+======== February 1995 ======================== Volume 3, Number 2 ========+
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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
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
"
[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]
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!
============================================================================
**************************************************************************
[ 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 |
+----------------------------+
============================================================================
