling endless within her realm.
Her hair is fire, warm and wild-
Curling-waving-cascading down,
Wind feeds her flame, whisking
Her soul and aura above-
As I wait below:
Love-

-- Jim Yagmin

��
��
��

110994, in part
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steel blue sky and tumultuous sea,
Hardened fast but so near free
Withheld long, no longer still-
From liquid thunder: ravenous will.

-- Jennifer Mulcahy
. . .

Three sided wonder in the neon night.
Caress of the spirit in fleshed delight.

A tired snowflake on the lips of love
Cloud scattered passion; a winged dove.

Endless mystery, eternal flight
Tortured innocence, myth's dark fright.

We three
We three

Come walking through winter's mist
Rabid age, sweet mother, and maid unkissed

Wrapped in arms of a misplaced love
Wilted in spring by abandoned love

The words don't come easy, nor do they rhyme
When there's naught but the knight to outfit time.

Coaxer, lover's wraith, a misspent heart.
Gone in the twilight, world's apart.

Endless mystery, at the peak of time.
Succumb to the comfort of the unpainted mime.

There's a word, there's a play, there's an open house
There's a sweet beribboned ... unhurried ... mouse.

-- Gay Bost
November 9, 1994

��
��
��

Sweet November's
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lost little wanderer
Passionate child
Woman past innocence
Rationality gone wild.

Touched at the dawning
reborn in the past
living the answers
the fools have cast.

Old stone and old bones
crying out to been known
loveless and loving
seeking her home.

See where the wind speaks
Hear the sun cry
Touch the moon's sorrow
for you and I

-- Gay Bost
November 9, 1994

��

I Want, My Friend, I Want
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I want to run through thistle's blooming blush
and dance atop the firefly's wing
where laughter welcomes morning's kisses
and no one wonders why I sing.

I want to sink with summer's thickening sap
and sleep uncovered in the loam
where mushrooms sprout in secret shadows
and cobwebs flutter far from home.

I want to drift upon the long wave home
and sail beneath the silver sea
where ancient mariners yet wander
and there is truly shelter in the lee.

I want to fly behind the glowing landscape
and glide upon the silken shroud
where dewdrops whisper silent prayers
and "Love" is spoken right out loud.

I want to ride the northwind's rushing howl
and step into the snowflake's eyes
where crystal memories fade in flurries
and color floods the endless skies.

I want to touch the sun with dawn's first tremble
and wake into the glowing day
where wildflowers visions come to tarry
and moonlit seasons illume their way.

I want all that I've ever dreamt I've had,
and so much more than is my due
where windows open wide upon the world
and I want these things for you.

-- Gay Bost
November 1994

��
��
��

English teacher anthem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your english language can go to hell.

Mounting words like butterflies,
a pin through the chest behind a pane of glass.

You conduct yourself grammatically,
a pin through your chest, behind a pane of glass.

You read the world in a set of quotations,
and speak in a paraphrase.

Shakespeare can go to hell,
he's nothing more than a snotty-nosed bastard in your arms.

Your a meticulous reader,
but you never could write, can you live?
Living with a red pen and magnifying glass,
circling and underlining.

Contriving; thesaurus wings can't make you fly,
your thoughts are to thin to soar upon.
Your vocabulary extends past what you own inside.

Coleridge can go to hell,
he's nothing more than a pretentious bastard in your arms.

Underline and read between the lines,
the passion passes you by every time.

Swept up in the moment, over taken by the momentum.
What comes out is what comes out.
Your saying that my words came out too quick.
My emotions flowed too fluently, too easily.

Diagram and pick it apart.
My expository was never an expository,
your expositories can go to hell,

I let my ink bleed
not bend to the boundaries of
those caught up in their educations.

Your english language can go to hell,
I don't take well to bondage,
neither did Chaucer.

-- Michael Kelly

��

Personal Statement
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is the sum of my life;
the swells and the declines.
I'm the cynic,
without a working pen.
I found the truth under a rock
(the smut)
before I was even ten.
Knee deep in a world
of obsolete and useless dreams,
I'm the child
that refuses to keep clean.
This is the sum of my life-

The long haul home,
this road is a joke.
Reel around my head,
muttering pictures
that beg me to tell
(their useless stories);
the beat goes on..
half-witted and cross-eyed-

I was a child with lice and training wheels-
My grandparents owned a house in the country,
and had a dog named mindy;
they shot her in a corn-field,
to save her from the pain.
I remember the chalk-like powder
they laid down at my grammar school
whenever someone threw-up their last meal,
and the moments in my sandbox
with the pincher-bugs and dirty finger-nails...

The weary paths,
with dust that malingers,
and pot-holes
that make young boys
shiver.
This is the sum of my life
(yes, reduced to a whisper).

The rhyme is laid,
the words are golden,
and I just cannot fallow.
Dogs and men
chase the same truth-
the same rear-end.
Again and again, I haven't read,
yet talk as if I did.
Sophistication from a pin prick,
and sophistication from a
thesaurus.
Eight grade essays
on the same old allegory,
and the eight-five is for
not answering the question.
Faint from knowing,
that no one else is knowing-
that they are just a period
at the end of a big nothing.
Fields and fields of
what I do not believe in-
oh so cultivated.
The oxen around the mill, and the
surveyor with the whip,
and the sun that teeters and tips..
but never falls.
The soft moon
will never win back the day,
the pain may go
but the ulcer will stay,
this is the sum of my life
this is the sum of my life-

-- Michael Kelly

��
��
��

requiem to my southern belle
~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~

a bleeding spine
staining your bed
baptizing you pure
impure

everyone seems tainted
but now who else is
pure
but the
anglo-white virgin
in transparent dress
makeupmasked face
faux dimples of love
all draining your spine
all seeking
faith
that manifest invention
of elderly men with limited edition
glockenschpiel collections
your sins are alphabetized for a
swifter forgiveness
cigars burn with a limburg taste
tobacco for the ageless

the pure

-- Evan Light

��
��
��

[truth]

i know you.
i've tasted your soul.
i've been to your home.
i've crawled on your floor.
i've looked in your eyes.
i've seen your stare.
i've taken your soul.
i've eaten your share.
i drink from your chalice.
i lay with your wife.
i've scorned and destroyed you.
i've ruined your life.
i am but a man.
too simple, too true.
i am but a man.
i am but you.

-- David A. Cariddi

��

When I upon my deathbed lie
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I upon my deathbed lie,
I invite the rain to fall from sky,
To drop upon my withered face,
And soothe like Nature's cold embrace,
Wash away my blackened fears,
Cleanse me of the guilt of years,
While silver streams run from my hands,
To drip in beauty to the land,
So silently I'll watch the rain,
While it rinses clean my pain,
For in my heart I'll ne'er be clear,
Until the rain removes my tears.

-- David Cariddi
November 17, 1994

��

Drip
~~~~

Where DID you come from,
pretty little one?
Ah, so joyous and angry,
so sombre and sad!
Why have you come here?
What is your name?
But I don't care,
it doesn't matter...
I'll take you anyway.

-- David Cariddi
November 14, 1994

��

Rust
~~~~

Solemnly, I wait among the Rust.
Someday, the Rust and I will be one.
Never look at the Rust. Oh no!
That would be bad, so very bad.

-- David Cariddi
November 14, 1994

��

The Fence
~~~~~~~~~

I

As I looked down on you,
I could see that you were scared.
"Fear not, sweet," I said,
and stroked your cheek.
Then, silently,
I raise the sword.

II

Oh, and I thought I could TRUST!
How wrong I was!
How very, very, wrong.

III

Hate me.
Hate me, I am here
for you to despise.

IV

Ah, twist the knife!
How bloody, how black.
Yet, strangely comforting...

V

Do you understand
what it is that you do?
Can you comprehend?

VI

I often think of you
as my daemon.
Almost as often as I think of you
as my angel...

VII

Did you EVER know me?
Did you ever REALLY care?
I hope...
I hope...

VIII

Oh, dear sweet one!
How can you speak?
How can I cry?
What can I do?

IX

Once I loved,
and once I cried,
but I'll always hurt,
and I've already died.

X

Once there was a maiden faire,
Flowing streams of perfect hair,
The beauty looked me in the eye,
She struck me down, and there I died.

XI

What's that scar
across my chest,
you ask?
Why, good sir,
that is the place
where my heart was.

XII

Oh my...
Is that my soul
sinking in
the mud?

XIII

You must think I'm rock.
Not moving.
Not moving.

XIV

Interesting.
I have never heard
the sound
of my heart
smashed on the
ground before.

-- David Cariddi

��
��
��

Journeys
~~~~~~~~

All journeys begin
When we step out our door.
The scene there
one we've known
many a time before.

Old friends,
are the Oak and I.
It spans majestically
reaching for the sky.
As if
wanting to tickle clouds
as they flutter by.
Verdant and lush,
No king ever able to obtain,
a carpet
as luxurious as the earths.
No decorator
able to rival the hands
blending shades
as those who designed
earth and sky.

Even the people
all have a face,
a name,
a tale to tell.

Yet wanderlust
runs deep.
Causing to leave
even such as this
for the many paths we seek.

Some joyous and gay.
Some morose and full of pain.
A few,
remembered thru the years.
Most forgotten
the moment our foot
ceases to trod.

We all know
the steps we've taken,
the memories they bring.
In so doing
Realization:
We can only move onward.

Like all journey's
eventually do
we find ourselves
in a place
we've been before.

The scene we left
remains.

Appearing yet friendly,
all the while,
subtle differences
play across the sky.
All appears the same.
Our senses say it just isn't so.

Just before the point we break,
a still,
small voice is heard,
"Look again upon that before you
and know
My work stands as before.
It is still the same as yesterday,
today,
and forever.
That which sees thru your eyes,
this has changed.
You began your journey
with an empty palette.
each step and path
adding shades, shapes and texture
with which
you color
my world."

For this
I thanked the still,
small voice
and went to look again,
in wonder and awe
out my front door.

-- Earnest Russell
October 1988

============================================================================

**************************************************************************
[ POST SCRIPTUM ]
**************************************************************************

It's shift work or shovel cookies....

A time, disjointed, when she sat upon a stool, her bare feet
hooked through the rungs, a brightly beribboned basket upon her lap
and a cheery smile upon her weathered face. From this vantage she
could see for several...miles, she supposed one might call them, if
one were forced to lay units of measure upon the immeasurable. Anyway,
she could see when the dreamers approached, walking through the knee
high swirling mists, bringing their various colors along with them,
wrapped about their shoulders like shawls or dragging through
vapours behind like childhood's security blankets.

"Well come!" she would say, speaking directly to their colors,
passing faded blue eyes over the wondering faces presented, unseeing
piercing gazes and worried frowns. "Here's your dance card. The step
diagrams are part of your foundation. And have a karma cookie, luv.
You might need to nibble once in a while until you're rid of that
fleshy thing you've brought along to weigh you down."

She ignored perplexed frowns and watched as scattered bits of
themselves scurried through the mist and caught up, attaching to the
main body of color or colors with possessive fervor.

"You must remember, the nightmares are only reflections from
within cast upon the great screen without, whispers from the inner ear
roaring through the cosmos of the overmind."

They would go through, seeing lights and hearing sounds beyond her
perch, tossing uncertainties at her in silent screams and unheard
laughter.

"Shift's over," and a well known voice would be followed
by the familiar footfall. Regal came her relief, walking slow and
sure through the clouds of otherworld, carrying her own basket, her
needlework, which she draped over her arm, and smiling
brightly as she looked through the portals at those who had so
recently passed through.

"Got some forever dreamers, this day, I see."

"And asking for you, too."

"Well, then, off to your own dreams, my dear. I've patterns to
complete and ..." she looked into the basket balanced precariously on
the older woman's lap. "You've been giving out extra karma
cookies, again, I see. You'll never advance up the ladder of success
giving out extra karma cookies. You know the Lords of Karma take that
extra from *your* supply."

The older woman shrugged her shoulders and smiled, misbehaving
child shining through wrinkles and grey, cotton candy beneath the
leather. "Tough shit."

"Bad! " said the other, mock reprimand and concern on her
face.

"Fuck the Lords of karma if they can't loosen up a little in the
dream planes, anyway. Old Plots!"

"And that's why you've got this job, you know...fucking around
with the lords of karma."

"Well, I'm not sure they put enough nutrients in the damned
cookies to start with! MoM's recipe was much better. I think I'll
dream honey into the cookies and then they can watch the blessed bees
and dream about their own sweet tooth."

"Tsk tsk tsk."

"Hm." The older woman hopped down for her stool, blew a kiss
through the air at her friend and skipped off, bandied old legs still
holding her up, despite the wrath of the lords of karma and
honeyless cookies. "A tisket a tasket, a green and yellow basket, "
she sang, trying her best to come up with irreverent obscenities for
the next line. "I wrote a letter to my love and he used it as a
gasket." "Pfft!"

(continued)

-- Gay Bost, 1994

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

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[ YGDRASIL INTERNET ]
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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
found 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
"[email protected]" (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: [email protected]
Fidonet: Klaus Gerken, 1:266/56

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: [email protected]
Fidonet: Igal Koshevoy, 1:105/290

We'd love to hear from you!

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[ YGDRASIL PUBLICATIONS LIST ]
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THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken

MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy

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

POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each. Checks should be made out to the
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.

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[ COPYRIGHT INFORMATION ]
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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 |
+----------------------------+

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